#like imagine this important party that’s being hosted at this manor

[darkmuffinstudios]

HAD THE MOST INSANE DREAM JUST NOW AND THESE TWO WERE IN IT AND I WAS JUST LIKE JSVFIJVFSJIVFSIKVSFIKSFV STEALING YOU GUYS

LIKE I LITERSLLY ROLLED OUT OF BED AND GRABBED MY TABLET AND SCRIBBLED THESE GUYS BEFORE I FORGOT

SO SO SO! THE IDEA IS THAT SOMETHING SOMETHING WHEN PPL DIE, THEY GET THESE HALOS ON THEIR HEADS WHICH TIE THEM TO THE LIVING WORLD AS A SORT OF LIKE “THEY CANT MOVE ON” SORT OF THING

AND WHEN KILLER GETS KILLED, HE HAS SO MANY DIFFERENT REGRETS AND SO MANY DIFFERENT WANTS THAT HIS SOUL ESSENTIALLY SPLITS INTO TWO—. UT THEYRE STILL VERY MUCH CONNECTED? LIKE THEY ARE DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT VERSIONS OF HIM BUT NEITHER CAN MOVE ON UNTIL THE OTHER IS SATIATED AND EISJCNDJSKCSKCMDLD

GOD THESE TWO ARE SO BADASS DISJCJCJC MY OWN BRAINROT IS GOING NUTS

MAYBE MORE TO COME SOON OK BYEEEEE

[fettuccinealfred0]

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 1

Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 6.5k

(CW: general vampirism, period typical sexism, neglectful parenting)

Summary:

“I must thank you for your company. I fear you have been the highlight of my night.” Astarion gives your hand an affectionate squeeze before he’s dropped it and disappeared into the night.

You stand there for a moment, dazed and coming back to your senses. Your skin is still flushed and hot as you imagine again what Astarion’s lips might have felt like against the back of your hand. Or perhaps pressed against your own? You think of Astarion and his sweet words and beautiful face. Perhaps it was possible to marry for love, after all. Perhaps Astarion would be your saving grace. For who couldn't resist ending the night in love with that man?

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The carriage creaks and groans as it makes its way up the hill. You feel the stern eyes of your father pressing into you like a heavy weight, a reminder not to forget the importance of the night, a reminder to know your place, girl.

Your entrance into society had been underwhelming, to say the least, and you could rapidly feel your father reaching a point of resentment that he still hadn’t been able to marry you off. Being the youngest daughter and with your mother passing when you were a young girl, you were simply a loose end that your father needed to tie off before he could go back to doing whatever it was noble men liked to do in their free time. You always assumed it was a lot of drinking and hunting.

You didn’t particularly want to be married, so you hadn’t really been entertaining suitors. What was the point of shackling yourself to someone if not for love? What was the point of allowing a man to own you and control you? You’d much rather spend your time alone with a little house, to garden and read as you please. 

But, an unmarried woman is a dangerous woman, and that cannot be allowed. 

So, you were in the carriage, attempting not to shrink under your father’s gaze as you headed off to a ball that seemed to be a last ditch effort to see you married. You stare down at your dress, instead, intently studying the shimmery embroidery and beadwork. It truly was a stunning dress, perhaps the nicest you had ever owned. The corset was pushing so hard at your chest that your bosom threatened to spill out of the top. You were not an arrogant or boastful person, but even you had to admit that you were breathtaking when you saw yourself in the mirror. A ripe fruit ready to be plucked by a husband, as your father had said. 

The carriage rolls to a stop and you would prefer to jump out and take in a deep gulp of air to calm your nerves. But, you must always remember your manners first and so you patiently wait for the door to open and the escort’s hand to assist you down from the carriage.

The manor is fantastical, beyond even your wildest dreams. The entryway is full of candles in gold and gem encrusted candelabras, flowers blooming everywhere you look. The brilliant red and white roses fill the summer air with a sweet, perfumed scent. The House of Ancunin was always known for their opulence and it appears the newest young lord plans to continue the family legacy.

The Ancunins had been around for generations, their secrets and mysteries kept locked away in their manor on the hill, doors only opening for the occasional, extravagant party. It had been a long time since a ball had been hosted at the manor. For many years, it appeared that the noble family line had threatened to die off and fade into obscurity. 

But recently, the new Lord Ancunin had made his presence known and celebrated his arrival into society. There were rumors that he was a bastard or that he had bought his title as the last ‘real’ Ancunin had died off. But nevertheless, this was the first time the manor doors would be open to the public again since the days of your grandparents- and everyone will be flaunting their wealth tonight like desperate peacocks. 

You try to keep your mouth from falling open as you gawk at the ornate entryway, littered with art that it would take hours to fully appreciate. You would rather stop and admire, but your father rushes you into the ballroom. You’ve been reminded again and again what your job is for tonight- to dance and flirt and stop chasing nice men away. 

The ballroom, with its giant windows and chandeliers seemingly floating in the air stuns you when you walk in. You’re immediately swept onto the dance floor as the orchestra swells in a symphony of music. You catch the way your beaded skirt reflects the light in the mirror as you twirl and for a moment, you’re stunned when you see yourself. You look radiant. Perhaps the only person in attendance who seems to match the grandeur of the ballroom. 

Your first dance partner is dull, to say the least. And the next speaks only of himself, hardly paying any attention to you. You catch a break every now and then with a man who is at least light on his feet, but your night seems to be doomed to a vicious cycle. Dull and selfish, dull and selfish. 

As you continue to lament in your head, you’re glided into the arms of a new partner. It takes a minute to pull yourself back to reality. You had expected yet another brainless Sergeant regaling you with stories of his military prowess that you would be forced to pretend to listen to. When instead, you’re met with silence, you finally turn to look up at your new partner. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you feel your heartbeat quicken dangerously. The man’s stunning eyes quickly dart down to your throat before returning to your face. Or perhaps he was looking at your cleavage? He certainly wouldn’t be the first man tonight to fall victim to the wonders of corsetry. And was it just a trick of the light, or are his eyes red?

This man is undeniably the most beautiful person you have ever seen. The light from the room catches against the white curls meticulously framing his face, creating a halo. It seems impossible that this apparition might be human and not some hallucination conjured up in your boredom. 

“Forgive me for intruding,” he says, in a sweet, melodic voice that seems to lilt in time with the music. “But I could no longer endure your absence from my arms.��

You’ve somehow managed to keep in step while you’ve been waxing poetry in your head about the stranger in front of you. Perhaps it was a testament to the many years of dancing that were drilled into you growing up, or perhaps it was because this angel was so good at leading you. But your footsteps do falter at his words, only a step or two before he’s guided you back on track. He’s still looking at you expectantly and you remember that you need to talk, that you can’t just keep staring at him in awe. 

“Well, now that you’ve caught me, what do you plan to do with me?” You sound ridiculous, you think. Voice timid and tapering off a bit at the end from nerves. This is not who you are, some silly girl, driven half-mad the first time you’re given attention by a man.

But the man looks down at you through his pale lashes, eyes deep and dark with hunger and you think you might drop to the floor and weep and beg for him. A part of you wants to offer up your neck so he can rip your throat open with his teeth. 

His voice is low and dangerous, like a predator, and it fills your stomach with a warmth that spreads through your veins. “Darling, I plan on never letting you go again. They’ll have to tear you away from me at the end of the night.”

You can’t quite remember when your throat got so dry, but a breathless, strangled sigh involuntarily leaves you at his words.

“Nor would I want to be anywhere else,” you manage to squeak out and the satisfied smirk that spreads across his face is worth it.

The music swells again, the song coming to an end and you dip as the dance requires. The man bends with you and you feel his breath against your neck. He must be nervous, too, you think because his breath comes out as sharp puffs of air. Deep in your mind, a part of you wishes that he would close the gap and his luscious mouth would make contact with the delicate skin of your neck. You have to remind yourself that would be ridiculous and improper in the middle of a dancefloor.

You stay dipped in his arms for a few seconds longer than necessary, much longer than what is considered appropriate in polite society. Your eyes fall closed and you feel your tongue wet your lips as he breathes against your neck. You savor that moment, locking it away in a secluded part of your mind so you can relive it forever. All too quickly, you’ve been lifted upright again and twirled on your feet. 

“You’re an exquisite dance partner, madam,” the man compliments. You realize he’s trying to politely ask for your name and you give it to him. You would gladly give him anything he could ever want. You’re half desperate to rip the heart from your own chest and offer it to him on one of the gaudy platters that waiters are serving drinks on. 

The man repeats your name with a wicked grin and you feel said heart stutter in your chest.

“My father would preen to hear your compliment but in truth, I believe a woman is only as good of a dancer as her partner, sir,” you reply, truly shocked at the coherency of the words managing to tumble themselves out of your mouth. “May I ask your name?”

“Lord Ancunin,” he replies and everything connects. So, this is the mysterious lord of the manor. You can see why he keeps himself locked up in secrecy. He could bring the world to ruin with that handsome face. 

Lord Ancunin twirls you out and pulls you in close to his chest, his breath a deep whisper against the shell of your ear when he says, “Though, I hope you will call me Astarion.”

“Fitting,” you giggle when you turn to face him again and he quirks a pale brow up in question. You give him a dazzling smile of your own as you say, “A face as beautiful as yours belongs up in the night sky next to all the other stars.”

You did know how to be charming if you wanted to, even if your father never seemed to believe you. 

“Ah, so you do know how to spin honeyed words back at me. Have I finally met my match?” The smile he gives you is mischievous and it makes you feel like you’re in on some inside joke with him. You like that feeling, you realize. The feeling of just you and Astarion, wrapped together in a world all of your own. 

“If all it takes is a few sweet words to impress you, I am lucky you have found me so early in the night, before the crowd can woo you away from me. For surely everyone here will sing praises meant to dazzle our mysterious host,” you offer him a teasing smile of your own. He lets out a scoff and rolls his eyes. 

“Oh, but darling, the words only matter when they come from your sweet lips. The rest of this rabble is nothing compared to you,” Astarion’s hand has dipped ever so slightly lower along the curve of your waist as he speaks in a low, rich voice. His touch, combined with his words, send your head spinning. You’ve received flatteries and had your flirtations like any woman, but there’s something about Astarion that is addicting and leaves you craving more. 

Astarion has guided you to the edge of the ballroom floor by the massive windows overlooking the gardens, exploding with all varieties of blooms. Even in this darkened view, they’re stunning and a part of you wishes to go out and explore them. Perhaps you can convince Astarion to join you and you could walk with your arm tucked in the curve of his, letting your fingers ‘accidently’ sneak down to feel the sinewy muscles in his forearms. 

Your mind wanders, questioning if Astarion spends much time out in the gardens. Or what he does all day up in his manor on the hill. As any noble Lord, there’s bound to be servants, but you doubt Astarion has any family. The Ancunin line was about to die out before Astarion seemingly appeared out of nowhere to revive it. It’s sad to think of him spending his days up here with no one who loves him, a fate you had grown intimately familiar with yourself after the last of your brothers moved away.

“Is it lonely up here by yourself?” You ask brazenly. Your own voice surprises you as you speak the question you’ve been wondering aloud. Astarion’s mouth opens slightly and he’s silent, as if you’ve managed to shock him to his very core. The shake of his head is nearly imperceptible before he’s schooling his features again, lips curling back into a cutting smile.

“Perhaps I’ve simply been waiting for your company,” he says, but you’re a bit disappointed by his empty answer. Though, you suppose it was rather rude of you to ask a deeply personal question in such a public setting. 

“Do you like the gardens?” Astarion redirects the conversation, noticing how you’ve been staring intently over his shoulder at the greenery through the enormous glass windows.

“I’m quite fond of roses,” you tell him, a bit shy at the confession. Your mother used to have a few bushes that she cherished when you were a little girl, but they had died with her.

“Roses are very beautiful, as long as you don’t mind a few thorns.”

The double meaning behind his words is obvious to you in that moment, though Astarion is far more beautiful than any silly little flower you’ve ever seen. His beauty is just as sharp though, just as deadly. You wouldn’t be surprised if people had killed for this man, if people had died for him. 

“I’ve always had a special talent for avoiding them,” you give him a teasing smile back and his eyes sparkle with glee at your response. They’re such an unusual shade. In this dark corner of the room they appear an unnatural brown-ish red. They suit him, obviously, as if every feature on his face was carefully selected to create the most perfect man imaginable. But those eyes give him a dangerous gleam that makes you want to drown in him.

“I don’t doubt that at all, little flower,” Astarion says with that low voice that sends arousal pooling deep in your stomach.

Your heart stutters at the endearment. Little flower. Not a practiced, rehearsed platitude, but something just for you. Something based on a moment you had shared together. You hope against hope that you aren’t making this moment up in your head but no, Astarion is here and he’s real and maybe everything will work out alright. Maybe marriage doesn’t have to be a curse that plagues you for the rest of your life. 

Before you can speak, a man with dark, graying hair approaches Astarion, whispering quickly in his ear. Astarion’s gentle smile leaves his face as he listens intently. When the other man steps away, Astarion’s blazing gaze returns to you.

“I do apologize, my lady, but I have an urgent matter I must attend to,” Astarion’s lips are still turned down into a tight frown as he sweeps into an elegant, over-the-top bow. The motion looks so natural on him. 

When he rises, he takes your hand in his own. You feel your breath catch in your throat as his lips brush against the back of your hand. You really wish you weren’t wearing your stupid gloves and could truly feel the softness of his lips against your skin.

“I must thank you for your company. I fear you have been the highlight of my night.” Astarion gives your hand an affectionate squeeze before he’s dropped it and disappeared into the night.

You stand there for a moment, dazed and coming back to your senses. Your skin is still flushed and hot as you imagine again what Astarion’s lips might have felt like against the back of your hand. Or perhaps pressed against your own? You think of Astarion and his sweet words and beautiful face. Perhaps it was possible to marry for love, after all. Perhaps Astarion would be your saving grace. For who couldn't resist ending the night in love with that man?

You don’t know how you’re expected to dance with or entertain anyone else the rest of the night. Not after Astarion. Not after you had met perfection. You spot your father, head bowed and distracted in conversation with a short, greasy man.

You sneak out of a large glass-paned door into the garden. The roses out front were just a preview of the true beauty hiding here. Blooms of every size and color swirl together. You follow the well-maintained paths, entranced, noting the flowers you recognize and staring occasionally at a flower you’ve only seen drawn in books.

You’ve wandered quite a ways from the party when your ears pick up a quiet rustling, compelling you to investigate. Your curious nature had always been a curse: it had gotten you chastised by tutors when you read books that were not meant for a young lady’s eyes, and had earned your father’s ire when he discovered you sneaking in to watch and learn from your brother's sword fighting lessons.

In this moment, your inquisitive spirit wins out again, and your feet move, almost of their own accord, in the direction of the sound. You hear it again. It sounds like a person, or perhaps… was that a moan?

You find yourself in a secluded area of the garden and debate whether you should turn back for fear of intruding on a couple’s private moment. As you turn to leave, you freeze, eyes catching the glimmer of pale silver hair in the moonlight. 

Your heart sinks to your chest. Of course. Astarion is so beautiful it only makes sense that he would have lovers clawing the doors down for just a moment with him. In retrospect, it seems rather cruel of him to praise you as the highlight of his night when he was leaving you to meet with another woman. 

Unable to look away, you see Astarion holding a beautiful woman in his arms, dipping her just as he had dipped you only a short while ago. But this time, he’s closed the gap and his lips are pressed against her, kissing her neck. Her eyes are closed in what you assume to be ecstasy. 

And all you had gotten was a kiss over a gloved hand. An angry, jealous wave flares within you and you have to take a deep breath to calm yourself. The last thing you need is to reveal your hiding spot and make even more of a fool of yourself tonight than you apparently already have. 

You’re hidden out of their sight, positioning yourself strategically behind a bush. Not that they would even notice you with how enraptured they are with one another right now. You don’t know why you’re even staying. Perhaps there’s some masochistic part of you that wants you to remember this hurt, remember that this is why you don’t hope, that marriage born from love was a lie that only fools believe. 

You watch, ignoring the emotions boiling inside you and the gut wrenching pain that makes you feel as if you’ve been stabbed. Only… the more you watch, the less Astarion seems to be kissing her neck and the more he seems to be sucking at it?

Astarion parts from the woman and when he tilts his head up, the moonlight glints against the dark rivulets of blood running down his chin, his hand reaching up to wipe it clean. 

You can’t help the shocked inhale that manages to escape you and you see Astarion’s eyes open and whip over to your hiding spot. You had questioned if his eyes were red before, but you’re sure now as they practically grow crimson in the darkness. 

Your mind is reeling,  you need to get out of there. You aren’t even entirely sure how you got to this part of the garden, but you rush back toward the direction of the manor as fast as you can on your trippy, heeled shoes, doing your best to only stumble minimally on your flowing skirts. 

There’s no way it can be true, but you’re certain Astarion had been drinking that woman’s blood. You had heard the myths and legends about vampires, but it seemed impossible for the creature to exist in real life. Vampires were just scary monsters used to keep children from roaming in the dark, weren’t they?

Suddenly, everything clicks. Astarion’s unbelievable beauty was nothing but a farce, a trait evolved by a predator to draw you in. And of course, you had fallen for it like the silly little girl you were. A few minutes ago, you would have been willing to split yourself open for him to devour. He could have offered you the knife and you would have gladly let yourself bleed for his affections. 

Now, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, so loud you can’t tell if you’re hearing the thud of your own heart or of Astarion’s footsteps chasing after you. You think back to the woman. Did he mean to kill her? Did he mean to kill you, too, now that you had caught him?

The doors to the manor are finally in sight when you brave a peak over your shoulder. Sure enough, Astarion is rounding the final curve of the garden as you slip through the glass-paned doors. 

You force yourself to focus, to think. You can’t help wondering if this is how a rabbit feels when it’s being hunted. How it must know that its very survival depends on its ability to think quickly and get away.

Attempting to disguise yourself in the dancing crowd, you wind artfully between different partners and move in confusing, zig-zagging patterns so Astarion cannot follow you. But, you keep catching glimpses of white hair out of the corner of your eye, Astarion never falling too far behind. 

Your new dance partner is twirling you to the next person when you see the vampire’s red eyes over their shoulder. As he stares at you with a barely stifled rage, you can’t see anything but the red that was dripping from his chin a few minutes ago and it sends a new wave of urgency through your veins. 

Your head whips around and loosens a few pins from your intricate hairdo. The strands fall in your eyes as you frantically scan the crowd for an escape, or at the very least, your father.  His disappointment and rage at your lack of a marriage prospect tonight is certainly preferable to the death you are certain you will face if Astarion manages to catch you. 

When you look up, there’s a silver mirror in front of you. You look rattled and a bit disheveled, but Astarion is nowhere in sight behind you. Finally, you allow yourself to let out the breath you’ve been holding, shoulders dropping in relief. 

A cold hand curls heavily around your shoulder, sending goosebumps skittering across your skin and you look up into Astarion’s angry eyes which shine a brilliant ruby red. Your mind reels and you glance between him and the mirror a couple times because he is standing right next to you but is noticeably absent from the mirror’s reflection. You hate yourself for making such a stupid mistake, for forgetting the rules about vampires, the monsters who didn’t have a reflection. 

“Come with me,” Astarion’s voice is cold, so opposite of the sweet tone he used earlier while you danced. He uses his grip on your shoulder to start pulling you away from the crowd. To kill you without making a scene. 

“No,” you cry out and try to pull away from him but his fingers dig into your collarbone even harder and it starts to hurt. He’s supernaturally strong as he drags you beside him further and further away from the dancing crowd, further and further away from any hope of salvation.

You should let out a scream, alert someone, do something. It’s not in your nature to go down without a fight. 

“Stay quiet if you wish to live through the night,” Astarion hisses against the shell of your ear, like he could tell what you were thinking. You hate that his voice still sends a warm tingle down your spine.

Astarion pulls you around a corner to some sort of secluded closet where he flings open the door and pushes you inside. He’s got you crowded against the wall, his forearm angled so it’s pressing against your windpipe. He isn’t pushing hard enough to restrict your airflow, but his arm is a heavy reminder that he could if he wanted to. A reminder of the threat of death looming over you.

“Whatever you think you saw, you didn’t,” Astarion tries to rationalize with you, his eyes hard and unwavering as they stare into your own. Like if he says the words with enough conviction, he might just convince you. 

“You’re going through a lot of trouble if I, in fact, didn’t see anything,” you point out, which is maybe not the smartest argument to make in the face of certain death. You always had a bad habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. To keep yourself from making this bad situation even worse, you bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet. 

“Impetuous woman. I was trying to hel- I mean…” Astarion grits his teeth in frustration. He seems to be recalculating in his head, figuring out what to do with you. “I had hoped to settle this civilly.”

Even though you feel like you’re growing to throw up, you close your eyes and force yourself to act nonchalant as you speak, “If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer it if you didn’t drag it out unnecessarily.”

Your eyes are still closed, but you feel Astarion’s forearm drop away from where it was pressed against your throat, though his body still keeps you pinned tightly against the wall. This is possibly the closest you’ve ever been to a man and a dark part of your mind enjoys how his thigh is pressed against your own, only a few layers of fabric separating you from his pale skin. 

You bite a little harder at your cheek to focus your thoughts and are overwhelmed by the metallic tang of blood on your tongue. When you open your eyes, Astarion is staring at you like a man possessed, his eyes glued to your lips, pupils blown so wide his eyes appear black. 

Oh, right. Blood and a vampire are not a good mix if you hope to stay alive. You try to quickly swallow the blood down, as if Astarion hadn’t already noticed it. He lets out a sinful noise, something between a chuckle and a groan. 

“I’m not going to kill you, darling,” his voice is deep and hungry as he carefully traces one finger along the pulse point in your neck. “Why would I kill you when I can keep you all to myself?”

You blanch at his words, seeing your future laid out in front of you. Chained up in the dungeon as a vampire’s slave. Kept alive, but barely, a source of constant food for a greedy monster. For a moment, it almost makes you laugh to think that of course this dramatic manor would have a gaudy dungeon. 

“You’re a monster,” you say to Astarion, an angry sneer across your face. 

“Oh, don’t act stupid, pet,” Astarion scoffs at you, his hand now moving up to tuck the loose piece of hair behind your ear and his cheek brushes against yours as he leans in impossibly closer to whisper. “It’s unbecoming of you to pretend to be something we both know you aren’t.”

He presses a gentle kiss to your cheek as he pulls away from you and your mind is in such turmoil, you can’t even revel in the feeling of his lips finally pressing against your skin. 

“Tell me, what am I really? A monster, yes, but what kind?” His voice is so smooth and silky as he taunts you, like a spider spinning you into its web. The time for escape has passed.

“A vampire,” you whimper out, the emotions finally catching up to you. You think again of the woman in the garden. “Oh god, that woman. Did you kill her?”

“Hardly,” Astarion replies, with a roll of his eyes. “And I can assure you, she was a very willing, very well compensated participant. The worst she’ll have is a bit of a headache tomorrow morning from the blood loss.”

He didn’t kill her? That doesn’t make any sense. 

“For the record,” Astarion speaks again, interrupting your train of thought. “I have no qualms about killing people, but it’s such a hassle having to figure out what to do with all those dead bodies. I’ve found it’s much easier to get blood if you maintain a few snacks for the occasional top up.”

You’re still staring at Astarion, trying to understand how the man you met earlier tonight could be the same man pressing you to the wall and threatening you - when the door handle starts to rattle and turn. Astarion moves impossibly quick as he tilts your chin up and presses his lips to your neck, in the perfect imitation of a lover’s embrace. You can’t help the panicked noise that escapes you when you feel a sharp fang prick against your skin. It reminds you of the thorns of a rose. You know that this is Astarion telling you to play your part if you still want to stay alive. 

The intruder clears their throat and Astarion parts from you with an exasperated sigh, as if he’s just been pulled away from a delicious feast. 

“We’re busy,” he shoots over his shoulder, but when he turns his head, you can clearly see the outline of your father standing in the doorway, with the greasy man that he was talking to earlier beside him. A shock of recognition flashes in your fathers eyes before the hard mask of anger settles in.

“Lord Ancunin,” your father speaks, and you recognize the tempered fury that’s flowing in his words, threatening to erupt any second. The carriage ride home with him tonight was going to be unbearable if you managed to make it out of this. “Might I ask what you’re doing in this closet with my daughter?”

Astarion sighs again and finally, finally steps away from you, though you can see the reluctance he feigns in an attempt to keep up the act. Simply two lovers caught together at an inopportune moment.

Now that you have your own space, you feel like you can finally take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized how Astarion’s heady scent of bergamot and rosemary had been clouding your senses. Still, deep in your mind, there’s a small, shameful part of you that misses how the hard line of his body felt pressed against you. 

“You had said she was a virgin!” The short man next to your father yells, his face an ugly, tomato red. 

“She is,” your father swiftly attempts to placate the man. “She’ll still make a good wife, I promise.”

“The deal’s off, I don’t want damaged goods,” the greasy man turns swiftly on his heel and storms away. So, that’s what your father had been up to all night, scheming to sell you off by any means necessary.

When your father faces you and Astarion again, his eyes are flaming with anger. This night was not going to end well for you even if you did manage to escape. Astarion shifts a half-step in front of you. 

“Lord Ancunin,” your father hisses again. You can tell it’s taking everything in him to keep his words polite and befitting of his station. You know that what he really wants is to relentlessly hurl insults at Astarion until he tires himself out. “I trust you don’t make it a habit of tricking naive young girls into following you into dark closets?”

“Your daughter, a young woman,” Astarion emphasizes the word. You feel a bit vindicated by this as you had been fighting your whole life for your father to see you as something other than a foolish child. “Is capable of making her own decisions and dealing with the consequences of those choices.”

The second part of his sentence was directed at you. You chose to follow him out into the gardens, to go where you were unwelcome, and you would be expected to accept your upcoming fate with grace. Your heart twists again and you feel hatred for Astarion blooming deep within you. You had not imagined the beautiful man that you danced with would be capable of such cruelty.

“I will not allow this insult on my family’s honor!” Your father’s voice continues to rise. “If the next words out of your mouth are not asking me for my daughter’s hand in marriage, then you will have made a very powerful enemy.”

“Powerful enemy,” Astarion laughs at that and turns to you as if you’re in on the joke. It is rather funny that your father thinks himself anywhere near the same standing as Astarion, but you’re having a hard time finding the energy within yourself to laugh at the moment. 

“Oh, this is all going wonderfully according to plan,” Astarion claps his hands together in glee, face painted with a devilish grin. You think you catch the light glinting off one of his fangs in the dark closet. “For I had hoped to come speak with you about marrying your daughter. It seems you’ve already beaten me to the point.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the puzzle finally fits together. So, this was Astarion’s new plan. Keeping you as a slave must be too boring in his eyes, the vampire lord who wants for nothing, who has people falling at his feet for the chance to drink some of their blood. No, Astarion plans for you to keep his secret by controlling you. And everyone knows that the best way to control a woman is to marry her. 

You feel like your soul is slipping out of your body. Nearly an hour ago, you would have been weeping with joy to be married to Astarion. Now, it just feels like an extended death sentence.

Astarion’s fingers brush against your arm, pulling your attention back to him, though you can’t bear to look him in his eyes. 

“Dearest, would you like to go out for another dance? Or perhaps I can call someone to escort you to a room for the night?”

You nearly scoff out loud at the false choice. Both options presented by him, neither of which you really want to do. Either you go out on the dance floor and perform the act of a happy, loving couple or you’re sent off with one of his servants to be kept under guard. But, the chance of escape does seem higher if Astarion isn’t constantly by your side. 

“A room, please,” you manage to choke out and Astarion gives you a polite nod. He grabs someone’s attention in the hallway and another beautiful woman with long, dark hair arrives to lead you to a room. Why is it that Astarion seems to only be surrounded by beautiful people?

Astarion’s gaze follows you until you round a corner and are finally out of his sight. You don’t doubt that he will be returning to the party to flirt and dance and drink blood while you are caged in a room like an animal. There’s an spiteful, jealous part of you that threatens to lash out. You’re jealous of his freedom, you remind yourself. You’re certainly not jealous of the people who get to dance with him the rest of the night. 

You keep following after the dark-haired woman, but you can feel your father close at your heels. You curse the world for not just letting you mope in peace and quiet. Why does everything have to end in a fight with your father? Although he hates you, thinks of you as nothing but a burden, you know he is one of your last hopes of getting out of here. 

When you’re finally deposited into a bedroom, you turn to him, pleading. “Father, please don’t make me marry him. He’s not a good man, he’s not who he appears to be.”

“No,” your father cuts back. “That is exactly what you will do. You have brought shame to this family. What would your mother think if she knew you were galavanting around like some common whore?”

You stare down at the beautiful embroidery on your dress and try to hold back the tears. Why did you expect this to end any differently? It never does when it comes to your father. And he always does love to bring up how much shame your mother would feel about you if she were still alive. You stay silent, waiting for this to be over, waiting to be left alone. 

“You’re lucky” he continues, “somehow this is still better than you deserve. You will have a title and wealth. But do not think I will ever forgive you for this transgression. You will no longer be a stain upon this family.”

With a stern nod, he slams the door shut behind him, leaving you in an eerie silence. You aren’t surprised your father thinks you are undeserving of a title and wealth, though those are of little concern to you right now. You’d rather not be married, not expected to be subservient to some man. And worst of all, what you’d really rather have back is the person you thought Astarion was earlier in the night, the person you thought you might be able to love. 

You reach for the doorknob but it has predictably been locked when you test it.

Leaning against the hard wood of the door, you sink to your knees. You can feel the tears burning at your eyes as you pick at the beading on your beautiful gown. How horrible this night had turned out. The tears start with a whimper against the wooden slats of the door and soon you’re weeping, crumpled into a sobbing pile of your skirts. Between hiccuping cries, you mourn the loss of your family, the loss of your life. From now on, you are cursed to be the bride of a monster. A bird trapped in a gilded cage being constantly circled by a very hungry cat.

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Notes: Hehe and that's chapter 1! Get ready for a whole lot of angst, yearning, and misunderstanding as these emotionally repressed weirdos try to navigate their feelings for one another in their new marriage. This is the first fic I've ever actually posted so I'm super nervous, but I have a whole 10-part plan set up for this fic because the Astarion brainrot is real. It's almost like… he's a tadpole that's wormed it's way into my brain…

For reference, I tend to picture everything as regency era since that is my favorite, but I didn't specify because I know everyone has their own favorite time periods they love to imagine!

Hugest shoutout ever to my amazing friend who helped me edit and let me bounce ideas off her. She was the hugest help imaginable and has been subjected to my constant ramblings about my ideas for this fic. Check out her wonderful writing on ao3 at AliensNSuch!

Chapter 2 will be posted next Sunday, 12/24.

[animeyanderelover]

can i ask for a Yan s / o who grew up with Ciel and has already committed some murders but a while after he came back and started working for the queen she lost her interest in him, and he in turn became a yandere for s / o (I sincerely hope you are not confused, have fun thinking about it🤭)

This proved to be a bit of a challenge, but I love some challenges.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessiveness, obsessiveness, manipulation, blackmailing, sabotage, Yandere being mean, mentions of kidnapping

Yandere s/o who committed murders, but lost interest when Ciel became the queen’s guard dog

☕️You had always seen Ciel as a rather shy and weak boy, absolutely adoring this small blue eyed boy. You realized at some point that your desire to protect him couldn’t be considered as normal, but you honestly couldn’t care less. That’s why you were rather ruthless with anyone who you viewed as a threat. You were too young at that time to kill with your own hands and too be honest it wasn’t your style, but you did manage to pay some guys to get rid of the possible threats. It was amazing what you could reach with enough money.

☕️Your heart was shattered into pieces when you heard that the whole manor had been burned down, hatred clouding your mind and swearing to yourself to kill whoever did this in the most brutal way possible. So when you heard the news you instantly rushed over to the mansion, feeling more than happy that Ciel had survived this. But the moment you looked him in his eyes you knew that Ciel had lost some part of himself.

☕️At first you tried to ignore it, understanding that he needed some time to heal, but when you heard that he had started working for the queen you were shocked. He was too young for that! You tried to knock some sense into him and that’s when he started showing you that he wasn’t the shy and innocent little boy any longer. He told you that he knew that you had been involved into killing others for his sake, calling you pathetic and weak and telling you he wouldn’t tell anyone for now, but only if you would disappear from his life.

☕️That was the moment where you realized that this wasn’t the Ciel you used to know anymore. This was a cruel monster who had closed his heart to anyone. You did as he told you and never once looked back, convincing your parents to move away from London. You needed a good amount of distance between you and him, needing time to heal your broken heart. Years passed by until you saw him again.

☕️When you returned years later to London you had grown into a smart and strong individual. You had come back with your parents because they had been invited to a very important ball hosted by the queen and of course they didn’t reject. You felt a bit dreadful, knowing that there was a chance that you would bump into Ciel on this party, but you dearly hoped that this wouldn’t happen.

☕️But it seems like you couldn’t trust your luck because guess who you bumped into. Ciel! At first you were speechless, not knowing how to act. He had by now grown into a young and handsome man, you gave him that. But that didn’t change the fact that he had hurt you so deeply back then. So you just turned around, not wanting to see him and assuming that he didn’t want to see you as well.

☕️If only you would have known how much Ciel had wanted to see you again. During the years where you hadn’t been with him he had felt...incomplete. He had started to miss your laughter and had started to get irritated without you. Trying to push this feeling away hadn’t been helpful either. It only caused him to get more desperate. He had tried to locate you, but you had made sure that your new home place would remind a top secret, even for someone like Ciel.

☕️Ciel had been flustered when he saw you on the party again, admitting that you had grown into a very beautiful noble, but you did surprise him when you gave him a cold look and turned around. This hurt him somehow. Had you gotten over him? He tried to start a conversation with you, but either ran off to someone else or you quickly excused yourself, making it impossible for him to talk with you.

☕️Ciel slowly started to feel frustrated with all of this until it got to the point where he dragged you away from the party to finally have a chance to keep you in one place so you couldn’t ran off and demanded from you to know why you were acting like such a brat. You just replied that he was the only brat, pushing him away and telling him that he needn’t to worry about you killing someone again since you had lost interest in him a long time ago and wished him a good life.

☕️You lost interest in him? That were bad news for Ciel since he did miss you when you weren’t with him, but to find out after some many years of yearning that you had gotten over him was a hit in the stomach for him. He had expected you to be all over him when you would see him again, but that ruined his plans.

☕️He tried to get in contact with you again, but you ignored any letter or gift he sent you and sent it right back to him. Your parents never knew what exactly had happened between you or Ciel, they only knew that something had happened and when they saw you yelling at the postman to bring the letter right back to Ciel they could only imagine how bad this incident must have been.

☕️Ciel was nothing, but enraged because you refused any kind of contact with him. That’s when he started to use more illegal ways. He wanted you back and he would get you back! The engagement with Elizabeth had been long forgotten he only cared for you.

☕️As the Earl Phantomhive and the queen’s guard dog he has a lot of influence, let’s not forget his “one hell” of a butler. At first he’ll try to pressure your parents into setting up an engagement between you and him, but if they refuse that’s when it will start to get ugly. He’ll start spreading rumors about you and your family and will try to involve your parents into a crime, making it look like they were a part of it. If that works he’ll blackmail you and will tell you if you come willingly to him he’ll make sure to get them free. If all of this doesn’t work for whatever reason he’ll resort to kidnapping. He’ll have you one way or another.

[halothenthehorns]

All in the Family

Chapter 86: The Madness of Mr. Crouch

Alice landed on what distinctly smelled like dirty clothes. She got confirmation of this fact by sitting up and a pair of used, and soiled trousers, slipping off her head.

"You alright Smith?" A slurred voice behind her understandably asked as she squealed in disgust and made a beeline for the ajar bathroom door. She barely paused to acknowledge it was Potter, shaking his head from a sizable lump, no telling what he'd smashed into upon their recent landing, as she slammed the door behind her and turned the shower on.

James blinked at the sight before he really took stock of it all and nodded to himself. They could all use a bit of that. He came across several more spare bedrooms in this place before finally finding another one that was deemed important enough to have an adjacent bathroom. He didn't waste much time himself before taking a proper shower and watching the ilk slowly go into the drain as he began to wonder where they'd landed this time.

Frank was still rubbing water, thankfully clean water now, from the nap of his neck as he took his own gander around this place and found himself in an immense library that answered that very question. It was practically the size of his home, but like nearly every room he'd come across it had a disturbed air about it. The books were all pulled off the shelves and scattered on the floor, some even ripped apart. In between every book case was yet another portrait of yet another Crouch.

He wasn't going to try the headache of asking any of them anything again of what could have been going on around here, and so ignored their tisking of the mess. The book he was looking for could have been in here, but he was much keener on finding Alice and Lily in this strange place, so he left the shambles and went off once more.

Lily rubbed her head as she took uncomfortably to her feet, using a hedge to keep her upright as she took in her surroundings of the great sweeping lawns. The hedges were becoming quickly overgrown, her mother would go spare for the sight. Whatever shape this one once had been certainly didn't resemble it anymore. The manor she found herself gazing at seemed in much better state. She wondered what kind of man would live in such a place and not take proper care of his property. She trudged through the grass, and stumbled to her knees in surprise. Yelping the Lumos spell at once for fear of anything at this point, she instead lit her wand tip upon a shoe.

Curiouser, and curiouser.

Making her way almost ghost-like through the shadows and the tall grass until she finally reached the gravel path, she found herself at the front door open for invitation. Hesitating and never particularly liking being alone recently, considering all the deadlier places they'd landed, she debated entering until she heard Pettigrew and Lupin's exasperated voices from just inside the door. At least they weren't screams of terror.

Ignoring the silver knocker in the shape of an eagle's head, she pushed it open wide and was in a grand parlor. It too was a mess.

A table was knocked over, a bottle of brandy long gone to waste. A high-back chair was nearly pushed into the fireplace's unlit grate, and beyond that was a set of stairs where Sirius Black was sitting, still bare-chested and looking almost bored with the proceedings of his two friends having a good laugh with each other.

