#might be my favorite thing ive every drawn
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"How about a romantic dinner just for us, ma cheie?"
(pleaseees open the image for better quality)
Good god, the idea of scouts ma and spy just being sweet, loving, domestic goobers gives me way too much joy <3
below cut: zoom in on scouts ma from the frame, without light, and spy by himself
also upside dow cuz i actually really really like how it looks and kinda gives me discord vibes lol
Edit: Also also yes this started as a redraw of this but i got hella carried away :]
#tf2#tf2 spy#spy tf2#spy#scouts ma#i guess ill tag them..#even tho they are barely visible#tf2 scout#tf2 sniper#did this start as redrawing a âdraw you babygirl thing#maybeeeee#anyways im ungodly proud of this#might be my favorite thing ive every drawn#coloring flats made me so insane thoughh#god i love this piece#and this man#i need them to invite me to join and be a throuple#pleaseeeeeeđđđ#this was orginally gonna also have some little chat bubbles with doodles perswaying a convo#but it was alittle too busy#mmm i want to eat my own art piece#tf2 fanart#fanart#my art#art#digital art#oldbird&co#hope youre all doing well#mmm its 1ammm (-â-`; )#draw your babygirl in this
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âwatch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.â
[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)
pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)
wc. 24.1k.
tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?
cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.
a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: âfor me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.â
to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!
act i. dear god, please save the little man.
âRITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last seasonâs designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.â
Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor gardenâand thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.
(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)
Isadora Bulstrode cackles. âGold-digging wench must be at it again.â
As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every wordâand youâre more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. âRiveting.â She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. âWe may have tomorrowâs front page in our hands.âÂ
Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. âDo tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?â
You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. âWhy, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!â The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and theyâre none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all.Â
âA shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alrightânot every one is fit to work.â The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.
âOh, Elinor, my love, Iâm surprised youâd even suggest such a horrible thing!â Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status youâve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.Â
Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. Itâs the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the worldâs attention constantly and effortlessly.Â
How repulsive.
In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.
And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest. âOh, donât worry, my dears! Iâll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.â
Melina Traverse brushes you off. âWe could never! You know youâre like family to us, pet!â
With a delighted gasp, you say, âDonât tell Narcissa, but youâve always been my favorite Slytherin.â The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, youâre able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.
Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting.Â
What a bunch of insufferable fools.Â
Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.Â
âOh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?â You approach the horrid family of Gryffindorsânearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. Itâs been so long since youâve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. âCissa and I didnât think youâd even respond to our invitationâbut this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell meâhave you been trying those snail facials? I hear theyâre all the rage nowadays.â
Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. âBloody hell, Iâm going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.âÂ
âYouâre at a garden party, Sirius darling,â you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. âThe elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!â There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. âFrom the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.âÂ
Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with Jamesâs, a polite smile on her faceâan odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) âY-Yes, well, itâs so good to see you, too. Weâre grateful for the invitation, especially since itâs for a rather honorable cause.âÂ
Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. Youâve changed your mind, youâre sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husbandâs. âWe just knew youâd see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?â
Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. âYou and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.â She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. âI never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.â
âWell, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,â You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life. âAs staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldnât you agree, Lily flower?â
âQuite,â replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.
James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lilyâs waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. âHave you met our son, Harry, already?â He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harryâs back with a crooked smile. âHaz, this is an old classmate of ours.â James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.
So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, heâs never held a girlâs hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. âWhat an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.âÂ
âWhy, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.â Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lilyâs survival against the killing curse. âAnd such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your motherâs son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.â
His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) âOh. . . not really.â His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harryâs voice deepens as he continues, âI couldnât be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.â Â
âHow interestingâElsie!â You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. âGet Mister Potter and his company a plate of macaronsâserve them our finest tea, as well.âÂ
Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. âThereâs r-really no need forââ
Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. âHave you heard the news, dearheart?â
Harry looks to his father before shrugging. âI donât think so.â
âIf Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,â you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lilyâs side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, âOtherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this yearâand I do love a good partyâso you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.â You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. âMore than that,â you continue with a sly cant to your voice. âThere will be a few new additions to Hogwartsâ staff. Among them, of courseâis yours truly!â
âAnd to do what, exactly?â Sirius blurts out incredulously.