An eagle owl was snapping its beak reproachfully at the pair, something tied to its leg, but neither of them were paying it any mind as they kept enchanting a pocket watch to hover in the air and letting it fall, the goal for the other to manage to get it to hover again before it hit the ground.

"I've found the book," Frank announced, hand in hand with Alice as he descended the stairs, the pair stepping around Sirius Black who didn't even look up at them, maybe lost in thought for the first time in his life. They spotted Lily still standing in the doorway, eying the betrayal of them looking decidedly cleaner than the mud she still sported and the new twigs likely caught in her hair.

"I'll wait until you've freshened up though," he concluded kindly.

"Much appreciated," she smiled in return, making her way upstairs to do just that.

Regulus was still running a towel through his hair and wondering how on Earth Sirius kept it so long, his was much shorter and it took forever to dry out, when Longbottom started the book. He startled a bit in the bathroom but thanked the fortuitous timing regardless, five minutes earlier and that would have been even weirder.

The Madness of Mr. Crouch? Was this possibly going to explain all of his odd behavior then? It would be nice to have a straight answer like a man going barmy for once, it would explain why he'd thrown his kid into Azkaban for doing something his mother had always insisted any sane pureblood would give their arm to do. Yet another odd juxtaposition of the world he'd never been privy to until all this, it seemed.

Alice sat cross-legged at Frank's feet, playing absently with his shoelaces as he read above her, wondering just as much as everyone else just how loony Crouch had always been. Apparently he couldn't keep his place together worth a damn without his elf, poor little Winky's deteriorating desinsion into freedom being once again highlighted as Harry gave the kitchens another visit.

The Marauders were still enjoying their little game, all four of them now with the extra challenge of avoiding spells from each other while keeping the pocket watch aloft. Lily was a step below her as she watched their game and tried to pretend otherwise, but it was either that or the wood paneling, so she wasn't hiding it well. Alice had never been in the Gryffindor dormitory on a normal day to guess as much, but she wondered if she always pretended to ignore them while they were up to their hijinxs and nobody had just ever seen otherwise. She never talked about her roommates really, and it's not like Snape would be up there to notice.

Nobody had seen the little Black yet, though it was a large manor, she still felt bad it didn't seem anyone was trying either. The times she and Frank had tried to chat with him he hadn't really been very forthcoming. Still, this place had an odd feeling about it, and someone should check on the lad. He'd been so quiet the past few places, she couldn't really recall him saying a word.

The moment she began getting up, Lily leapt to her feet right beside her ready to go. Maybe Alice had misjudged and she'd been fighting off the temptation to curse them instead of join them, it was surprisingly hard to tell with her.

"I'm going to have a poke around," she explained to Frank, who'd clearly been distracted by the story as he only looked up as she gave him a peck on the cheek and explanation.

"Oh," he stuttered in surprise, looking back down at the others and swallowing uncomfortably, already half closing the book, before he hesitated and glanced out the still open door instead. It was a half moon, Lupin was being the most lively of the bunch. Evidence of which, most texts had said, made him just as dangerous as a full moon for his energy could lead to a dangerous quarrel.

'One that led to hitting your mates with a curse to have them hanging in the air by their ankle apparently,' she snorted softly to herself as Black was effectively put out of the game for the moment while his mates laughed themselves silly.

Frank swallowed visibly, but then very obviously settled himself more comfortably on the carpeted step. "Alright love, I'm too curious to stop, you two have fun though."

She smiled brighter than the moon, giving him a more affectionate peck on the lips this time and running her hand through his hair as the two departed up the stairs.

"Anywhere in particular you want to have a look?" Lily asked pleasantly as they began traveling down the first hallway. "I found a ballroom a bit back, though I can't imagine the man was renowned for hosting parties."

"Think my Mum went to one actually, years ago," Alice agreed with a giggle. "She said his wife had been the life of the party and he spent the whole time boasting to his coworkers. Quite the surprising dancer though." She listened to Harry visiting the owlery by himself and watching from afar as Hagrid and Maxime had another interaction, a pleasant reprieve from anything death-defying recently, still leaving their current whereabouts and the chapter title all the stranger. She corrected the assumption though, "no, I actually had a goal in mind, I was thinking of looking for little Regulus Black. Haven't heard from him in awhile, and though nothing's attacked us in this place yet, I still thought I'd check on him."

"Oh," some of the enthusiasm dropped from Lily's face, and Alice couldn't blame her being weary of the lad. He'd been least friendly to her. She surprisingly picked herself right back up though and quickly hid that with a believable smile just as fast, "that's a really kind thought Alice, you're full of those. I really see where Neville gets it."

She blushed in surprise and had no comment for that.

They finally found him in the last room of the last wing, Alice couldn't help but think he'd sought the place out on purpose and the idea was reinforced when they saw the puckered look on his face as he inspected the room. The look didn't temper out much when he saw he had company, but his voice was cordial enough as he said hello.

Alice had seen as well as anyone how he'd been actively seeking out, even talking to Peter Pettigrew as of late. So maybe the kid was a little standoffish until he found some common ground, and she knew of at least one of those. "So, you think Crouch Jr. played Quidditch?"

This was the exact wrong thing to say apparently, Lily instantly deduced, as his uneasy frown turned into a full blown scowl.

"How the bloody hell should I know that, there's not a trace of the bloke in this whole house. Apparently he died the second he was shipped away to Azka-" he broke off and purposely turned his back on them.

"Oh, right," Alice finally said lamely to the dead silence that followed that. It wasn't hard to think for any extended time why the idea of Azkaban would bother him in particular for several reasons, his inevitable future being one, his brother winding up there being another obvious.

Lily's instinct kicked in though only moments later. "She was just trying to be nice, a lot more than you ever bother."

Both of them were briefly distracted by the book, Hermione being sent hate mail of all things and the poor girl having to go off to the hospital wing for it. They exchanged commiserating looks at the mess all around, finally turning to leave him to it as neither wanted to hear once more how much the mudblood probably deserved it, and missing the fact he watched them leave.

The two of them spent the rest of the chapter traversing the barren halls having a good chat about magical creatures they'd still like to see, those nifflers from Hagrid's lesson sounded adorable.

Remus finally let all three of his friends down and only preened in his victory for a few moments before he let himself get really distracted by the story, and Hermione swearing vengeance upon Skeeter. "I really hope she does it too," he nodded along, "that woman's caused enough trouble, and we can maybe even stop any of that before it starts."

"I'm game," Sirius hopped to his feet at once, then swayed dangerously, he had been upside-down the longest. Remus grabbed his arms to stop him face planting, not bothering to hide his resumed snickering at how flush his chest visibly was.

"What if someone even worse took her place though?" Peter asked as he shook out his legs, very much regretting letting himself get hit when he did, he'd thought Prongs couldn't have lasted that much longer! "Like, like someone who blackmails people to get stories instead of just making up-"

"One problem at a time," James rolled his eyes, very much repressing the spine tingling-feeling whisper that told him Peter didn't want to change the future- but obviously he did!

There was some interest piqued all around regardless at the last task being described by Bagman out on the Quidditch Pitch! Disgusted mutters, of course, for what they'd done to the place, but so long as it was put back right this maze sounded like an...interesting place, and the last one thankfully.

None of them were looking forward to being in there themselves, as was inevitable at this point, so they were as happy as anyone at the randomness of Krum pulling Harry aside, to talk about Hermione.

Peter giggled shrilly at the renowned Quidditch player thinking James's kid was any kind of romantic threat, even if Harry didn't like Hermione. He watched now as Prongs puffed up his chest in pride for the same and ruffled his hair, shouting loud enough for neighboring mansions to hear about his kid getting any lass he liked and able to beat that International player to boot.

There was something, off about it though. He couldn't even explain to himself for a moment why he forced himself to keep laughing longer than usual, why he was dithering uncomfortably in place when he had no good reason to as nothing was really wrong. Well... something had been wrong, for ages though. He'd felt it since the start, when Remus and Sirius had made up from their fight. Then that shite with his future had happened, and now everyone was ignoring there was some shift happening in their group. Their first game in too long and some old jokes didn't feel like it was really fixing anything- and what was Crouch doing there?!

Frank Longbottom was no longer leaning back casually on his elbows and pretending he wasn't watching them out of the corner of his eye, he now sat ramrod straight on the stairs and had no inkling of his audience, they were all so riveted by the sheer oddity of what they were hearing, glad for once they weren't at the scene of this crime. Standing in the shadows of the Forest, even one the Marauders knew so well, would have been terrifying, but somehow being in said man's house instead put an extra layer upon what they were hearing.

Madness was no joke then, the man had truly cracked, and Harry and Krum were there to witness the ravings.

Frank would swear the house itself stopped breathing, all eight of them taking in every word of Harry trying to sooth this Ministry official, then leaving Krum to take over as he went for Dumbledore. He was even selfishly glad Lily wasn't around this time, as Snape once again stepped in the way with his arse-like tendencies, he didn't need any distractions of how she would have explained that.

It was still all the stranger when boy and Headmaster returned, to find Krum stunned. Hogwarts truly turned into a madhouse for the following moments, and it wasn't until Hagrid was leading Harry away from it all that they each began really letting it all sink in.

Crouch was gone, his madness likely the cause of all this, but all of it? Frank did not think an onset of spotty mentality would cause him to put Harry Potter into the tournament, but things were progressing fast now into the final legs of his year, and still they were as scarce on information to the culprit of that as ever. Frank was a bit ashamed of himself he hadn't been paying nearly as much attention to details as he would have liked, and even found it some relief to look over and see the Marauders as aghast at all this as him. They were always known as clever students, to be able to do the stunts they pull, now three fourths of them being Animagi at their age was no easy feet. He was missing something, they all were.

[too-attached-to-fiction]

Choose To Be Better | d.m.

Masterlist here

Part 2 here

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

Word count: 1888

Request: Would you write a Draco Malfoy imagine where the reader is an American pureblood transfer to Slytherin and so she butts heads with the racist Slytherins, Draco included but at a Christmas ministry event she and Draco end up spending time together and she realizes he isn't bad when he's alone so it starts a 'friendship' where they still bicker but it's not spiteful and during the 6th year she is there for him?

A/N: YES! I love writing draco and i love the arcs where the reader/OC saves him from becoming a part of the death eaters! This kind of ran away from me but I’m actually really glad it did. I think it’s because I tried to shove like a bunch of the books in but I’m very proud of it and I hope you enjoy it too! I didn’t really put the bickering part in because I wasn’t sure how to fit it all together but otherwise I think this is pretty good :) Thank you anon!

~~~

“Before we begin with the sorting, we have accepted a transfer student from Ilvermorny who is starting her third year here. Miss (L/N), if you would be so kind to step up to the sorting hat?”

You nodded, moving wordlessly to the stool and climbing up. You weren’t sure how Hogwarts houses related to Ilvermorny houses, but you assumed the systems were similar. Back in America, you had been in Pukwudgie, the house representing a wizard’s heart. 

Around you, you heard whispers arise from the tables of students. 

“A transfer student?” 

“Ilvermorny? I’ve never heard of it…” 

“What country?”

“America, I think…” 

The whispers were tuned out as a professor placed an old wizard’s hat on your head. 

“(Y/N) (L/N)... What an interesting student. You were in Pukwudgie, I hear.” 

“Yes.” 

“Fascinating… You’re bright, very bright. Now where shall I place you?” 

You’d listened to the sorting hat’s song at the beginning of the ceremony, but you weren’t sure where you’d fit. You wanted to help people, but you were determined to forge your own path, away from your family history.

“Your father was a Ravenclaw, yes? And yet, you want more than knowledge. You’re quite a mystery, my girl. Where do you want to go? There are pieces of you in every house.” 

“I thought you would be the one to sort me in the right place.” You retorted, and the hat chuckled. 

“Ooh, you’re feisty. Now listen, my dear, whatever you’ve been told about each house is reputation, not fact. I trust you’ll make better choices than most… you’d be better off in SLYTHERIN!” The hat shouted. Apart from a few stray cheers from the table, the rest of the hall merely clapped politely. 

Although you believed the sorting hat had put you in the right place, you certainly didn’t feel welcome in the dungeons of the castle. Most of your dorm mates were quiet around you, and in turn, you were quiet around them. You were a good student in all of your classes, and kept your head down to avoid any confrontation. 

And yet, you seemed to butt heads with one Draco Malfoy. 

It seemed that he never went anywhere without his two goons, and it wasn’t so bad until one day, he decided to go after you. 

“Look, it’s the little transfer. What, America didn’t like you, so you came here?” 

“My parents divorced.” You shot back. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

“What, your mum didn’t want you?” 

“Go away, Malfoy.” You rolled your eyes, turning back to your book. “I have no interest in people who bully others for their amusement.” 

When you returned home for the winter holidays, you had nothing to report. You managed to make a few friends outside of your house, but most of the Slytherin students remained cold to you, probably due to Malfoy’s influence. 

“There's a Ministry Christmas gala being hosted by the Minister at Malfoy Manor. You and your brother will be accompanying me tonight.” Your father told you. “Please remember your manners. While I may not agree with the Malfoy’s values, it’s better to be polite than be rude to the enemy.” 

~~~

This gala had to be one of the most boring events you attended. Still, you feigned interest as you spoke to the other adults around you. Most of them had a habit of talking down to you, but you merely smiled and continued on your way. 

You were on your way to get a glass of punch when Malfoy intercepted you. 

“(L/N), what is a mudblood like yourself doing here?” 

“I’m a half-blood, for your information.” You said coolly, trying to find ways around you to get out of the conversation. You kept your shoulders back, jutting up your chin. “Half American pureblood and half English pureblood. But I suppose only the English side matters to you.” You brushed past him, continuing to walk towards where you had been planning on going. 

Draco followed, suddenly intrigued. “Why would you be at an event like this? I thought only adults were allowed.” 

“You’re not the only one with a father in power.” You said, continuing forward. “Is there something you need, Malfoy, or are you planning on trying to instigate a fight for the rest of the evening?” 

“Would you like to get away from this boring party?” 

“Please, be my guest.” He held out his hand for you to take and you glanced at it. 

“I’m not kidnapping you, for Merlin’s sake.” 

“Just checking.” You smiled, taking his hand. 

A few minutes later, you wound up in one of the gardens, away from the bright lights of the party. The two of you sat down on a stone bench in the center, your hand not quite ready to leave his just yet. 

“Why did you take me out here?” You asked after a few moments of silence. “I thought you didn’t like me.” 

“Perhaps I’ve had a change of heart.” He replied quietly. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all.” 

“Why? Is it so hard to be yourself?” 

“I don’t know who I am. All I know is that I am a Malfoy, and I can only interact with the highest of blood purity.” 

“A halfblood isn’t the highest.” 

“You were invited. Not many get that honour.” Draco backpedaled, removing his hand from yours. 

“Do you want to be a Malfoy?” 

“Of course. How could you ask such a thing?” In an instant, his walls rose. You sighed in defeat.

“You don’t want to be a Malfoy, Draco.” You said clearly. “You’re only a son trying to please his bigoted father.”

“That’s not true.” He stood up, cheeks reddening. “My father will hear about-” 

“Hear about what? I’m sure you’re breaking his rules by talking to an American, and a halfblood, aren’t you?” You raised an eyebrow, and his shoulders sagged in defeat. “We can’t be here long, then.” 

“If you don’t believe in the importance of blood purity, why are you here? Why did you choose to come with me?” 

You stood up, your (E/C) eyes searching for something in his grey ones. “Because I believe there’s good in you. You are not Lucius Malfoy. You are Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy needs to learn how to make his own choices. If you let me, I can help you be your own person.” 

“I am my own person.” He said, but his words sounded unsure. 

“You just told me you don’t know who you are.” You matched his cold stare with ease. 

“I don’t need your help.” 

“If not me, who else will help you?” 

“Someone will.” 

“You don’t sound sure about that.” You raised your eyebrow again. “It’s our actions and choices that define us, not our family.”

~~~

A few days after Buckbeak had vanished from Hagrid’s hut, Draco came to talk to you in the common room. 

“I want to be better.” 

Instead of dropping your mouth open with shock, as Draco expected, you only smiled up at him. 

“I’m glad you’ve come to your senses.” 

For the duration of the summer holiday, you and Draco exchanged letters back and forth, In them, he wrote of his hesitation to participate in activities his father forced him in. The only solution you could possibly give him was to act the way he always acted. You needed more time to figure out how to help, given that his family was known as one of Voldemort’s higher accomplices. 

One day, towards the end of summer, you approached your father. Miraculously, your family had been growing closer and closer to the Weasleys and Harry Potter. 

“Dad?” You asked, knocking on the door to his study. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” 

Your father swung open the door. “Now what could be so important that it needed to interrupt my work?” “It’s important.” 

Earlier in the summer, your father had told you about the Order of the Phoenix. Despite the fact that it was currently dormant, he and the other Order members believed that Voldemort’s return was inching closer and closer by the day. 

“Important how?” 

“I need you to help me help someone.” 

You quickly skimmed over the details, not mentioning Draco’s identity at all. “What should I do?” 

“You shouldn’t be concerning yourself over these matters, (Y/N), they’re very dangerous-” 

“Please.” 

“I’ll write Dumbledore, but don’t expect anything to come from it.” 

~~~

During your fifth year, you brought Draco to your house for the winter holiday. He’d mentioned he’d stay at school, but you insisted he be around people at Christmas. When you pulled Draco into your father’s study, your father’s eyes set quickly, darkening. 

“(Y/N), please explain what a Malfoy is doing in our house.” 

“He needs help, Dad.” 

Reluctantly, your father brought your family and Draco to Grimmauld Place for an appeal to the Order of the Phoenix. Tensions were raised on both sides, with only Dumbledore willing to hear Draco out. 

“Why him?” Sirius demanded. “Out of all people, why are we helping him?”

“We’re no better than the Death Eaters if we don’t hear him out.” Your glare quieted the other members. “Draco is not his father or his father’s choices. He doesn’t want to be a part of the Death Eaters, and we are not leaving this room until we find a way to help him.” 

“They’re children, what do they know about war?” Arthur Weasley objected. 

“They are children. But I trust my daughter, and her choices, even if it means trusting a Malfoy. And I trust Dumbledore, who has graciously agreed to come at once regarding my message.” Your father spoke up, and Dumbledore nodded in acknowledgement. 

“They’re too young-” Molly started, but Snape cut her off. 

“But not incapable. The boy’s doing it for his family, no matter how much he tries to distance himself. We cannot remove him completely from the situation, but we can use this to our advantage. If the Malfoys are anything, they are misguided by their beliefs.” 

“Thank you, Severus.” Dumbledore finally turned to the two of you. “Draco, if you are alright working as a spy…” 

“If it means not working for him, then by all means.” Draco bowed his head. “When the time is right, I’m going to fight by your sides. Even if I’m killed in the process.”

None of the current Gryffindors were made aware of this decision, but the two Slytherins headed home, satisfied. 

The next two and a half years took a toll on you and Draco. You saw him less and less, and when you did, he seemed worse for wear. You were aware of his mark, and of his mission, but that didn’t make you any less determined to help him and get out of this war for good. 

You watched across the courtyard as Voldemort awkwardly hugged Draco. This was all part of the plan, and you’d come this far. You had to survive this. 

When the duel finished, he rushed over to your side. Both of his parents shot sad but knowing looks at his back. 

A year later, Narcissa would thank you for keeping her son safe. But now, in his arms, amidst the rubble… 

All you could think about was a long-deserved future with him. 

[recurring-polynya]

Apparently, if you send someone an ask, but then deactivate your Tumblr, the ask gets deleted. I got this from our old friend k-rukias, and fortunately, I already had it copied over, but anyway, that’s why this isn’t in the standard ask format. Anyway, k-rukias, I hope you’re still out there somewhere and there’s some way you can see this!

k-rukias asked:

you grasp byakuya’s character SO PERFECTLY it always makes me laugh out loud, especially your “Uncle B” stories. i’d love it if you could write more of the kuchiki-abarai family+ichika(maybe throw in some byakuya&toshiro being bffs) I SWEAR YOU DO THE DOMESTIC GENRE SO WELL one can tell you have kiddos 🥺💕

“Give Uncle Byakuya a big hug, Ichika,” Rukia instructed, stifling a yawn. “You’ll see him again on Saturday.” Despite the cheer in her voice, the second Ichika’s tiny face was buried in Byakuya’s chest, she shot her brother a thumbs up and a quizzical look.

Byakuya gave a very firm thumbs up in return. His inconsiderate adjutant was having yet another birthday, and Rukia had asked if they might hold a small family celebration at the manor this year. Byakuya wasn’t sure why. Surely the man would prefer not to see his commanding officer on his own birthday, but Byakuya loved his sister and had made the arrangements she requested.

Ichika finished rubbing her sticky cheeks all over the silk of his kimono. “Here, Uncle B,” she said, handing him a folded piece of paper. “It has to be just like this, okay?”

“Of course, my blossom,” he promised.

“No, it doesn’t,” Rukia mouthed to him behind Ichika’s back. “Okay, kiddo, you ready to go home and see if Daddy missed us?”

“I bet he fell asleep on the couch again!”

“We’ll find out! See you, Saturday, Brother!”

“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Sister,” Byakuya entreated her.

“If you have any questions, please call me,” she begged. “Or send a Hell Butterfly, or however you communicate with people these days.”

“I am very good at Text Messaging,” Byakuya assured her.

Rukia gave him an Extremely Disrespectful Look, which he tolerated, because she looked very much like Hisana when she made it.

“I will not have any questions.”

As his beloved sister and niece took their leave, he unfolded Ichika’s piece of paper.

He stared at it.

He had so many questions.

--

“I do appreciate that you texted before you came over,” Captain Hitsugaya informed him stonily. “But next time, could you text, like, more than a minute before you show up? Maybe wait for a reply?”

“Is now not a good time?” Byakuya asked. “Have I interrupted Squad 10 napping hours?”

“I just… would have picked up first,” Hitsugaya grumbled, trying to keep a stack of paper from falling off his desk. “And it’s always Squad 10 napping hours.”

Currently, Lieutenants Matsumoto and Kuna were sprawled out on the Squad 10 couches, snoring quite loudly.

“I have seen it worse in here,” Byakuya replied. “I am your,” he swallowed, “friend, and I accept your imperfections.”

Hitsugaya glowered at him. “What do you need?”

Byakuya spread Ichika’s instructions out on Hitsugaya’s desk. “Can you tell what this is?”

Hitsugaya’s eyes scanned the drawing: the lumpy creatures that might be rabbits, the crayon scribbles, the puddle of glitter. “Is this a test?”

“If it is, I am in danger of failing it,” Byakuya admitted.

“Ichika made this?” Hitsugaya guessed.

“I imagine the glitter gave it away.”

“Can’t you get Abarai to decipher it for you?”

“I cannot. I am hosting a ‘Surprise Birthday Party’ for him this weekend, and this represents Ichika’s vision of it. I need to identify the items in the picture so I can have them for the party.”

Hitsugaya nodded slowly. “Ah. These are probably balloons, then?”

Byakuya straightened up. “Balloons or lanterns? Or possibly the overhanging blooms of the wisteria?”

“You’re overthinking it. She’s five. It’s balloons. Can you ask Rukia?”

Byakuya’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Ichika’s art style bears a certain… resemblance to her mother’s. I am worried that if I ask for help…” he trailed off.

“Gotcha,” Hitsugaya replied brusquely. He sucked his teeth, and poked a finger at the page. “Well, this is obviously Abarai.”

“Yes, he is always distinguishable by virtue of the fact that she draws him three times as large as the rest of us.”

“Also, he’s the only one with pink hair and stripes,” Hitsugaya replied, raising an eyebrow. “Oversensitive, much?”

“I am only three inches shorter than he,” Byakuya grumbled. “The hair makes him look taller.”

“You are not getting any sympathy here, give it up,” Hitsugaya grumbled back. “He’s got a hat on, I think? A party hat?”

“Yes, I did get that far. We are all wearing hats.”

“Abarai also appears to either be wearing a lei, or he is in bankai.”

“A lei?”

“A flower necklace? We should have some around here, from the last time Matsumoto threw a luau.”

“Ah, thank you,” Byakuya replied. He had not actually expected Hitsugaya to be quite this helpful, and he wondered how he was going to repay the man’s patience in this matter.

“All this stuff on the table is… food, maybe? Gosh, I cannot tell what any of this is. These things look like fish, but they’re brown… taiyaki, maybe?”

“Oh, yes, I had figured that part out as well. Even I know that taiyaki is Abarai’s preferred celebratory food. I actually have a specially made mold--”

“You should make normal ones. Fish ones.”

“He likes Admiral Seaweed taiyaki.”

“It’s the man’s birthday, don’t make him pretend to like your weird taiyaki.”

“They have more crispy bits because of the arms and legs! He told me that specifically, in a complimentary manner!”

Hitsugaya gave him an Extremely Disrespectful Look. Unfortunately, the young man did not have the advantage of resembling Byakuya’s beautiful late wife.

--

Byakuya was distinctly Not Sure About This, but Hitsugaya had hit a wall and decided they needed to bring in ‘a bigger gun.’

Byakuya hadn’t actually set foot in the Squad 5 offices since Aizen’s departure. He didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about Aizen, generally, but at least the man had a classical taste in decor. Now, his former workspace more closely resembled the interior of an eclectic Living World coffee establishment for beatniks. One wall (but not the others) was painted orange, and covered in strange, stylized art that appeared to have been done by the captain and lieutenant themselves. The rug hurt his eyes. There was a beaded curtain.

“I don’t know why you thought I was going to have any insight on this, Shirou,” Lieutenant Hinamori grumped, squinting at the picture. “Renji’s the only one who can decipher these things.”

Byakuya could not help feeling the tiniest bit smug that he was not the only one who was sassed by his loved ones.

“Well, I figured you’d been to an Abarai birthday party or two,” Hitsugaya excused.

“Yeah,” Hinamori replied. “The grown-up ones. Unless this thing over here is supposed to be a tokkuri, and Captain and Lieutenant Kuchiki are arm wrestling, I can’t help you.” She frowned. “You’ve been to an Abarai birthday party, haven’t you?”

“They’re a little wild for my blood,” Hitsugaya excused. “And nobody likes drinking around their captain. I’ve been, but I usually leave before he starts bench-pressing people.”

“There are captains who come,” Momo pointed out. “And I doubt your presence would slow Matsumoto down, anyway, she’s impervious to that judgemental thing you do with your eyebrows.” She contemplated the paper. “What are these weird marks? Is this a speech bubble?”

“We couldn’t figure those out,” Hitsugaya admitted.

“Lemme take a look,” Captain Hirako, who was unfortunately present, announced. “Sometimes you gotta look at things from a different perspective.”

He turned the paper upside down. He turned it backwards. He turned it right side up, and turned his head sideways.

“I got nothing,” he replied. “Kid’s got good style though. And I think Momo may be onto something, actually. I went to Abarai’s last birthday party, and Kuchiki the Younger beat me at arm wrestling in an embarrassingly short amount of time.”

“It’s your noodle arms, sir,” Hinamori supplied. She stuck out her lower lip. “A different perspective, though, is not a bad idea. You know who you should go ask?”

Byakuya did not want to hear the answer.

--

“This is dango. This is katsudon. This is shaved ice.”

Byakuya was frantically taking notes.

“How… how can you tell?” Hitsugaya gaped.

Hachigou Nemuri regarded him with her serious, dark green eyes. “I have seen many of Abarai-chan’s drawings.”

Akon made a grumbling noise. “Abarai-chan’s drawing fuuuuu---udged up Nemu’s image recognition subroutines for months. I mean, it was a good thing, in the long run, I ended up implementing an entire art appreciation suite of dynamically created subroutines. It took me forever to figure out why she couldn’t recognize normal drawings of things, though.”

“What are these marks?” Byakuya asked, pointing to the funny squiggles hanging above everyone’s heads.

“Abarai-chan can’t write yet,” Nemu explained.

“Yes, I know that,” Byakuya replied.

“Writing is a form of communication that utilizes mutually understood symbols to convey an idea from one party to another,” Nemu recited. “Abarai-chan does not yet grasp the importance of a common dictionary in the delivery of information.”

Akon scratched his neck. “You’re saying Abarai-chan doesn’t know very many kana, so she just makes them up.”

“Correct,” Nemu agreed.

“Can you read them?” Hitsugaya asked hopefully.

“She does not employ a self-consistent character set.”

Byakuya and Hitsugaya’s eyes darted to Akon, who was unwrapping a piece of nicotine gum.

“She makes it up as she goes along,” he elaborated, cramming the gum in his mouth. “There is no translation.”

“Momo thought it might be a voice bubble, like in a cartoon,” Hitsugaya mused.

“Maybe it’s just a title to the piece,” Byakuya surmised. “Father’s Birthday Celebration’, for example.”

“Abarai-chan calls Lieutenant Abarai ‘Daddy’, not ‘Father’,” Nemu corrected.

“It was an example,” Byakuya bit off testily.

“This could be cherry shaved ice or strawberry shaved ice,” Nemu added hopefully. “Abarai-chan likes strawberry shaved ice, but I prefer cherry.”

“You are not attending this party,” Akon reminded her.

“I just thought Captain Kuchiki might be interested to know,” Nemu sniffed. “In case he felt like buying me a shaved ice. As a thank you for my services.”

--

Byakuya examined Ichika’s diagram and compared it to the celebratory items currently marring the beauty of his garden. He had the balloons. The hats. The dango. The taiyaki. Both strawberry and cherry shaved ice. “I think I have replicated everything,” he declared. “Have I missed anything?”

“You don’t have rabbit ears,” Hitsugaya replied dryly.

“The rabbit ears are symbolic,” Byakuya explained. “I am wearing the lei. You should put on a lei.”

“I am not putting on a lei. I am not in the picture at all, actually, so I think I should probably scram.”

“You could stay,” Byakuya replied, feeling a little odd about it.

Hitsugaya raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t this a family thing?”

Byakuya blinked. “Family gatherings are large, mandatory, and unpleasant. This is a small party and I am very fond of the Abarai.”

Hitsugaya just stared at him.

Byakuya squirmed. “The fact is… I am not good at things like this.”

“Of course you are. Ichika adores you. Rukia and Renji do, too.”

A normal person would have wrinkled their nose, or sucked their teeth, but Byakuya wasn’t really into making facial expressions, so he just made his usual one and stared off into the middle distance briefly. “Hisana was very good with people. At these times, I often think about how easily she would host a birthday party for a brother-in-law, how natural she would have been with Ichika. She loved children.” He contemplated the drawing. “I am sure she would have interpreted this perfectly, text and all.”

Hitsugaya, who did make facial expressions, blew air out of his cheeks. “If it makes you feel better, I can stay.”

“I would, very much, appreciate it.”

Seike, Byakuya’s chief retainer, shuffled out onto the engawa. “Lord Kuchiki, the Abarai are here.”

“Please escort them out here,” Byakuya replied, plunking a hat on Captain Hitsugaya’s head, and one on his own.

“It’s so unusual for Uncle Byakuya to invite us over on a Saturday,” Byakuya could hear Rukia’s voice before he could see her. His impression was that the ‘surprise’ involved in this party was a figleaf for Ichika’s sake. Abarai was a fool, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“What is this?” Abarai exclaimed as he and his family stepped through the doorway, although he did a genuine double-take at Byakuya’s flower necklace.

Ichika’s face lit up as she took in the decorations, the food. But then her expression turned to dismay at her uncle, standing still and awkward. He had missed something. It was the text. It was important after all.

Hitsugaya’s elbow jammed into his ribs. “Surprise!” the younger captain yelled. A voice bubble! Of course!

“Surprise!” Byakuya added, belatedly.

“Happy Birthday!” they shouted together, with Rukia and Ichika joining in a beat later.

“Well, I’ll be!” Abarai did his best impression of a surprised person.

“Were you surprised, Daddy!” Ichika asked, jumping up and down and tugging on her father’s hand. “Were you?”

“I was very surprised,” Abarai reassured her.

“Why is Captain Hitsugaya here?” Rukia asked, utterly befuddled.

“I heard there was shaved ice,” Hitsugaya excused very quickly.

“Uncle B did all of it, Daddy, just for you! Isn’t it perfect?”

“Of course it is,” Abarai snorted. “If Uncle B did it, how could it be otherwise?”

[raywritesthings]

Sin and Celebration

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Sin Lance (aka not Arrow’s version), Oliver Queen Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Laurel and her young charge inspire and attend the Queens' holiday party. Notes: AU where after Oliver leaves at the end of season 1, instead of falling into drinking and pills as a coping mechanism, Laurel instead puts her energy towards taking in one of the orphans from the Glades left without a home, thus introducing the character of Sin (and a more comics-accurate version of Sin at that) into the Arrowverse as Laurel's adoptive daughter/ward. *Can be read on AO3, link is in bio*

Another long day, or maybe it just felt that way thanks to it getting darker earlier and earlier most nights. Laurel had left the office to pick Sin up from school, and the two of them had gotten dinner out. She was trying more to cook at home, but some days Laurel just wanted the opportunity to relax with her young charge. Spending time with Sin, watching the small girl slowly start to open up more, was one of the few remaining bright spots in her life, and truthfully it had kept her going.

By the time they got back to the apartment, Laurel was ready to put the girl to bed and call it a night, but Sin tugged on Laurel’s hand just before they could cross the threshold. “Laurel, how come we don’t have one?”

“Have one what, sweetie?” Laurel asked, looking back as Sin pointed to the wreaths hanging on most of her neighbors’ doors. Come to think of it, Sin had been looking around with big eyes at all the lights and the big tree downtown, too. “Oh. Well, the neighbors must have decorated for Christmas.”

“But you don’t?”

They walked inside, and Laurel set her purse aside, shrugging out of her coat before crouching down to help Sin out of hers. “Not really. That’s okay though, isn’t it?”

She worried her lip. Being that Sin was originally from China, she ought to have done some research into holidays important to her culture; just because Laurel didn’t bother to celebrate any of the milestones she’d grown up knowing didn’t mean she wanted to rob Sin of that experience.

Sin shrugged. “I don’t mind. There was a little tree at the orphanage, and some of the kids said they used to get presents. I don’t get what it’s gotta do with a baby being born, but the lights and stuff were pretty.”

Laurel found herself smiling a little, even as her heart gave a sad sort of twinge. The baby she associated the most with Christmas hadn’t lain in a manger, but Sara was no more present than the son of God.

She supposed it didn’t hurt decorating a little and getting Sin presents. The holiday was so commercialized anyway, and her charge had clearly already been exposed to it. “Okay. How about tomorrow, we’ll take a look around the shops and you can pick out what we should put up around the apartment?”

That was what found Laurel out at the stores bright and early on her day off, wandering up and down aisles of tinsel, green branches and red ribbons. Sin’s brow was furrowed in concentration as she hunted for the perfect wreath for their door. Laurel was happy to let her take the lead, feeling pretty out of depth herself.

Keeping her eyes on the young girl meant that Laurel didn’t quite see the person around the corner until they crashed shoulders. “Oh, sorry.”

“That’s okay. Hey,” Oliver replied, a smile lighting his face as he took in her appearance. 

Laurel found herself smiling back. “Hey.”

Things had become less awkward between them ever since Laurel had recused herself from his mother’s case once Moira had rejected the plea deal and had been set to be charged with the death penalty.

“I’m sorry, Adam, but I can’t expose Sin to something like this,” she had told her boss. “She’s curious about everything to do with my work.” Truthfully, Laurel herself didn’t favor the death penalty after her experience with Peter Declan last year, and she’d been grateful to get out of having to prosecute a woman she had known since her childhood.

In the present, Oliver smiled down at Sin and returned her shy wave. “What are you ladies up to today?”

“Shopping for decorations,” she answered.

His eyebrows rose up his forehead. “Wow, that’s a change.”

Laurel gave a half-hearted eyeroll. “What about you?”

“The same, actually. I’m hosting a party at the manor for my mother. Well, it’s a Christmas party, too, but I wanted to celebrate her being home with us.”

Laurel nodded. As unbelievable as Moira’s acquittal had been, she was happy for Oliver and Thea that they hadn’t had to face that loss.

“A party?” Sin asked at her side.

“Yeah, Ollie’s family has a party each year,” Laurel told her.

“Can we go? I’ve never been to a Christmas party.”

“Uh,” Laurel said, an awkward laugh leaving her. She patted Sin’s shoulder gently. “It’s not polite to invite yourself over to someone else’s home, honey.”

“That’s okay. Of course, you both are invited,” Oliver immediately excused. “Actually… that’s really not a bad idea, making it a family thing. Isabel, my co-CEO, she doesn’t feel I’ve done a lot to endear myself to the board,” he explained. “Maybe I ought to try getting to know them more as people, mothers and fathers. It’s my family’s company, it should feel like a family.”

“That doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me,” Laurel told him. She knew he’d had some missteps early on with assuming the role — and Sebastian’s early attacks against him certainly hadn’t helped any — but she was glad to see him still trying.

“Laurel,” Sin said, tugging on her coat. She pointed to a wreath hanging just over Ollie’s shoulder. “That one.”

“Yeah?”

Sin nodded. Oliver reached and plucked it off the rack, holding it out.

“There you go.”

“Thanks. Okay, I think we just need a tree, and that should about do it,” Laurel decided. “You’ll send me the party details?”

“Yep,” Oliver agreed. “Uh, Laurel,” he called out before they’d gotten four steps back down the aisle. “The trees are outside.”

“I’m just grabbing a boxed one,” she admitted, looking back over her shoulder in time to see his crestfallen expression.

“But it’s Christmas. You have to have a real tree.”

Sin looked up at her with those pleading eyes Laurel was really starting to suspect her young charge had a lot more control over than she let on. She let out a sigh.

“Come on, I’ll help you get it loaded onto the car.” Oliver actually ended up coming over to help carry the thing up to their apartment and get it in place in the tree stand, then a call on his phone had him excusing himself to let them do the decorating. She followed Sin’s instructions on where to hang the ornaments on the higher branches and even lifted the girl up so she could put the star on top. Her budget didn’t love how much they’d spent today, but it was worth it for the smile on Sin’s face. It was a sight becoming more common as the months passed, but Laurel always felt a swell of pride that she managed to put it there. If she could make this one child happy, then maybe it hadn’t been a mistake that she’d survived the Undertaking when so many — when Tommy — hadn’t.

The night of the Queen’s party arrived, and Laurel led Sin up the steps after handing her keys off to the valet. She waved off the attendant coming to take their coats. “It’s okay, we can do it.” Sin liked knowing where her possessions were at all times, part of growing up with nothing, she knew. So Laurel led them over to the closet off to the side and helped her hang it up herself so she could see the whole process.

A four-piece orchestra was playing from the ballroom, so they followed the sound. Laurel was glad she had guessed right on the attire for adults and worn a deep green evening dress. Sin also blended in with the other kids in her sweater, skirt and patterned tights.

Waiters skirted the edge of the dance floor with trays of appetizers, some decidedly more kid-friendly than not. Clumps of people stood gathered around, talking and even smiling, though as Laurel watched Mrs. Queen making the rounds greeting people there was definitely still some tension there.

There were holiday-themed games set up for the children off to one side, musical chairs with Christmas carols serving as the music and a felt red nose with Velcro attached to one side for the kids to try and pin on a picture of what had to be Rudolph. Other kids were coloring pages with Santa or snowmen or dreidels printed on them.

“Do you want to go play?” Laurel asked her charge, as Sin was still sticking to her side. “You don’t have to unless you want.”

“Maybe just a little,” Sin decided.

“Okay. Come get me for anything, alright? Even if you just want to go home.”

Sin nodded and then jogged off towards the other kids. Laurel watched her go with a smile; she knew Sin was having a little trouble making friends at her new school, so to see her willingly engaging with others her own age was a good sign.

“She looks happy,” Oliver remarked, and it honestly didn’t surprise her to find him standing a few feet behind her.

“Yeah. Thanks for the invite. Looks like a succcess.”

Oliver smirked. “I really have you and Sin to thank for that. Almost all of our attendees are parents. If you hadn’t given me the idea to make it a family event, I imagine they wouldn’t have bothered to come.”

“I guess we’re helping each other out, then.”

A cheer went up from the kids’ side of the room. Sin had unerringly found Rudolph’s nose to pin the red felt to, and she was flushed with pride as she took off the blindfold. Laurel was tempted to go over and offer her praise, but she also didn’t want to interrupt the kids.

The orchestra started a new song, and she felt Oliver’s fingers brush her elbow. “Care for a dance?”

“Okay,” she agreed tentatively, allowing herself to be lead out onto the dance floor where Oliver’s secretary was already swaying with a lanky young man with brown hair. She placed one hand in Oliver’s and rested the other on his shoulder while his hand went to her waist. How many times had they danced like this at one of his family’s high society events, both before and after they had ever become involved? It didn’t have to mean anything more than it used to all those years before. They were still friends, after all.

They had nearly been something more, but when he had left last spring it had nearly destroyed her. She’d been lucky to find out the plight that children like Sin were facing after their homes, families or the orphanages they had lived in had been lost. Taking in Sin had given her someone to pour her love and attention into who wouldn't end up refusing it, a way to be needed. When Oliver had come back, even if she could understand why he had needed the time away, she had had to turn him down; she wasn’t about to simply forget the girl she had made herself the legal guardian of just because the man she had been trying to forget about the last five months had come back into her life.

Things with Oliver were just too undefined and ever-changing to introduce into the stability she was trying to give Sin’s life right now as well. There were times like now where she felt completely on the same page as him, like they could read each other perfectly. Then other times his decisions made absolutely no sense. So no matter how nice it felt to be held in his arms or to rest her cheek on his shoulder while they shuffled side to side in a world of their own, she knew all the while it couldn’t and wouldn’t last, and that when the song had ended, the distance would grow between them once again.

In fact, it was earlier. She felt Oliver stiffen for just a second, his fingers flexing against her back. His gaze was over her head, and a glance back showed her Mr. Diggle was clearly trying to communicate something.

“You need to go?” She guessed.

“Uh.” Oliver’s step faltered, though he avoided stepping on her toes at least. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. I should be getting home with Sin for her bedtime.” She withdrew from his embrace, smoothing at the folds in her dress.

“You’re a— you make a wonderful guardian to her, Laurel,” he told her. “I’m really glad you found each other.”

“I am, too. Goodnight, Ollie. Merry Christmas.” She turned and left the dance floor, finding Sin coloring at the table with a look of concentration on her face. “Almost done?”

Sin nodded. Laurel went to fetch their coats and helped Sin back into hers when she returned. She stopped by Thea and Mrs. Queen briefly to thank them for the nice evening, and then they were heading back out into the cold to wait for the valet to bring the car around.

“You really like him, right?” Sin asked, and Laurel blinked and looked down.

“Oliver?”

“Yeah. Does he like you back?”

Laurel smirked. That was the question of the year, wasn’t it? “What do you think?”

“I think so.” It was stated with a child’s matter-of-fact certainty, and she couldn’t resist reaching out to pat the top of the girl’s head.

“How’d you like your first Christmas party, Sin?”

“It was great! I hope we go next year, too.”

Laurel wasn’t sure she could see that far into next year. Things in her life seemed to change drastically all the time. But if she were a betting woman, there would have to be two constants going forward: this girl she had brought into her home and her heart, and the inescapable push and pull between herself and Oliver Queen.

“Yeah, me too.”

[writingmyselfout]

Because I Could Not Stop for Death - Chapter Four

Language: English

Rating: Teen+

Pairing: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter

Tags: AU - Canon Divergence, Reptilia28′s Don’t Fear the Reaper Challenge, Manipulative Dumbledore, Black Hermione Granger, Slight Ron Weasley Bashing

Prologue 1 2 3

Chapter 4: Writing on the Wall

Summary: Off to Hogwarts

                                                                                                    2 August 1991

DEAR Draco,

Sorry if this is messy. I thought I’d practice writing with a quill. It’s easier than I thought it’d be, but messier to. I have to remember not to leave the tip on the paper or it leaves big smudges.

What was the name of the restorant restaurant we went to lunch to? The cake at that place was the best I’ve had! I hope the food at Hogwarts is that good too. I can’t wait for classes to start. I’ve been reading a few of the books in the meantime. I decided to name my owl Hedwig, after a witch I read about in A History of Magic .

Will you be taking the train too? If you aren’t already sitting with friends, maybe we can sit together? If that’s okay, of course. You’ll be the only person I know so far. If you’ve got other friends sitting with you already no worries. I guess I’m just nervous. Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape told me about being famous, but I didn’t realize what they meant until I saw people’s reaction to hearing my name and seeing me. Do you think it will be the same at school?

Write back soon please!

Harry Potter

4 August 1991

Dear Harry,

Practice writing with a quill? Do you mean you’ve never used a quill before? What were you using to write until now?

The Copper Crup was the name. Mother would take me there for my birthday because their food is of much better quality than most of the others around. Of course, they have nothing on what our House elves can prepare at home, but it’s nice to go out sometimes, as Mother points out.

Mother and Father have said they have gotten me an owl from a breeder to take with me to Hogwarts. I haven’t seen him yet, but I think I’ll name him Vespid, after the most famous Wimbourne Wasps Beater.

Of course I’ll be taking the Hogwarts Express. All students have to take the train. Some of the others starting in our year I think expect me to sit with them since our parents are friends. Father probably wants me to, since their families are part of the Sacred 28. You can probably sit with us. Some of them are kind of dumb, though.

Did you really not know you are famous? Have you been living under a rock? Forget just school, or even England. Every witch and wizard in the WORLD knows who you are! They write an article about you every year in the Daily Prophet.

Draco Malfoy

                                                                                                    5 August 1991

Draco,

They write a WHAT about me every year? What’s the Daily Prophet? Is that like a newspaper for wizards? I thought I was just a normal, non-magical kid for years. I live with non-magical family, and they don’t like to talk about magic. But after what you said, I looked at more recent years. Did you know I’m mentioned in our A History of Magic book? Only a small bit, I guess ‘cause they don’t know anything else, but it’s embaressing. Embarassing? I can’t remember how to write that.

I guess if you’re used to quills, maybe you’ve never heard of a pen? It’s what non-magical folks use. It’s a big of plastic with ink inside of it and a metal tip to write with. Or pencils, which is wood. I’ve sent one of each over for you ‘cause I think it’d be easier than trying to explain in writing.

It doesn’t sound like you like those other kids. Do you have to sit with them? Can we move seats during the trip? Maybe you can sit with them for a little while and then leave.

But what do you mean, their families are sacred? What are House elves? I remember what you said Beaters did, but who was Vespid? Sorry if my questions are dumb. There’s so much I don’t know. But if my questions bother you, I’ll stop asking them.

Harry Potter

8 August 1991

Harry,

You live with Muggles? No wonder you don’t know anything! I can’t imagine growing up with no magic. How terrible. Lucky for you, I know all there is to know.

The Daily Prophet is the wizarding world newspaper. It gets delivered by owl every day. House elves are magical servants, but only older, more magical families have them. Most of the Sacred 28 do, anyway. The Sacred 28 are the oldest, pureblood wizarding families, and a lot of them are very important. None, of course, more than the Malfoys. Father is on the Board of Governors for Hogwarts, and he knows the Minister of Magic personally. Mother says that because of that, I must be careful with who I become friends with, as they might be trying to get close to me so their parents can get closer to Father, or because we’re wealthy.

It will probably be the same for you, since you’re famous. Mother said the Potters were very wealthy, too, when I asked. Did you inherit everything? Are you and your Muggles relatives living at the Potter estate?

Most importantly, we must do something about how little you know about Quidditch. Elric Vespid was a Beater for the Wasps something like 600 years ago. He hit a wasps’ nest so hard at the Appleby Arrows’ Seeker that he retired, and it’s why the team became known as the Wasps. I have sent over my favorite book, Quidditch Through the Ages. It will tell you all you need to know about the game. Mother says it’s polite to return gifts when you’re given something, so consider it a thanks for what you sent me. I have never seen a pen or pencil before. They’re strange. I think I prefer a quill.

If there’s no magic at your house, what do you do for fun?

Draco Malfoy

                                                                                                  11 August 1991

Hey Draco,

Thank you for the book! I’ve read it all. I can’t wait to see a real game.

Muggles aren’t all bad. But you should probably never meet my family. They are pretty terrible. If they’re the first Muggles any witch or wizard meets, they’d never want to meet another ever again and I wouldn’t blame them. They’re the worst, really. But my mum’s parents were Muggles, and I’ve mostly only known Muggles.

Wow, is your dad really that important? You must’ve been surprised when I didn’t know who you were then! It sucks you have to worry about people being friends with you only ‘cause of your dad or your family’s money. I hope we can both make friends who don’t care and just want to be our friends ‘cause they like us , you know?

As for what my parents left me, I actually only found out at Gringotts right before meeting you that they left me a lot of money. I had no idea before, but I guess technically, I am wealthy now? But I don’t know anything about an estate. I tried to ask my aunt and uncle, but like always, they didn’t really give me an answer. I think they don’t actually know, ‘cause if they knew about how much money they’d left me, I’m sure they’d have tried to take it. My uncle actually said my dad wouldn’t have had anything to give me worth writing a will for. Can you believe it? I decided not to tell them anything. Maybe the professors can help me look into it.

How cool would it be to find out there’s some big ol’ house somewhere they left me?

Harry Potter

   With letters to read and respond to every few days, the month of August flies by for Harry. It helps that aside from when he first came by and his aunt informed him he was to move his things to the upstairs spare bedroom, his family has mostly ignored him. Their daily interactions were limited to letting him know meals are ready, and one time when Uncle Vernon told Harry to stop letting his owl come in and out of the bedroom before the neighbors noticed. Hedwig was less than pleased with the restriction, but Harry opts to avoid any issues by only letting her out at night.

   Draco’s letters were an insight into the world he would be entering in a way that reading through his books could not provide.Occasionally, his comments about Muggles or Muggle-borns, directly or what seems to be implied, make him pause. Harry tries to avoid complaining about the Dursleys once he notices, because he doesn’t think it helps his case when he tries to explain to Draco that Muggles aren’t all bad.

   After all, Harry isn’t exactly Muggle-born, but his mother was, and he feels like he may as well be when he grew up knowing nothing about magic. It makes him wonder if others think the same, or if maybe Draco grew up in a family similar to the Dursleys in that they hated people who were different. It meant either having an entire world that might think less of his mom if she were alive, or having a friend who might have a lot more in common with his dreaded cousin than he’d hoped. Harry prefers to not worry about it now and just enjoy having someone his own age to talk to for the time being.