âBe a teacher, of course!â you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. âWhy else?â
âBrilliant!â Sirius chuckles scornfully. âSo, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?
âIs that truly all you think of me?â you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.Â
âYou want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?â Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. âYouâve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But Iâve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.âÂ
He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. âBut I reckon nothing has changed since then. Youâre just the same insufferable, vapid wench as youâve always been.â
âSirius. . .â Remus quietly calls. âThatâs enough.âÂ
Your expression faltersâbut your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)
The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?
You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. âSuch crude language, Mister Black,â you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy.Â
Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. âPerhaps, I am not the only one who hasnât grown out of their immature habits,â you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But youâd die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.
âWhat is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?â You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Siriusâs breath and Remusâs parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. âOh, silly me, Iâve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesnât accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.âÂ
Your eyes flash impishly. âWouldnât you agree, Mister Lupin?â
Lily curls her lip viciously. âJust what exactlyâ?â
âElsie has returned, master.â The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.
âYou may go, Elsie, thank you.â With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. âItâs jasmine pearl,â you explain haughtily. âCarefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you wonât be able to find anywhere else.â
âDo enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.â The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you wonât receive your flowers for todayâs performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. âDo excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.â
You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. âToday, after all, is for the children.â
Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.Â
You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrĂšre of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few.Â
With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestraâs symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. âSeverus darling,â you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. âYouâre missing out on the festivities, you know.â
âHave you finally finished tormenting Narcissaâs visitors?â he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.
âWhy, Iâd never dare to do such a thing,â you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. âI simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,â you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.
âSpare me,â he drones, lips curved impatiently.
You moue. âEver the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?â
âShall I sit around while I wait?â Snapeâs lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. âThe Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.â
âSeverus dear, if I didnât know any better, Iâd say you were trying to tell me something.â You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. âSo,â you pry, âdid you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle Iâd have a drink with him.â
The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. âEnsure that nothing traces back to you,â he snarls. âClearly I do know better, Severus.â You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. âNot to worry,â you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, âI always do as I am told.â
(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)Â
act ii. tonight, letâs start the masquerade.
THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, letâs see where you sent me to this time.
And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. âAlohomora.â
With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet youâand if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater maskâitâs warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.Â
Thereâs a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboardsâin an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.Â
âReveal yourself,â you whisper curtly.
To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, youâd be blown into the walls by now. âThis isnât an ensemble stage, you know,â you chuff impatiently, âIâm not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.âÂ
The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother.Â
There are exactly five people youâd risk your life for, and right now, youâre digging the tip of your wand into their neck.
âMister Regulus Black,â you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. âSeverus didnât mention weâd be running into each other tonight.âÂ
âThatâs because I didnât tell Sev Iâd be here,â says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. âI might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, thereâs only so many times I can re-read Good Omensâand by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?âÂ
You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. âAnd so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.âÂ
Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. âWasnât it Cissaâs soirĂ©e today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?âÂ
âWho do you think I am?â you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a momentâs pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, âOf course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.â You hum reminiscently, âtruthfully, itâs been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, itâs an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.âÂ
Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. âAnd, then? Did you see my brother?âÂ
âOh, darling, I did more than that,â you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.Â
âHow was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think itâs been so long since I saw his face.â Thereâs a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. âSorry, I just. . .â He slumps his shoulders in resignation. âI wouldnât have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .â
âI donât understand why I have to hide from my own family.â With a jagged whisper, he says, âI feel like Iâm losing my mind. Like I canât believe that Iâm really here, I donât even know if I exist sometimes.âÂ
You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. âItâs forââ
âMy own good, I know,â Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think.Â
For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance.Â
All the worldâs a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.Â
âHow long do you think itâs going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?â As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (Youâve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) âNever mind, letâs just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.â He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. âWhat are we looking for, anyway?âÂ
You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. Itâs an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize itâs been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. âHere,â you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.
He furrows his brow. âWhat?âÂ
You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. âHelp me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.â You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.
âWhy donât we just, I donât know,â Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. âUse magic?â he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. âI suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.âÂ
You stare at him vacantly. âRegulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.âÂ
He grins boyishly before ushering you away. âAlright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.â Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work.Â
You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulusâs restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. âCareful,â you keep a tight watch on Regulusâs pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.Â
âLike taking jelly slugs from a first-year,â he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.Â
You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance. âReady your wand, Regulus,â you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, âI believe what awaits wonât be as simple as that.âÂ
A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.)Â
You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.
You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. âIâll go first,â you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. âIt could be cursed the moment we step inside.â Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.Â
Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand.Â
After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.Â
A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, youâd have dropped your wand already. âThis. . .â you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.Â
Children.
Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. âBloody hell,â Regulus growls, chest heaving. âWhat the fuck?âÂ
âItâs a prison,â you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position.Â
âAre. . . are you with the bad men?â A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. âNo,â you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children.Â
Regulus calls your name. âTheyâre Muggles,â he hisses angrily. âI donât sense any magic from any of them.â He exhales in frustration. âWhat the hell are they doing with Muggle children?âÂ
You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. âTend to their wounds,â you say sharply. âIâll see what I can do about the chains.â And you will do something about those shackles, if itâs the last thing you do. âWeâre going to get you out of here, I promise,â you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.
Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
âMove out of the way!â you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as youâre blown into the stone walls.Â
Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. Thereâs a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. âGet them to the safehouse,â you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; thereâs an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though itâs been snapped in half. Youâre definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. âNow!â you bellow gutturally.Â
A muscle ticks in Regulusâs jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. âItâs okay,â you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. âIâm rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.â
In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only onceâdriven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.Â
(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)Â
âGo,â you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boyâs forehead. âHide and wait until my companion comes for you.â
âAnd as for the ill-mannered invader,â you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figureâs bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. Thereâs a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, âConfringo!â
You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus wonât be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guestâs heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.
After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.
A firebird caws in the distance.
And, scene.
act iii. whereâs your soul? whereâs your dream? do you think youâre alive?
âAPPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.â You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots. The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your Houseâthe cete of badgers. (You seize everyoneâs attentionâwhether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)
After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, âThat is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this yearâs Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.â Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. âAnd our first lesson begins straight away.â
The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, youâre not the least bit worried. Youâve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you.Â
âNow, now, children,â you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. âThe Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.â You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. âAs such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.â
(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)
âMister Filch, if you please.â With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of LĂ©o Delibesâs Valse. CoppĂ©lia, you simper to yourselfâa story close to your heart. (Youâve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girlâs song.)
âA dance, while enjoyable by oneâs lonesome, is best savored with a partner,â you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. âYour date for the night must be aware that youâve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.â Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. âShall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?â
âNo one?â You raise a brow curiously when youâre met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: âIâll choose the lucky student myself.âÂ
You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. âMister Harry Potter?â you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. âWhy donât we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?âÂ
Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks.Â
âAs you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,â you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, âAnd not a newborn foal.â You place your hand in his, âYou may now invite your lady to dance.â
âOr your beau,â you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.
You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. âDancing is about connection,â you turn to the students with a stern gaze. âIf your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,â you say sharply as you tilt Harryâs chin and correct the arch of his arms. âRemember, itâs not ballroom if thereâs no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .â You lay your palm onto his shoulder. âThe feet should follow the music.â
Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, heâs appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harryâs flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors whoâve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. âYouâre doing it wrong, James!â shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.Â
âWhy donât you try it, Padfoot?â Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. Youâre given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.Â
You blink, dumbfounded. âHarry dearest, I donât believe that is necessaryâ!â
âGo on then,â says Harry, jerking his head. âShow us all how to do it.âÂ
To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. âWeâve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?â he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.