   He’ll worry about everything else once school begins.

~~~

DRACO wakes up on the first of September practically vibrating with excitement, and much earlier than needed, as the sun is only just beginning to lighten the sky outside his window. It’s not as large as the one in his room back at Malfoy Manor, but this residence is in London, and therefore much closer to King’s Cross Station, where he’ll need to be in a few short hours. He calls for a House Elf to ready a bath for him and is a whirl of movement as he double checks his trunks to ensure that nothing was forgotten when the House Elves finished packing it the night before. They didn’t, of course, but he needs to move, to do something, or he feels like he might explode.

   He’s been waiting his whole life to go to Hogwarts. He’s imagined grand adventures and wow-ing other students with his natural talents at magic and Quidditch, and winning the House Cup for Slytherin for the next seven years. Sure, now that he knows he’ll be going to school with the Harry Potter, he realizes that maybe he won’t be the most popular, but he’s basically made the most famous kid in school his best friend before anyone else has even met him! So they’ll just be the most popular students together.

   The Malfoys had hosted an end of summer party to celebrate the incoming class of Slytherins a week before the term was to begin. Such get-togethers was really an excuse for the parents to talk privately of whatever matters adults spoke of, while the children basically bragged and attempted to ingratiate themselves with whoever their parents had told them to, often those present considered one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, or pestered the older among them to tell them more about Hogwarts.

   This specific gathering had only those whose families had children of Draco’s age and would be attending Hogwarts for the first time. Gregory Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Theodore Nott, Gemma Runcorn, and Daphne Greengrass--with her little sister Astoria in tow--were all expected to be sorted into Slytherin with Draco. They talked about what they expected based on information gleaned from older Slytherin students they knew, or some of the wild rumors they couldn’t seem to get confirmation or denial about, such as the Sorting being a test of skills. It quickly devolved into comparing the quality and price of the things they would be bringing to school.

   “Did you know,” Pansy suddenly piped up, interrupting Daphne Greengrass bragging about robes she’d gotten in Paris over the summer for school, “that Harry Potter is supposed to be starting this year too?”

   A new round of rumors and speculations they’d overheard from their parents were shared. Draco had been tempted to tell them that he had met the famous Boy Who Lived, the elusive child celebrity no one had ever seen. At least not accurately. The Daily Prophet had an artist rendering every year when they ran their anniversary article about the end of the Wizarding War, but the only description that anyone knew to be accurate was the lightning bolt scar on Harry Potter’s forehead.

   Instead he had kept it to himself, thinking it would be much funnier to present his good friend Harry Potter to them all on the Hogwarts Express. Imagining their expressions had delighted him, and as he gets ready, still brings a grin to his face. It helps to pass the time, which seems to drag on as he waits for it to be time to leave. Once his parents are awake and breakfast is served, though, it seems to be no time at all before they are at the station.

   They aren’t the first ones there, although he thinks if he had rushed his parents through breakfast, they might have managed it. Draco is certain his mother, who would normally only allow them to be either promptly on-time or fashionably late, is indulging his excitement. Being early means he practically has his pick of compartments. He opts for one in the middle, the House Elf that accompanied them puts his trunk in the compartment for him before disappearing back to Malfoy Manor, and then he goes to say goodbye to his parents. He allows his mother to fuss over him, smoothing his hair back and adjusting his robes as he tries not to impatiently look around. Even his parents are in for a surprise, as he has only told them that he’s been writing to the student he met at Diagon Alley with the Slytherin Head of House, Professor Snape, but not who that student is.

   “Lucius!”

   The Malfoy family turns as one to the voice calling. Mr. Parkinson is heading over, wife and daughter in tow. He’s pushing a cart with two trunks, presumably Pansy’s. It’s left to one side as the parents start talking, and Pansy comes over to Draco’s side, asking if he’s picked a compartment and where, so she can go sit with him.

   Draco doesn’t particularly want to sit with any of the girls he knows. For one, in his small experience, they tend to get bored with talk of Quidditch. For another, the compartments look like they’d fit about four to six comfortably, which means there’s just enough room for him, Harry, Theodore, and likely Vincent and Gregory, and still be able to sit one more. But if Pansy joins them, she’ll want at least one other girl to come, and then they’ll be over by one or squished in together.

   So he lies. ““Somewhere towards the front.” He makes a vague gesture, glad that his mother, if she notices, doesn’t correct him even though he knows she kept an eye on where he went when he boarded. Narcissa Malfoy always knows where Draco is at all times.

   Pansy nods her head, intercepting Crabbe and Goyle when they head over to get their help with her trunk. Ordering them, really, and Draco realizes that since she got to them first, they don’t know where he’s really sitting. Ah well, he’ll have to try to catch them on their own otherwise they’ll just have to sit with Pansy the whole trip.

   Hoping to catch Theodore before Pansy does so he can at least give him the right compartment, he suddenly catches sight of a familiar figure coming through the barrier from the Muggle side of King’s Cross station.

   “Oh, he’s here!” Draco announces, catching the attention the adults with the outburst. Before either of his parents can react, Draco is off, weaving his way through the crowd.

   Harry is moving slowly, pushing the cart with his heavy trunk and his caged owl, fascinated with the sight before him. He’d known, logically, that the professors wouldn’t have lied to him about how to get to the platform. It hadn’t prevented him from feeling like he was going to crash into a solid wall and cause a scene as he moved towards the barrier. He’s surprised and delighted to instead find a whole hidden section of the station. There are people all around, adults saying goodbye to their children, students greeting each other and gathering in small groups, and then there’s a blond boy standing in front of him, bringing Harry to an abrupt stop.

   “There you are,” Draco says by way of greeting. “What took you so long?”

   “Hey! We left a bit later than I’d hoped,” Harry explains. “It’s like a two to three hour drive for us. How’d you get here?”

   “We have a London residence,” Draco explains, his tone suggesting that this should be obvious. “And of course, with Father’s connections, we got a Ministry car to drive us. Come on then, my parents will want to meet you before we board.”

   Harry follows after Draco, slowing his steps when he gets a good look at the group awaiting them. He recognizes Mrs. Malfoy from the glimpse he got of her at Diagon Alley, and Draco’s practically the spitting image of his father, so it’s easy to figure out which is Mr. Malfoy. The rest of the adults, however, he can’t begin to guess who they are. What’s more, all eyes are on him and although he’d tried to remind himself that morning that this might happen once people realized who he was, there’s something distinctly unnerving about the way he’s being watched right now. They leave his cart by the train entrance, just to the side so as to not be in anyone’s way, and then Draco leads him over to the group watching them.

   “Mother, Father.” Draco stops in front of his parents. “This is the boy I met at Diagon Alley, Harry Potter. Harry, my parents Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.”

   “H-How do you do?” Harry mutters, trying to stand still under their scrutiny.

   “Why, Mr. Harry Potter. This is a pleasant surprise,” Mr. Malfoy says, smiling. It’s not a very friendly look. “How exciting for the students of Hogwarts to get to go to school with the wizarding world’s biggest hero.”

   Something about the way Mr. Malfoy says it makes Harry feel like he’s being insulted or mocked to his face. “I, uh, I should put my stuff on the train.”

   Harry forces a smile, and then starts to move towards the train. He’s sure it’s his imagination, but he is certain he can feel their gaze on his back and he’s distinctly uncomfortable. He has a hard time trying to explain to himself what it is about these adults that makes him want to flee, as it’s not quite the instinctual knowing he’s occasionally felt since the day he received his Hogwarts letter. But it’s close enough that, as trusting his instincts thus far with the wizarding world has turned out in his favor, he thinks he would be better off leaving their company as soon as possible.

   “Hold on.” Draco hurries after him. “Go right from here, and it’s the fourth one down. My trunks have the Malfoy crest on them.”

   He’s basically being ordered, which might have bothered him if he weren’t so desperate to get away right now. Harry instead just nods before he grabs Hedwig’s cage, deciding to get her inside first and moving the heavier trunk once he knows for sure where he’s going. Finding Draco’s trunk with his family crest, an image he’d grown accustomed to seeing pressed into the wax Draco used to seal his letters, was rather easy. He set Hedwig’s cage inside, and then went back to get his trunk. He pauses briefly before stepping out, hoping to avoid notice, but a group of students coming off the train block him from view for a few moments as they stand around just a few steps away.

   Quick as he can, he grabs his trunk and starts to try to single handedly drag it up. “Need a hand?”

   Harry looks over his shoulder to find a tall, lanky redhead. “Oh, uh, yeah. That’d be great.”

   The redhead looks back down the train and yells out, “Oy! Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!” Looking back at Harry, the boy waved him away before coming around to grab one end of the trunk. When another, identical redhead appears, he grabs the other without question and the two lift the trunk onto the train.

   Harry quickly follows, directing them over to the right compartment. There’s an eyebrow raised at seeing the crest on the trunks already there, but they simply lift Harry’s trunk before nodding at him.

   “There you go, firstie. All set.”

   “Thanks,” Harry replies, pushing his glasses up.

   He stands out of their way to allow them to leave the compartment, debating on whether to introduce himself or not. Before he can decide, one of them seems to take a closer look, hitting the other’s arm suddenly. “Hey, is that a scar? You wouldn’t happen to be--”

   “Harry!”

   Harry turns around briefly to see Draco approaching, but his attention is drawn back to the twins as one says, “Well, we’ll be off then!”

   “Oh, okay, bye!”

   “The train will be leaving soon,” Draco tells Harry, eyes watching the twins leave for a moment before looking over at him. “I only saw a few of my friends, so I think they might be sitting with Pansy. I told her I was towards the front so she wouldn’t sit with us, but I think she told them the same, so they might be with her.”

   Harry frowns a little, thinking he doesn’t want to have to try to move his trunk. “Did you want to move over to where they are?” he asks.

   “Hm, no,” Draco responds after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll tell them I’m back here, see if they want to move. Do you want to come with me to find them?”

   “I think I’ll sit with Hedwig, I don’t think she’s used to all this activity yet.” It’s an excuse, when really Harry just doesn’t think he’s up for another group of people staring at him just yet, but when he looks over at his owl she seems to understand and starts flapping her wings and hooting loudly. “I should probably sit with her until she’s calmed down.”

   Draco shrugs. “Suit yourself. I’ll be back.”

   Harry closes the compartment door, goes and then sits down, reaching a finger into Hedwig’s cage to stroke her head. “Thanks.”

   She hoots at him once in reply before settling down. Harry turns to look out of the window, the panel above open so he can hear the sounds of the crowd of parents and students, many of them starting to say their goodbyes. The platform is starting to clear, an indication that they’ll be departing soon. A flash of red catches his eye, and he sees a group of redheads, only just visible as they stand a little ways down from his compartment

   He thinks for a moment it might be one of the twins, but decides what he can see of them isn’t quite right. This boy is shorter, though the hair is the right shade. The woman standing with him speaks up, and Harry can hear them clearly.

   “All right, Ron, you be sure to behave. Listen to Percy and, what’s that on your nose? Come here.”

   A younger boy jerks into view as he pulls away from the woman. “ Mom , geroff!”

   The twins appear then, and with them standing together, Harry notes the resemblance. He listens to them joke and tease the younger boy, who grows obviously more annoyed and sullen with the teasing, and then yet another boy appears. He’s already changed into his robe with a badge on his chest, and the twins start to tease him about being a prefect as well. Harry thinks it’s rather nice, to come from a family close enough to tease like that, even if the twins’ siblings seem to be annoyed by it. The one already in his robes allowed their mother to kiss his cheek, said goodbye to someone outside of Harry’s line of sight, and then seemed to board again.

   That was when one of the twins said, “Oh, guess who we just met on the train, Mom?”

   “Who?”

   “Harry Potter !”

   The one out of sight suddenly piped up, and it sounded like a little girl, her voice carrying as she loudly begged to be allowed on the train to see him. Harry leaned away from the window then, hoping to stay out of sight. How embarrassing would it be to be caught eavesdropping on them as they started to talk about him?

   “No, Ginny, the train is about to leave. You can’t get on,” the boys’ mother responded, cutting off the little girl’s begging. “Are you sure, Fred?”

   “Pretty sure,” was the response. “Saw a bit of a scar on his forehead. Malfoy’s kid called him ‘Harry’, too.”

   “Malfoy ?” The way the woman said the name made Harry frown automatically, not wanting someone to say anything bad about his only friend. Then he remembered Lucius Malfoy’s smile and thought perhaps, if that’s who she was thinking of when she said it, the reaction might be warranted. “Are they friends, do you think?”

   “Who knows? Maybe they just met? Anyway, we should be getting on, Mum. We’ll know for sure during Sorting. Who knows? Maybe he’ll be a Gryffindor!”

   “Be sure to let me know,” she tells them. “Try to befriend him if he is, okay? Poor thing, being an orphan raised goodness knows where or with who, he could probably use all the friends he can get.”

   Harry decides to close the window, distinctly uncomfortable with hearing the obvious pity, and not particularly interested in hearing any more. Especially since the little girl starts to cry, half-pleading and half-demanding to be allowed to go with her brothers or at least be allowed to get on and see Harry. It sounds like the beginning of a tantrum, at least in his experience based on his cousin’s tried and true methods, so he is relieved that closing the window prevents him from hearing the rest of it.

   What he is able to hear, loud and clear, is the train's whistle as it goes off to announce their departure. Outside, it looks like there are no more students on the platform, instead just a few parents and younger siblings, waving at students in other windows before leaving or waiting to see the train off.

   The door to the compartment opens as the train starts to move, and the youngest of the redheads is standing there. He’s taller than he appeared while standing outside, Harry notes absently. Ron, as they’d called him, starts to back out with an apology when he suddenly stops, staring at Harry.

   “Are you him?” he asks.

   Harry blinks at him for a moment, surprised. “Who?”

   “Harry Potter?”

   “Oh, him. I mean, yeah, that’s me.”

   His eyes go over to the trunks, and he frowns. Harry follows the direction he’s looking at and realizes it’s Draco’s trunks that have drawn that reaction. “I’m Ron Weasley. Are you really friends with the Malfoys’ kid?” Blue eyes lower again to meet Harry’s gaze. “You shouldn’t be, you know. Just warning ya, they’re-”

   “We’re what?” Behind Ron stands Draco, arms crossed, scowling.The redhead half turns, still standing in the compartment doorway.

   “Draco’s my friend,” Harry interrupts before either can say anything. “So can you step aside so he can come sit down?”

   Draco doesn’t wait for the other to obey, basically shoving him aside to come in and sit across from Harry. He gives him a smug look, crossing his arms as he waits to see what he’s going to do. He knows this kid’s type, trying to ingratiate himself with someone better than him. Clearly, he thinks, Harry can spot the type too.

   “Weasley, you said, right?” Draco drawls. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

   The stubborn look that comes over the other’s face makes Harry think that this might turn into a bigger confrontation when one of the twins comes by. “There you are, Ron. Are you bothering people?”

   “Yes,” Draco announces instantly, frowning at seeing another redhead.

   “Really, Ron, can’t leave you alone for a second.” The other twin appears, grabbing the youngest sibling by looping an arm around his neck and dragging him back away from the door. “Come on, you. You’re with us; Mum’s orders.”

   “We didn’t introduce ourselves earlier,” says the remaining twin. “I’m Fred Weasley, that was George--” the other twin, clearly still within earshot yells a hello “--and that was our brother Ron. Our fault for telling him Harry Potter was here. He’s not used to meeting famous people. Consider him an overzealous fan.”

   Harry blushes at the reminder. “Uh, no, no worries. Nice to meet you. Thanks for the help earlier.”

   “No worries.” George waves a hand dismissively. “We’ll see you later. Oy, Fred! You just passed our compartment!”

   The compartment door is closed behind them, and Draco shakes his head. “Weasley, the youngest one, clearly wanted to be friends with you because you’re famous. Like I wrote you, you’ll run into those types all over. Who knows, maybe the twins were in on it too.”

   “You think?” Harry considers it for a moment then shrugs. “George and Fred seemed nice even before they knew who I was earlier. As for their brother, well, I just don’t like people talking about my friends. Or telling me what to do. If he wanted to be friends, he should’ve just said so.”

   Draco is surprised at Harry’s reasoning, and starts laughing. “You’re weird, you know that?”

   “What happened with your friends?” Harry asks when Draco’s done laughing.

   “Ah, I ran into Theodore. Pansy convinced them I’d be sitting with her so they sat in her compartment. I told him we’d be back here, but it’s fine. They were being rather loud anyway. And this way, we don’t have to worry about Crabbe and Goyle trying to steal any snacks we buy. They’re always hungry.”

   “Their names are Crabbe and Goyle?”

   “Family names,” Draco clarifies.

   “Why do you call some of them by their first name and some by their last?”

   “Ah, it’s considered polite to only address those you’re close with by their first name, and everyone else by their last name.”

   “Oh, so when I wrote you that first letter, it should have said ‘Malfoy’ instead of ‘Draco’?” Harry wonders aloud.

   Draco shrugs. “Well, yes, but it’s fine. I realized since you were raised with Muggles, you probably didn’t know any better.”

   “I think it’s less because I grew up with Muggles, and more that your family is super upper class,” Harry argues. “That sounds like the kind of rule rich people have.”

   “Hm, maybe.” Draco thinks it over, never having thought of it like that. “Although,” he points out after a moment, “didn’t your parents leave you a bunch of money? So you’re rich, too.”

   “Honestly, I still forget,” Harry admits. “I’ve never really had my own money to buy whatever.”

   There was a knock on the door and then a woman opened the compartment door with a dimpled smile asking if they wanted anything from the cart she was pushing.

   Draco grins. “Well, here’s your chance to spend some, then.”

   Harry jumps up, more than a little hungry after skipping breakfast, only to realize he wasn’t familiar with any of the snacks on offer. “Wow, I’ve never seen any of these.”

   “Are you joking?” Draco shakes his head, answering himself. “No, of course you’re not. We’ll just have to take some of everything then.”

   Harry insists on paying, and then dumps the giant load on the seat next to Draco, sitting on the same side so the snacks are piled between them. Draco insists on letting him have the box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, laughing loudly when Harry immediately eats a green one he’d assumed would be apple or lime flavored only for it to turn out to be grass. The Cauldron Cakes and Pumpkin Pasties are great follow-ups to recover from the strange jelly bean. When Harry opens a Chocolate Frog before Draco can explain it will jump, he’s so amused he opens a couple of the other ones, both of them laughing as the compartment is momentarily filled with half a dozen hopping frogs. All but one have stopped when the door opens and a round-faced boy is momentarily caught off guard when it suddenly jumps at him.

   “Trevor?” He pulls the treat off the front of his robe where it jumps and visibly deflates at seeing it’s just chocolate. “Oh, no. Have you seen a toad? I can’t find mine.”

   Harry shakes his head, smiling. “A toad? No. Sorry.” Draco shakes his head as well, and the boy leaves.

   Once he’s gone, Draco starts looking through the cards, showing them to Harry and explaining what they are when he realizes it’s yet another thing the Boy Who Lived knows nothing about. He’s highly amused at Harry’s surprise when, right before his eyes, Merlin stretches and then moves out of frame. But it’s Harry’s reaction to seeing the Albus Dumbledore, frowning down at it as he studies it, that piques Draco’s interest.

   “What is it?”

   Harry looks up at him, shrugging as he puts the card aside with the others he’d gotten. “Ah, no, I was just surprised. I’ve heard of Albus Dumbledore, but it’s the first I’m seeing of him.” Harry stops, wondering if he should explain the feeling of distrust that comes over him at hearing the name--and now seeing --Albus Dumbledore, but not quite sure how to explain himself. He has no frame of reference for what might be weird in the wizarding world, so he doesn’t know if this sense of déjà vu he gets is normal or not. “He’s older than I expected,” he finishes lamely.

   “He’s pretty famous too,” Draco informs him. “Father doesn’t like him.”

   Harry’s tempted to ask for more info but they’re once again interrupted by someone opening the door. The boy who’d asked about the toad is back, standing behind the girl who’d opened the door. She has brown skin, bushy brown hair, and brown eyes that look around the room, taking in both boys, the owl, and the pile of wrappers and uneaten snacks quickly before gazing back at the boys. When she speaks, her large front teeth stand out, and her tone is distinctively bossy, but something about her is so familiar that it takes Harry a moment to put together what she’s said.

   He is too busy realizing that the same sense he’d gotten from Draco back in Diagon Alley, that had prompted him to befriend him, is coming over him again twofold. Somehow, he knows that Draco might be his first friend, but this girl was going to be his best friend. He should probably look into why he gets these feelings at all.

   “Have either of you seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.”

   Draco sighs. “Harry already told him we haven’t. It’s just a toad anyway.”

   “Harry? As in Harry Potter?” the girl asks, eyes moving from Draco over to Harry. Blinking, Harry just nods. “I’m Hermione Granger and this is Neville Longbottom. I know all about you. You’re mentioned in our History of Magic book, of course, but I got some extra books for background reading and you’re in Modern Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts , as well as Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century .”

   Harry stares, surprised, looks over at Draco who shrugs, then back at her. “Am I?”

   “Didn’t you know? I’d have learned all I could if it were me,” she announces.

   “Yes, well, it’s not. Shouldn’t you be off looking for a toad?” Draco reminds her.

   Hermione frowns at Draco. “No need to be rude. Who are you?”

   “Draco Malfoy. We need to change since we’ll likely arrive soon, so leave already,” Draco orders.

   “Draco.” Harry shakes his head at him, then looks back at Hermione Granger and Neville Longbottom. “I’ll keep an eye out for the toad, but we haven’t seen ‘em.”

   “All right, thank you.” She starts to close the door, telling Neville, “Come on, let’s ask them down there.”

   “Longbottom’s family is one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Draco says after they’ve left. “Granger, on the other hand, is probably Muggle-born . They really shouldn’t be letting any of them into Hogwarts, I think. Keep it in the old wizarding families.”

   “What?” Harry challenges. “Why does it matter?”

   Draco stares at him for a moment like he can’t believe he’s asking. “They’re just not the same! They’re not brought up to know our ways or anything.”

   “Neither have I,” Harry points out, then reminds his friend, “And my parents might have been a witch and wizard, but my mum was a Muggle-born. If she hadn’t been accepted at Hogwarts, my parents wouldn’t have met and I wouldn’t be here.”

   Draco is about to say something more to defend his point, but he closes his mouth with an audible click at this reminder. He wants to push back, make Harry understand why Muggle-borns just aren’t the same, but he can’t think of how to do so without sounding like he’s insulting Harry’s mother. If Harry got annoyed with Ron for seeming to insult Draco, a friend he’s only just made, chances are insulting his mum is a surefire way to make him angry.

   They change without exchanging another word, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Harry, wondering how he can get his friend to understand why his way of thinking is wrong. Draco, trying to think of a way to get through to Harry that pureblood witches and wizards are superior. It’s an awkward silence, and when they’ve finished changing, neither seems sure of what to say or how to change the subject. Finally, at a voice announcing they’re about to arrive and are to leave their luggage on the train, they decide to divvy up the remaining snacks and stuff them into their pockets.

   When the train stops, they shuffle out into the corridor and make their way onto the platform outside. The night is cooler here, farther up in the north, and Harry hopes they aren’t going to be outside for long. It’s with relief that he recognizes the booming voice calling for first years. When Hagrid spots him and greets him, Harry’s mood is instantly lifted.

   Draco is standing next to him still, and by the way he’s looking around Harry thinks he might be trying to find his other friends. He wonders if their brief friendship is due to be over already. Still, Harry nudges him and nods his head towards Hagrid and the lamp he’s holding as he calls the first years over before heading over. He doesn’t want Draco to think he doesn’t want to be friends anymore, but he also doesn’t know if now that he’s been reminded that Harry’s parentage isn’t as “pure” as his own, if he’ll want to stay friends. All he can do is act like he normally would and leave Draco to make his own choice.

   Hagrid leads them all down through a slippery dark path down to the edge of a large lake where they all get a glimpse of the castle for the first time. He gives them all a moment before announcing they’re to get into boats, keeping to 4 per boat, and he waves Harry over clearly to join him. When he reaches Hagrid, he’s holding up a toad he’s just found. Neville Longbottom cries out the toad’s name, rushing forward to claim the animal, and Hermione Granger comes following after him at a slower pace. It’s clear they’re going to also join Hagrid’s boat, and so Harry assumes even if he’d been inclined to join, chances are Draco will take one look at who else is there and opt to sit with his friends instead.

   It seems all the more certain when after getting in the boat, Harry spots Ron Weasley making a beeline for their boat to claim the last spot.

   So he’s surprised when Draco materializes in front of him, climbing in and muttering, “Mark my words, Potter. Longbottom is going to let that toad go and knock us all in the water trying to catch him.”

   “Hope you know how to swim then, Malfoy,” Harry answers with a grin.

   Then they’re off across the lake, making their way towards the glittering castle on the other side.

Story Notes:

Title is from a Pink Floyd song.

[royalcordelia]

Summary: Anne and Gilbert embark on their journeys, but stay close to each other at heart. Courting across 1000 miles isn't easy, but they're more than willing to step up to the task. (A post s3 story).

Notes: Hope you all are staying safe and healthy out there. As always, tag list is down at the bottom. ♥

---*---

Chapter 7 ~ Oh My Heart, How Can I Face You Now?

Anne fit in so well at the Sunset House that it was easy to forget she’d only been there less than a day. With a keen intuition, she knew exactly where to find things in the odd drawers and shelves around the kitchen as Ron held out his non-cooking hand. 

“Three eggs! The milk jug! A serving spoon!” 

“Aye aye, Captain,” Anne replied each time, dutifully helping her new friend prepare their first breakfast together. “I still wish you would’ve let me make breakfast. It’s the least I can do after I showed up entirely unannounced. Besides, Gilbert has had my cooking before, but I’ve never cooked for him.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” shot Ron. “If anything, Gil should be the one cooking for you . After all, it’s only polite to make a woman a meal after she’s spent a night in your bed. Especially when he snores.” 

“Ron! I didn’t-...He doesn’t snore! ”

“But alas, Gilbert’s breakfast skills leave so much to be desired, even if they are improving. Poor man makes the same recipes over and over again - his sister-in-law’s from this tiny notebook he’s copied them down in. If it wasn’t for her, he’d still be eating bland vegetables and overcooked pork.”

 Even Anne’s laughter sounded familiar bouncing off the cream walls and brightening the quiet Saturday morning. Above their heads, the running water of Gilbert’s bath kept the room from becoming completely silent. 

Ron found that it wasn’t a lack of things to say that caused his own stillness, but rather, a strange desire to open his entire heart to her. He supposed that was the danger with people who were so easy to like, so easy to talk to. The words fizzed in his throat, and if he moved even an inch, they’d pour out. This is silly, he thought. What’s there to lose?

“Anne,” he began out of the blue. She snapped the gaze away from the autumn-crowned tree outside the window she’d been daydreaming with, joining reality once more and smiling her encouragement. “I’m absolutely, without a doubt one to make assumptions.” 

Having read as much, and more, in Gilbert’s letters, she replied, “I’m not sure that’s always a bad thing. Your assumptions have to be correct some of the time.” 

Ron shifted in his seat, making sure he could hear Gilbert still in the bath upstairs. 

“And if I were to assume you’re a nonjudgmental sort of person, would I be correct then?” 

“I very much try to be,” she offered. 

Ron’s gaze fell to the wall where a small sized portrait of him and Christine was hung across the room. Why would it be easier to say this Anne than it ever would be to say to Chris?  

“There’s this tradition,” he began slowly. “Whenever the science department hosts its autumn banquet at the Meryton Hotel, it empties the basement of all its ornate tables and chairs, leaving it completely empty. That’s not the tradition part - what I mean is, the students who aren’t smart or rich enough to go to the banquet ultimately end up working the event, but then they sneak away to host their own party in the basement. Their own dancing, their own music, their own drinks.” 

“That sounds like fun,” Anne responded honestly.

“The only reason I know about it is because, um, Adam told me about it.” 

“Who’s Adam?” 

Ron couldn’t bring himself to say it. Either that, or he couldn’t find the words to articulate everything it meant. Every ounce of shame and every speechless moment of awe that being with Adam brought was caught in his throat waiting to be spoken. His eyes had glazed over, focused on a patch of flour spilled on the counter, though his mind was miles away. Nudging his arm with hers, she leaned over and drew a smile face into the flour. 

“It’s always been women and men for me. I don’t know why,” he admitted aloud. The words loved the air they took, and Anne didn’t reject them. Instead, she only smiled. 

“A secret for a secret, Ron Stuart,” she replied just as quietly. “I’m the same way.” 

Anne was much shorter than him, and when she met his gaze head on, he saw the gold of her eyelashes. 

“Does Gilbert know?” 

She shrugged. “He might, but I’ve never said it. I don’t suppose it would make much of a difference to him. I can tell there isn’t a bit of me he doesn’t love, even the parts of me that he doesn’t know yet.” Wiping a bit of flour off of his sleeve, she added, “And he’s not the only one out there who loves unconditionally.”

“You think there’s hope for me yet?” Ron said, half teasing. 

“Ron, I have every hope for you,” Anne said seriously. The man’s protective smile fell and his eyes turned glassy.

Gilbert chose this moment to come leaping down the stairs two at a time in a way that was so distinctly Gilbert, that a warm smile lifted on Anne’s cheeks. He heaved a blissful sigh upon entering the kitchen, carrying with him the smell of freshness and soap. The tips of his hair were still damp, but it didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around Anne’s waist from behind and leaning his chin on her shoulder.

“Good morning, Anne-girl.” 

“Good morning to you too...again.” He smiled against her cheek. “That soap smells familiar,” she commented off handedly, laughing when he kissed her blush. 

“That’s because Marilla sent it.” 

“Marilla?”

“Along with fresh socks, a ream of paper, and some of her preserves.” 

“She never sends me anything!” 

“Sweetheart, you live less than an hour away from Avonlea! You probably live right next door to the post office she mailed the parcel from!” 

He was right, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. 

“Besides, it was only once,” he added. Then, taking in the atmosphere of the room, he released Anne and sat down at the table. “Did I miss something important?” 

Ron schooled his features, looking for something useful to say but coming up flat. 

“A very important, very serious debate on adequate breakfast food,” Anne filled in. “Gilbert, you’re a medical student. Tell Ron that plain toast is not nearly adequate enough sustenance for breakfast. Omelets aren’t just for when guests are around.” 

“I could tell him that, but then I’d be a hypocrite.” 

“Toast is one of the only breakfast foods he can make, poor lad,” Ron interjected. “And even then, he burns it half of the time.” 

“Hmm, kind of like that?” Gilbert said slyly, pointing down to the pan where a piece of brown bread was burnt black and smoking against the skillet. Ron rolled his eyes, sticking his spatula under the bread and flinging it at his roommate. Gilbert caught the bread and hissed at how hot it was, flinging it onto the counter where it promptly slid into the sink. 

“I’m starting to get a sense of what daily life is like with you two,” Anne laughed. “Ron, something tells me you’d get along swimmingly with Bash.” 

*

Toronto had more wonders than Anne could count. In one short afternoon, Gilbert had taken her to roam the histories of the art museum and smell the sweetness of the botanical garden, but not excluded from these marvels was the Stuart Estate. Ron led the way as dirt streets became pristine brick, and small houses turned into domineering manors of stateliness. The working class of Toronto was but a mile away, but Anne felt like she’d stepped into another country - a wealthier, more outstanding country.

“His parents live here? Have you ever been to his their home before?” Anne whispered to Gilbert as Roy said a passing hello to someone on the street. Gilbert shook his head, just as awed by the grandeur around them. 

“I knew he was wealthy, but not this wealthy.” 

“My apologies,” Ron said, returning to the group. “You were saying, Anne?”

“Oh! Well, the conservatory botanist was actually watching the child tear off the flowers from the corner of the room, and when he came roaring over, I thought the mother would perish on the spot.” 

“So Anne, being Anne, rushes over to them,” Gilbert added. 

“And I picked up all the flowers from the ground while the man was getting ready to whip the poor child. A few moments later, I was placing a flower crown atop his head. All I said to him was, ‘Forgive this imaginative child, oh king of the gardens’, and his anger died away.”

“You’ve an odd way with people, Anne. I doubt you’ve ever had a single enemy in all your days," Ron decided, shaking his head.

Anne’s mind flashed all the unpleasant faces she’d encountered over her short lifetime, each bringing a sour taste to her mouth. Her gaze fell to her dress, a bit plain on this side of town, and she remembered the enemy she might be meeting at her destination. 

Oh, Gilbert didn’t know Christine despised Anne, much less the reasons why, and Anne had done her best to stay optimistic inwardly and outwardly. She hoped Christine wouldn’t think her cruel, that she was only borrowing a dress to rub it in that she was the one Gilbert loved. In fact, a person Gilbert held in such high esteem had to have redeeming qualities. Were it not for the barrier between them, Anne suspected her and Christine could be kindred spirits. 

“Home sweet home,” Ron muttered, swinging open an iron gate. 

The Stuart estate was built three stories tall of sand colored stones and sun-thirsty windows. Some of the gabled windows had their own balcony where a person could gaze out over the city for miles. Rounded hedges and a thousand blooms framed the home, though the flowers had started to brown in the autumn chill. As the group crossed onto the terrace, Ron’s mood dropped further and further into the dirt. He knocked on the front door, only to be greeted by a small, mousy servant girl. She eyed Ron first, then Anne, both with disapproval. Her gaze crossed over Gilbert with interest, so she spoke directly to him.

“How can I help you?” she said in a saccharine. Ron frowned.

“Are you new?” he asked. The young woman blinked and her brows furrowed as she decided whether to answer truthfully or scold him for his rudeness. “Nevermind that. Please tell Mr. Stuart that Ron is home.” 

The maid was unsure, but she did what she was told, making way so that the guests could file in behind her. 

“Why don’t you live here?” Anne asked quietly. 

“Remember that thing we talked about this morning?” 

Anne nodded.

“That ,” Ron answered, just as a man a mere inch taller than Ron appeared from the side room. 

“Ronald, I’m surprised to see you.” The man’s voice bore a deep timbre, one only men of class seemed to possess. 

“Well, father, I do favor a visit every now and again.” 

Mr. Stuart’s hard brow softened, but only by a fraction. His hard stare fell on Anne and the kind smile on her lips.

“I’ve brought my friends with me. This is my roommate Gilbert Blythe, and his young lady, Anne Shirley Cuthbert. Anne surprised Gilbert with a visit all the way from Prince Edward Island, but she needs a dress to wear for tonight’s banquet.” 

“And you’ve come to ask for money?” Mr. Stuart deadpanned.

“Oh, not at all, sir!” Anne interjected. “Christine was ever so kind as to say that she might let me borrow one of her dresses. Personally I’d be comfortable in anything, but good appearances help maintain Gilbert’s reputation, and I’m only here for the weekend. If it suits you, I can wash and press the dress before I leave on the morning train.” Mr. Stuart was speechless, so Anne charged. “Your home is magnificent! I’ve only ever dreamed up such places, but being here now, please allow me to compliment your exquisite taste. Did much of the furniture come from overseas or is it purely Canadian?” 

Mr. Stuart cleared his throat when she was finished speaking and turned to Gilbert. 

“Mr. Blythe, are you quite sure about this one?” 

The smile which had arisen on Gilbert’s face listening to Anne be so unashamedly herself fell almost an imperceptible amount.

“Quite certain,” Gilbert assured, perhaps a bit harder than he intended. “Anne is PEI’s treasure.” 

Christine appeared at that moment, descending the stairs with the elegance of a fairy tale heroine. 

“I can entertain our company from here, father. You needn’t trouble yourself.” 

Anne steadied her face, desperately fighting off a bad feeling in her gut. She fell back at Gilbert’s side, sliding her arm through his and relaxing only a little when his other hand reached over to take the one on his arm. 

“Nonsense. I’d like an opportunity to catch up with my son and meet his friend. You may take the young lady up to your room and find her something adequate to wear,” declared Mr. Stuart. Gilbert and Anne exchanged a look that only they could decipher, but Anne bravely let go of Gilbert’s arm and followed Christine up the stairs. 

Out of the autumn wind that blew when she first met Christine, Anne was able to smell the lilac perfume Christine had sprayed about her neck and hair. She vaguely wondered if she should invest in some of her own, if Gilbert might like the sweetness of it.

“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your help. I’m all but a stranger to you, and yet you’ve been so gracious,” Anne began. Christine did not turn around. “Um, if there’s anything I could do to repay you, don’t hesitate to name it. Truly, anything.” 

Christine tossed a bitter glance over her shoulder. 

“Your silence will be payment enough,” Christine hissed so sharply that Anne nearly spun on her heels to fly down the stairs, yank Gilbert by the collar, and make for the Sunset house. But instead, she nodded politely and complied. 

When Christine opened the door to her room, Anne decided that if Christine was Cordelia, then this was the perfect bed chambers befitting her childhood ideal. A four post bed was pressed against the wall, silken pillows resting atop its lush quilts. A tall wardrobe was nearby, in addition to a walnut desk and a loveseat for reading. 

Christine threw open the doors of her wardrobe, eyeing the various gowns hanging within. Each one she pulled out made Anne’s heart soar with excitement. They were the most glorious dresses she’d ever seen, each just as breathtaking as the last. 

“I won’t look nearly as lovely as you do in any of those dresses,” Anne offered quietly.  

“No, you won’t,” Christine agreed. Anne’s lips snapped shut. She paused a moment before venturing out again.

“You know, Miss Stuart-” 

She didn’t have a chance to finish because Christine had yanked a dress off the rack and spun around, holding it out to Anne. It was a gown of raven black velvet with a modest bit of beaded detail around the high collar. 

“It’s positively lovely, just as lovely as the others,” Anne began slowly. “But I think I’d much rather wear what I’ve brought.” 

Christine still held out the dress, and Anne wondered if she ought to accept out of politeness.

“It’s just that I would hate to wear a mourning gown and disrespect the person it was meant to honor. If people asked who I lost, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have an answer. I’m blessed enough to have no one to mourn," Anne continued.

“But you do have something to mourn,” Christine said. 

“I do?” 

What Christine said next, she stated with such a matter-of-fact air that Anne was frozen in place: “Gilbert’s good prospects.” 

Anne had lived through a thousand different types of ridicules, and even more harsher verbal attacks. But this...This was so calculated, and petty that Anne’s surprise drowned out the growing flame of anger at being ridiculed. In fact, the silence in which a triumphant Christine was smirking was broken by Anne’s roar of laughter. 

Christine doubled back, but Anne laughed on. 

“Because of… me? ...Gilbert’s prospe-” Anne tried to speak through her hilarity, but another wave would come on. Christine was positively horrified. Of all the ways she had expected Anne to react, this was not one of them. But Anne feared if she stopped, there’d be no preventing whatever real reaction she was holding back to such viciousness.

Anne was still laughing when Ron poked his head through the door. His eyes moved from the black dress in Christine’s hand to Anne wiping tears from her eyes. Be it the connection between siblings or Ron’s own cleverness, but horror dawned on his face. He looked over his shoulder before coming in and closing the door behind him.

“Christine!” Ron scolded on a sharp hiss. “Of all your dresses, why is this is the one you-”

“Oh, Ron, it’s alright,” Anne interrupted, her voice finally even. “She’s not serious.”

“I am!” Christine spat venomously. She spun around to face Anne, whose smile drained away at Christine’s brutal loathing. The inky haired woman continued, stepping closer to Anne. “What did you expect? You’re a child from the blemish of society pretending to be a high society woman and you want me to help you?” 

Anne stuttered, helplessly looking for a way to stop her, but finding no words. Christine trudged on. 

“You’re going to make a country hick out of Gilbert. You’ll take the person who could be the best doctor in Canada and bring him back with you to tumble around in the mud for sport. What’s worse is he doesn’t even realize it because he’s such a bumbling fool, happily shoveling every bit of his promise into a grave, and it’s entirely you’re doing. You’ve made him a simpleton.”

Anne’s mind broke away from all its restraints. Christine had doused gasoline on her rage, and if she wanted to see Anne burn, so be it. Ron watched in horror as Anne took another step into Christine’s space.

“I won’t stop you, Christine. Say what you want to me. Give me every insult you can sneer between your teeth, and make every petty move under the guise of propriety you want. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, believe me.” Anne clenched her jaw and her stormy gray eyes flashed lightning, making Christine stiffen her back. “But don’t you dare speak of Gilbert that way again.”

“Come on, Anne, let’s just go,” Ron called from the doorway. She ignored him, and eventually, he turned around and closed the door behind him. Alone with Christine, Anne liberated hersel to speak her mind.

“Miss Stuart, I know you’re in love with Gilbert and that fact in and of itself didn’t make me jealous or worried. I know unrequited love well and I wouldn’t wish that type of heartache on my worst enemy, much less you.” Losing her control, she snagged the black dress from Christine’s hands and tossed it on the bed. “But I know a thing or two more about the world than you think. This viciousness is going to get you nowhere fast. You think Gilbert is going nowhere in life, but he’s going everywhere. And I intend to go with him, wherever that is.”

“You say you’re not worried, but you should be,” Christine replied. “You really should be. He’s here in Toronto and you’re on another island. Even if it’s not me, someone is bound to steal him away eventually.” 

“If you think that’s how love works, then you’re the simpleton.” Anne hummed low and serious. “But I don’t think you are, and I’m not either. I may look like I’m worth nothing in your eyes, but I know my mind is rich and my heart is kind and strong. And it loves Gilbert. So you can give it all you’ve got and waste your time, Christine. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Anne’s gaze fell to the mourning dress she’d thrown onto the bed. “The fact that you even needed one of these makes my heart hurt for you,” Anne commented. “It���s so finely made. I’m sure it honored whomever it was made for. But you, Miss Stuart...this behavior? It doesn’t even honor yourself.” 

Christine was red and quiet. 

“I’m not...” she began finally, but then shook her head. The crease between Anne softened as she watched a battle rage in Christine - the same one she’d once watched in Josie Pye.

“No, please, go ahead,” Anne encouraged softly. Christine ran her fingers down an emerald green gown, avoiding Anne’s gaze. Whatever she was about to say had been locked up deep in the catacombs of her truth, and Anne wondered if she’d ever manage to unlock it, if it was even worth trying. 

Then, as if she’d said nothing at all, Christine spun back to the wardrobe and  grabbed one of the gowns that Anne had been drawn to from the moment she’d seen it. Christine saw Anne’s uneasiness and said, “You should wear this tonight.” 

“Are you sure? I really wouldn’t want to-” 

“Wear it. I’ll do your hair and embellishments, as well.” 

“Embellishments…? One minute ago we were fighting and now you want to do my embellishments? I don’t even know what that means.” 

Christine didn’t elaborate. She only pulled a gold colored gown from the wardrobe and began to undo the laces of her day dress. Anne looked down at her own ensemble, its silky emerald fabric and what seemed like a million shimmering jewels embroidered on. The neckline was modest by usual standards but lower than anything Anne had worn before,  and the sleeves billowed at her shoulders in an attractive fashion. She stepped into the dress, surprised when Christine came up behind her and began to clasp the buttons at the back. When she was finished, she turned her own back to Anne, where the redhead quietly returned the favor. 

Anne turned to the mirror, her reflection causing a short gasp to escape her lips. She couldn’t remember the last time her own appearance had left her speechless. Not even in her best daydreams could she imagine herself this way.

“I’m not usually a cruel person,” Christine murmured, eyes still locked on her reflection. 

“I believe that,” Anne replied truthfully. “When I was in the depths of despair, so heartbroken that I thought I would never breathe easily again, I was horribly hateful to Gilbert.”

“But the things I’ve said to you, even thought about you...Ron probably thinks I’ve lost my mind.”

“Is that an apology?” They met eyes in the mirror reflection.

“I suppose in a way it is.” 

“Then consider us even.” Christine didn’t look convinced, so Anne shrugged. “Historically, I hold dreadful drudges, but I’m working on that.”

Uncomfortable under Anne’s increasingly compassionate expression, Christine turned to her vanity, where she finished adding the final pearl pins to her dark hair. 

“It’s hard to imagine you heartbroken,” she confessed.

A wound on the surface of Anne’s heart tugged, like the scar was trying to break open, but the dull pain was nothing to her trust in Gilbert. 

“Would you believe me if I told you that just six months ago, Gilbert was courting someone else? Not just that - he was planning to propose to Winifred, move with her to France, and achieve his greatest dream by attend the Sorbonne in Paris?” 

Christine’s frown deepened in disbelief. 

“What happened?” 

“He realized he loved me too much to be with anyone else.” Anne sighed, sitting beside Christine, close enough that her genuineness was palpable, but not so close as to snuff out the fragile understanding between them. “I’m not telling you this to rub salt in what I know is a painful wound. I’m telling you because it would be unfair of me not to tell you that your time is better invested finding someone who would turn down the Sorbonne if it meant being with you. And you’re very beautiful, Christine. You won’t have to look hard.” 

They sat in silence for another few moments as Christine began to run a brush through Anne’s loosened hair. Finally, she wondered, “What was Winifred like?” 

“Astoundingly beautiful - easily just as lovely as you are - and so sweet and refined,” “There was nothing I could fault her for. She just wouldn’t give me reason to dislike her, much to my frustration. I almost hated her for being so perfect.” 

“I know the feeling,” Christine murmured. Then, a bit lighter, “How did you meet Gilbert?” 

“Oh, I saw him galloping on a chestnut steed between our two houses and I knew immediately that I must marry him, and if I didn’t, I would certainly perish of consumption within the year.” 

Christine stopped brushing. “...Really?” 

“No, of course not, though can you imagine? ” Anne laughed. “Gilbert saw me getting picked on in the woods shortly after I arrived in Avonlea and diffused the situation. After that, I refused to speak with him and eventually broke my slate over his head.”

“Now you’re just playing around.” 

“It’s the truth! Ask him, he’ll tell you. I did leave out the part when he tugged my braid and called me carrots, but it’s so unpleasant to think about. Truly, little boys have the most barbaric behavior.” 

“Then how did you fall in love? When? ”

Anne shrugged. “I think the whole time, something in the depths of my soul - the part that knows the way of things - had been nudging me for years saying ‘Anne! What are you hiding from? Let him see you! Open your eyes and see him!’ One day it yelled and I listened. I began to see how kind and admirable he is. He was all I wanted to watch and learn about.” She paused. “I’m sorry, this is probably incredibly unpleasant.” 

“Only a little,” was Christine’s answer. “I want to know...in case it ever happens to me, that is.” 

Meeting Christine’s eyes through the reflection in the vanity mirror, Anne smiled. 

“It will,” she promised. “Besides, I’ve learned that nice young men have equally nice friends. Have you considered Fred Wright?” 

“Fred’s not nearly as handsome as Gilbert,” chuckled Christine. 

Anne let out an overly dramatic sigh of resignation. “Alas, no one is.” 

Somehow, strangely and unbelievably Anne’s mind corrected, they managed to pass the next bit of time in easy company with one another. Anne could still see the lingering traces of heartache in Christine’s eyes whenever they met hers, but the icy wall between them had melted enough that they could speak like friendly acquaintances. Their bitter fight, which had raged like a wildfire and scalded the wallpaper, seemed like ages ago. Much to Anne’s relief, Christine had Ron’s sense of humor - a bit dry, but quick to wit. The interaction was a peace offering - Christine offering Anne a bit of rouging on her cheeks and lips (“These are embellishments, Anne” Christine had informed her, darkening her auburn lashes), Anne offering embarrassing stories she’d known about Gilbert.

“His brother says his singing was so earsplitting that they made him clean the latrines!” 

Christine bit back an amused smile, spraying some perfume over Anne’s hair. 

“He likes to sing on his way to class, did you know?” 

“No! I have to tell Bash immediately. Where’s the nearest telegram office?” The laughter on her lips died out as Christine finished her handiwork and stood back so Anne could see her reflection. 

“How’s that for your Princess Veronica?” Christine said, a hesitant, but pleased smile on her lips. 

“Cordelia,” Anne corrected on a murmur. “I think there’s a very unloved, very homely eleven-year-old orphan out there who will be so happy she lived to today.” She turned to Christine, unable to help a toothy grin from brightening her face. “Thank you, truly.”

It seemed that was the final piece for Christine - the part of the story that she hadn’t asked for, but the part that made her able to look upon Anne’s face without feeling sick with bitterness. All at once, Christine realized she’d been dreadfully wrong in her initial judgements of Anne. She wondered that she hadn’t seen the truth of it right away.

“I didn’t mean those things I said,” she said softly. “Well, I did, but I don’t anymore.”

Anne wanted to say something , to apologize for appearing out of the blue and for being the source of Christine’s failed hopes, but she struggled for the right way to articulate it. Before she could, Christine had taken off, leaving Anne alone to wonder how much time had passed - an hour, a day? 

As she made her way down the stairs, she heard Gilbert debating with Ron about something - the philosophical meaning of healing - to pass the time near the front door. Ron saw her first, giving Gilbert a knowing glance and a nod towards the steps. 

For all her imaginings about Princess Cordelia, Anne decided the moment Gilbert settled his molten gaze on her that she didn’t mind being the Anne Shirley-Cuthbert to his Gilbert Blythe. His gaze held multitudes - dreams, submissions, prayers. Each of them were wordless and inexpressible, each only for her. As if by instinct, he reached out a hand to help her off the last stair, though they both knew she didn’t need it, and used the opportunity to pull her close enough that he could smell her perfume.

“If you’re all ready to go, Chris and I ought to go say goodbye to our father,” Ron said. 

Gilbert didn’t watch them go, he couldn’t look anywhere except on Anne’s freckled neckline and rosy cheeks, but he knew the second they’d disappeared into the other room. 

Before she could tease him for his speechlessness, he tangled their fingers together and said in a soft tone, “You’re beautiful, Anne.” It made her want to drag his face into the nape of her throat so that he could compliment how sweet she smelled, how soft her skin was. Though she suspected Gilbert wouldn’t object in the least, they were far from romance heroes who had no sense of decorum, and if she wanted to engage in chancy embraces with him, she’d have to wait until after the banquet. 

For now, she settled on a small kiss against his lips and a wink. 

“What can I say, Christine works miracles.” 

Soon, Ron and Christine had joined them in the front entryway. Much to Anne’s surprise, she found herself being shuffled alongside Gilbert to the family carriage. Ron and Christine sat across from them as if they’d done it a hundred times over. Peering out the curtained window, Anne watched the neighbor pass along. 

“You know, Gil,” Anne began, letting her thumb graze over his knuckles. “I doubt we’ll ever be terribly rich in wealth, and I don’t mind a mite. But to be sincere, I also haven’t minded trying it out for a day.”

*****

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[agnesacacia]

Hansy Holidays

Pansy Parkinson hated these things. These insufferable fundraiser galas her mother insisted on throwing every few months, where they would honor some wizarding organization or another and all prominent members of wizarding society were invited to donate toward the cause. Because Pansy's mother, like all good pure blood witches, was a philanthropist. Honest to Merlin, that's what the woman called herself, like it was her career. A position that had been drilled into Pansy so hard that even at Hogwarts when she'd had to discuss her future career plans, she'd insisted on 'philanthropist' like it was a job title. She'd never forget the way Professor Snape had rolled his eyes at her and dismissed her as a silly, idiot girl with no real ambition. Which, to be fair, back then that's exactly what she was.

Sure she did well in school. Well enough to be at the top of her house. Not as smart as Hermione Granger (the twat) but she did alright. But a career just wasn't what someone like her did. She was a Parkinson and Parkinsons lived off of their investments and old family money. They contributed to the wizarding world through fancy parties and donations to politicians. And they married other pure blood members and continued to make pure blood children who would carry on that legacy.

But now.

Now Pansy was twenty two, still living with her parents, and woefully and completely single without any sort of career option to speak of. Her days were spent planning these horrible gala events with her mother and becoming increasingly aware that she would rather be doing anything else in the world.

Especially when these galas involved them. The Golden Trio. Harry bloody Potter and his two little minions were always at the top of the guest list and any event that was hosted had to have at least one of the three to be considered a success.

So here she was, glowering across the room as she watched Hermione Granger, looking absolutely fab in a chic new designer robe, her bushy hair tamed into an elegant bun. Weasley stood at her side, looking just as fab in a dark purple robe that made him look distinguished and important, which she guessed he was now. Both of them. Weasley was an auror for Merlin's sake. And Granger was already a top ranking official at the ministry of magic, working in magical creatures rights or some such shit. It only made Pansy feel even more inadequate. Why yes, I'm a philanthropist. The phrase made her stomach turn.

Potter was no where to be found, but that was nothing new. He had probably been roped into some horrid discussion about goblin rights or some such rubbish by all the diplomats here tonight. Sometimes Pansy actually felt sorry for him.

Across the room Pansy's eye caught that unmistakable white blond hair. Draco bobbed into view, looking miserable as always. He caught her eye and nodded in her direction. She forced a smile back, but made no move toward him. There was nothing left to be said between them.

Draco's parents sent him to these things in their steed because they were both too traumatized to leave their manor. They'd been mysteriously and inexplicably pardoned for their war crimes at the insistence of Harry Potter himself, and for that the Malfoys donated to every cause Potter endorsed. It made very little sense, especially to Pansy, but it was why it was so important that Potter be seen at these events. Potter meant money. Money meant success and success meant that the Parkinson family upheld their status as wizarding royalty.

Pansy rolled her eyes and gulped down the last of her elf-made sparkling wine. It was sweet and gritty on her tongue and her stomach rolled for a moment. She hadn't eaten much that day and her head suddenly swam. She needed some fresh air. It's not as if she'd be missed. No one was talking to her anyway. People rarely did.

She exited the party off the main floor out into a secluded courtyard garden. It was a cool November night and the air felt good on her skin. The smell of jasmine surrounded her and she relished the quiet, the calm.

A small sound made her turn around. It was then that she realized she wasn't alone. A figure stood hunched against the garden wall. Pansy lit her wand and drew closer. As her eyes adjusted to the night, she found herself face to face with none other than Harry Potter.

He still looked the same as he did when they were in school even though someone had clearly tried to tame him. He still had that same messy black hair, same glasses that sat a little too crooked on his face (why didn't he get a new pair for Merlin's sake?) and upon closer inspection, Pansy soon realized he was wearing the same bottle green dress robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball in their fourth year. Her eyes swept the hem at his feet and wrists and she was little surprised to find it had been altered rather poorly with a growth charm to adjust to his height.

She resisted the urge to scoff. The man was the savior of the entire wizarding world, had endless funds from his own family name, as well as that of the Blacks which was no small fortune, not to mention the fact that any robe maker would happily have him wear any of their designs free of charge (simply for the publicity...it's how Granger remained so well dressed) and yet here he was, at one of the most posh galas of the year, still wearing the same dress robes from Hogwarts.

How did he even exist?

"Pansy Parkinson," he said her name as a statement and a rather slurred one.

"You're smashed, Potter," she answered and sure enough he brought a flask of fire whiskey to his lips and took a swig. He cheers to her, then took another longer drag.

"You best be careful," Pansy said, wrinkling her nose. The man reeked of the stuff. She was surprised she didn't smell him the moment she went outside. "About a dozen reporters are here, and whatever truce you have with Rita Skeeter will doubtfully apply to the rest of them. No one would ignore the Chosen One being completely pissed at the gala for the benefit of war orphans."

"S'pose not," he said. He pocketed the flask and pushed away from the wall. He took a tottering step and promptly stumbled into a bush. He landed hard on his knees, then rolled to the ground before settling on his back giggling.

Merlin.

Pansy pursed her lips. She should just leave him here. It's not like she and Potter were friendly after all. In fact, other than a few cordial greetings over the years, she hadn't actually spoken to him since Hogwarts. And of course back then, could that really be considered speaking? It was more like jeering. She was such a shit back then.

She did sort of owe him. There was that whole thing where she tried to turn him into You-Know-Who.

Pansy sighed and pocketed her wand. "Oh go on," she grumbled as she pulled Potter's arm over her shoulder so she could haul him to his feet.

He leaned on her heavily, and Pansy steered him toward the staircase that led up to her personal terrace. She cast a concealment charm as they climbed the steps. Best not to be spotted leading a drunken Potter up to her bedroom. Imagine the scandal.

She led him through her ornate French doors and into her suite to the adjoining bathroom. Waving her wand, she lit the room and deposited the now hiccuping Potter onto the toilet and began rummaging through her medicine cupboard.

"I was saving this for a special occasion," she said as she thrust a vial of pearly pink potion in Harry's direction. "But I guess your needs are greater than mine, so bottoms up."

Potter studied the concoction with eyes that were very nearly crossed. "Wha izzit?" he slurred.

Pansy raised her eyebrows. "You don't get sloshed often enough, do you Potter? It's a sobering potion."

"Who sayz I wanna be sober?" Potter asked her.

Pansy shrugged as she settled herself on the vanity, her legs crossed under her black silk robe. "Fine," she said, "piss your pants in front of half of the Daily Prophet. Be my guest, but don't say I never tried to help. Besides, as smashed as you are, it probably won't make you completely sober. You'll still be a bumbling idiot...don't worry."

Harry glared at her a brief moment before uncorking the vial and tossing the potion back. It took about ten seconds before Pansy could see the effects. His eyes cleared and his pink face faded back to its normal swarthy tan. It was another thirty before he was vomiting.

Pansy couldn't help but smirk. "Forgot to mention that part," she said as Harry glared up at her from the toilet.

When he'd finished he sat back down heavily, took off his glasses and rubbed at his face vigorously. Pansy watch him impassively with her arms and her legs crossed. She summoned a glass and filled it with water. She handed it to him and he muttered a thanks before gulping it down.

Pansy watched as Potter buried his head in his hands, and for the first time since she saw his drunken arse in the courtyard, she wondered just what had driven the Boy Who Lived to get uncontrollably smashed. She thought about just asking him. It's what she would have done if it were anyone else sitting before her. But this was Harry Potter. And she was… well. She was Pansy Parkinson and while she and her family hadn't technically been death eaters, they weren't not death eaters. No matter what her mother pretended to be these days, she and Pansy's father, her aunts and uncles and cousins, they were all happy to sit the sidelines during the war and favor whoever won. To be fair, that's what most pureblood families did. They weren't really all that different than the Prewetts and the Greengrasses and even the Fawleys who never officially declared sides and didn't have any prominent family members representing them as death eaters. But they didn't fight either.

Pansy didn't fight. She didn't fight. That horrid seventh year at Hogwarts...the things those Carrows wanted them to do. What Amycus made her do...the things he did to her. And she'd survived it all by hiding behind her pretty face and her blood status and her last name. No one cared. Not even Snape and McGonnagal, not even the Weasley girl and Longbottom and all those pitiful DA members who fancied themselves saviors. They had new injuries every other day and Pansy thought they were insane, the lot of them. To resist was the die, didn't they see that? And many of them did die. They did.

Even Harry had died.

The Boy Who Lived had died, then lived again. A miracle many still didn't understand, Pansy included. But here he was. The boy wonder. Vomiting in her toilet.

He finally looked up at her and Pansy had a momentary shock that Harry Potter wasn't actually bad looking. Without his glasses, Pansy could clearly see those green eyes everyone always talked about. She realized with a jolt that she'd never actually been close enough to him to actually see. See the way they sort of glowed. Like emeralds, like actual jewels.

Her heart fluttered. And it made her angry. It made her feel vulnerable. And she was so done feeling vulnerable.

"So, Chosen One," Pansy said snidely as she studied her fingernails. "What's with the fire whiskey anyway? Felt like livening up the party out there? I admit it is rather dull."

Harry shook his head. "I've just been going through some things."

Pansy scoffed. "Going through some things? I suppose having thousands of admirers falling at your feet isn't enough for you? Now you've got things?"

Harry glared at her. "You haven't changed a bit, have you, Pansy Parkinson?"

Pansy laughed meanly. "No more than you. Still feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Still fancying yourself the poor little orphan? That's why you're here tonight, right? To help war orphans like yourself? Some job you're doing of it, getting pissed and hiding in a courtyard."

Harry stood up. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

"You don't. All you know is parties and jewels and money and Merlin why am I even talking to you?" He turned to leave. "Thanks for the potion. I'll be going now."

Pansy stood up now. "You think you're the only one who's suffered? You think you're the only one who's got things? We've all got things, Potter. You're the just the only one who's allowed to wallow in them, is that it?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry snarled. "I put on a happy face and smile for the bloody cameras and I come to these parties with people who would have stabbed me in the back five years ago, and I do it all because I was there, Pansy. I am the one who saw the dead bodies and the kids crying and I have a godson who will never know his parents, and yes, I was bloody one of them. And where were you that night? Fleeing. Just like the coward you always were. Now if you'll excuse me." He turned to leave again and in a rage Pansy waved her wand with such viciousness that the bathroom door slammed shut.

"Coward, you think I am?" Pansy said softly and her voice was low, dangerous. "Do you have any idea what it was like at Hogwarts that year? Do you have any idea what we all went through, what I went through. Of course not. All you've heard is what your precious girlfriend told you. The blood traitor that the Carrows all but ignored unless she was making trouble. But me? Did they ignore me? Did they let me just be? Do you have any idea what it was like for me, Potter? To be Amycus's little plaything? Because he liked me Potter! He liked me, and it didn't matter that I was a student, that I was a young girl, or that I said no. All that mattered was that he liked me, and he wanted me, and I was pure blood and the Dark Lord promised him pure blood. And no one could protect me. All I could do was endure it all. You think me a coward, do you? For fleeing? You don't know anything, Potter!"

She was crying now and her hands trembled on her wand. She didn't know why she was telling him this. She'd never told anyone, not really. Draco knew, but only because Amycus used to brag to him about it. How he'd stolen his girlfriend. Another way to rub it in Draco's face that he and his father had fallen out of favor with the Dark Lord. Amycus used to whisper things in Draco's ear. Filthy things. The filthy things he'd done to Pansy, and he'd laugh and lick his lips and Draco could do nothing. Nothing except look at her guiltily, pityingly.

Sort of the way Potter was looking at her right now.

She didn't want his pity. She didn't want his guilt. She just wanted him to understand. To understand why she did what she did that night. Why she wanted it all to just...end.

"You're right," Harry said, and he looked like he might vomit again. "I don't know anything. I didn't know. And...I'm sorry. That's...horrible."

Pansy seemed to deflate. She collapsed on the toilet seat, and buried her face in her hands. Potter handed her a wad of toilet paper and she took it, carefully dabbing at her kohl lined eyes.

"I shouldn't have told you that," she muttered. "It's not something I want people...knowing."

Potter sighed and sat down opposite her on the edge of her immaculate bathtub. He sat there quietly for a moment.

"Ginny's chucked me," he said finally.

"What?" Pansy was still drying her eyes, still trying to calm her racing heart.

"It's the things I've been dealing with. Ginny. She's chucked me for some Bulgarian beater, Boris Vulchanov."

"You're kidding," Pansy said.

"I know. I'm being an idiot...I know it doesn't compare to what-"

"That twat!"

"What?"

"That unbelievable twat. I never did like her, no matter what Blaise always said. What a bloody idiot. Chucking the Boy Who Lived for some daft quidditch player. And a foreign one at that."

Potter raised his eyebrows. "What do you c-?"

"I suppose she thinks she's all high and mighty now that she plays for the Harpies."

"I really didn't think you'd-"

"I mean, honestly. Boris Vulchanov? He's not even good looking. And he talks like he's taken one too many bludgers to the head. The bloody idiot."

Potter cocked his head to side. "I don't know what's more strange. Your outrage or the fact that you know who Boris Vulchanov is."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows who Boris Vulchanov is. And if you ask me, he'll never live up to his father's stats. He's too thick."

Potter's mouth was hanging open.

"Ginny bloody Weasley chucks Harry bloody Potter…" Pansy shook her head in disbelief.

Harry frowned. "Well I'd rather her chuck me than stay with me just because I am...who I am."

Pansy leveled him with a glare. "That's not what I meant," she said. "It's just that the two of you… well Merlin if Harry Potter and Ginny bloody Weasley can't make it work, then what's that say for the rest of us?"

"That we're just as fucked as everyone else?"

Pansy surprised herself by laughing.

And Harry cracked a smile.

And Pansy's heart fluttered again.

She heaved a sigh. "Well I take back what I said before. You totally deserve to get smashed." Taking out her wand again, she summoned in a bottle of Scotch, the good kind, the kind she saved for special occasions.

"Whatever they say about muggles," Pansy said as she poured out two glasses. "They know how to make their liquor. Here." She handed him a glass and raised her own. "To Ginny bloody Weasley and Boris Vulchanov. May they both fall off their brooms."

Their glasses clinked and they both took a healthy sip. "Good, eh?"

Potter smacked his lips and nodded. "You know, my uncle used to drink this stuff like it was liquid gold. I always thought he was exaggerating."

"Was it awful? Being raised by muggles?"

Harry snorted. "It was awful being raised by the Dursleys, yes. Because they were muggles? Nah."

They sat in silence a bit longer, each sipping their Scotch, each lost in their own haunted memories.

"I'm sorry," Pansy said. "About what I said earlier. And about...well. You know. When I wanted to hand you over. I thank god every day that no one listened to me."

Harry drained his glass and poured them both another.

And they sat there. Together in Pansy's oversized bathroom, sipping muggle Scotch and silently forgiving each other.

2

Harry saw Pansy again about a month and a half later. She was standing in line at a shop in Diagon Alley, her arms filled with brightly wrapped parcels. She wore gray robes, stylishly cinched at the waist with a long matching cloak that was buttoned to her throat. A light pink scarf circled her neck and her black hair was windswept, her fringe a bit mussed and her cheeks a bit pink.

Harry caught himself staring before he realized it.

If he was completely honest with himself, he'd thought of Pansy Parkinson more than he'd have liked in the past weeks. It was a bit...annoying really. He often wondered what she was doing, who she was with, what she was wearing that day. It was absurd.

And then there was that trip to Azkaban.

After arresting Corban Yaxley, having taken years to track him down, Harry had wanted to personally escort him to Azkaban, as the man had managed to escape ministry clutches three times already. After depositing him in a high security cell, Harry had found himself standing in front of Amycus Carrow.

The man was lying on a low, hard bed. His legs were crossed as he thumbed through a copy of Witch Weekly. He looked so...at ease. Comfortable. And the rage that hit Harry was so hard that it was alarming. All he could think about was what Pansy had said. What this...scum...had done to her. He nearly reached through the bars and cursed the man right then. He'd settled for incinerating the Witch Weekly.

He watched Pansy pay for her items and exit the crowded shop. It was nearing Christmas and Diagon Alley was a bustle with witches and wizards scrambling to find gifts. Harry followed her outside into the snowy street. She had taken out her wand and was levitating several parcels and shopping bags, making her way toward Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

Harry entered the shop behind her and wasn't surprised to find that the store was more crowded than ever. Fred and George had just launched a new product that was selling like wildfire. Harry had actually had a hand in its development and was quite pleased to see its success.

"Messenger Diaries for sale over here," called out a familiar voice. "Step right up, there's enough for everyone. The perfect holiday gift." George was manning the Diaries sections and though his face was a bit red, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

The diaries really were a brilliant new invention and Harry and Ginny had actually gotten the idea from that old diary of Tom Riddle's (though they'd never admit it to anyone but each other). When Ginny joined the Harpies, she'd had to move to Holyhead, of course, which meant she and Harry rarely found time to see each other. And then there was the match schedule which took her around the world and with Harry busy with auror training and his work with the ministry, it was becoming harder and harder for she and Harry to keep in touch. Owls were much too slow, and flooing required a fireplace, and was always a bit uncomfortable. If only there was a way to write messages to one another that they would receive instantly.

"I hate to say it," Ginny had said, "but I sort of wish we had something like Riddle's old diary. It was bloody convenient being able to chat with him all day."

"Well if Riddle could do it, why can't we?" Harry had said. And so he had enlisted Fred and George's creative minds to help. It was quite simple once they got the logistics down. As long as two people had diaries, they could write to each other.

"Like walkie-talkies," Harry had mused, though the twins had no idea what he was talking about. But Fred took it a step further and enhanced the product so that one could chat with anyone else in the world who also had a diary.

"All you have to do," he'd explained, "is write their name at the top of the page, like this." He demonstrated by writing "Ron Weasley" at the top of a random page. "And now you just..." He took out a quill and wrote Hey git, don't think I didn't see you pocket those dung bombs. You owe four sickles or I'm docking it from your pay.

From across the room Harry and Fred had watched Ron's diary chirp. He opened it, read the message and frowned. He turned and made a rude hand gesture at Fred who merely waved.

"Neat, eh?" Fred asked.

"Brilliant," said Harry.

"We're going to make a killing of it. All thanks to you and Ginny. Don't worry, you two will get your share."

"Don't be daft," Harry protested. But Fred and George were very careful accountants. They were always sure Harry got his share in his investment and despite all Harry could do to discourage this, he continued to find fat amounts of gold in his Gringotts vault, deposits marked Weasley Bros Inc.

Harry watched Pansy head straight for the Messenger Diaries. She inspected several different styles, for the twins had different cover designs for sale. There was the standard brown leather, but also an assortment of designs ranging from deep purple with silver stars to vibrant orange and red stripes.

Pansy selected a shimmering pink that came with a matching quill and Harry smirked. He remembered how Ginny had detested the pink one. She then selected an emerald green one before making her way to stand in the curling line to get to the cash register. Harry saw that the twins had hired several new faces to help in the Christmas time rush, among which he spotted Colin and Dennis Creevy. They stood at adjacent registers, each wearing a matching smile and magenta robes.

Harry followed Pansy as she exited the shop and snaked her way through the crowded street, her parcels floating along behind her. She held her head high, her narrow hips sashaying as she strode along, quite oblivious to Harry following her.

She paused outside Madam Malkin's and surveyed a robe in the window display. When she went inside, Harry took out his own messenger diary. He turned to a new page and wrote her name at the top. Pansy Parkinson.

Fancy a cup of tea?

Her response came quicker than he would've thought.

Bout time you've asked. Seeing as you've been following me all afternoon.

Harry laughed out loud.

Meet me at Rosa Lee's in ten minutes?

More like twenty. I've just found a set of robes to die for. Must try on first.

And so Harry found himself, twenty minutes later, sitting in a crowded tea shop, across from Pansy Parkinson as she sipped her tea and nibbled on a biscuit shaped like a snowman.

Her cheeks were still pink from the cold, and her lipstick left red stains on the teacup. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured, painted a bright, festive gold that matched the studs in her ears. And she looked...beautiful.

Harry couldn't help it. She did.

"So," he said. "Er, Christmas shopping?" He nodded at her parcels and bags which now floated above their table, bumping gently into neighboring parcels as other patrons levitated their purchases as well.

"Ah yes," Pansy said. "All the obligatory gifts. New quills for Mum, shiny new cauldron for Dad—one he will never use, mind you. Let's see, a new hat for Grandmum, which she will surely detest but then...she detests everything. Some sweets for the house elves...let's see, what else..."

"Who's the second diary for?"

"Oh, I'm sending that to Daphne. She and her family moved to America, didn't you know? Just before all hell broke out here. I expect they'll move back after Astoria graduates Ilvermorny, but who knows. Daphne seems quite at home there. Met an American bloke she seems quite enamored with. It's a shame really. She's the only real friend I have left." Pansy smiled wistfully and took a sip of tea to hide her sadness. But it was there. Just under all the makeup and beauty potions, Harry could see it.

Harry didn't really know Daphne Greengrass. She was in his year, but being a Slytherin and one of Pansy and Draco's lackies, he never gave her the time of day. Of what he remembered of her, she was quiet, pretty, and was often found sniggering at something mean Pansy or Draco had said about him.

"And what brings you to Diagon Alley? Christmas shopping too?" Pansy asked him politely.

Harry frowned. "Er, yes. Kind of. I—well, Christmas this year might be a bit...awkward for me, considering…."

"Ah," Pansy nodded. "Considering the She-Weasle chucked you and you spend Christmas with her family every year."

Harry nodded. "Yes, she er—owled me that she was bringing Boris home to meet the family. Puts me in a bit of a strange position."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "The twat," she muttered under her breath. And despite the fact that Harry's impulse was to defend Ginny, he couldn't help feeling a perverse thrill at hearing Pansy's disdain. Part of him agreed. Yes, Ginny was a twat. He was angry with her. And everyone else in his life seemed very eager to stay on neutral territory when it came to Harry and Ginny's breakup. And he couldn't blame them, not really. Half of his friends were related to her, for Merlin's sake. And the other half –well….they adored her. Most people did.

But not Pansy. And that was...refreshing.

He raised his teacup and cheersed her. "So I fear my Christmas this year will very much consist of me popping into the Burrow for half an hour, just enough to drop off gifts and ensure Mrs. Weasley's feelings aren't hurt, then spending the rest of the day at home with my very old, surly house-elf and a portrait of a woman who hates my very existence."

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I doubt that a dozen or more wizarding families wouldn't very much welcome the Boy Who Lived at their Christmas table."

"Yes, that's just what I want," said Harry sarcastically. "To spend Christmas dinner being toasted and saluted and asked to recount how I'd died and come back to life. That's in the real spirit of the holiday."

"Perhaps not," said Pansy. "Though might be better than spending Christmas alone."

"I suppose you have some lavish pureblood party to attend?"

Pansy sighed. "Well, yes. The Parkinsons are rather connected. Every Christmas Eve the Notts throw this large, ridiculous dinner party where we purebloods stand around together and congratulate ourselves on our numerous achievements and blessings...and until recently discuss how the muggles and muggleborns were destroying our society. But oh no, not anymore. Now it's all about integration and tolerance and creating a new world where wizards and muggles coexist peacefully. All thanks to you and Granger, really."

"Is that so?" Harry said.

"It's all very hypocritical. But at least the wine is good."

"I suppose you have some pureblooded suitor lined up to be your date to this party?"

Pansy snorted into her tea. "Are you serious, Potter? You think I have suitors? First of all, what bloody year do you think this is? And secondly… I don't suppose you read the papers do you?"

Harry gave Pansy a blank stare.

Pansy sighed. "You know Rita Skeeter might be on a tight leash when it comes to you and your posse, but unfortunately for the rest of us...we are free game. And her favorite topics are those of us who were so bold as to oppose you during the war. There's an article in the Daily Prophet every other week about me."

"About what?" Harry said, confused.

"Oh, usually some snapshot of me with an unflattering look on my face with some appalling caption like, 'Pansy Parkinson, Underground Death Eater Cult?' or 'Pansy Parkinson's Secret Pregnancy- how she sacrificed her baby to the Dark Lord!' She almost always begins the article by reminding everyone that I was the one who of course suggested we all turn on you at the battle of Hogwarts. No one wants anything to do with me, least of all romantically. Anyone seen with me in public runs the risk of being my alleged baby daddy to the child I used for some spell to bring back You-Know-Who, or some such rubbish."

"I see," Harry said slowly. He glanced around.

"Oh, don't worry," Pansy said. "There aren't any reporters here. And no one has been following me today...well except for you."

"How did you know I was following you?" Harry asked. "I thought I was being very discreet."

"Oh, you were," Pansy assured him. "You were the proper creep, don't worry. You'd make a fine serial killer. But lucky for me, I've had ample experience with predators and I've become quite adept at the tracking charm. It alerts me to anyone following me, or anyone getting too close. It only took once of being attacked by one of your many fanatics for me to realize I need to protect myself a bit better."

"The tracker charm?" Harry asked. "I've never heard of it."

"Ah, well you wouldn't would you? Learned it seventh year. Flitwick sort of took it upon himself, as did most of the other teachers, to take on teaching some more defensive spells. You know, since Defense Against the Dark Arts had ceased to exist."

"Ah," said Harry.

"It's bloody useful," Pansy went on. "Perhaps you should learn it yourself. Might save you the trouble of being harassed for autographs every few minutes."

"Perhaps you might teach it to me," Harry said before he could stop himself.

Pansy started to say something, but stopped as a blush crept over her cheeks. She buried her face in her teacup in an attempt to hide it, but Harry saw. And his heart lurched.

"So this party," Harry hedged. "At the Nott's… will there be press there?"

"Of course," said Pansy. "They never miss it. The Notts actually invite them. Pay them off to write something positive."

"And will the press be writing about you then?"

"It's likely, yes." Pansy said wearily.

"Well," said Harry, and here he started to smile. "What would they write about if you showed up with a pure blooded suitor on your arm? A certain, war hero of a certain...notoriety?"

Pansy frowned. "Potter, are you actually saying…?"

"Well, why not?" Harry asked. "You said it yourself, anything is better than being alone on Christmas. And this gives me a good excuse to duck out of the Weasleys. And of course, I still owe you for saving me from embarrassment at the last gala. Least I can do is return the favor. Imagine what the papers will say if they see we are friendly. All is forgiven, you're not a death eater, and so on."

Pansy looked down at her plate a moment. "Is it all forgiven then?" she asked quietly without looking at him.

Harry reached out and impulsively took her hand. It was warmer than he thought it would be, her fingers small and delicate. She looked up at him, her expression both surprised and hopeful. "There's nothing to forgive," Harry said softly. "The war was...hard. On everyone. I understand more now...what you were going through."

Pansy visibly swallowed and nodded, giving his hand a gentle squeeze back.

"So it's settled then?" Harry said lightly. "You'll take me with you to Nott's Christmas party?"

"On one condition," Pansy said, tossing her hair back.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"You wear proper dress robes. Not that ghastly one from the Yule Ball. Something new. Something posh."

Harry laughed. "It's a deal."

3

Pansy stood in front of her full length mirror and studied her reflection. It'd been a long time since she'd dressed with such care.

Her hair was sleek and straight, and it framed her face perfectly. She wore it just as she always did, a black bob with a thick straight fringe that hovered just over her blue eyes which she had lined with kohl, a thick coat of mascara and shimmering eyeshadow. Her complexion was perfect thanks to a beauty potion she'd splurged on and her lips were berry red and matched her robes –the latest fashion – floor length with a plunging neckline that went down past her sternum. The sleeves were tight to the wrist where they flared out slightly and it was made out of a slinky new material that clung to her every curve. She'd paired it with a short gold necklace and matching gold chandelier earrings and when she moved, every bit of her seemed to sparkle. On her feet she wore a pair of simple black stilettos, her creamy white legs peaking out from a slit in the robe.

Pansy checked the clock. Potter would be arriving in just a few minutes time by floo and then from Pansy's suite they would floo to the Nott party together. She tried (and failed) to calm her fluttering heart, reminding herself repeatedly that Potter was just doing them both a favor by accompanying her to the party… but the truth was, her mind seemed determined to think of this as a proper date. She'd be lying if she said she didn't feel a hint of attraction to him. Okay, more than a hint. And it made no sense because he was Harry bloody Potter, and she was Pansy bloody Parkinson and she'd spent most of her life despising him. But for what? Simply because Draco hated him, and she always did what Draco said?

Well Pansy decided to put that all behind her. All was forgiven. Isn't that what Harry had said?

Pansy checked the clock again.

She had no idea what Potter would be wearing. She'd received a number of messages in her diary a few days ago that had given her cause for concern.

H: Pansy, what's the difference between white and ivory? Is ivory just a dirtier white? Why does it cost more?

H: Should I get cufflinks?

H: What are cufflinks?

H: Do they honestly expect me not to wear trousers under the robe? Is that really the latest trend?

Pansy had finally taken pity on him and responded. P: Don't let them talk you into white. Ask for a forest green blended robe, calf length with matching trousers. And yes, get cufflinks, preferably gold.

And when Potter walked through Pansy's ornate fireplace a few seconds later, Pansy was almost rendered speechless by how closely he had followed her directions.

His robe was perfectly tailored, dark green with golden embroidery. It hit him at mid-calf, just as she'd instructed, and he wore matching green trousers underneath. The robe was cut close to his shoulders and waist, accenting both his broad back and trim waistline. He looked...good. Someone had actually succeeded in taming his wild hair (Pansy suspected Sleekeasy's potion) and he wore new glasses –black rectangular frames that complimented the sharp angles of his face and jawline.

"Well don't you look dashing," she said, recovering from her momentary shock.

He smiled at her. "Likewise," he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe, lingering just a moment too long at her plunging neckline.

Pansy flushed and swallowed. "Well, shall we go then?"

"Just a moment," Harry said. "I um...well. Considering it is Christmas and all. I...got you a present."

"A present?" Pansy said.

"Yes, you know. Gift giving is sort of a Christmas tradition, isn't it? Here." He took a small poorly wrapped parcel from his pocket and handed it to her.

She held it in her hand and frowned. "I didn't get you anything," she said bluntly.

Harry laughed. "Don't feel bad just yet. You haven't even opened it."

Pansy tore at the shiny red and white paper, revealing a small black box. She opened it and nestled inside in a pillow of velvet was a small gold bracelet with a tiny emerald in the center.

"It's got a cheering charm. Just something to spread the Christmas cheer is all. No need to get weepy about it," Harry said, sounding a bit panicked.

Pansy hadn't realize that her eyes had misted over. She blinked rapidly and looked up. "Thank you," she said. She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and she immediately felt the charm's effects. Happiness bubbled in her chest and suddenly she was smiling.

"Strong," she said a little breathlessly.

Harry nodded and held up his wrist which bore a matching gold cuff. His smile was as wide as hers. "I thought we could both use a little fun tonight."

Pansy sighed happily. "You thought right."

"Well," Harry said, offering her his arm. Pansy took it and together they made their way back over to the fireplace.

"Oh wait," Pansy said. "I almost forgot." She went to her desk and picked up the invitation. It was spelled so that it allowed access to the party, which was strictly invitation only, very exclusive. Once Harry had basically invited himself, Pansy had owled the Notts to change her RSVP from one seat to two. She received a new invitation back almost immediately, that showed two guests were now allowed access to the party.

They flooed into the Nott's main foyer. It was a magnificent room. At least a dozen Christmas trees lined the walls, each decorated with silver and gold baubles, tinsel and sparkling lights. The ceiling hung with garlands and enchanted snow fell around them. They were greeted by a sweet little house elf wearing a red and green pointed hat with a matching dress and curling shoes. She looked straight out of the North Pole and every time she moved jingle bells sung from her hat and shoes.

"Right this way," she squeaked, and she led them out of the foyer, down a hallway and into the main ballroom. The Nott's manor was very large, but Pansy knew the ballroom had been magically enhanced to accommodate so many guests. It was quite crowded already. Witches and wizards mingled in a sea of colors, chatting and hugging and laughing. No one had noticed them yet, which Pansy was secretly grateful for, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

"Shall we get a drink?" Harry asked.

She nodded gratefully and pointed toward the bar positioned just to their left. Pansy ordered a glass of red wine, and Potter ordered a scotch. They were just turning away when Pansy heard her name.

"Hello cousin," It was Theodore. He leaned in and kissed Pansy on the cheek.

"Theo," Pansy nodded. "How are you?"

"Oh, you know, the same. The mastery at the department of mysteries is keeping me quite busy. My final project is due at the end of the- Potter?"

"Hello Theodore," Harry said, lightly raising his glass in greeting.

"I didn't know you'd- with Pansy?" Theo looked back and forth between the two of them as if waiting for some kind of explanation.

"Good of Pansy to invite me," Harry said. "I've been wanting to meet her family in full for ages. This seemed an opportune moment, seeing as it's Christmas and all."

"Er, yes," Theo said, eying Pansy, who merely smiled. Her cheering charm was in full effect and she was finding this entire exchange quite hilarious.

"Well… er, welcome?" Theo tried again. "This is my grandmother's house. She'll be….er….delighted that you're here."

Harry nodded gratefully and started to lead Pansy away. They left Theo standing there with his mouth agape and Pansy covered her mouth to stifle the burst of giggles that just exploded.

"This is going to be fun," Harry said softly in her ear, and Pansy's neck broke out in goosebumps. They meandered around the room, Harry's hand settled lightly on Pansy's lower back. Pansy watched people glance at her and then away, so used to avoiding her as they were. It was most comical once they realized who she was with. Their heads nearly rocketed off their necks as they did a double take.

"I didn't know Theodore Nott was your cousin," Harry said, taking a sip of scotch as they walked.

"Oh yes," Pansy nodded. "Our mothers were sisters. Both Warringtons."

"Is that so?"

"Of course. Though, poor Theo's mother died when we were very young. He was raised by his father, didn't you know? The death eater. I don't think anyone else in the world was happier than Theo was when the wanker was sent to Azkaban. I think he's secretly grateful to you for that. Ah, and Cassius is just over there. You remember Cassius?" She pointed at her other cousin who was standing just ahead of them. He wore green robes, similar to the ones Harry wore, and his golden blond hair was so carefully disheveled it was almost comical. He stood next to his date, a pretty brunette Pansy recognized as Eleanor Branstone, a muggle-born Hufflepuff several years their junior. Pansy studied Cassius. He looked as pompous and bored as ever, and she wondered if he were really interested in Eleanor, or was simply courting her to improve his family's image after the war.

"Ah, yes," Harry said. "Played Chaser for Slytherin?"

"Harry! Harry, good to see you!" Horace Slughorn seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Pansy watched as her old professor's reddened face smiled fondly and greeted Harry profusely. Slughorn was closely followed by Mr. Olivander, the wandmaker and another distant relative of Pansy's. And so for the next twenty minutes until dinner was served Harry was greeted and received and smiled and cajoled into hugs and handshakes, so much so that Pansy finally took pity on him and directed him straight to their table.

The ballroom was set up with two dozen massive round tables that seated twelve. Pansy and Harry were seated with an assortment of Pansy's cousins. Cassius and Eleanor, Theo and Tracey Davis, her two elder Parkinson cousins from her father's side of the family. Both heirs to massive fortune and had pureblood wives with 2.5 children, lived in wizarding villages and had upstanding careers at the ministry. They pointedly ignored Pansy on most occasions, but tonight they were all smiles, and "Happy Christmas" and "lovely weather we've been having" and "Oh, Harry Potter, what a pleasure!"

Dinner was delicious, of course. A six course masterpiece that left Pansy feeling comfortably full and warm. Her wine glass was never empty and she was feeling quite good by the time their plates had been cleared and the music started.

"Is that Celestina Warbeck?" Harry's voice came from her shoulder, his lips hovering just over her ear.

"Of course," Pansy said, turning toward the stage. "She sings every year."

Harry's eyes widened. "I've tried three times to get tickets to her show as a gift to Mrs. Weasley. They're always sold out instantly."

Pansy watched the aging witch in her glittering robe and her elaborately styled hair as she crooned out her classic hit, A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Love. She shrugged. "I suppose I could introduce you. I'm sure if she would have known the famous Harry Potter wanted to get tickets to her show, she wouldn't refuse you a box seat."

Harry gave her a lopsided grin. "I don't suppose you'd care to dance, would you?"

Slowly couples were taking the dance floor, swaying together as Celestina switched tunes and started in on a Christmas song about the three Magi and their travels to Bethlehem.

So Pansy followed Harry out to the dance floor. The cheering charm and the wine and her full stomach were filling her with a sense of elation that she couldn't describe. It felt like a dream, swaying there in Harry's arms, his warm breath on her neck, her chest pressed lightly against his. This close, he smelled oddly like wood. Like he'd just gotten off of a broomstick.

She didn't even notice the cameras.

They danced for several more songs, and when Celestina took a break Pansy introduced her to Harry, and they chatted like old pals. Then there was more wine, and more people to meet, and house elves walking around with trays full of chocolate cauldrons spiked with fire whiskey, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the bloody minister of magic, was hugging her, for Merlin's sake and before she knew it she and Harry were standing in the doorway under a patch of mistletoe, and Harry was saying something about Nargles, and then he was kissing her.

And for a bit, she couldn't breathe. Like the oxygen had been sucked from her lungs, and lights were flashing, and people were laughing, and his lips felt like soft cushions of heat, and he tasted like whiskey and chocolate, and something else that reminded her of quidditch games at Hogwarts and she still couldn't believe that Harry Potter was kissing her, and then they were dancing again. And the cheering charm and the wine and Harry, it was all happening so fast and so strange, and so amazing and she loved it, every minute of it…