âShut your mouth, Weasley,â growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)
Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. âWho? Me?â He chuckles before forcibly slapping Jamesâs back with the flat of his palm. âNo, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.â Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. âHave at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?âÂ
âGo on, Sir Prongs!â exclaims one of the red-headed twins. âShow us how itâs done!âÂ
Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, âMay I have this dance?âÂ
Your breath stuttersâif only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners youâve had during Narcissaâs galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. âWell,â you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. âIf you must.âÂ
In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. Youâd have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the songâs aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and youâd be able to hear his heartbeat. âThere will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,â you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. âYou will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?âÂ
James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. âYouâre good with the children, you know,â he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought youâd be downright rubbish at it.Â
âWell, Mister Potter,â you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. âTo some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.â Your chin all but perched atop Jamesâs shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiverâdew on fresh grass on a warm sunny dayâfills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Siriusâs way, to which he responds with a raised brow.Â
âBit shallow, isnât it?â he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.Â
You scoff. âOne could argue the same for a young Seeker whoâs been given their first ever broom.âÂ
James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hipâincidentally, where youâve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems youâre more sensitive and hurt than you thought.Â
Even statues of white gold chip and fade over timeâyouâre reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion.Â
James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) âWhatâs wrong?â
Occlude! Occludeâyou must occlude immediately!Â
With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. âIt is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,â you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. âI do believe weâre done here.â You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; youâve forgotten how to breathe without it. âNow, letâs have the students pair up and practice what theyâve learned so far. Iâll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. Youâll dance until I tell you to stop. Youâll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.â
That, after all, is how you learned.
The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding heartsâit always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the studentsâ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain theyâd hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails.Â
As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurorsâno doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotionsâhow putrid. The studentsâ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outrĂ© stone walls feel like theyâre closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.Â
Whatâs wrong?Â
The question echoes in your head.Â
Ha!Â
You scream inwardly, if they only knew!Â
While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor.Â
The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. âAre. . .â Dracoâs expression contorts morosely. âAre you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.â he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.Â
âMind your language, Draco,â you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that youâve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: âAnd do not ask what is not needed to be.âÂ
âYouâre hurt, arenât you?â he presses further, mouth pinched. âDonât treat me like a dim-witted child because Iâm not!âÂ
A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. âPerhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.â Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. âI will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.âÂ
In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snapeâs grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.Â
When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. âJust get it over with, Severus,â you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.Â
You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. âI wonder,â he says through gritted teeth. âIf you are actually capable of following direct ordersâof using that near-empty brain of yours!â His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. âYour stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?âÂ
You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. âAnd Iâve done my part. Every last one of themâdead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why youâre still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?â
âDo not play coy with me,â he replies brusquely. âIâve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!â
âAnd if I didâso what?â You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isnât the first time youâve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebirdâand never on you, the foppy socialite. âWould it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?âÂ
âDo not forget your duty,â he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. âTo the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.âÂ
âDo not talk about her!â you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.Â
âThen see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!â Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.Â
After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his faceâas though you are the perplexing one. âThis. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.âÂ
âAnd why, pray tell,â you retort gruffly, âshould I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?âÂ
âIt contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!â he proclaims angrily. âGet to the bottom of this. Iâll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mindâas long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.âÂ
The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. Heâs dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shouldersâhandmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders.Â
âSnape,â Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpiredâwell, youâre certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.Â
âProfessor,â he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. âYouâre looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?â
âI am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,â you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your witâs endâhow bothersome of it all. âShould you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?â you bite tiredly.Â
Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. âMad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. Iâm sure he has much more experience to offer than me.âÂ
You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. âWell, Iâve no interest in dragging my feet around. If youâll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and Iâm afraid Iâve left her alone for too long.âÂ
And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. âPerhaps, we should get you to Lily,â offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snapeâs eye roll in the background.Â
âI said I was fine!â You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. âMerlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fineâ!âÂ
Turns out, you are not fine.Â
The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon youâve ever seen.Â
 â
You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectantâa Muggleâs touch, no doubtâand concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you concludeâalthough, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, youâd make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks openâand in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.
âAm I in hell?â you eye them bitterly.Â
âNo,â says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurseâs uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. âBut youâre in my office, which means you are now under my careâtherefore Iâd like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.âÂ
âAnd I would like to return to my quarters now, please,â you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. âIâve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!â you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.Â
âYou will listen to meâseven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!â Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantlyâshe may have adhered to you in Malfoyâs territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. âIf you had been a Muggle, youâd be dead ten times over.â
âWell, now that weâve established that Iâm alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.â You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.Â
âNot before you tell us where those bruises came from,â Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.Â
âMust have been the Nargles,â you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a childâs shelf. âTheyâre quite frisky this time of the year, didnât you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, Iâd say.âÂ
âAre you capable of taking anything seriously?â cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius.Â
âSirius, letâs not scare her off now, love,â Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Siriusâs neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. Theyâre an uncharted danger that you arenât familiar with navigatingâand you figure young Harry wouldnât appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. âWe just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,â Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.Â
You sneer. âIf I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.âÂ
Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. âHow could you say that?â she asks, hand flying to her lips. âOf course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.â She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. âWe nearly couldnât find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, heâs a universal donor and he didnât even hesitate in giving you hisââ
âGiving me what?â you echo lowly. âWhat did Sirius give me, Lily?â
âBlood,â Lily says firmly. âHe gave you his blood so you could live.â
âHow dare you?â you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. âYou had no right!â You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.Â
Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. âYou had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!âÂ
âGet out!â You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Siriusâs head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.Â
âYou think Iâd be grateful?â you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. âYou think Iâd be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!â You laugh irately as you gasp for air. âIâd rather die!âÂ
When you run out of items to throw at themâpillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stemsâyou sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.Â
âI. . .â Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. âI understand. . . But I am the castleâs nurse, as long as you are under Hogwartsâ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.âÂ
âI donât bloody care,â you snide.
Her eyes flash to James. âWeâll leave you to rest, then.âÂ
You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. Itâs not until you feel Jamesâs arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize youâve stopped shivering. âIâm sorry,â is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close.Â
â
You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you arenât aloneâbut you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. âSome boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . theyâre okay,â murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.Â
If Sirius wants an encore, heâd have to drag the fight out of you. Youâre utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. âDidnât know you were into Muggle songs, Black,â you chortle bemusedly. Â
Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the roomâyou distinctly hear the moment Siriusâs hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. âAfter today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.âÂ
You donât bother replyingâyouâd have Obliviated them instantly if it wasnât illegal to use on Aurors.Â
âWe know it was you,â says Sirius out of the blueâyour blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if heâs figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. âOn the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,â he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. âI almost didnât believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.âÂ
(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)Â
âThank you,â he says, guttural with emotions. âIt means more to Remus than you think.â
âYour gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,â you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyesânot wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. âDonât delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldnât care less what happens to you or your family.â
Sirius chuckles, like heâd expected such a response from you. âWell, do what youâd like with my gratitude, I donât care, just know that you have it,â he says, rising from his seat. âItâs past midnight, by the way. Lilyâs left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.âÂ
Your eyes drift to the nightstand. Thereâs a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase.Â
âShe believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,â Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reactionâbut thereâs none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.
As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. âYou know,â he begins quietly. âThe thing about magicâit can fool the best of us into thinking weâre indestructible. But, youâre not as inhumane as youâd like us to think.â Sirius veers his head to look back at you. âTake that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? Youâd see the rest of the world clearly if you did.âÂ
That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and youâre left alone with your thoughts.
How arrogant.
How very Gryffindor of him.Â
You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lilyâs kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? Youâd give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they haveâtheyâre more pestilent than you realized. No matter, itâs high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.Â
If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.
â
It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly areâbut you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly youâre called the pureblood societyâs darling.Â
For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you.Â
Youâve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, youâve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.Â
âWell, thatâs certainly a speedy recovery,â says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeterâs new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently youâve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily canât help but feel disappointed.
Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students canât help but notice this fact as theyâre brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind CoppĂ©liaâs songâher wishes, and her painâbut you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)
âMummaâs just about ready to send her a Howler,â you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermioneâs shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, âCalled the Professor a tart, even.â
Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. âReally?â
âYes, yes,â Ginny nods. âBut enough about all thatâhave you seen the news this morning?âÂ
Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. âThe one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.â
âNot that one,â Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. âThe article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Whoâs followers came and raided the entire campsite?â
âThat would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,â Hermione replies softly.Â
âWell, the Firebirdâs gone and hunted a few of them,â Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. âFound their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.â
At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.
On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacĂ© treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you donât mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. Itâs a role you enjoy more so than others.Â
âYouâve been worrying me these days, dear,â Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. âThe other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.âÂ
You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldnât possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Siriusâs blood flowing through your veins.)