4

"Harry, are you mad?" Hermione slammed a copy of the Daily Prophet down on the bar table, her face a violent shade of pink, and her hair looking particularly bushy. "Pansy Parkinson?"

Harry looked down at the moving photograph of he and Pansy kissing the other night at the Christmas party. He hadn't realized that he'd sort of pinned her against the door jam, one hand braced against the wall, the other wrapped tightly around her waist. Her hand cupped the back of his neck, and their lips moved passionately.

The memory of her lips and her body and the warmth he felt… it set his veins on fire. He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

"You think this is funny, do you?" Hermione's voice had taken on that shrill tone she used to use in school when she was telling him off for copying.

"Oh come on, Hermione," Ron said from Harry's right. "He's entitled to a rebound shag. I mean, Parkinson is an interesting choice, but-"

"Harry," Hermione said, cutting off Ron. She took a deep, steadying breath. "I know you and Ginny's breakup could hardly have been easy...but...but… Pansy Parkinson? Is this really the way to get back at Ginny?"

Harry frowned. "It's not about that," he said. "Hermione look. I know you don't like her. Hell none of us did. But she's changed. She's different now. I… fancy her."

"You fancy her?" Hermione shrieked. "Need I remind you that she it was she who suggested we turn you over to Voldemort that night at Hogwarts?"

"No, you don't need to remind me," Harry said crossly.

"Need I also remind you that she tortured us for six years of school? She made up that wretched song about Ron in fifth year and during the Triwizard Tournament she made up all those lies about you to Rita Skeeter? And what about Draco? How could you like someone who was so into him, like she was?"

"Hermione, come on. None of that was that bad."

"Not that bad?" Hermione's face turned even pinker. "Don't you remember fourth year when she sneaked into my dormitory and stole all of my underwear. Yes, all of it! And I had to write home to mum and dad to send me more. And then she just handed my knickers out to all the Slytherin boys who made up disgusting stories about how they'd gotten them. And then there was that whole period during third year when she charmed a tampon to fall out of my pocket every time I raised my hand in class."

Ron snorted and Hermione rounded on him with a glare so fierce Ron nearly backed away. "Sorry!" he said. "But...period." He raised his arms in surrender.

"Yes. Period. I'd just gotten my period that year and it was mortifying! Don't you remember any of this?"

Harry looked at Ron and raised his eyebrows. Ron shrugged. The truth was, Harry didn't recall either of those things. But then, he was a bit oblivious back then. "Hermione, come on," he begged. "I said she's different now. All those things happened in school. People change."

"Oh well, in that case, I'm sure you wouldn't mind a bit if I went off and snogged Goyle. I'm sure he's changed."

Harry sighed.

Hermione was studying the Daily Prophet again. "It says here that you went to the Nott's annual Christmas Eve party with her. Harry Potter was spotted sharing a mistletoe kiss with none other than pure blood bad girl, Pansy Parkinson."

"Bad girl," Ron chuckled.

"Could this mean the two have set aside their differences in the name of a budding romance, or was this merely revenge against Potter's newly split ex-lover Ginny Weasley, chaser for the Holyhead Harpies? See page eight for more details. Oh, honestly Harry. The press is having a field day."

"Oy!" Harry said, his voice rising a bit. "I don't complain when the two of you snog each other in public and your bloody faces are all over the cover pages. Just let this be… Meet her. Get to know her better. I promise things are different now."

"Do you mean to say...you're actually going to… date her?" Hermione said.

Harry shrugged. "I've invited her to Neville's New Years Party. She's said she'll go. I expect you can speak to her then."

"Harry, you didn't," Hermione said. "Don't you think you ought to… ask Neville if it's okay if you bring her?"

"Why would he care?" Harry asked.

"Well...because!"

"Hermione just because you hated her guts in school doesn't mean everyone did."

"Don't you remember how she cast that leg lock curse at him when he was trying to ask out Susan Bones? And how she actually pushed him down the stairs in fourth year? Or how she would call him Neville the Nutless? Or… or what was the other one? Oh yes, Limpdick Longbottom. She was just awful to him."

"But how did she know he was limpdicked?" Ron asked seriously.

"Well," Hermione said smugly. "That is the question, isn't it?"

Harry frowned. He didn't really remember Pansy being that terrible. But then… Neville was always being teased, especially by the Slytherins.

"Alright," Harry conceded. "I will ask Neville. But if he says it's fine, she's coming. And you best be nice to her. There's more to her than you know, Hermione. Trust me."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and looked doubtful. "Well there's Neville now. Go on and ask him."

Harry peered across the bar and sure enough, Neville had just arrived. He donned an apron and began his work behind the bar.

Ever since Neville quit the aurors to begin his mastery in herbology, he'd been working at the Leaky Cauldron alongside his girlfriend Hannah Abbott. Hannah's uncle Tom, the Inn's notoriously peculiar innkeeper had recently retired and left the entire establishment to her. And honestly it was probably the best business decision the man ever made because under Hannah's management, the Leaky Cauldron had become a completely different place. It was warm, and comfortable and served delicious food and drinks. It's rooms were no longer drab and dark, but decorated tastefully. It's service was impeccable and it was quickly becoming a favorite destination for witches and wizards all over the country, rather than just the entrance to Diagon Alley.

And for Harry, Ron and Hermione...it was basically a home away from home. They met up there nearly daily. They all lived in London now and with all three of them working at the ministry, it was a great place to meet up. And then of course, the pub always had friendly faces.

"Hi Harry," Neville greeted as Harry settled on a bar stool.

"Hey Neville," Harry began. "I was wondering...do you have a minute to chat?"

Neville shouldered a tea towel and turned to Harry, giving him his full attention? "'Course, mate," he said. "What's up?"

"So about yours and Hannah's New Year party… I was sort of wondering if it'd be okay if I… well, if I invited Pansy Parkinson?"

Neville grinned. "Well, of course. You can invite whoever you want."

"It doesn't bother you that...well that it's Pansy? You know, since she was sort of awful to you in school?"

Neville waved his hand dismissively. "Aw, Pansy's alright. She's changed a lot since then."

Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Right?" he asked. "That's what I've been saying." Neville followed Harry's gaze as he glanced toward Hermione and Ron.

Neville frowned. "Seventh year was harder on her than most people think. You three weren't there… you don't know how it was. Not really."

Harry paused and studied Neville. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

Neville lowered his voice and got a bit closer. "Well, it was the Carrows of course. They liked her. I knew what Amycus was doing to her. We all sort of knew. It was...kind of obvious."

"It was?"

"Well sure. Everyone always thought she had it easy...you know because they wouldn't punish her like they did the rest of us. She was always showing up late for class and not doing her work and smarting off to the teachers...but they'd just let it all slide, right? But then Amycus would make her stay after class with him most days and... she'd get all pale and shaky. I saw her afterward a few times and well...it wasn't pretty. I tried to help her. I really did. But you know Pansy… she snarled at me, told me to leave her alone." Neville shook his head as if to rid it of the painful memories. "Like I said, people thought she had it easy, but I'd rather take the cruciatus curse any day than what Amycus had in store for her."

Harry looked down at his hands. Had he really been so blind, all this time? Was it true that everyone knew? And that no one did anything? Harry looked up at Neville. There was still a scar on his cheek, a souvenir from the seventh year Harry missed out on. No. Neville had done something. Harry thought of the DA and the room of requirement and the stories he'd heard of the students rebelling…. They'd all done something, hadn't they? And they'd won in the end. He had to remind himself of that.

"And that night..." Neville went on. "The night of the battle when she… well when she wanted to turn you over?" Neville shrugged. "I sort of felt sorry for her, you know? She was so broken by then, like a horse. But honestly, ever since the war she's been right decent. You've heard about all the philanthropies she heads, right?"

When Harry gave Neville a blank look, Neville grinned. "Oh yeah, she's the head of loads of them." He started ticking them off on his fingers. "There's the War Orphan Welfare fund...you've heard of that one I'm sure."

"Of course," said Harry. "I donate every year. Teddy gets a good amount of benefits from it."

Neville nodded. "Hannah too. Even though she's of age and all, they give her a fair amount of money… you know, because her mother was killed by those death eaters sixth year? It helped rahab this place," he gestured to the Leaky Cauldron. "But at first Hannah didn't think she should get the money, you know? She thought the money should be used on kids and stuff. She tried to send it back, but then Pansy showed up one day with a bag of galleons and right near forced Hannah to take it. And the funny part was...even though she was being typical Pansy, yelling and insulting and being a right hag...she ended up hugging Hannah. Saying she was sorry for her loss and then they were both crying. It was mad."

Harry glanced back at Hermione. She was watching them carefully.

"And then there's the St. Mungo's Fund," Neville went on. "She raises a lot of amount of money for that one too. And you can tell things have gotten better there since she started heading the foundation. The hospital's expanded a lot. And now my mum and dad get their own rooms. It's more like a flat than a hospital room. They get their own kitchen and bathroom and sitting room… Me and Gran brought in a bunch of photographs to put up and old furniture from their house that my Gran kept all these years… and while they're still… you know... They seem happier. Mum makes her own tea now and my dad's even started doing a little magic again. Nothing crazy, just sort of turning the lights on and off and summoning his shoes, that sort of thing. Kid stuff you don't need a wand for...but it's done wonders. And I think it's because he feels more at home, like his old self. And I'm truly thankful for that."

"Blimey, Neville," Harry said. "That's great."

Neville nodded. "And that's not the half of it. She's on the board for the Welfare for Magical Creatures, the Muggle-born rights committee, the Severus Snape foundation, Pureblood allies…. Probably a few more. The papers don't report about any of that though," Neville said disdainfully. "They'd rather talk about her clothes or her hair or who they think she's shagging."

"Neville," Hermione interjected. Harry hadn't noticed that she'd joined them. "I've looked into those charities and while yes, they raise a lot of money, the Parkinsons and other pureblood families keep a substantial part of the money for themselves. So while sure, they might be raising money, they work it like a business and it's really not all that philanthropic."

Neville shrugged. "I don't know anything about that. I just see what I see, that's all. But anyway, I'd be happy if Pansy came to the New Years party. Hannah will be delighted too."

"Thanks Neville," Harry said, relieved.

5

Pansy peered over the edge of coffee mug and watched Draco pace the room furiously.

"I saw the Prophet this morning and I just couldn't believe it," he was saying, his hand running rampant through his blond hair. "I had to come over. I just don't understand. How could you do this?"

Draco had woken Pansy up this morning by pounding frantically at her front door, frightening the hell out of one of her house elves, demanding to see Pansy at once. She'd allowed him into her suite with a roll of her eyes. She knew this was coming.

Now she sat sipping her coffee and eating her breakfast, quietly watching him rant.

"It's Potter, of all people, Pansy. Potter! What are you trying to prove?" he glared at the wall, and wouldn't directly meet her eyes. "What's he trying to prove?" Draco muttered more to himself. "It's got to be an angle. Another swipe at me. Hasn't he gotten enough? How much more can I bend and scrape to him?"

"Draco," Pansy said firmly. "I know it's hard to imagine that absolutely everything in the world doesn't revolve around you, but honestly...this has nothing to do with you at all."

"Nothing to do with me? Pansy. You're my girlfriend and Potter just up and snogs you in public!"

"Ex-girlfriend," Pansy corrected.

Draco met her eyes then. "Pansy, I- I know things haven't exactly been...warm between us lately, but I just always thought..." he shook his head and looked away, his face growing red.

"You always thought I'd be here waiting for you," she finished for him.

He glanced at her guiltily before looking away again.

Pansy sighed. To be true, she couldn't exactly blame him. She always thought they would end up together too. After everything died down, with the war and the pure blood mania and his death eater ties. Once they'd both redeemed themselves enough to be accepted by society again… they would inevitably get married. Not because they loved each other, but because they both thought no one else would have them. It was unspoken between them. He was an ex-death eater, known adversary of Harry Potter, and she was the one who sold out the Chosen One. They belonged together. And then of course, there was their history.

She'd been in love with Draco Malfoy since she was eleven years old for Merlin's sake. It wasn't something she could just forget about. He'd been her first kiss, her first...everything. They used to meet in the Slytherin common room at midnight, used to find places to steel away together. And then sixth year happened… and Draco started drawing away from her. Hiding from her. Disappearing for hours at a time, coming back sick and shaky and afraid and it was obvious what was happening, but Pansy didn't know what to do so she just ignored it all… and then came seventh year and everything changed.

Draco wouldn't touch her after that. And he hadn't since.

Sure, he'd tried. He really did. There were late night floos and trips to muggle London for dinner dates, and small, chaste goodnight kisses and weekly owls that felt more and more like correspondences between colleagues, than romantic partners.

"Draco," Pansy said softly, setting down her coffee cup. "Come here."

He seemed eager to comply, sitting directly in front of her, finally meeting her eyes. She reached across the little sitting room table and took his hands in hers. She tried not to notice that he flinched at her touch.

"Listen to me," she said. "I love you." She held tight to him as he tried to pull away. "Wait, listen," she said. "I love you. I always have and I think I always will. But… it's been over between us for years. You and I both know this. And we both deserve better. I see that now. Maybe one day you will too."

His blue eyes met hers and she saw the hurt there, the pain. Not that they were over. But that she thought him worthy of...something more. She could tell that he didn't believe her.

"But why Potter, though?" he asked. "Why him, of all people?"

Pansy smiled softly. She looked down at her wrist, at the gold bracelet she hadn't removed since the Christmas party, though the cheering charm had long since faded. "I honestly don't know," she said.

Draco studied her a moment longer. "I don't like it," he said. "If he's using you, if he hurts you, I'll-"

"Oh Draco," Pansy shook her head softly. "I can take care of myself. You know that."

Draco looked at her a bit longer his expression changing from anger to guilt, to grief. Suddenly his eyes filled. He blinked a few times and bit his lip. "Pansy," he choked out. "I should have – I should have stopped him. Carrow. All those years ago in school. I just...I just..." he bit back a sob.

"Shhhh," Pansy said, soothingly. "There was nothing you could have done. We were just children. Both of us."

Draco let out a muffled sob. He brought Pansy's hand to his lips and held it there with his eyes closed. "I wanted so long to tell you...tell you that I was sorry...that I wanted to do more, but I was afraid. I spent so much time being afraid..."

Pansy waited, watching him silently as her own tears spilled over. They'd never talked about seventh year. Not really. They'd both suffered so much and yet they were both so proud, so stubborn. They should have found comfort in one another, but instead they had pushed each other away. Maybe now they could find healing.

"Come now," she said finally, brushing away her tears and sniffing. "Have breakfast with me. We've much bigger issues to discuss."

Draco sniffed and looked up. "Is that so?" he asked, wiping roughly at his blotched face.

"Yes," Pansy said with feigned seriousness. "What in the world am I going to wear to Longbottom's New Year party?"

6

"Master Potter, your guest has arrived."

"Thanks Kreacher," Harry said, feeling his heart rate increase. "Er, how do I look?"

The old house elf was momentarily surprised at being asked such a question, but his face quickly turned calculating as he inspected Harry's attire. "Very...fetching, sir. Kreacher thinks young Sirius would be most pleased to see you wearing his old jacket. He was quite fond of it, if Kreacher remembers correctly. It drove my poor mistress mad."

Harry turned back to his reflection and studied himself again. He'd found the old leather motorcycle jacket in Sirius's closet (now his closet since he'd moved into Grimmauld Place and taken over Sirius's old bedroom) and immediately fell in love with it. It was well worn black leather with a broken zipper and when Harry put it on he felt almost as if Sirius were hugging him, it fit so well. He smiled at his reflection. He looked...cool.

The leather was so supple and worn it was as if he were wearing cotton. He could just picture a teenage Sirius running around London in the seventies, hopping on the back of muggle motorbikes and sneaking into pubs to listen to muggle bands. Yes, poor Walburga Black must have been beside herself.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Harry made it to his front drawing room where Pansy waited near the fireplace. She looked….well. To be honest, she looked like a glass of sparkling pink champagne.

She wore a shimmering pink dress that fit so close to her body it was as if it were a second skin. It was of modest length, down to her knees almost, and had long sleeves, but the back was completely open revealing smooth, white skin all the way down to her tailbone. On her feet she wore matching high heels, the kind that said all kinds of interesting things, and Harry sort of lost his breath at the sight of her.

She smiled at him. Her eyes were lined with kohl and shimmering pink eyeshadow to match her dress. Her ears dangled with overlarge chandelier earrings and she carried a small black clutch. She looked beautiful and elegant and sexy all at the same time.

"Hi," Harry said, dumbly.

"Hi," she answered. "Lovely home," she said gesturing to the drawing room.

Harry looked around. Grimmauld Place surely had come a long way since he'd moved in several years ago. After months of Kreacher hounding him, Harry had finally relented to the renovations the house elf had in mind. And now the house was almost unrecognizable to those who had known it when it was headquarters for the Order. It was bright and airy and decorated in the most modern and comfortable furniture. It turned out that Kreacher was quite capable of removing all the portraits and tapestries that had been permanently charmed to the walls and he proved quite adept at exterminating all the pests that had been living in the old house. He'd even moved the old portrait of Walburga into a less central location where she wouldn't be disturbed as easily. (Removing it altogether was out of the question of course, and Harry didn't even suggest it.)

Within several months, with the help of a few house elves from Hogwarts whom Kreacher had befriended in his time there, the house became nicer than anything Harry had ever dreamed of living in. The hardwood floors had been refurbished and now shined bright mahogany. The carpets had been replaced, along with the curtains and the bed linens and the ghastly old curio cabinets with all their old, scary relics. The house was massive with eight bedrooms, six bathrooms, two formal dining rooms, two parlors, and one large seating area. The kitchen, located in the basement was now warm and inviting, and was where Harry spent most of his time entertaining guests, despite the ample space upstairs.

The house was of course much too large for Harry to be living in all by himself, and for a bit Ron and Hermione had been his housemates with Ginny a nearly constant presence. But it was decided (mostly by Hermione) that she and Ron needed their own flat to "grow as a couple" as she put it, and of course with Ginny's move to Holyhead and the ultimate demise of their relationship, Harry was quite alone as of late. That didn't stop Kreacher from making sure the place was spotless with fresh flowers and abundant holiday decorations dripping from every spare corner.

Harry watched as Pansy's eyes swept the room. "Thanks," Harry managed.

"You know, I saw the expose' in Witch Weekly last year, but it honestly didn't do the house justice," Pansy said, inspecting a fuzzy white throw pillow Harry didn't even know existed. Harry winced. He'd agreed to let Witch Weekly do that wretched article because he knew it would make Kreacher happy, but the publicity it sparked was a bit overwhelming. Grimmauld Place, a street in London which had once been quite abundant with witches and wizards, had fallen out of favor in the past century with the wizarding community. The surrounding houses had been sold off to muggles who had turned them into apartment flats that were rented out cheaply to mostly unsavory people. Crime had been quite rampant in the neighborhood when Harry moved in and even he had to be careful walking home alone at night. Muggles with guns were not afraid of the Boy Who Lived.

But then the article came out and suddenly those old townhouses were being sold and its muggle inhabitants evicted as prominent witches and wizards moved in. In a matter of months, Grimmauld Place had been transformed into a popular wizarding street. Everyone wanted to be Harry Potter's neighbor. Harry had lifted most of the enchantments that kept the house hidden...the Fidelius charm, for instance, and the unplottability charm, but many protective enchantments were still in effect. Otherwise his house would be swarmed by his many...fans. He'd learned that the hard way.

"Love the jacket," Pansy was saying, gesturing to his attire.

"Love the...er," Harry said, gesturing to all of her.

Pansy laughed, a soft tinkling sound.

"I figured we could apparate to the pub, if that's alright?" Harry asked.

"Of course," said Pansy. She withdrew her wand from the tiny clutch and Harry suspected she'd enhanced its interior with the extension charm. He took her hand in his and together they apparated.

They appeared together in an alleyway just outside the Leaky Cauldron. Loud music and shouts of laughter could be heard from the pub out on the snowy street. It seemed the party was already in full swing.

Harry led Pansy inside where they were greeted by a warm rush of bodies and noise. Harry spotted familiar faces everywhere, mostly friends he'd gone to Hogwarts with. Neville and Hannah were standing together near the door, each bedecked in paper hats and plastic beads.

"Harry and Pansy!" Neville shouted when he saw them. "Welcome, welcome." He draped his long arms over both their shoulders and it was plain to see he was already quite smashed. Hannah smiled widely, her own face flushed with drink. Harry thanked them both as they fetched him and Pansy glasses of sparkling champagne.

Harry kept an eye on Pansy as they were greeted by an array of guests. He'd been quite prepared to defend her presence, but it seemed no one really cared too much that she was there. No one greeted her quite as warmly as they greeted him, of course, but no one was outright rude.

They met Dean Thomas and Susan Bones, who were currently dating... along with Seamus Finnigan and a girl Harry recognized as being in Gryffindor but a few years their junior. Then there were Parvati and Padma Patil, each wearing identical golden dresses that were so short they might as well have been knickers. Lavender Brown actually kissed Pansy on the cheek as she greeted them, her blond hair piled in an array of curls so abundant she looked a bit like a lion. Ernie McMillan was there with his muggle girlfriend and of course the Weasley twins were there, dressed alike in their dragon hide jackets, Angelina Johnson and Verity Hopkirk on each of their arms both dressed prettily in sparkling dresses enhanced with some kind of spell that kept them changing colors. The effect was quite pleasant.

Then there was Luna Lovegood, wearing a white floor length dress that somewhat resembled a wedding gown. "Daddy says it's auspicious to wear white at the new year," she explained. "It marks the purity of new beginnings." Her date was a tall American bloke whom she introduced as simply Rolf. "We met in India," Luna said. "We were both studying the mating habits of the Dukuwaqa. They are really quite fascinating creatures."

They finally met Ron and Hermione, both of whom looked well into their cups as Ron had already spilled something on his shirt and Hermione hadn't bothered to spell it away yet. Hermione looked lovely in a black velvet cold shoulder dress that fit snugly up to her throat and Ron, despite the stain, looked rather good too in a matching black velvet waistcoat and dark washed jeans.

"Harry," Hermione said brightly as they approached. "I'd been wondering when you'd get here… Oh. Hello Pansy."

Pansy smiled tightly. "Good evening Hermione. Happy New Year."

"Yes, and you," Hermione said politely, glancing at Harry. "Er… Harry, what kept you? It's nearly ten o'clock. Hagrid has already come and gone. Said he had another party to get to."

"Ah, that's a shame," said Harry, genuinely disappointed. "I'd been hoping to hear about his holiday with Madame Maxine."

Ron chuckled. "Well, mate. I 'spect you'll hear all about it soon enough. Bloody lovesick puppy, he is."

"So what kept you?" Hermione hedged again. "I thought you'd be here ages ago."

"Er, got hung up at work," Harry lied. "Paperwork, you know."

"Ah," said Hermione. "That I do. I was just telling Ronald about a new piece of legislature I'm bringing to the wizengamot. It's advocating for the equal rights of non wizard magical creatures so that they can rightfully own property. Isn't it just appalling that house elves don't have any personal possessions? Goblins and centaurs too. Not legally."

"Quite," said Harry, glancing around the room. He had already heard about this new bill Hermione had been working on nearly a dozen times and was quite keen to change the topic.

"Yes, working in the department for regulation and control of magical creatures has come with many challenges," Hermione went on pompously, "But I feel I'm really making a difference, you know? And Pansy, how is the ah...philanthropy going?"

Harry felt Pansy stiffen beside him. He prepared himself to interject but Pansy spoke before he could.

"Quite well actually," Pansy said. "It's been an exciting time of year, what with Christmas and all. We've managed to almost triple the donations made for St. Mungos and the War Orphan fund is always growing. I expect we'll raise even more in years to come. It's quite rewarding to see the funds going to good use."

"I'm sure its quite rewarding for your pocket books, as well," Hermione said with a sardonic smile.

Pansy gave a quizzical look. "My pocket books?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said with a false conspiratorial wink. "I've seen the numbers. These philanthropies you head retain nearly seventy percent of their earnings. Quite a bit considering the national number is twenty five percent on overhead."

Harry bristled and opened his mouth to intervene but again Pansy beat him to it.

"Ah, while you may have noticed we retain seventy percent, it hardly goes into the pocketbooks of the heads. If you reviewed the numbers again, and paid attention to the donors themselves, you'd see that the heads of the charities, the Parkinsons in particular, donate much more to the cause than we retain. And I think you are referring to muggle organizations when you say the national percentage, yes? The national number for muggle philanthropies is around twenty five percent spent on overhead, as you noted, but what you're forgetting Hermione, is that muggle organizations get tax breaks and incentives which unfortunately the wizarding world lacks. Therefore our organizations are forced to retain a higher sum in order to pay for staff, food, event spaces etc. Perhaps you should take that to the wizengamot for a change in legislature. It would certainly make things much easier for me."

Harry smiled at the dumbfounded look on Hermione's face as Pansy politely sipped her champagne.

"Er, Neville's been raving about the changes at St. Mungo's," Ron said quickly, glancing nervously between Pansy and Hermione. "Says his mum and dad have been doing really well in their new apartments."

"I'm delighted to hear it," Pansy said. "As chair of the financial committee I've made it a special project to ensure long time patients, especially those suffering from ailments caused by dark magic at the hands of death eaters, are given the utmost care. They are the true heroes, after all."

"And you have that much power?" Ron asked. "You can actually tell them how to spend the money."

Pansy frowned. "Well of course. Haven't you learned this by now, Weasley? The people with the money have all the power."

Ron laughed.

Hermione scowled.

And Harry took a long drink of his champagne.

7

Pansy had never been to a party like this. It was lively and...fun. Everyone was quite smashed, dancing and laughing and cheering at unnecessary things. People she hadn't spoken to in years were offering her shots of fire whiskey and fetching her glasses of champagne and asking her about her life.

She was one of only three former Slytherins present. There was Bridget Farley, a girl a year or so younger than Pansy in school whom Pansy had rarely spoken, and then there was her own cousin Cassius Warrington who had accompanied his girlfriend and former Hufflepuff, Eleanor Branstone.

"Happy New Year cousin!" Cassius exclaimed when he saw her. "Fancy seeing you here."

Pansy stared. He was wearing one of those horrible black top hats with Happy New Year flashing across the brim and a hot pink lei. His shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and he was quite sweaty. Perhaps most surprising was that he was smiling for Merlin's sake. She'd never seen him looking anything but crisp and calm and surly.

"Happy New Year Cassius," Pansy responded. "And to you too Eleanor." The girl seemed surprised that Pansy knew her name. She wore a bright pink dress that was quite tight and quite short and Cassius looked at her with such adoration that Pansy felt foolish that she'd ever thought his feelings for her were feigned.

As midnight approached, Harry pulled Pansy close to him. His hands circled her waist and he eyed her in a way that made her feel hungry and soft and warm and feminine and just...deserving of...whatever this was. And as the Weasley twins cast large golden numbers in the air counting down the seconds until midnight, Pansy couldn't even watch the firework display raining above them, her eyes didn't leave Harry's and three, two, one...midnight arrived and so did Harry's lips on hers and she just sort of melted against him just like she'd done under the mistletoe just a week ago.

Shouts and cheers surrounded them, champagne bottles popped and fireworks exploded. Confetti rained down upon them, getting stuck in Pansy's eyelashes and Harry's hair, and Merlin she didn't want the moment to end. And then the music was thumping and she and Harry were dancing and he twirled her around until she was dizzy and then she was posing for a photo with Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones and Eloise Midgen, smiling like they were all best mates as Colin Creevey's camera flashed. And then she and Oliver Wood were having a lively discussion about Quidditch and Terry Boot was laughing at one of her jokes, and then she and Sue Li were comparing the best charms for levitation.

Around two in the morning the party started to die down. Harry found her near the bar, wrapped an arm around her and drew her close. He kissed her again, open and unembarrassed and she kissed him back, aware that they were surrounded by people but not caring one bit. He broke away a moment later and whispered close to her ear so that his breath sent shivers down her back.

"Come back to my place?"

They apparated together again, just outside the pub. It had begun to snow and the night felt mysterious and alive. When they arrived back at Grimmauld Place Pansy knew she ought to be cold, but Harry's presence warmed her.

"Do you-ah...want a drink?" Harry asked her when they got inside and were seated on the leather sofa in the drawing room. He seemed suddenly shy, unsure.

"Okay," she said.

Harry disappeared for a bit and returned a few moments later with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. He sat down next to her and poured her a healthy dose. "Hope this is alright," Harry said. "I couldn't find the Scotch and my house elf is...erm… a bit useless at the moment." He chuckled at Pansy's confused frown. "It seems Kreacher had a little New Year party of his own. Kitchen has about five or six Hogwarts elves, passed out on butterbeer."

Pansy laughed and raised her glass to her lips. The brandy was sweet and warm. She eyed him sitting next to her, nervously fidgeting. She knew he wanted her. She'd known he wanted her the night after the Christmas party too. She remembered how he'd flooed back to her suite with her, how he'd given her a chaste kiss goodnight, wanting more, but expecting nothing. She hadn't quite been ready then. She wasn't quite sure about him, about what it meant. But now. Now, she knew.

Setting her brandy glass down on the end table, she edged toward him. His lips parted as she drew near, and he leaned into her, their lips meeting in a heated tangle of limbs and tongues and hands touching everywhere. She gasped as his lips left hers and found her neck. His mouth made a trail of kisses down her throat, to her collar bone and she hitched up her skirt so she could straddle his hips. She felt his cock pressing hard against his jeans, and she sort of ground herself against him, just once and he let out a weak whimper. His hand snaked out from behind her back and slowly crept up the hem of her skirt, tracing the line where her knickers should be. Only she wasn't wearing any knickers.

He let out a deep groan as he realized this and his grip on her tightened.

"Hold on tight," he whispered and then she was being jerked upward as he apparted them to his bedroom.

They landed lightly at the foot of his bed and Pansy's hands got busy tugging at his clothes. His leather jacket fell to the floor, followed by his shirt, then his belt. He was more muscular than she'd thought he'd be, all sinewy and lithe biceps and abdominals and back muscles that rippled and moved under her roving hands.

She grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up, and up and up until it disappeared over her head, and she stood in front of him quite naked. He stepped back for just a moment and surveyed her body drinking it in with his eyes. The room was dimly lit, just a candle or two flickered on the dresser and she felt her skin singing under his gaze.

Then he was on her, his hands gentle yet urgent as they started at her hips then slid up until they cupped her breasts, his thumb flicking once, twice, three times over her nipple. Then he went south, his right hand sliding between her legs, lightly and gently and delicately touching her clit, just enough to make her gasp out his name and lean into him.

He pushed her gently down onto the bed, lifting her until her head rested on the pillows. He trailed his lips down her mouth to her throat, between her breasts, past her stomach until he fit his mouth directly on her cunt, taking her clit between his teeth he flicked at it expertly with his tongue. He pushed her knees apart and slipped a finger into her cunt where he curled and pulsed in an antagonizing rhythm, one that made her hands go numb and her mind go blank until all she knew was his mouth and her body and she was getting so, so close.

And then his mouth made its way back up her stomach, kissing along her rib cage as his hand cupped her breast. He took a nipple in his mouth and sucked lightly as her hands fumbled for his jeans. She tugged and pulled and was panting that she needed him inside her now and then he was, so full and so firm and he let out a deep groan that was almost a growl. He began moving back and forth, slowly at first, then faster and faster and Pansy gripped the back of his neck and guided his movements with her hips.

But she wasn't getting the friction she needed so she pushed him in the chest, rolling him over so she straddled his hips. She sat above him, his cock fully sheathed inside her as she rolled her hips, balancing on her knees. Reaching for his hand, she pressed his thumb against her clit, and taking her cue he began to circle it frantically. His other hand found her breast and he rolled a nipple in between his two fingers, tugging with just enough force to finally take her over the edge. She came with a barely contained scream and she rode him hard and fast until she felt him grip her tightly, groaning as he came with her.

She sort of collapsed on top of him, her breathing ragged and fierce and somehow still wanting more. They lay side by side for a few moments, catching their breath and relishing the satiation.

"You're amazing," Harry finally said, rolling onto his side and pulling her closer to him. His fingers trailed over her lightly, making circles on her arms and chest and breasts, her skin humming under his touch. And even though it was late, and they had both just come mere moments before, they found each other joined again.

This time it was slower, less urgent. She rolled onto her stomach and went up on all fours, guiding him into her so he could take her from behind. His hands kneaded at her and his thumb pressed and massaged into her. She rocked her hips into his, feeling his cock hitting her just right. He reached around at the last moment, his fingers finding her clit just in time for her to come all over again.

...

She woke up warm, comfortably hidden under a large white duvet, her face buried in a mound of pillows. Morning light streamed into the bedroom from the window's slightly parted curtains. She rolled over and stretched. Harry slept soundly next to her, his breathing long and deep and low.

She watched him for a few minutes still in awe of what her world had become. It was just a couple of months ago that she'd found him drunk in her courtyard moaning over wretched Ginny Weasley and accusing her of being a coward.

Now she was in his bed.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Ten-thirty. She yawned and stretched again, her limbs feeling liquid and soft and good. Rolling over she stood up and walked naked to the adjoining bathroom. Like the rest of the house, it was rehabbed with new tile and a large vanity and a steam shower, for Merlin's sake.

After taking care of her business, Pansy studied herself in the overlarge mirror. She cringed away at the way her makeup was smeared and the way her hair was sticking up in the back. Her eyes felt crusty with sleep and she could smell herself—old sweat and liquor and smoke from the night before. She left the bathroom and tip toed back out to the bedroom. Her dress had somehow been folded neatly and placed on the dresser, along with her shoes and her clutch.

Harry's house elf must have recovered, she mused as she grabbed up her things and brought them with her back to the bathroom.

The steam shower did not disappoint and Pansy emerged feeling quite refreshed. She used her wand to dry her hair and applied some light makeup so she felt more human. Then she reached into her clutch and extracted a pair of knickers, a soft bralette, a pair of black stretch pants and a long, soft jumper.

The breakfast table near the window had been filled in her absence. That house elf of Harry's really knew his stuff, Pansy thought. Harry still slept soundly, his soft snores rumbling from the bed. Pansy helped herself to a cup of hot coffee, a buttery scone and a plate of eggs. She sat there, enjoying breakfast and watching the London street below. The window had frosted over and snow was still flurrying down.

Pansy felt warm and safe tucked away at Grimmauld Place and for the first time in a very long time, she thought that maybe everything would be okay after all.

Harry roused a bit later and joined her at the breakfast table. They chatted and talked and perused the Daily Prophet and as morning turned to afternoon they fell back to sleep, a lazy new year's nap. And when the time came for Pansy to go home, Harry kissed her before she flooed away.

She hadn't been home two seconds before she heard her messenger diary chirp.

Harry Potter: What are your plans for dinner?

Epilogue

The Daily Prophet, December 25th, 2007

Harry Potter Marries Long Time Girlfriend Pansy Parkinson in Christmas Eve Wedding of the Century.

By Rita Skeeter

Notorious auror and hero of the wizarding world, Harry Potter, married long time girlfriend Pansy Parkinson last night during a beautiful Christmas Eve ceremony that had everyone raving. The bride looked stunning in an antique, goblin made wedding gown, a family inheritance from the 14th century. It had been refined to match the bride's particular sense of style with a six foot train and a floor length veil. The dress itself contained over nine million fairy pearls, each individually and voluntarily offered to the original Euphadora Parkinson in the 14th century after she single handedly saved an entire species of fairy from muggle fairy enthusiasts.

Pansy Parkinson, successful philanthropist known for her devotion to the War Orphan Fund and St Mungo's Home for Dark Arts Ailments along with the Foundation for Lycanthropy, which she co-founded with now husband Harry Potter, commented that this was "the happiest day of her life." She certainly looked happy as she walked down the aisle of St. Uther's Cathedral with a large bouquet of winter roses and a swarm of fairies following in her steed. She was preceded by chosen bridesmaids Daphne Greengrass and Hermione Granger, the bride's two most devoted friends, each looking radiant in floor length gowns of frosted blue.

Potter wore customary black dress robes, and was accompanied by his best man Ronald Weasley and godchild Teddy Lupin, a child of eight who shocked the crowd with his red and gold hair.

The reception was privately held in the bride's family home where dinner and dancing followed.

The couple now resides in their private residence, the former Black homestead on Grimmauld Place. They kindly request that in lieu of gifts to please donate to one of their many organizations listed below.

War Orphans Fund, St. Mungo's Home for Dark Arts Ailments, Welfare for Magical Creatures, the Muggle-born Rights Committee, The Severus Snape Foundation, Pureblood Allies, The Albus Dumbledore Foundation, The Granger Home for Newly Clothed House Elves, The Remus Lupin Foundation for Lycanthropy

[ginnyzero]

Completely Harmless Ch. 26

Completely Harmless An SSO SilverGlade Re-imagining Story (Or Fix it Fan Salt fic) By Ginny O.

When Lily and her friends wanted to buy horses and were directed to the Silverglade Manor and its myriad of problems, they didn’t expect to start a revolution. They were just a bunch a stable girls. Completely harmless. Right?

A/N: Things are only canon if I say they’re canon. Pre-Saving the Moorland Stables compliant for the most part. Posted in its entirety on my website. Posted in 2000 to 4000 word bits here. Rated T for Swearing Word Count 177,577

Chapter Twenty-Six Planning Rainbow Week Part One

After conferring with Linda, Lily requested a meeting with the Baroness and invited Antonia, Aaron, Anastasia, Agnetha and Judy to join too. She laid out what they knew about Dark Core and G.E.D. being in the Silverglade Area. “We all want to deal with this in the safest and most legal way possible, Baroness. We want you to know what we’ve uncovered as we uncover it,” Lily said. Then she explained about wanting to expand Rainbow Week all over South New Jorvik County and how they hoped to have everything here at the Winery, outside of the big pavilion, ready before then.

“If that’s not ready, mother, we can put up a temporary fair one until after the festival,” Anastasia suggested brightly.

“We can have a special friendship dessert,” Aaron looked pleased with the idea.

Antonia leaned back. “I don’t see why we can’t have our Grand Opening this Rainbow Festival. Maybe the Stormgarden will be ready to do the same and we can exchange tourists.”

“Rainbow sherbet,” Aaron mused, “with a heart sugar cookie.”

The Baroness smiled fondly at her son. “That sounds delicious.”

“We can tint the heart red of course,” Aaron wiggled in his seat.

“Or, well, there’s a way to freeze and layer cookie dough to make rainbows,” Stacy said. “I can find a video on J-Tube, I’m sure. There might be several different variations.”

“I think that this calls for fireworks at the castle,” The Baroness said. “We can find fireworks that fit the theme of course.”

“There are three events this summer. You don’t want to wait for Midsummer or Happy Horse Week?”

The Baroness waved a hand. “Surely we can do fireworks for every occasion.”

Lily nodded.

Linda scribbled down notes.

“Well, Jorvik Stables has a friendship race, and Firgrove is doing the Red String Trail Ride,” Lily said.

Linda cleared her throat and it sounded like she was saying ‘appropriation.’

“Moorland is hosting the festival as usual. And they invited JoJo Siwa, though I’m not sure exactly where she’s performing. Was there something special that we can do?” Lily asked. “Other than the fireworks at the Castle?”

“Hmm,” the Baroness tilted her head. “We don’t want to encroach on Jorvik Stables or the Li Family tradition that got translated into a trail ride.” Her lips twitched indicating she knew the origins of the trail.

“Yellow roses are a sign of friendship,” Linda said and pushed up her glasses.

“As are friendship bands,” Regina said. “We want everyone to go to every stable right? Why not have special charms they can get at each stable to go on their friendship bands. The more stables you visit with a friend, the more charms you get. We can use the yellow rose for ours.”

“I can add a rose decoration to the dessert,” Aaron said.

“Why not make it a craft thing in our pavilion? Like a rose on a headband or a rose wreathe?” Linda asked. “Topaz is another friendship stone. We can get topaz beads and make old fashioned headbands with them. It’s not a race or a trail ride, but put it in the middle of the Rose Garden Trail Ride, they can stop, rest, make a headband, and move on.”

“Then we definitely should hire people play in all the places we’ve got for them to be playing,” Anastasia said. “We must have music and I know several classical quartets.” A look at them told them that there was no way that the Baroness would allow a pop star like JoJo Siwa into her venues.

“I believe that will cover a ‘special’ event,” the Baroness nodded. “Judy, I think you should be the one handing out the charms.”

“Yes, Baroness,” Judy nodded. “That does make sense.”

“Then, we need to get working,” Agnetha said. “And not lazing around here. Especially if we’ve got a grand opening to make spectacular.”

Stacy stayed behind to help Aaron come up with the best cookie, yellow rose out of white chocolate, and ice cream combo looks wise while the rest went to help with the garden. Agnetha wasn’t going to hold back now!

--

The next week was extremely busy! Given that they were going to be doing their grand opening during Rainbow Week, Agnetha drove them harder than ever. She even conceded to let Bjorn go to Jorvik City and pick up the masses and masses of flowers and turf they were going to need to finish everything up properly.

Trucks arrived hauling in everything from a new Romanesque style bandstand, rustic furniture for the Wine Cellar, the lights and benches for the gardens, and even the statues that had been on order.

Why, Agnetha conceded to renting another composter and buying a gas tank to put behind her house to fill it up. That was how much debris there was and how fast they were moving to get rid of it.

Though, the new bandstand inspired Agnetha to train roses on it. Then when the sitting area for the Baroness came in, she did the exact same thing. So, the club decided that it was simply Agnetha being Agnetha. The sitting area being a curved rectangular style gazebo with nice cushioned seats in it where the Baroness could get the best afternoon light.

But by the end of the week and the next meeting, they had most of the important work done for the Moon and Folly Terrace gardens including putting out the lights and benches, and having most of the flowers planted. The Temporary Pavilion had arrived for the event and so they had a checklist for the next week, finish planting the Folly Terrace Gardens, clean up and plant around the pavilion and the Riding Arena, install a duck coop behind the Arena, and clean, install furniture, and decorate the Wine Cellar.

Through the week Lily received texts about ideas from each Riding Club about what they should do for their special events. Ingrid kept sending exclamation points and heart emojis as this revealed new artists and ideas for the Flea Market. However, Loretta had been suspiciously silent and that worried Lily.

They convened for a meeting.

Loretta laid out the pictures of everything she had.

They all stared at her. “What’s this?”

“The decorations for rainbow week,” Loretta sniffed.

Lily rubbed her forehead. “Where are the rainbows?”

Loretta pressed her lips together.

“Loretta, this is all Bobcat pink,” Kate said and crossed her arms.

“And are these arches trailing Ivy?” Pia poked at them.

“I’ve had Catherine running my club ragged trying to make the perfect Friendship cake all week and this is not going to cut it for decorations to go with the chocolate cake topped with local strawberries and blueberries and sprinkled with powdered sugar.” Amelia said.

“Or all the rainbow colored teddy bears that I’ve been busting my ass all week to get the dye for Daxton!”

Pia poked at it. “And where are the bows. I’ve got the Siwanators camped out in Fort Pinta gushing about the bows.”

“Siwanators?” Lily asked, her eyes wide. She tried not to sound too appalled.

“Super fans. They’re real names of Saffi and Selma.”

“Oh thank the dear and fluffy Lord,” Lily murmured.

“They’ve been making rainbow sequin covered bows to hand out and are insisting they need to be on the arches too.” Pia rubbed her forehead. “And, and you know, everywhere as decorations.”

“Pushy,” Lily observed. “Loretta, this isn’t going to do.”

Loretta crossed her arms. “Those are what we always use.”