You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades.Â
At your silence, Sprout continues on, âWe always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.â You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. âI hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.â Pomonaâs hand is leaden on your shoulder. âAfter all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shellâbut do not forget, I will always be on my childrenâs side no matter what.â
How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.
And so, the puppet show beginsâlike a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. âNo one has been on my side. Not then, not now,â you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. âBut do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.âÂ
In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affectionâbut the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. Youâve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.Â
âToday was lovely, Pomona, thank you.â It is one truth youâve permitted yourself to offerâa shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than thatâyou forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.
The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you.Â
(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)Â
Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. Itâs an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.Â
âYour shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,â you tut, straightening his tie. âDo you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?âÂ
Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. âFather told me to tell you that youâve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,â he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. âThat is, if you arenât busy.âÂ
You raise a browâsly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, âTell your father that Iâm choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.â You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, âTell him Iâm paying for everything, too.âÂ
His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you donât expect him to yell once more:Â
âIâm going to enter the tournament this year!âÂ
Youâre certainly taken by surprise, but you donât slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lipsâwell, at least you know where youâre placing your bets.Â
A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and Jamesâmuch to your annoyance. Itâs just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greybackâs pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.
After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary.Â
âAuror Black, Auror Potter,â you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. âWhat can I do for you today?âÂ
Sirius scoffs in disbelief. âSo itâs like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?âÂ
âPartying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like youâre better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,â he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. âGuess we were the fools, eh?âÂ
James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. âIt just doesnât make sense. What we saw at the infirmaryâthatâs not something anyone forgets.â He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. âItâs like youâre two different people.âÂ
âItâs disappointing, really,â Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.
Theyâve made it all too easy for you.Â
âWhat are you so frustrated for, darlings?â you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. âWhat were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? Weâre not children anymore, my loves!â you exclaim histrionically. âDid you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didnât you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?â
Sirius staggers.
âThe real me?â you giggle incredulously. âWhat you see is what you get, dearestâdonât go searching for what doesnât exist. Itâs not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.â You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up Jamesâs chin. âNot every damsel is in distress, you know.â
Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. âMaybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion heartsâyou wouldnât have driven Regulus to his death.âÂ
James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with angerâSirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after thisâthat they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you donât plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.
âYou are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature Iâve ever seen,â says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. âCanât believe I thought anything less than that.âÂ
You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. âAre we done here now, gentlemen?â
They would learnâthis is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.Â
The thirtieth of October brings about a cold youâve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders.Â
The skies are exceptionally gray todayâyouâve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touchâyou find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the momentâeach time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Siriusâs eyes.Â
Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?Â
When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louderâyet all you hear are their words.Â
âYou are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature Iâve ever seen.â
âI actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.â
You would not weepânot for yourself, and not certainly for them.Â
Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell?Â
When does duty end? And when does life begin?Â
Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic hostâthat is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive.Â
âWhat a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,â you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. âIf you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where youâll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.âÂ
You want to go to sleep already.Â
Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lakeâa sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and youâll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damnedâyouâve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krumâs entrance, Hogwartsâ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seekerâwell, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.Â
Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palmâthe dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. âDumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.âÂ
You miss your cat.Â
(Siriusâs eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroffâs wretched compliments.)Â
You want to die.
â
Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth championâHarry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the studentsâ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harryâs name in the goblet in the name of family prestigeâpredictably, itâs Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you donât expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So thereâs a crack in the prideâs loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.Â
Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.Â
âDid you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?â the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.
The atmosphere is beyond wintryâyou note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument.Â
Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the manâfor a fleeting momentâfor if looks could kill, Siriusâs tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.Â
âWe must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.â
Your blood runs cold.
Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleagueâs decisionâyou see no reason why he shouldnât be, heâs only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. âWell, Barty knows the rule book back to front!âÂ
Dimwitted fool.