“And they aren’t appropriate for a county wide celebration,” Lily’s voice turned sharp. She had beyond had it with Loretta’s attitude.

Loretta smacked her hands on the table. “You’re just a jumped up stable girl, and a foreigner at that.”

Someone, Lily wasn’t sure who since she was locked in a staring contest of wills with Loretta, made a whinnying bray.

Loretta turned deep red and broke Lily’s gaze.

Lily inhaled deeply. It was tempting to bitch the girl out. She let it out slowly. “Loretta,” she tried for as patient as possible. “Our competition needs to end outside of the eventing circuits. It doesn’t matter which Club ends up at the Claymore Challenge, it matters that the best one does. When we walk through these doors to convene as Presidents, we’re doing things for the good of the entire county. We can’t keep doing things the old way and expect it to advance the county. We aren’t trying to put one Club ahead here in the public eye, but all of them, us, in our rainbow of colors. This week is about Friendship and Love.”

Loretta scowled.

“And about coming together as Clubs,” Pia nodded.

“You’ve had a stranglehold on this area for how long?” Amelia raised her brow.

Ginny mumbled, “Too long.”

“Were you even going to buy new things?” Ingrid asked. “Or were we supposed to match you?”

Loretta chewed her lip.

Lily held up her hands. “All right, let’s each of us get on our phones and have our best party girls meet up at Fort Pinta and go to the city for decorations. We’re going to be here a while, so they might as well do that, and this way, they can forward us pictures and we can approve before any money is spent.”

The Presidents pulled out their phones and made the calls, even Loretta.

“Okay, let’s start from the top,” Lily said. “Regina suggested doing a friendship bracelet, and then making it so that every stable they go to with their friends, they get a charm when they talk to the Stable Master.”

“They can make their bracelets at the festival site in Moorland, and choose whatever order they want to go in from there,” Pauline said with a glance at Loretta. “That could count as the Moorland craft?”

“I was thinking, maybe a photo booth?”

“Like different ones, or one?”

“Different ones so they can make an album. Definitely one with Jojo Siwa at Moorland, we’ve got more Clubs than we do the colors of the rainbow but maybe the photo booths are in Club colors for simplicity sake?”

Lily texted Regina. “Photo booths or photo walls, just something they can take pictures together.”

“It should probably be something fairly simple,” Riley said.

“And something that we can just switch out some decorations for the next festival,” Another girl nodded.

“So, colored sheets?” Lily asked cynical.

“That sounds about right.”

The girls stifled giggles.

Lily’s phone buzzed. “Regina wants to know since rainbow week is about friendship if she should be getting yellow rose decorations to go with these photo walls? Not canary, she says because canary is obnoxious but more champagne?” Lily raised a brow. “And she’s asking about beads.”

“As long as it’s not too wedding like,” one girl wrinkled her nose.

“Wouldn’t that be funny if there ended up being some weddings,” another giggled.

“Well, Regina thinks that most the decorations we’re going to find are going to be wedding or wedding adjacent for the photo booth, walls, whatever,” Lily rolled her eyes and set down her phone. “Okay, Loretta, Jojo Siwa is performing at the fairgrounds, you have the parade, and that’s where the friendship bracelets are going to be.”

Loretta nodded.

Lily turned to Pia. “Pia, you have Siwanators in Fort Pinta with sequin bows.”

“Yes, and they want bunting, lots and lots of swag bunting.”

Lily picked up her phone again to text Regina.

“Isn’t there bunting on the Championships?” One of the girls asked. “We should change it out for appropriately themed rainbows.”

“This is going to be so gay pride.”

“All types of love, all types,” came the reminder.

“What else is going on,” Lily asked Pia trying to stay on topic.

“Well, the horse Linda sold James,” Pia started.

“Fussywithers?” Lily asked.

“Wait, that’s who Fussy went to?” Pauline gaped. She burst into giggles.

“Fussywithers,” Pia sniggered. “I’m not calling him anything else now, Fussywithers is giving James fits by living up to his name of being fussy and wanting everything perfect. Fussy and Mayor Peanut have bonded, so we’ve been sending James and Fussy out with Mayor Peanut to get exercise every day.”

“That’s perfect,” Ami giggled.

“And he’s seen the disrepair of some of the places and has decided that right now he’s going to take photographs himself as an awareness campaign as he searches for spots to take pictures of Token.” Pia wrinkled her nose. “All according to plan. They have a warm up run they do around Fort Pinta area, and then they go off into the unknown. Or, as unknown as James gets. He met up with Andy and just as we wanted, they’re conspiring to well, explore together, and coordinate their geocaching and Token Takes Jorvik book.”

“Now, all they have to do is meet Hayden,” Pauline said.

“Oh, I made a nudge about visiting the Mirror Marshes,” Penny smirked. “I think it is on the to-do list.”

Pia nodded. “We’re going to use a pony head for our charm on the bracelets. The Swinators are going to have their bows ready to hand out when the week starts and open a shop in the Moorland festival grounds. So, that’s not really on us. They’ll also be the turn in points for the bow hunt.”

“I think you need something more,” Lily said.

Pia bit her lip. “We have the dance club kind of sitting there being empty. I mean, you have to get to the clothing shop in through there now.”

“What did you do?” Lily widened her eyes.

Pia groaned. “Okay, so there were so many shops and carts cluttering things up. You haven’t been since?”

“Agnetha,” Pauline said and it explained everything.

“The gardener,” Lily tacked on.

Pia looked back and forth. “Ohkay,” she murmured. “Well, one of the beauty salons closed down. Not enough business, so their stylists all moved over to the one next to the dance floor with the café outside of it, Beauty on the Beach. Then next door to that, we put in a Tack shop, Mayor Peanut’s Sunshine Saddlery. And on the inside of the dance club, you can access the clothing shop, Disco Daze Fashions.”

“And that leaves you with what?”

“A clear courtyard with a fountain in the middle,” Pia said. “And a beach, but I’m not sure if the beach party guy is willing to come out early to set up a dance floor down there or not.”

“Okay, who else is there music wise in Jorvik that could play at Fort Pinta,” Lily said.

“Lisa,” one girl said.

“Missing,” Penny interrupted.

“Lisa’s missing,” another gasped.

“Okay, find Lisa,” Lily added to her list. “Um, who is Lisa?”

Penny lit up. “Lisa Peterson, she’s a country rock singer and guitar player.”

“She’s Jorvik homebrew,” Polly added. “Sort of.”

One girl made a face. “Well, there’s Raptor.”

“Oh good luck getting him out of Jorvik City.”

“The Miscreants?”

“Not really their type of venue, way too disco. They’re more rock.”

Lily drummed her fingers on the table.

“DJ Kai, I mean, she’s not huge, but she’s techno, the disco ball would be her jam and she needs the exposure,” another girl said.

“Isn’t Herman’s brother in the music business,” someone propped their chin on their hand.

“Okay, so,” Amelia made a face. “We’ve got this heavy metal style shop and a hair salon in Jarlaheim. How about we host these Miscreants there?”

Lily was digging through her contacts. She found Herman’s brother’s number and dialed it. She relayed to him what was going on since he was the one who had their contracts with Black Light Records. “If you could be any help at all, Mr. Wetton.”

Lily gave the other girl’s a thumbs up. “Lance and Lilith you say, too? And The Flaming Trio? I’m sure the Baroness wants the Silversong String Quartet for the Manor. That would be so great. Syntax is moonlighting as a DJ? I have no idea who DJ Wetfloor is. There are 12 riding clubs and 12 venues Mr. Wetton. Your people along with JoJo Siwa makes 10 performers though I’m not sure all them fit the venues. That is 10 if someone knew where Lisa was. Do you have anyone who does folk music?”

Lily rolled her eyes at the girls. “Thanks, Mr. Wetton. You’ve been beyond helpful. It’s next week. I know it’s short notice and all. I’m sure you’ll find great talent.” She shut her phone off. “He wants to hold a talent show at one of the locations to scout for new people.”

“Do any of us really have the venue for that?” Melissa sounded baffled.

“Probably not,” Ingrid grimaced.

“But we can definitely put DJ Kai down for the Fort Pinta disco,” Lily said and Pauline scratched out a note.

“Art show,” Pia said. “We can do an art show, rainbow and friendship themed.”

“All right, that covers Fort Pinta then,” Lily said. “That sounds special enough. Okay, Summer Chipmunks, you’re up.”

“Okay, Daxton is going to be doing special rainbow teddy bears. Harold is the town baker and he’s trying to come up with a treat that’s suitably rainbow to have as a special. I think he’s going to do a cardamom rainbow sugar cookie. He was muttering about freezing dough and layering and cutting it into circles for least amount of waste. I think Lance actually lives in Silverglade Village, if it’s the same Lance.”

“Are you okay then with taking them?”

“I swear,” Kate murmured. “Lilith runs Cool Cutz.”

“Maybe they’ll be southern rock and not embarrass you,” Lily smirked.

“We’ll take them,” Kate tucked hair behind her ears. “If they’re locals, I don’t want to piss them off or humiliate them by asking other people to step in. I mean, otherwise, we’re coordinating with Landon to do a rainbow sheep race. Catch the rainbow colored sheep? It’s one of his more feisty ones.”

Lily coughed. “Okay then.”

“We’ve decided on a rainbow charm with a cloud.” Kate gave Loretta a tiny glare. “I never heard your charm, Loretta?”

“Jojo Siwa’s bow,” Loretta sniffed.

“Duh,” Tan muttered.

FOR THE ACCOMPANYING IMAGES PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE MY WATERMARK AND CONTACT INFORMATION. THANK YOU. I get it. Some of you might get excited and want to see this stuff in the game, especially the clothes, tack, and pets. However, the only way I want to see this in the game is if I get paid for it. If I see it in the game and I’m not paid for it, there will be hell to pay. You think I’m salty. I’d be angry. Personally, I’m not going to send this info to SSO. If you do, leave my contact information there! Don’t give them any excuses to steal.

Now, I’ll know you haven’t read this note if you leave me comments about how ‘salty’ I am about the game and if I hate it so much I should do something else. I am doing something else. It’s called Mystic Riders MMORPG Project. Mystic Riders however is a very baby phase game. You can check out our plans on the game dev blog. (Skills, Factions, Professions, Crafting, Mini-Games, 25+ horse breeds!) If you know anyone who would be interested and has money or contacts about game making, direct them to the blog.

[theorichardspota]

Auto-portrait

All I want to do is eat. I want to turn eggs into a hill of flour slowly until they become one solid object. A ball of dough smooth and elastic as skin. In Boulder, Colorado I stirred the eggs into a pile of semolina flour on the counter of a friend’s friend’s father’s kitchen. We spent three days making the Bolognese. I had just come back from Italy and thought I knew a secret. In Italy, I was falling in love. This is important to me and embarrassing to say. I got too drunk at the dinner party to remember what the Bolognese tasted like and missed my flight in the morning. I want Rae to ferment pizza dough for three days. I want to watch Nathan stretch it into a perfect circle and slide it off cornmeal into the oven. I imagine young Nathan in his father’s pizza shop pilfering chicken fingers with the perfect breading. How can you know anyone if you don’t know how they came of age? I loved my home in South Deerfield so much I got it tattooed on my thigh. I wish I could visit that ghost of myself for dinner. They were such a good host. I want to own a farm large enough to have peacocks roaming the gardens, just to own something beautiful and lively. Everyone I’ve ever loved flew to Blacksburg, Virginia this summer, and James stole us 6 whole chickens from Kroger and cut them into 8 parts and he spent the night frying them so we could all eat after we had swam in the river. And now James might go back to jail because of a DUI but he just got his passport back 7 years after his felony charges and I am not worried about James going to jail or not coming back to Blacksburg because of parole. I am scared of him dying because he is an addict and he works in a kitchen so he started using again and my friends are all alcoholics and I am so afraid of them dying, one after another. I want James to live on my farm with Bessie and I and our two peacocks and my best friend Teagan who is dating James, what luck, what absolute luck. I am afraid of not being able to fall asleep. My mom believes it is because she would try to rock me to sleep as an infant while having panic attacks. She says it was because my father was a terrible father. I believe her. I want the kitchen from The Haunting of Bly Manor where I will carry in tomatoes, peppers, a slaughtered chicken. Teagan will help me make dinner. I want to grow my own food because I am cheap and I think it tastes better, and because I am impulsive and I never want to have to pay for it. This is also how I learned to steal. I am afraid of ghosts. I am obsessed with death. I think I can make peace with death and thus make peace with grief. It is why I cook so much meat. If I can love a rabbit well enough after death, I can let Ben be dead. Often after I cook the animal, I won’t eat it. Having the friends I have has made me obsessed with Pete Davidson and Mac Miller. I am in love with tomatoes. I worry there is not enough love in the world to satiate me. I think of myself as a cormorant. My anxiety has begun to bubble up in new horrible ways. Contamination fears, conspiratorial thinking, fear of leaving the house; I need to shake the bed sheets out every night before I get in. This week it manifested as a rash. I am carrying so much shame. I don’t get catcalled anymore. In first grade when asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said “scuba diver.” I still think that is true, but I have asthma. Instead, I take my snorkel to the New River and I chase fish around the river bed and hope I don’t see too many bones. I always see bones but I always say “that is just a deer.” I studied to be an herbalist at an apothecary. I once lived with a conspiracy theorist in southern France and dug her a pool. I spent almost a month riding horses through the Rocky Mountains. I believe grief makes clear the cyclical ever happening nature of time. I think the 4th dimension holds the secrets of ghosts. I am in love with the Greek myth of Aristaeus. I would love to tell it to you. I value play above all else. I thought I would have more tattoos by this age.

[alchemisland]

Read this story what I wrote pls, The Antiquarian and the Devil's Dog

The week we spent cleaning out Great Grandad’s house was an eventful one. More exciting at least than the days previous spent in various offices gathering the correct permissions to enter the old place. In the oldest parts of the house damp rotted the old floorboards until they warped, collapsing under their own weight leaving perilous apertures eager to swallow clumsy steppers. Agencies were reluctant to hand over the keys without first checking everyone’s insurance ad nauseum.

The old stone stairs leading to the basement, chipped from a thousand previous descents, looked liable to break if one wasn’t selective with their boot placement.  It’s funny, I thought, if you fell through one of those holes and ended up in the basement, you’d be avoiding the dangerous stairs; the lesser of two evils. Note to inform the insurance company of a possible loophole. Desperate to avoid litigation on our part, the agencies agreed that we could enter under supervision.

The world had changed since this place was last inhabited. When the door finally opened, stubborn in its frame after years of neglect, it seemed a room unstuck in time. Dust particles hung in the air and as they danced I wondered what secrets they were privy to, and whether they had been the component atoms of a larger host previously. Even her ghosts were bent and haggard with age, bones wilting in the oppressive dank. A hundred years ago the servants were so afraid of the myriad spectres said to inhabit the long halls and shadowed staircases that they had refused to enter certain rooms, but no such reports have been filed in nigh on seventy years. If those same ghosts existed now, they languished apathetically in the walls, stirring only occasionally to rattle the pipes or drag their boots. Curios and trinkets plundered at the height of Empire decorated every mantel in the house and although it went unsaid, everyone in the family was petrified of stumbling across something less than savoury.  Just to be sure we cross referenced some of the dates in our literature and found the Nazi party came a little after Bryn’s time. Spared of that anxiety we set to looking, for what we weren’t sure. Something of value, some seemingly insignificant object that might illuminate this murky character.

Bryn, God rest him, was a renaissance man in the style of the natural philosophers of his age; a doctor, an artist, a war hero, an antiquarian and amateur archaeologist all rolled into one. Of course it would be remiss not to mention his more illicit interests like bootlegging alcohol and collecting occult manuscripts, but the more sordid of the two pastimes fell by the wayside when he raised his station in society, becoming an educated and respected member of a prominent archaeological interest group. Selous’ Sweat they called themselves, in tribute to the conservationist and African big-game hunter of the same name.

Selous some of these artefacts for mad stacks, I thought with a smirk.

Everything in the house had a double coating of dust. Doing our rounds and cataloguing the cabinets of curiosities meant that doors long undisturbed were opened, both literally and figuratively. Turning the handle of one particular door, I saw it led to an upstairs sitting room on a landing between two flights of stairs, one spiralling down towards the sitting room, although there was scarcely room to sit amidst the Grecian urns and Japanese decorative plates precariously hanging from the walls, and the other up towards the darkroom on the top floor. The sitting room was strangely devoid of clutter except for an enormous table. The rounded surface was a dark mahogany, polished until shining with a protective glass covering placed on top.

I wondered why a table, even one so fine as this, was given a room to itself above the other priceless artefacts in the catalogue, which included a Han dynasty vase, the glasses worn by W.B. Yeats in his twilight years and an enormous set of ornate mirrors purchased at auction when one of the grand manors in Kilkenny was forced to liquidate all non-holdings related assets following the collapse of the family after the war. The mirrors, according to the former owner Mrs. Fitzbannion, were the pride of their manor house. Mrs. Fitzbannion hung the mirrors in the centre of the main hall, ensuring all visitors knew the extent of their wealth. The frames were carved to represent natural wonders, a pinecone here, an antler there, and each coated in burnished gold leaf. Gold had faded to brass in the intervening years, as if the mirror losing its place of prominence in its household stole the last scion of lustre from it altogether, and I wondered had the mirror ever been so ostentatious as described.

Inspecting the table, I ran my finger along the protective glass panel and found no trace of dust. Doubly curious. Bryn was an adventurer and had no shortage of vigour in his old age, but he was still not one for dusting. Attributing his longevity and stamina to a liquid concoction that he called Lightning Wine, part alcoholic cocktail, part vegetable juice with a hint of soda water. In truth I had only agreed to help with this jumped-up Spring cleaning session in the hopes of finding a vat of the naughty sauce hidden in a secret panel, which I would ferry out under my coat and imbibe later on with the lads.

I knelt on my haunches to inspect the legs of the table, wondering if they might shed light on the mystery. Clean as a whistle below too. Ivory. That was it. The legs were made of ivory. Holy shit, was this stuff even legal anymore? I heard a story in school that at one time ivory was so coveted they had to remove the tusks from museum specimens to discourage robbers, low-hanging fruit and all that. My sister volunteered in the Natural History Museum in Dublin while studying zoology and recounted wondrous tales over dinner about their storage rooms in the inner-city; numerous thylacine specimens, gigantic Irish elk antlers and wooden storage crates full of elephant tusks, corridor after corridor of specimen jars like one imagines Noah’s Ark appeared at capacity. Into the table legs were carved detailed images of warriors armed with spears facing down ferocious lions. No doubt an artwork of such fine craftsmanship was either manufactured by British labourers merely basing their work on an existing tribal peace, or worse, plundered from a deposed native royalty, like that Malaysian ruby. Something else there too, a piece of paper placed under one of the legs to balance it. I pulled the parchment out slowly, like the highest-stakes game of Jenga you can imagine and saw that it was written in blue ink. Unmistakably the spider-like scrawl of Great Grandad Bryn; prone to eccentricity and hyperbole in his cups though. I doubt any of what was written should be taken as gospel, but damned if it doesn’t make for a spooky story. The following are the excerpts from what I assume was a field diary, kept as part of his funding agreement with the local museums. They would fund his expeditions and as long as he provided colourful commentary and witticisms enough to draw a crowd. They proudly patronised his occasional dalliances into the otherworldly in the spirit of derring-do! Bryn mentions early in the text that he keeps a formal and an informal diary, the latter only for his own perusal. If what I read is his own private correspondence, then why hide it?

April 1928.

I, Martin Bryn-Kolkiln, wish to commit to paper the strange events of Friday last, April 9th 1928. For the first time in some weeks I have had time enough to sit down and gather my thoughts, my rest of late being much disturbed by strange fancies and day-time delusions. My postprandial scribblings have long been a stable of my working week and no servant dares to stir past my quarters upon noticing the glow neath the door that signals its occupancy. Lately the notepad remains devoid of ink or flourish and I strain my ears to catch the scratching of a passing servant stepping a mite too hard on the creaky floorboard, hoping to catch some snippet of gossip in the scullery that might rouse my wrist to swiftness. In less fanciful terms I have been much beset by idleness and my usual studious nature replaced by bouts of idleness and procrastination. I do not fear that you will judge me too harshly for my slovenliness though once I recount my adventure in full.

I find the drone of chatter where people have gathered too distracting to complete any serious writing, even the purchase of army-grade ear plugs have not relieved the issue, much to my chagrin after spending a pound on three pairs of the things; like wine stoppers or sink plugs made of orange and purple rubber, orange for left, purple for right. These tooth-shaped kernels wouldn’t have looked out of place in an orthodontic institute. A little avatar waving during check ups to remind the boys that oral hygiene at the front was as important as at home, especially if you urchins want little Bonnie Bouncybreasts to embrace you upon returning. I found them to be of little use, not providing the extreme level of silence and concentration I require to fully immerse.

Having only recently returned from fieldwork overseas in the Mesopotamia where I witnessed many strange and exotic sights investigating the discovery of a buried idol neath the sands of the former fertile crescent. The enormous desert sun rising over the pillars of former Hittite settlements. The clearness of the sky above the dunes, a matte-painting of stars in every hue, twinkling blues that shone blinding for a moment then disappeared. White ones and yellow ones and even a fiery red one, which my manservant Fayzad informed me was Venus. The primary goal of my journey was to investigate a buried Marduk idol, the dark god and King of the immortals in the Babylonian pantheon. The curio was found in a sepulchre hidden beneath the site of an existing mosque destroyed by shelling in 1917. Of course this provided ample fuel for speculation about templar treasure and a host of other religious conspiracies but the effigy was a strange artefact to be sure.

I visited other sites of historical interest while in that neck of the woods; a Chaldean astrological site situated in a hollow nested between two steep bluffs of yellow rock, deep in the valley of a dried river basin. I also surveyed a site for a possible future expedition where my colleagues speculate a Phoenician horde may be entombed neath the sand. My preliminary assessment of the site found it in some disrepair so I should not think to patronise such a dig.

The journey from the train station in London towards Matfield in Kent where I am currently dwelling is punctuated with occasional wondrous natural vignettes in the form of wild horses cresting grassy knolls ‘gainst the backdrop of God’s own country, white blossoms on trees, ranks of saplings, small now but they would grow enormous when the vernal bloom came. It seemed almost a shame to ignore the vistas to my left, given how I had pined for them while away. In the trenches I saw men commit countless words to paper trying to capture the essence of what made a simple thing beautiful, and for many this was how they prevented hollowing. Not a literal hollowing, like the way the flesh gives way to pockets of nothingness when carved by machine gun bullets; hollow like the head of a broken doll. Hollow like the hull of a ghost ship.

I attempted to conduct my preliminary report of sites I’d visited but through my rubber stoppers I could make out the voice of an inebriated Scot over the usual din. To make matters worse another veteran was seated in the opposite carriage, alone. The poor creature must have been exposed to gas in some forgotten melee, of which he was perhaps the surviving witness. Across the British Isles there was a thousand such sad scenes. Beneath the sea and in dank caves where no sunlight can penetrate things can still grow, only in exciting new varieties to accommodate unfavourable conditions - glassy fish with transparent scales living near the mouths of sulphur craters learned to take sustenance from the black clouds, and so it was with the war too. Boys went away and still grew to manhood despite the regular trials and tribulations that mark this winding path from adolescence, but the end product was of an altogether different beat.

Pineapple gas by the sound of his consistent hacking cough, and each time he did so it knelled the end of my creative spells, but I bore no ill-will. I had been privy to some sadness in my time. Even now in my deepest sleeps I bolt upright, clammy, imagining that I have faltered a moment more and disappeared into that ochre venom.

I saw a boy killed once. Fourteen years old. His name was Charlie but everyone called him Twig, all limbs and tussled curls beneath his cap. He lied to the recruiting sergeants, charming them with his memorised rhetoric. One of Kitchener’s own Praetorian. The boy came down from Doncaster at the beginning of Kitchener’s volunteer push, part of a pals brigade with men from the local foundries. This motley crew called themselves the Flint Walrus in tribute to Treasure Island. Twig caught a sniper bullet to the head laying wire in a thicket outside Nare.

Upon returning I informed colleagues and close friends of my intent to convalesce, retiring to my chambers in solitude for a fortnight to document my trip, both for official record and in a more personal tone for my memoirs. It came as a reluctant surprise then when a letter arrived, delivered by hand, requesting my urgent presence at the servants graveyard on the grounds of the Powers Estate. The letter spoke of a strange discovery when work for a proposed pleasure garden began requiring the removal of several headstones. The author of the note, which was neither signed nor written in a hand I recognised, went on to state that he or she supposed that their discovery would be pertinent to my historical interest.

This mysterious invitation stoked the embers of my imagination ablaze. I was suddenly keen to reevaluate my proposed ‘mental wellbeing day’, instead thinking perhaps I took those days on the insistence of my wife, nothing more.

I set off that same balmy spring evening, taking only a light jacket and houndstooth peak cap by way of protection; no rain had been forecast. The rest of the note had described the process of the dig, which had already concluded so I would not require my field tools. The closing statement ran shivers of terror through my body. The scribe, although an amateur, was firm in his words and confident in his assessment that they had uninterred the skeleton of an enormous hellhound, three times larger that the most gargantuan canine of Siberia.

My mind was on fire with vivid images of shadowy hyenas howling, pooling stinking saliva in the sharp corners of its mouth. I wondered might their excavation have uncovered Black Shuck or some descendent; an enormous dog or wolf-like creature that stalked the leafy abbeys and quiet lanes of Suffolk in the early 15th century. The dog stood a keen seven feet in length, allowing for an inch either end, and weighed 200 pounds, around the average weight of a heavyweight pugilist. So bulky was the creature that the thudding sound of its footfalls would rouse the people from their sleep and into a panic. There are records in the abbey’s archive there that describe one such incident, another visit from the Black Shuck. He came in the night, a terrible formless thing, moving unseen like mist. The panicked citizenry had heard that same familiar padding and the warning bell had been sounded. An early-warning system was present in most larger townships since the Viking raids, sending the denizens of the town spilling towards the abbey. Room was made for all people to seek shelter in the house of God. The assembled clergymen did their best to bolt the door by placing large timbers across it in a x pattern but it took no time at all for the enormous beast to barge through, a hulking mass of muscle, rippled and bulging as if cast in alabaster. The archives do not mention how the beast was slain. The last word on the matter is not even a word but a sketch of a boulder by one Father Nestin Goodfaythe, showing where the beast is supposedly interred on hallowed ground, underneath a weeping willow near the west wall of the piper’s rest, a section of the cemetery reserved for the church musicians.

As a boy Eileen the wet nurse, a dumpy and severe custodian from Blessington in County Wicklow, would enthrall and horrify my brothers and I with stories of the dog-headed men who inhabited the mist prone Northern slopes and secluded islands of the south pacific. I recall one particularly horrifying tale concerning one such legion of canine-men living in the hills during Arthur’s reign; they would bound down from the treeline and attack the neighbouring townlands and holdfasts, snapping up ewes and even small children in their fierce jaws, wet with gleaming viscera. The men, if that, had the head of a canine - green eyes, a wet black snout like a button extending out from their face, small ears that curved inward like a pitbull. Arthur had dispatched a troupe of his finest knights after numerous reports that the raids had increased in frequency as the vernal equinox approached. I think it was Sir Galahad, noted for his bravery, dilligence and cunning with a blade, that beheaded the leader of the tribe. Galahad had positioned his knights on a bluff overlooking a mill, ensuring that animals had been left to pasture in a paddock purposefully left ajar. Although shaped like stocky men, the dog-headed tribe had neither the cunning nor craft necessary to defeat the combined brain-trust of the round table. When the dog-headed men ran from the treeline toward the open paddock and the helpless ewes within, Galahad and his knights perched above pushed a collection of large boulders over the lip of the bluff. The sun shone on their glistening silver plate mail and in that moment it seemed a second sun had risen.These sunlight sentinels stood from their subterfuge to watch the falling rocks, admiring a cunning plan brought to fruition. The dog-men driven by baser desires could scarcely crane their heads from the meal in front and must have only heard the smaller pebbles loosed by the rumbling reaching the foot of the mountain before it was too late. The largest of the ten boulders thrown was perfectly round like the head of a morning star, one half granite with the other hemisphere coated in moss and twinkling mika. If the folklore had any inkling of truth after so many successive generations of embellishments this boulder was the last remnant of a statue that had stood a thousand years ago, raised by the giants who ruled Albion then. The statue depicted one of their kings, bearded and stern on a carved throne, sceptre in his left hand, the right raised up as if swearing testimony. Who knows though, sources from the time mention neither the melee nor the antiquity. Giants are often added to existing historical accounts or fables to scare children from the left-hand path. A sketch from the time does exist though, which may point to the truth at the centre of the legend. Drawn by eminent medieval antiquarian Father Lamhsa O’Dhuiningh of Tipperary during his trip to the four corners of Eireann documenting mesolithic sites and areas of sufficient proximity to resources that might serve as a site for future plantations, the pencil drawing shows a hill leading down to a mill, and just barely peeping at the top the picture the rounded granite head of a statue can be seen just above the tips of the highest trees. Whether this confirms that men of enormous stature ruled here once or that men who are already decided on a notion can rarely be swayed and will almost always reach for the most circumstantial of evidence rather than admitting fault. There’s also a brief mention of these giants allying with an ancient Saxon King in the Mabinogion, a compendium of myths rooted in historical fact compiled in the 13th and 14th century. The two sides, once bitter rivals, put aside their differences to drain a large area of swampland where the brackish waters and greenish miasma that hung over the water like a cloud caused disease to humans, giants and their livestock. Perhaps these giants had hounds of equal size in this area millenia ago?

I cycled to the train station within half an hour and caught an evening train toward the site. Upon detramming it was only a short stroll past the hamlet to the foreboding stone fortress that was the Powers Estate. I am not shy to hard work but let me say this on the matter; I’d wager Isidore of Seville, eminent though he was in his then budding field of zoology, did not have his plans to relax scuppered at every turn. He probably shut his bestiary with a dull thud, removed his working sandals and held his feet aloft to rest, stating ‘Come Jackalope or Jackdaw Prince I’ll not stir from this velvet cocoon ‘til rested!’ I promised myself that if the invitation hadn’t arrived by letter I would have refused a man face-to-face, but lies to oneself are lies to God also and I whispered my apology into the inky night sky. The sky was flecked with silver dots like an enormous glowing wisp out of space had poked a hole in the fabric of our world, allowing a sliver of otherworldly pearlescence to shine through.

There was an ominous gathering of clouds just above the rounded domes of the main compound. There were smaller follys, fountains and hound master's lodgings on the grounds too but they paled in comparison to the oppressive majesty of the Grand Lodge. The design was an eclectic mix of Eastern and Western classical art styles, rounded arches and marble pillars dappled with grey and obsidian, gargoyles with contorted faces and forked tongues lolling out of their pursed half mouths and other misshapen oddities perched on the buttresses. French tapestries and Roman marbles on every landing, enormous paintings of the glorious hunt in gilded frames on every inch of spare wall, Pictish stones looted from the Scottish soil decorated the fish pond, inscribed with mysterious runes that no doubt held some arcane and eldritch knowledge.

Casement Power, younger brother of the late Lord Richard, inherited no property or bonds but was allowed an extremely modest annual allowance. He spent his days hunting but no hound could satiate his warrior spirit. He travelled to furthest Africa shooting the largest game. It was there he spoke with cannibal tribes and saw serpents of enormous size unfurl endlessly and slither away into the brown water. The tribes in the swamps of Zaire spoke of a living dinosaur inhabiting the marshes where the vegetation was dense and the jungle heat so volatile that no man could settle. He also had collected many curios and tribal artworks on his expeditions. The remnants of his conquests nailed to the walls as trophies; skulls of every size, strange tusked things, toothless sharks, an Ibex skull with three horns. Enormous mammoth tusks from Siberia carved with runes framed all the double doors, and crossed spears above every mirror.

The pride of the collection was a piece co-owned by the brothers; one of the Elgin Marbles. An incredible bust of a centaur in glorious pose, bow poised to fire, enormously muscled but not so as to be grotesque. The centaur did not appear a wild thing, and had a looked of melancholy wisdom about his furrowed brow.

Somewhere in the house, although I cannot recall where, the skeleton of the beast that hunted the denizens of Gevaudan. I do know for a fact that this grizzly exhibit does exist as it is listed on the manifesto of items in the portion of Stately Homes of England dedicated to the Powers plot. I cannot verify as to the validity of the article but I'd vouch that many a French peasant eats well selling a hundred such cryptozoological items. I shudder to think of the smallfolk who suffered under the beasts reign of terror. The beast was cunning and successfully avoided waves of eager bounty hunters looking to claim the sizeable reward. It would never attack a group as it is in nature. The ewe that strays from the flock makes light work for wolves and worse. Servant girls would be found dismembered and grossly mutilated only moments after leaving the security of the settlement. The flesh was not always consumed either. The beast was not hunting out necessity and instead fulfilling some sick perversion. Poisoned and drunk on the blood humankind. Could the hell hound I am to examine be a relation of this come to England, or worse, brought?

I have heard tales from reputable sources of large cats loose on the moors. Some escaped from circuses and private menageries, others former pets released by their owners after quadrupling in size. Perhaps these amateurs had merely uncovered the remains of an exotic pet. The grounds were no stranger to beasts from the dark continent; crimson parrots in enormous metal cages, striped fish that glowed when the moonlight fell on the pond, peacocks from India striding the grounds magnificently, ducks from Canada. Would it be completely out of question for a jungle cat to have made this castle its home? I think not.

On his extensive travels around China and Africa studying prehistoric art Richard Power collected priceless artworks and looted great tombs of their treasures years before the arrival of most Western antiquarians. His current horde included petroglyphs, gilded sarcophagi and even a mummified cat from a Witch's Bazaar outside Khartoum. If Richard Powers was alive today he would sit coiled atop his twinkling dubloons with plumes of smoke trailing from either nostril, content to wait for judgement day in the cavernous treasury rumoured to exist beneath the house. Now this ‘conspiracy’ is slightly more believable than the tales of vampirism and prostitutes found frozen, their last moments of panic etched on their disgusted countenance, bodies drained entirely of blood. That’s Maine Wood’s Bosch if you ask me, but a treasury filled with Egyptian secrets… That is more intriguing. An underground river flows out beneath the walls of the house into the Mighty Sa-hen-esh river, perpetually vomiting galloping white horses to dash against the rocks. One can easily imagine a boat snaking the bends by night, illuminated by a single lantern, a chest full of smuggled artefacts in tow. Now that I've written this all out, I see that this could also serve a convenient way to covertly bring a big cat into the grounds, all without alerting the law.

The East Wing of the house consisted of one long corridor lined with equally-spaced doors on either side in alternating colours. The pattern was blue left, red right, green left, gold right and so on for several meters. Suits of old plate mail were nailed to plinths in the spaces between each entrance, some with their visors up, revealing the shadowy nothingness within, their arms tight to the torso and bent at the elbow clutching tight on their halberds. Others had their visors down holding their shields near their torso with swords sheathed. Their heraldic crests were emblazoned there in majestic golds and silvers, with gold-leaf tassels dangling from the sides.

According to the rumours all of the suits with closed visors contained embalmed corpses; some of them acting as metalurgic mausoleums for deceased heirs. and others containing corpses looted from the Valley of Kings pre-Napoleonic rediscovery, and the only way to tell heir from ancient was by examining the crests. Some of which were said to be false artworks created specifically to be understood by members of a secret order, like Templars or Rosicrucians, only confined to worship of Ancient Egyptian deities. I don’t know whether any credence should be paid to the rumours but I can say with some authority that Rich Powers did have a penchant for symbolism and numerology. If there ever was some eccentric left in the Arab Sun too long, present company excluded, who would commission these wonderful artworks for such a convoluted purpose, it was him. The late custodian of the Baronage passed some seventy years ago but rumours of his interest in the occult abound still.

Many of the great houses had fallen to destitution in recent years as their custodians gathered dust on gilded thrones, having sent the best of their heirs to serve in France among the officer classes. Although the bulk of the BEF was made up of working class men, miners and teachers, the aristocratic classes were decimated. Such was the way of war. These men playing chess with the lives of the small folk would, to fulfill their end of whatever faustian pact could've caused such a prolonged and terrible slaughter, had to give up their own sons. Of course not all these elderly Lords were callous in sending their offspring to foreign soil, perchance to die. Many wrote letters to school chums and former colleagues now occupying lofty administrative positions requesting exclusion for their boys in exchange for kind press or monetary reward. All such offers were of course denied. What kind of message would that send to the powerful gentry of the country, who held much sway with the royals, that some men's sons may live and others still must away to Hades? I fear the recruiting offices would have been empty by that very evening and the recruiting sergeants left in a right awkward position, and forced to become creative with the methods their jingoistic crusade employed. Powers had lost three sons in the war, two at Mons during the terrible combat there, and another at Ypres. The angels had not seen fit to protect them. That dread sound of motorcycle tyres scraping on pebbles as it stirs to a halt, the clicking of medals on a uniform breast as the messenger spans the drive, the measured footfalls of a military gait approaching the door, closer now and the parent white-faced behind knowing what dread news awaits.

Again canines find a way to embroil themselves. Many parents report seeing ominous black dogs in the morning mist in the days and hours before the bad news arrives from overseas, and the black dog is a symbol of significance in the practice of reading tea-leaves, rather a Victorian fancy but it has its practitioners and defenders still. I believe Siegfried Sassoon’s mother employed the help of a medium in an attempt to communicate with her deceased son - the poor creature.

Folklore and farmyard chatter aside; the Powers had deep roots here. A Powers had lived on this land since at least 1640. Who knew what secrets those whispering old stones might yield to those inclined to hear.

Fortunately the Lord has a nephew, strong, sensible and of age. Lord Nigel Power, Earl of Sookford and 3rd Baron of Westian, current custodian of the Powers Estate was not an unkind man, scholarly and stoic like the Greek philosophers he admired and quoted in his cups, but always keen to share a nod and chat in passing. Not to give the impression that we are acquainted for I hardly know the man but to don my hat in passing, occasionally passing comment if the weather be fine or noteworthily tempestuous. Word around the fountain says that Lord Power intends to put his vast knowledge of the classical world to use in his retirement, wherein he hopes to compile in seven volumes a history of the Peloponnesian Wars in the Bronze Age Aegean Sea.

His deceased Uncle wished for the construction of a Pleasure Garden in his honour, following the sale of his assets. His advanced age will account for why they are currently constructing a most Victorian folly.

I wonder did Richard glean any smidge of happiness or any notion of the arcane knowledge he sought from his archives in the long evening of his life, waiting to meet his sons and commend their bravery in heaven. Perhaps it's true what is said about a man who lives to bury his children; he dies two deaths; the first when everything he was before fragments and scatters to dust and the second when he truly expires, a husk eagerly awaiting the trot of Mort’s destrier - foul Black knytmare!

You see even now as I write with shaking hand that my mind is infected - I am leaning toward gothic fancy! I hope this will give you an inkling then into my apprehension, for although I remain a skeptical-leaning agnostic with regard to the otherworldly, the ominous setting and eerie descriptions in the letter had transported me to an irrational world.

Already I was noting my own apprehension, every step measured, holding my breath unless absolutely necessary. The wintry grass crunched beneath my boots and I stood hypnotised almost, craning to see the lip of the battlements on the outer wall. A fortress fit for a martial family. Arrows, oil and boulders would have rained down from on high decimating the invaders attempting to mount their ladders. Flaming arrows igniting the siege towers forcing men to jump from a great height into the throng of spears and pikes below, often dashed on the points. A mighty gust suddenly swept past me violently, lifting my jacket tails and it carried a faint sound of distant battle, a prolonged scream, a snippet of intense roaring fire and the thwack of archers in tandem. I shivered and begged the spirits leave me and confine their unrest to the isolated places of the world.

Grim faeries nestled in the thickets of wildflowers, I imagined their spritely ceilidh neath the spotted mushroom caps, leaping from one swaying grass stalk to another, their intricate but infinitesimally small fiddles nestled in the crook of their necks. Foul puka in the form of red-eyed goats mocked me from behind boundary fences. My own breath steaming from my lips in plumes despite the warmth, as the dark fog that escaped the nostrils of Jörmungandr, his scaled belly pregnant with angry fire.

The last light faded as I approached the enormous wrought iron gates of the grounds, the rails jagged black spears rising from the capstones, decorated in the middle with a black bas relief.

I pushed open the gate and it dragged on its hinges, howling while it swung. The dread chorus was so shrill and how long it lasted - I almost had to place my fingers into my ears for relief! This fright rather knocked my senses. I stirred for a moment to gather myself. Every loose stone, dancing leaf and singing spring breeze now whispered portents. I shook my head and ignored whatever gnostic Delphian beckoned. If the third eye existed, and scientific fiction magazines wrote that it could be opened by stimulating the pineal gland with a kind of resonant electric current, mine was opened naturally then. I accepted the languid way the gate swung as a sign of reluctance to permit my entry. These old places did not lightly relinquish their secrets and it was well possible that some unseen malevolent force did not want me there that night. What happened next only exacerbated my fears.

I immediately made a sharp right turn upon entering the compound, moving from the long and winding gravel drive lined with golden cedars at every turn and down a snaking path trodden through the grass and mud, towards a glow some distance away that I assumed was the site. I scrambled through the darkness with my forearm raised to shield my eyes from sharp branches. I feared what I might see lurking in the shadows. My assumption was correct and I emerged from the copse at the servants graveyard.

The site had been cordoned off with rope and torches placed in the ground illuminating the site for my investigation. A small crowd gathered, huddled together for warmth near one of the beacons. A man turned, evidently the one who penned the letter and waved for me. There were fifteen or more grave markers in the small fenced square. Grass grew grey and sickly there. Scions of jagged rock tore through the topsoil giving the impression of a golem just beneath the firmament. This field must have been the only spot of that land that didn't get a healthy blossom, small surprise it was designated such a dark purpose. The owner had little use for land that didn't yield coin.

A terrible scream rang out. The banshee’s wail, the chorus of seven trumpets that toll for the opening of the seventh seal, the Howling of the Djinn! Hark! The dread screech of a terrible wyrm, phasing through realities in permanent agony.

A bright spark glowed brightly in the sky above the open grave and my eyes unaccustomed to the light shut tightly. I winced and turned then a strange thing occurred; I found myself back in the thicket where the branches like fingers had caressed me only a moment before, the light of the site up ahead in the distance. What vile trickery was this? I stared at my hands, barely able to discern their shape in the darkness. I raised them and cupped my face into my palms, needing to massage my crown and feel the bone and blood underneath, something tangible now that I was untethered from the real. I needed to be positive this was not a dream but it was so cold, so bitterly cold. A shivering frozen knife tracing down my spine. Was it possible to feel cold while not conscious? I did not think so, but then tis not possible to teleport or time travel or jump enormous distances like Spring Heeled Jack. I began to feel nauseous and keeled over holding my stomach, dry retching onto the damp grass.

The beacons in the distance began igniting and extinguishing in sequence, strobing and contorting casting long shadows and I fell to my knees with my head tucked to my chest, as a hedgehog in peril. The beacons all doused simultaneously and the wet grass underneath my head changed to something harder and slick, with many sharp points digging into my cheek. I dared a peek lifting one eyelid a fraction and found myself again outside the gates of the grounds. The dark contours of the bas relief were ominous now, the bulbous shapes of the carved images made my skin crawl. Small hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention causing itchiness around my collar. I pushed to my feet and brushed the rocks embedded in my palms off on the thighs of my trousers.

Yes, the beings that had at first seemed Grecian effigies of perfect men hunting now altered in the pale moonlight, one idle moonbeam shining directly on the relief as if a spotlight was held fast by an unseen cherub, perched on a cloud occasionally stirring from peaceful sleep to illuminate some slither of mystery. These hulking icons, although lacking perspective, seemed an altogether forbidden sight. I recoiled in horror but dared myself to investigate further.

Practically holding my eyes open I stooped closer, focusing on one particular figure. Let me first describe the image as a whole; a pitiful scene. By compare I can only cite passages from Revelations, and even they do not convey the full horror I beheld. Lacking the vocabulary to describe the ‘otherness’ of its shape Revelations must serve as an imaginative stimulus; the beings on the relief were contorted demons. Most had bodies and genitals like men but coated every inch with coarse black hair, spiny and spidery. Their eyes enormous round things like that of a fish, but where a fish emits vacancy and the black of their eyes reflects rather than radiates, these implied great wisdom. Enormous eyes omnipresent to witness all events in all of time, as Mathesula. I shudder to think. Where their mouths should have been was instead an enormous pair of jaws like that of the snapping crocodiles encountered in Egypt, a menace I am reluctantly familiar with, having seen men dragged underneath the murky water while bathing or labouring near the shore erupting in fountains of blood, never to surface.

The figure I was hypnotically drawn to inspecting had an enormous stinging tail protruding from the end of his tailbone, hanging low off the ground before looping up into the sky, the stinger slick with dripping venom poised at the shoulder to strike. He was the only one among his number armed with such a ferocious pestilent whip, which was clad in hard black plate no sword would dent, distinguishing him as a leader of sorts; if any rank exists  within an anarchy of grotesques. Even as a fantasy this folly is something gratuitous altogether. The metal seemed slick, oozing oil even though no rain fell there that night and no hint of varnish in the air. Perhaps twas merely the combination of moonlight trickery and the all night reading sessions of yesteryear where I filled my mind with all manner of sidhes, dobhar chus and mushrooms out of space. The relief was a ballroom fancy and no more, a remnant of the freakshow era leftover, like how some houses still have their cabinets of curios. I was merely painting character to it instinctively, already having intimate knowledge of folklore and the structure of ancient myths. I must admit there have been times when I have been disposed towards the extraordinary and like to imagine a whole world of strangeness lies behind the fabric of our preconceptions but this is a private indulgence and I have not, to my own knowledge, allowed it to interfere with my work.

I pushed open the gate as a matter of promptness and again it swung slowly and screeched, reeeeeeeeeeeeeeee - like a vixens wail. Events were playing out exactly as they had only moments ago except now when I entered the dig site was on my left side, and much closer than before. I was  sure I had turned right last time. Did the last time really happen? A trick of my own mind or by something darker. Some benevolent being drawn to mischief by boredom interfering with the lives of mortals. Perhaps twas some fancy I took outside, a moon dream. Lord knows I had heard enough tales of inebriated farmers trapped roaming around small paddocks for days unable to find an exit, while the faeries peered through the barbs of the hawthorn in hysterics. While we are in the realm of loons perhaps it was an angel giving me a vision of what is coming. Warding me away from the toothed darkness in the damp hole.

To steady my nerves I decided to voice the inner skeptic aloud. I spoke into night about how the gases and wisps in marshes were spirits to feudal farmers before wise men came and dispelled their ignorance with the torch of logic. Perhaps all I was experiencing now was merely some as of yet unexplained phenomena. An unseen chemical in the air released by the digging causing hallucinations, or a fever perhaps? I had been travelling recently. Any excuse that steered my mind from the abject terror I was exercising in the face of the unknown I was eager to embrace.

I proceeded to the site but there was no sliding mud to prevent my passage now; the thicket of thorns where I had stooped and seen the braziers in the distance nowhere to be found. If only I heeded my wife's warnings, ponderous fool.

There was still time to turn and head for home. The trains would not run again until morning so I might safely walk the tracks and upon reaching the station, fetch my bike and cycle the remainder of the journey. If I depart and keep a keen pace I would be abed before three. A course of Teddy Roosevelt’s ‘strenuous life’ to get the lungs singing and forget this whole mad venture. Whether the men disturbed the rest of a hellhound or just the bones of a dead doe, expanded over generations by the freezing and thawing of the soil, could just be left as exactly that, a question to ponder on Samhain, to tell over a crackling flame and scare the boy scouts.

How unprecedented that a man as stubborn as I would talk myself out of a venture that promised much mystery. Not to blow one's own trumpet but I am also not a man of soft disposition. I have no fear of death, I saw my share of it in the conflicts. When a man lives in the shadow of the reaper for so long a strange kinship is formed, and I enjoyed that shade as one would enjoy the shadow of an apple tree in the midday sun. I inhabited the abyss before, if only for a time. I knew fear that night. Some primordial doubt froze me where I stood, sending shockwaves through my body rousing every nerve and impulse I had screaming retreat, retreat! I willed my legs forward, take another few steps and you'll feel better, but I could not budge one inch. I must have looked a forlorn statue. A fitting garden ornament for such a strange place, amongst the cherubs and marble harpies.

I stood, taking stock of my surroundings. A very faint dust was visible in the air, a golden haze like spores or sparks from a foundry taken flight. This mist shifted in the air constantly reforming, though I felt no breeze. Whether the miasma was a result of  occult activity or a sign from a benign celestial to warm me of impending spiritual disaster I do not know. I did know to follow my gut instincts. Whenever my gut rumbled and my rhythm changed unknowingly danger was never far. In the war I had honed this instinct. A sixth sense for spotting hidden mines and unexploded Mill’s bombs led my lads through cracked lunar landscapes shelled chalk white.

Turning, I sped out the gate, avoiding its siren song having left it ajar when I entered. I kept a blistering pace and soon the lane melted away behind me, my feet scarcely scraping the ground. Gravel gave way to wet grass and then the tracks opened up before me. An enormous corridor of steel teeth slicing the meadow in two. Due to the negligence of the maintenance crew the wild grasses growing trackside grew enormous. They lined the entire route casting ominous shadows and obscuring any assailants that might attack from the side. I slowed briefly ensuring my stride matched the distance between planks so as not to trip.

After a time I heard behind me the definite sound of paws plodding rhythmically. Four distinct footfalls increasing pace to match my own. I suddenly sprinted forward with such intensity that I near lost my balance but I pushed my arms out sideways and flapped like a terrorised bird and steadied. Paws clacked on the timbers of the track and something emitted a low and deep growl. I ran then, as fast as my legs would take me. Beads of sweat rolled down my forehead, past my eyes which I had shut most tightly and onto my lip. Tissues, coins and scraps of paper fell from my pockets but I continued propelled by some primal strength. It is natural for the hunters brain to seize control when the invisible eyes on the back of one's neck feel the predator's stare. The gnashing darkness felt an oppressive presence. In that moment I was sure no fevre dream had taken hold. What gave chase was a tangible evil, slipped through the curtains into our reality, or perhaps pulled. Mayhaps some naive servant read the words aloud from one of the many Egyptian execration texts dotted around the house in glass cabinets and dredged a being from another world. Even at that distance the fetid smell of rotten meat on its breath caused my nose to wrinkle.

I could feel intense heat too along my shoulder blades and beneath my collar. At first I thought twas the humid panting typical of a sprinting canine but it got warmer and warmer as the footfalls increased their pace until it was near unbearable. I reached my hand to my collar, placing the backside of my fingers, now substantially cooled from running in the wind, flat to my neck. This heat was surely the licking tongues of infernal Hades. I did not turn and I did not delay, keeping my pace well beyond my natural exhaustion threshold. The swiftness of the stag when the wolf is near. The swiftness of the salmon in the shadow of the bear.

I imagined behind me an enormous fissure in the rows of planks. Spindled fingers tipped with curled nails grabbing at my tails, skin red like a flayed man. Eyes of every size with no other human form attached. Green pupils slit like cats. Enormous black ones like an ink filled bubble swirled apocalyptic chaos beneath the gelatinous covering. If this rift rent the land as I imagined then this hound must be Cerberus - oh three headed guardian of Hades, who bid you give chase, I am not yet bound for your kingdom!

The beast thundered along behind me, faster now, growling and snapping its enormous rows of teeth, sharp as daggers and serrated for tearing strips of flesh from bone. Was I to be Dante?

At times the thing was so close I could feel drops of reeking saliva raining down where the beasts tongue had whipped at the empty space I occupied not a moment earlier. In truth I cannot recollect much further than this, I was gripped by an adrenal berserk and time held no meaning, new memories ceased forming, all non-critical faculties switched off. After an eternity I emerged into the light of the train station and dared to slow for the first time. It seemed the chase had not been so rabid these last moments. The spell which coated those bones in living flesh expired now that morning sun threatened her light.

The horizon was now red as iron ore. I turned gasping but no snapping cerberus or terrible extinct mastiff, like those the Romans had employed in Carthage, waited there. Just a dizzying corridor of shifting darkness stretching to infinity. No idle moon beam pierced the veil of night. In my relief I spared a laugh, noting aloud that this was likely a record time for this particular journey, surpassing even the no-stop trains that carried resources to the Hebrides and further overnight.

In spite of all that had happened I had to question then and there if a creature had ferociously pursued me at all or whether some friendly dog had trotted alongside me for a time, or whether my own footfalls speeding up subconsciously sent me into a panic. I was unsure. Should I be terrified, relieved, embarrassed or a combination of the three?

Next came the darkest revelation of all. I sat  and dangling my legs over the lip of the train platform lit a cigarette. I inhaled deeply and held the breath, allowing the smoke to absorb my woes before exhaling. A draft on my back sent me shivering. No, more than a breeze, a sharp pain now. I dropped my cigarette onto the tracks and reached back, gingerly pawing with my index finger, if the phrasing can be pardoned. I recoiled in agony, even now my back throbs and smells fetid when the bandage is not changed and let steam under a basin of boiled water. Three enormous slashes, rifts of gnarled flesh raked across my skin. Dark pus oozes from the wound and I have worn a corset of gauze this last week. A paroxysm of pain sent me to spasming and I could take no more, fainting into a heap there on the platform.

I suppose it was near enough to morning then and some commuter or station man took notice and fetched a doctor, but in truth I have no memory of this. The doctors have informed me that it will be some time before my wound heals and it should require much observation to prevent tetanus. Yes, you read that right. Tetanus. The lacerations were proved to have been made by a dog using the latest scientific tests. The doctors, veterinarians and trappers consulted have so far been completely baffled by the breadth and width of the scrapes, reckoning a creature capable of such assaults to a man grown should require enormous size and strength, and belonged to no creature native to this country.

With this nightmare put to page I hope the oily tendrils of it are scraped from my mind. I must retire to chambers and steam the wound again, left overnight the sickly sweet smell of the warped and bubbled flesh becomes unbearable. The doctors and I hope I will be free to return to work by June. In the meantime I will stay active with my research and dispel any thoughts too fantastical. My spirit is largely shaken and I have not felt an anxiety like it since the weeks at the front. I cannot complain, having most of my wealth and still a sliver of health but Damn! Curse! Blast how I loathe sleeping on my front! How anyone finds solace in this pose is beyond me, I feel like a lizard basking on hot stones.

I leave you now to ponder what I saw that night, and I will do the same. Perhaps another time it will be revealed to me, in a dream or a whisper of the babbling brook, what is the given name of the darkness I encountered. Or suppose you think maybe the stories of jungle cats loose on the moors hold more than a nugget of truth; a jaguar or cheetah gave chase, stirring from its home in the neglected grasses along the tracks? Perhaps. I do not like to speculate. I leave you then and as stated at the beginning of my recant, I hope you will not judge my case too harshly, noting that I am not a man of ill repute or third-rate education. I am a simple antiquarian bottling the dust of the lost things. The truth is an amnesiacs labyrinth.

April 20th, M Bryn-Kolkiln

Michael Dempsey, April 2018

[theinvisiblespoon]

Front of a Building - Chapter 2: Shiver, but Shiver With a Friend

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Hello again! I finished chapter 2, so now I guess you can expect a chapter 2.

Chapter title is from Dodie's Party Tattoos. It’s cool. She’s cool. 

Once again, thank you to @pleaseletthisjimbetaken @ironwoman359 @splatoon-jim @nammies @incorrect-ego-quotes @forgottenbehindtheinternet @nikkyshows @slim-jims and @jiiiimmmm-with-dyed-hair for being my inspiration.

It was surprisingly difficult to make this, which I guess I owe to the fact of more than the three characters that were in chapter 1 last time. This one gives off a bit more foreshadowing, and soon I’ll start dropping hints like crazy, though I have been dropping some already. Have fun reading! Should I make a tag list? I feel like I should make a tag list. Ask me if you want to be on my tag list. Tag list.

Word count: 1230

The kitchen on the second floor smelled like cookies, filling the room from the chestnut cabinets, to the granite countertops, and to the dark and scarred kitchen table, on its literal last legs.

The Egos rarely had a meal altogether, as each Ego had rather scattered schedules during the day. Some Egos (namely, Dark) rarely ever came down from their rooms, except when on business. This rather annoyed some of the more irritable of the egos, especially since Dark hadn't shown his face in weeks.

“...the focus switches for a moment to the Host, who is narrating under his breath, barely audible over the noise of the Chef’s cooking—”

Currently, the Host and Chef Iplier were the only ones in the kitchen for breakfast. There were three that were often the first ones up—the Host found little time to sleep, too restless to fully doze—the Doctor often had morning paperwork to do, and he considered any Doctor work to be malpractice without his first cup of coffee—the Chef found himself too overexcited in the early mornings to sleep long into the day, and anyway, there were cakes to be made.

Speaking of the Doctor, he trudged through the side door of the kitchen, the door swinging half-heartedly after him. Chef Iplier looked up from his enthusiastic cooking style to watch his brother, who pulled down his coffee mug with the label “I'M NEVER WRONG” printed on it. Dr. Iplier had bags under his eyes and looked exceedingly irritable, labcoat wrinkled and slightly smelly.

“...once again, the focus is switched to the Host, who has noticed Dr. Iplier’s arrival and narrates over his action of pouring his coffee two inches too far to the left and onto the granite kitchen counter—”

Dr. Iplier looked down blearily at the stream of lukewarm coffee splattering against the counter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—” the Doctor grumbled, readjusting his hand position so the liquid poured into the mug instead of onto the counter.

His brother, ever helpful, abandoned his mixing bowls to rush over and clean up the dripping liquid before it could do any more damage.

“...Oh. Thanks, Chef,” Dr. Iplier remarked.

“Don't mention it,” replied Chef Iplier, quickly throwing away the sopping wet paper towels.

“...the Host begins to inquire of Dr. Iplier’s ragged looking appearance as the Doctor inter—”

“Ragged? You're one to talk; you really need to get those bleeding eyes checked out.”

The Chef looked up from mixing again. “That was rude,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

Dr. Iplier sighed, conceding an apology before slumping into a seat at the counter. “I know, I'm sorry Host. I'm really worked up over this patient; if he doesn't do what he's supposed to, he could end up at the hospital for the last time. Bad news for sure.”

The Chef transferred the contents of one bowl into the other, glancing up at his brother. “There are some things you just can't help, Doc—”

There was a loud slam at the door, which made all but the Host jump. A few seconds later, another slam. Then, muffled footsteps and words—

“Delayed; rerouting…”

“Google, what the hell are you—”

The main door swung open, revealing Wilford Warfstache, in his signature pale yellow and pink, holding the door open for Google. Apparently completing his rerouting, Google turned precisely ninety degrees and made his way to the side door.

“God damn it, Google.”

Warfstache let himself into the kitchen and sat down at the wooden table, adding to the number of unhappy customers. Dr. Iplier spoke to Google, who had finally “Arrived” through the side door, asking, “Are you on default again? I know you have a bug where it can occasionally switch back in the mornings.”

“Th-th-there is an eight six p-point five five five five five five one ch-chance of pl-plausib-bility.”

Dr. Iplier grimaced. “Here, let me get that for you—” he strode to Google and flipped off a switch labeled “MAIN”. Google shut down, hanging his head and eyes dimming. After a moment of tweaking the system, Dr. Iplier switched Google on again.

“Th-thank you. That is much better,” Google acknowledged and took a seat next to Warfstache.

“Eggs?” asked the Chef, a plate of steaming scrambled eggs with drizzled hot sauce slid in front of Warfstache. Dr. Iplier looked around at the interaction, eyebrows knitted together.

“Weren't you just making pie?”

“It was cake,” the Chef clarified. Not getting a solid answer, the Doctor turned to Wilford.

“How did he do that?”

Wilford gestured wildly, wiggling his fingers; “Mmmmmagic.”

Dr. Iplier looked at the man less than fondly.

“Your brain is more scrambled than those eggs.”

Before Wilford could come up with a nasty retort, the Host intervened, raising his voice from his usual murmur.

“...the Host interrupts the conversation before it can escalate further, and instead asks Wilford about the whereabouts of Darkiplier—the Host admits he knows Dark had a difficult night—”

Both the Chef, the Doctor, and Google hurriedly looked around at Wilford and searched his face for any sign of danger.

“Yes, well…it’s rude to talk about people behind their back,” supplied the ego, “because they might turn around and stab you in your back, and then it all would be one bloody mess.”

“Is he coming down at all today?” questioned the Doctor with an edge of resentment.

Wilford paused, and he was suddenly dark eyes and darker words. Despite his colorfulness and his boisterous personality, he could still be terrifying without trying.

“It’s not your concern.”

While no one knew what the cause of this sudden change was, all four egos backed down and resumed their tasks—the Chef, back to baking; the Doctor, back to coffee-stained paperwork; Google, back to searching for updates; the Host, back to narrating under his breath. Their imagination ran away with them, creating the worst possible scenarios. A few attempts at conversation were made, but they teetered off quickly and ultimately led nowhere. Chef Iplier was cleaning up breakfast when they heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. Five heads turned towards the door simultaneously, and through the door came—

“Dark!” Wilford exclaimed.

“...he moves smoothly through the oak door, dressed in his best suit. Dark stops and straightens his tie before speaking—”

“Good morning, everyone.”

None of them had expected Dark to come down today, and certainly not in such a pristine condition. Google zoomed in on Dark and saw not even a speck of dust on his shoulders.

Dark began to walk to the adjacent room, attention on getting outside.

“Wait!” Wilford got up from the table and nearly ran to catch up with him, the other egos simply watching on. He followed Dark from the kitchen to the front room, through the front door, and outside the manor, leaving the first floor behind them.

“Wait!” Wilford said again, placing himself in front of the entity. “I want to come.”

Dark stared at him incredulously.

How had he not seen this coming?

“Wilford, please, it’s a quick trip.”

“Perfect!” he countered. “Then I won’t be gone long.”

“Trust me, Wilford, it’s not important.”

“Then why are you wearing your best suit?”

He found he had no answer for this. Dark kept his face impassive, weighing his options.

“Fine. You can come along.”

Wilford smiled, falling into step with Dark.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

Dark smiled softly. “On a date.”

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Seriously though, hit me up on that tag list, ‘cause things are about to get real.

[superrman]

Another Time Another Place

For my WonderTrev Secret Santa @mythsdraws! I hope you like it!

During the JL Holiday Party, Diana flashs back to the last time she and Steve had a chance to be young carefree lovers. However, unlike before this time she isn't alone she has a family to support her come to terms with her grief.

A03

Diana stood in the hall of justice, just months ago it was a destroyed manor and now it was a elegant and tasteful fortress. The center of the hall was framed by a magnificent fireplace, with stockings all over it, on the top was a menorah. All around beautiful holiday decorations from Atlantis, Themescriya and even Krypton and Earth decorated the main room for a holiday party hosted by Wayne.

Diana couldn’t believe how fast Bruce built the manor, but then again he said anything was possible for a billionaire.Hell he got holiday decorations for a planet that didn’t even exist anymore. Diana new that wasn’t the whole story, considering she knew that he had put in a lot of the physical labour himself, she wondered when the man slept, for a human he didn’t seem to sleep often.

She could see Bruce mildy smiling at something Barry said. Barry had such a fascination with Bruce, and even though Bruce wouldn’t admit it, he loved the kid. Barry wormed his way into the heart of every league member.

Bruce was right when he said the league would grow. Heroes from around the universe were ready to take a stand against injustice, it was a beautiful site. Clark was laughing with Lois and Dinah in the corner. Victor was laughing with Alfred and his father, it was so good to see him smile Diana mused. Oliver Queen and Arthur looked to be having a good natured argument over drinks. For the first time in a century Diana felt like she had a family again.

Near the fireplace Diana saw the young Dick Grayson smile shyly at Barbara Gordon, the young couple looked up to see the mistletoe, the were so young, so in love. Diana could see it in every look, every touch, they shared such a gentle kiss, everyone else hollered in good natured way, but Diana felt her heart swell.

With a deep breath Diana closed her eyes, her mind travelled to that dingy hotel room, in another century, in another country Diana remembered the last gentle kiss she shared with her love.

*

The sun and started to break through the curtains in the room. It framed Steve’s face so perfectly. Diana marvelled at how young Steve looked as he slept, he had always looked so tired, but each time he slept he seemed at peace. Steve had said he was above average, but the more men Diana met the more she was sure that Steve was extraordinary.

“You know us humans considered watching people sleep to be creepy” Steve said with his eyes still closed.

“How did you know without opening your eyes?” Diana smiled.

“Somethings a man knows” Steve said he stretched out, and pulled himself onto his arms, now looking at Diana with complete focus. “Such as when he has caught the eyes of a beautiful women.”

Steve leaned in gently, Diana smiled into the kiss. It was wonderful way to wake up for sure.

There were noises from around the building. Steve pulled away, but he didn’t move far, there was a seriousness in his eyes Diana couldn’t quite place. “Umm...breakfast?”

“Of course, I am too understand that it is the most important meal of the day.” Diana wondered if that was truly what Steve wanted to say.

“I’ll go round something up.” Steve got out of the bed. Diana was firm that she did truly enjoy the view of a naked man, it was something so new to her yet really great.

Steve pulled on his pants and his shirt quickly, and head out of the room. Diana dressed and waited for his return.

“We're in luck, I was able to find some bread and eggs!” Steve said eagerly, Diana new this was a huge treat, Steve had explained the ration system. Diana was still horrified how hard it was for humans to find food during this war. She had to get to Ares no one deserved to wonder if not when they would get there next meal.

“Wonderful, I am famished.” Diana smiled.

Steve smiled at her, but Diana could still see the heaviness in his eyes.

“Is there something you would like to say?”

“Um...yah actually” Steve said, he was so reserved. “I guess I just wanted to say...in this war I have been used to not planning for anything...not really thinking about the future, or too hope for anything.”

Diana wished she had gotten here sooner, she should have spared him the pain.

“Until I met you.” Steve looked into her eyes, and there was such passion, such adoration that Diana’s heart skipped a beat. “I just...I don’t know you get me, even though you are quite literally from another world, you give me hope for something better, something away from violence and ugliness. I just last night meant a lot to me, and I see it as the start of something”

“Steve…” Diana felt so lost in this world of man, she wasn’t sure what the correct thing to say to Steve was. She just knew that he mattered more to her than she thought possible.

“You don’t have to feel the same way or anything.” Steve rushed. “I just needed you to know. You know before you go back to a magical island I can’t find or whatever.”

“I am not going anywhere Steve Trevor” Diana said. “One thing I am certain of is my future is in the world of man, and I cannot imagine being in this world without you.”

Seeing Steve smile Diana was sure she said the right thing.

“Oh okay.” Steve said, his smile widened and it reached his eyes, there was something magical about those eyes, Diana was sure.

“I’ll show the real world, soon, when this war is over, I’ll show the countryside near London its gorgeous, you can see the streets of Paris when they are full of artists and musicians and no soldiers in sight. There is a whole other side of humanity, and you deserve to see it.” There was a child like wonder for a moment in his eyes, there was parts of humanity that were good.

“I cannot wait, we shall defeat Ares, and free man from the fate of war.” Diana was sure of this.

Steve moved towards her. “And then I’ll take you on a proper date, and we will build a future together.”

“What is a date?”

Steve pulled Diana into his arms, “Well its when two people who like each other spend time together to get to know each other, but there isn’t a war, or fighting or anyone else really, just the two of them being happy.”

“Sounds wonderful”

“It usually ends with a kiss” Steve smiled and leaned into for a gentle kiss, shared between lovers who had all the time in the world, there would be time for passionate kisses, and everything in between.

There was no time.

“Steve, Diana!” Charlie shouted.

“Duty Calls” Steve laughs as he pulls away, the two exited the hotel room.

*

“Diana!” Clark wakes Diana out of her memory.

“Kal” Diana smiled softly, reminding herself again that she couldn’t live in that moment forever, no matter how much she wanted too.

“You looked like you were a world away.” Clark noticed.

“Just a memory.” Diana replied. She looked around she had a future, but there was no Steve.

“What’s wrong?” Clark seemed to sense other people's distress, Diana wondered if this was another one of his powers.

“I was asked out on a date today.” Diana said softly she hadn’t told anyone else yet.

“Oh” Clark said softly. “You are an amazing women Diana I am sure there is a line out the door that would want to date you.”

Diana smiled. “I don’t know about a line, but he was very sweet. I’ve worked with him for sometime now, he’s a good man.”

“I don’t see the problem then, this is a good thing.” Clark wrinkled his nose slightly, as his eyebrows furrowed, he was clearly so perplexed, Diana wondered how such a large man could look so adorable.

“Nothing is wrong, I just...I’ve been shut off from love for so long, and wondering if….” Diana trailed off.

“I didn’t know Steve, but speaking as a man who died, I wanted Lois to be happy.” Clark said clearly he didn’t need Diana to find the words, he just knew what troubled her. “I would have hated if she stayed alone her entire life, I felt so guilty for leaving her, for giving her unhappiness.”

Diana leaned into Clark, she was so glad that Bruce’s stubbornness turned out to be right. They needed Clark.

“I miss him.” Diana said.

Clark held her. “Finding happiness with someone else will never take away the happiness you shared. He will always be in your heart.”

Diana took a deep breath. In her heart she knew it was time, she had put her life back together again, Bruce was right she had stepped into the light, it was time she took the final step and open her heart to love again.

“Thank you Kal”

“Anytime Diana, and just so you are aware, Bruce will be doing an extensive background on this new man.”

“He is a tad overprotective” Diana laughed.

“A tad” Clark laughed. “He has a file on the barista I get my coffee from.”

The two saw Bruce stare at them, he knew they were talking about him for sure, Diana suspected if Bruce did have superhuman abilities he would never admit.

What a strange wonderful family Diana thought, she was lucky again, and this time she would protect her own.

[randomnessnesity]

Who killed Markiplier: After the stream

Alright, its 8am. I’m drunk on red bull and babies I’m gonna rant about WKM because why not right? I know I’m like two weeks late but you know what....whatever...

After the live stream Saturday I feel like I needed to get this off my brain.

I believe that William (The Colonel), was a father/father figure to the gang. With the way he acts and his manor-isms saying 'Bully' and what have you, he's much older than the others around the Manor. (I only thought of this because even the butler doesn't understand when he says 'ol bag of bone." by saying "weren't you and Mark the same age?")

Damien (The Mayor), was Markiplier's best friend growing up. Celine (The Seer), was very protective/dismissive of Damion. For Abe (The Detective): Mark trusted him, 100%. He was the only person who knew how to get the job done and in a reasonable amount of time. Mark would know if something was to happen to him Abe would be the first person to try and figure out what had happened. Mark knew that Benjamin (The Butler) and the Chef would obviously be upset however they wouldn't worry about finding out who killed him. They're only here because it's their job. They could/will go find a new one. Markiplier's turn: Mark started to notice something was up with the house. In my head the senerio for the first time he noticed something was different was when he was in the kitchen cutting something for him and his new bride to eat after the Chef went to bed for the night and he dropped the knife and it stabbed through his foot, (1 of 37), and sticking through the floor; but when he looked down to examine the wound there was no blood. Even when he pulled out the knife and looked at the now open wound on his foot, there was no pain and no blood. That's the beginning of Mark trying to test his limits seeing what he could do to himself before something would happen. Mark tried to explain it to his wife Celine but she already knows and tells him not to tamper with it. She doesn't want him to become like her. But because the house is it's own thing it causes him to become obsessed. Causing Mark to do crazy things and see how far he can push his own limits. As for the house: After Mark explained it I saw more and more and made the explanation that much better in my head so I'm only going to tamper with it but that's going to be later on. (Lol sorry!) Now for my craziness to run off with this idea: Celine and William had met earlier in their lives and had fallen in love. However Celine thought William was too crazy and unsafe for the child they had together. (I imagine this after the newspaper article in the office where it says Safari Hunt Gone Wrong). Celine just left with the baby. Which explains Damion. Celine found a way to change herself with the powers. Because she feared death she wanted to become younger and the only way she knew how was to become someone else. After she became someone else she knew it would help her get away from William and protect Damion from the crazy man that he was. They moved away causing Mark and Damion to meet and become friends when they were just children. She got to watch the two of them grow older together. And before they went off to university Celine knew her body had gotten older and she didn't want to go (Die I mean). She became the form of Celine we know now from WKM. This young woman who Mark falls in love with. But before she does that, she tells William about Damion because she doesn't want him to know 1. That this younger person in their lives is her 2. She doesn't think Damion would believe her if she explained it to him (Which later on spoilers he will) and 3. She knew he was going to do great things with his life and she didn't the public to know he was a bastard child. I imagine that William stepped back into Damion's life because he wanted to know more about his son. Damion just kind of kept him around. He knew that when he would run for public office it might make him a better candidate. He also knew that if he became Mayor he could better hide public record about his dysfunctional family. I also believe that Damion didn't want anything to do with his parents once he became an adult. That's why he asks for the Colonel and doesn't use his name when he yells at him during the first episode but William doesn't understand and is trying to be his father and calls him Damion. I think that Damion resents his father for not being their for most of his life because he thinks with him there his mom (Celine) would not have gotten herself interested in Dark Magic. But since the four of them are hanging out more with each other that's Celine explains to Damion who she really is but not until after her she runs away again with William. Damion is trying to help his now heartbroken friend get over his ex. Mark decides the party is a great way to get everyone back together (or the house thought that for him.) Now buckle up because this is where my brain went into insanity mode: I believe that the house is showing Mark the path it should take to kill himself: Because the house was controlling Mark at this point it started making him believe these crazy stories about why his wife would leave him. Hint to the major story I came up with earlier. Mark didn't want to believe that she would just leave so the house created everything above. Because of this I believe that the house manifested everyone in this house. And I mean everyone except Mark obviously The house didn't want us to feel overwhelmed when we walked through the door to something we have no clue what's happening. When you walk into a home of a friends as a kid usually the first person you would meet is the parent right? The first person we are introduced to is William, the father of Damion. The Butler is next but only because it's his job but it's also the houses way to boost Marks ego, (Look man you're rich enough that you can afford a butler to open the door to the guests, makes you feel important right?) The Detective ducks away quickly because we don't need to know him right now. We get to know him really well during the series. But then were met with Damien. We know him, obviously putting us into a (false) since of ease as we walk around because we at least know somebody at the party. With the Chef (Also I picture this taking place during the same time as A Date with Markiplier, so the house would pick someone remembered maybe not fondly but still "Doing his job"). Then we meet the host: Markiplier. The house put's him there to foreshadow everything happening. In this crazy 'dream' (I don't like using dream because dream theory is not what I'm going for here.) When we wake up from our drunken night of fun the Butler is the first person we meet. (I thought that was weird as well but my explanation for that was obviously everyone would be awake except you. The Benjamin has to wake up early along with the Chef to make sure everything is set for the morning, so they are awake already. The others would have asked for something from the Benjamin as they woke as well. Damien is already awake because he's the next person you see and talk too and William doesn't ask for anything and is already roaming around the home. Abe I picture took a shower explaining why he's the only person in the Manor to have a costume change. Leaving only you left to wake up, explaining why he's creepily standing outside your door.) The next person we come up to is Damien, he says his things but the last line is: "I have work to finish but I'll meet you at breakfast." Why would he bring work on a weekend away? There's no reason for him to have his work with him unless his work is already at the manor. The house has him here this whole time. His office is here. Then we find Marks body that falls into frame. I believe Marks body just gave out before we get to talk to him this morning. The house is going on only what Mark would come up with. (From Mark's explanation from the live stream, why would the colonel make sure the only things left behind if he did it was a broken wine bottle and the dead body in the middle of the sitting room? That wouldn't make since but it also wouldn't make since for everybody to go down to the basement/wine cellar at 8:30am. Nobody is have morning wine with breakfast after the rager from the night before.) Causing the who done it's to start. Damien goes to the colonel for a shoulder to cry on. But when the colonel is dismissive of him he becomes more suspicious of him. Damien's already has covered too many things for William and now he doesn't think he can this time. He need's to own up to his actions. That's why at the end of the first episode he needs time to think and during the second he's trying to find the colonel to tell him. As for the Detective, he took over everything right away. I think the house brought him in to be Mark's since of humor through the whole thing. We question his examination of the body and in the second episode when he leads us though the entire house going up and down two flights of stairs, when we could have had the whole monologue told to us while standing around the beautiful portrait of the body outline in the sitting room. In episode two: I like to believe the backstory for the colonel is that he obviously had seen war. He was a decorated man of honor, he did what he had to during his service to come home safely. He drowns out his past because he feels guilty. That's why he knows the dictionary words for Zombie, it's his worst fear. He would obviously tell the one person he trusted, his love, Celine, obviously why she knows the terms as well. You tell someone you trust your worst fears right? (I actually had to look it up, thanks for the new vocab words ;] ) Okay, so this is the part of the second episode where I questioned everything. Why would the detective be looking for clues in the victims bedroom when he already "fingered" the killer. The detective doesn't trust us, he even said it to himself (out loud) in the film-noir scene as we walked through the house. Why would he trust us to tell us we are going to the Colonel's room? (As a person who does set design stuff the context clues are the things that were giving it away. If this was Mark's room why would he still have Celine's things in his room still? I picture he got rid of them out of rage.) The reason I also believe this is Williams room is the pictures in the room. Why would you have a single picture of your friend sitting in your bedroom? Mark wasn't in the photo with him, unlike the other three. I know this sounds mean however, Markiplier (in the video not the one we know IRL) seems to egotistical to have pictures of anybody by themselves in his bedroom. There would be more photos of himself. That's the one thing in the room (besides the crib,) that didn't make since to me. Then there's the last point, out of all 7 rooms (they said it in the live stream), why would the colonel come to one room in the house you are in? Unless he was familiar to the room, like as if it was his own.   To continue what Mark says before: "It's also why when the body moves the colonel suddenly becomes more amicable and he's like 'okay I see what's going on here' and he's just more conversational than he was in the first episode. Since I said earlier, the colonel's worst fear is people coming back from the dead.I believe that's why he becomes more conversational during the later episodes, the body's missing and none of them know where it went. He doesn't want to be alone, afraid of being face to face with a zombie. Explaining why he want's to talk to you, he just needs someone with him, he didn't really want to walk the grounds alone. He runs away thinking you had followed him, then comes in Damien. Damien is trying to be the leader that he is now that he's figured out what he's going to do for the colonel. He starts to make you question the Detective, only becasue with the Mayors power he's normally the people turn to in a time of crisis or need but this time the Detective just took over. He's not saying anything or pointing fingers, just planting a big enough seed to make you think. For episode 3: The only person surprised to see Celine is William, he doesn't want her back where she doesn't belong and worst he doesn't want her tangled up in all of this. The detective has no clue who she is. The chef knows, that's why he tells her what happened. The Butler has only heard stories of her, him being the new guy and all. As for Damien, he doesn't care, he want's her to have the same feelings as he does, with her being his ex and all but he also has odd emotions to all of this. The rest of the episode explains itself really. As for the 4th episode: The colonel never asks for Damien because he knows he's a good kid and wouldn't get himself caught up in the things Celine is doing. William is only looking out for Celine because she's the only thing keeping him sane over the years. The colonel also knows there something wrong with this house, nothing good ever happened in the Manor. So when he say "I won't let my friends die in this godforsaken house," he means the only two people he really cares about. And at the moment both are missing, but he only knows of one. That's why he leaves, in pursuit trying to find Damien. When we reach the office and find the research the detective has done, the colonel isn't mad about the detective keeping tabs on him, he's mad that he was even looking into the others. He realizes at that moment seeing everything in the office that he needs to step up for his actions and needs to do the right thing. However he feels like he needs to put the blame onto someone else for the two main people in his life, that are left, going missing. "He took my friends from me. He took Celine, He took Damien." He knows what happened to Mark, that's why he doesn't mention him in the list of people. He knows that's his wrong doing. In the gut-wrenching end, the colonel doesn't mean to shoot you. He planned on shooting the detective. The colonel is a very smart man, he knows that if you shoot someone in area's away from main artery's or from major organs the person wouldn't die immediately. That's why he shoots the detective in the stomach, it causes him enough pain to shut him up.  We are the odd person out. He want's to hide behind the walls that he's built. The only reason Damien is with Celine in the end is because she want him there. She want's to make sure her child is safe. But in the end, she got everything that she wanted, in a sad twisted way she died knowing her son never turned into something evil, because she made sure they died together. Damien is the pearl out of two evils. I know... I know... two wrongs don't make a right and two red's don't make blue but just hear me out alright? Mark states: "Yes the colonel was waiting there the entire night cradling Damien's cane. He was mourning the loss of his friend and he was standing over your body the entire night mourning his actions. That doesn't mean madness, that means regret. Madness comes from seeing this body you'd been staring at for 10 hours suddenly just get back up. That's where madness happens." That's why the colonel sits with the body all night. Nobody is there anymore to cover for him when something goes wrong. He's afraid that he's going to have explain to the police about why 7 people walked into the home (8 if you count the grounds-keeper but he was a minor character, so in this I don't) and why only 4 are coming out alive (maybe). He cradles the crane because he knows that was the only part of him that came into this world that was good or pure. The colonel knew he was evil, but war had made him that way. Desensitized him from death. He was mourning the loss of the only good thing he had left. He might have called for Celine more but he didn't realize until they both were gone that he loved Damien. That's why he cradled the cane, it was all he had left. He was standing over your body because you were not a part of any of this. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He became crazy when he saw the body move after 10 hours of it not. He just saw his worst nightmare come true.He watched as the dead rose from the grave. I think that would sent anyone into madness don't you? In the last scene, we pick up the cane. Or do we want to, we stare at it for a bit before picking it up, then our hand twitches (probably not intentional but still, its there) before our hand is not our hand anymore. That's went we look in the mirror, seeing that we are not ourselves but now Damien with the help of his mothers dark magic. But Damien was good, he was the pure child. That's why he doesn't look in the mirror right away, he's guilt stricken because he's becoming just like his parents, the one thing he didn't want to do. That's also why the blue is around him as well he's still the innocent person. But the longer he's trapped (You see it if you go back to ADWM and watch the Horror and what-not path) he becomes more evil and the blue fades. Then he finally looks up, making eye contact. It's not him upset at us, he's upset with himself. Then he walks away. Now my M. Night Shyamalan twist at the end here to make everything really questionable is: Why would Mark invite someone he doesn't really know over for a night with his pal's he hasn't seen in a long time unless the house put us there for/as Mark. Why would two of the people look exactly like Mark unless the house didn't know what to make them so instead it created these people especially for Mark. Mark wouldn't know the man that ran away with his wife, so why not make him this older chap that would be 'crazy' to steal another mans wife. As for Damien,the house has never seen him to put the face with the name. So why not go with someone who Mark can trust, but himself. (If were still going with the egotistical stand point here.) The only ones that repeat that is Damien, "It's good to get the gang back together but out of the blue like this?" Hear me out, The District Attorney of this town is new, Damien even says it. "Oh, there you are old friend. How are you settling into your new office?" Why would only the Mayor be the only one to know you, if Mark is planning his own death at some point in the night? Because each person in the house is important, except you. You're just a pawn, the eyes if you will. This house of evil wants to show Mark exactly what each of them would do. Why would you care if there's a murder or not? You don't know him like the rest of them do.The house knows that out of anyone Mark trusts its Damien. Why not invite an ol' friend? Everything happens the rest of the day just the way Mark would want it too, everyone blaming each other. Getting revenge on the colonel for the sin he committed. The wrench in the plan was Celine to walk through the door, or was it. Her things were already upstairs in the chair we were going to sit in, the house planned everything out for him to get exactly what Mark wanted. In the end The Chef quits, The Butler leaves as well. The Detective's shot, and Celine is become one with the Darkness. Everyone dies including you! But the special thing about you is, you become the shell of a person, Damien takes over your body. The three of them back together. Forever. But the thing is, Mark was just a pawn too. The house is what trick you in the end, it needs a body. You're the body it needs, not completely broken as the rest of them someone who's willing to just go along with everything. The house tried to host in Mark, "It's not fair is it?" meaning Mark already knows what's going to happen next. It's going to give you the two people who you think you need to see. Celine because she can easily convince you to do whatever it wants and Damien, your friend, the only face you would know at the party. Celine says "I wont force this on you, you have a choice here. It's the only way you can escape." Any other decision in any of the videos was followed by a very obvious shake, but this time we just stood there. Then she went ahead and sent us back. We never had the choice. We were the pawn.