You scoff. âIn a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potterâs name from the tournament.â
âErr. . .â Ludoâs gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. âThereâs nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.â
âDo you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?â you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. âIf the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.â âIt is not as simple as that, Professor!â Bagman cries. âBut you are welcome to try a hand at it.â
âSo we just let a child run to his death, then?â you seethe, nostrils flaring. âI never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?â
(Harryâs brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)
âHeâs got to compete. Theyâve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?â says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms.Â
âMaybe someoneâs hoping Potter is going to die for it,â Moody growls in response to Fleur. âOver my dead body!â James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.Â
âYes, yes, Potter, we all know youâd die for your son,â Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.Â
âIt seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,â Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lilyâs sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. âBoth Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .â
The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedricâs eyesâworry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.Â
Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen Oneâand it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.Â
The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twiceâtoday happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy.Â
âOi! Professor, over here!â One freckled Weasley twinâFred, you guessâbeckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.Â
âThank you, Mister Weasley,â you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.Â
Itâs quite oddâyouâd have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But itâs not half-bad. You donât erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You donât particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginervaâs ear when itâs time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.
âWe got a traitor here!â George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snoutâs fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.Â
âPlease excuse me for a moment,â you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. âMinerva,â you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps sheâs misjudged a professor or two.)Â
Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harryâs match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. Youâre nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You donât understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.Â
Harryâs dragon has broken free from its chains.Â
You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from dangerâspotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire.Â
But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.
âDaphne!âÂ
The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.Â
You scour the area franticallyâthere, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes.Â
âDaphne, get away from there!âÂ
You hardly hesitateâyou run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles awayâeach gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in frightâyou close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.Â
But there is nothing.Â
Just you, Daphne, the Hungarianâand Remus whoâs pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntailâs attention, now zipping freely on his broom.Â
Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. âAre you alright?â he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.Â
You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. âAre you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, letâs get you to Madam Pomfreyâcan you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.âÂ
âTâThank you, Professor,â stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, âBoth of you. IâI donât know how Iâll repay such kindness.âÂ
âDonât worry, Daphne,â says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.Â
He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. âMy kindness is freely given.â
Has kindness ever felt so real before?
act iv. you wouldnât last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.Â
âTHE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchenâshattered! The little ones couldnât sleep for days.âÂ
You hear the orphanage matronâs voice behind the bedroom door. Youâre allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasnât she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompsonâs wrinkly face and foul smile.Â
No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side.Â
âSo this is the child,â Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. âYou may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.â
The matron widens her eyes. âMissus Fawley, I strongly advise againstâ!â
âYou misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,â says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. âThat was not a request.â
A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what sheâs thinking about; wondering if itâs the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girlsâ noses bleed.)
âShow me,â Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piperâs song. For a few moments, you donât understand what sheâs asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toyâs limbsâseconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though itâs gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: âIâm a real boy!â
Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusionâwhen you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, theyâd begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You donât try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. âMy name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,â she tells you, and you donât have a lick of comprehension. âWhat do you know about witches and wizards, darling?â âI donât know, maybe. . .â You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glanceâFawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. âThat they arenât real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?â
Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if youâve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. âDamned Mugglesâ! Is that what they teach these days?â She shakes her head. âNo, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.â âAre you going to adopt me?â you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.
âI will,â she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. âBut if we are to become familyâthere is one thing you must do for me.â
âAnything!â You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you.Â
âNever lower your eyes.â She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. âYou are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.â
You believe her.
You believe her with all your heart.
But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves âmotherâ and embrace you with open arms.Â
The Fawley Manor is largeâlarger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldnât fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. Itâs like a princess castle coming to lifeâakin to the ones youâve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawleyâs home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (âThink of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,â says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor.Â
You meet Elsie, the house elfâyour first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She canât seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever.Â
âGet settled into your room, and then weâll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,â Fawley says after she ushers you into a roomâa bedroom just for you, where you wonât have to listen to anyone elseâs snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard theyâd given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.Â
Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you arenât looking forward to.Â
But, how bad could a school be if itâs filled with magic?Â
You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.Â
For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothingâand on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family youâve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else.Â
The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.
âVirtue in hardships,â Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. âI brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.â
âThe wizarding world is in grave danger,â she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. âWill you help me fight for the greater good?â
You blink.
You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?
âGreater good?â you echo in disbelief. âF-Fight? Fight who? Iâve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anneâs nose bleed w-was just an accident!âÂ
âI will be with you every step of the way,â she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. âTell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And Iâm preparing you for your role in this world starting now.âÂ
The ingĂ©nue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You donât understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantationâbut Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You donât want to go back to the orphanage, cold and aloneâso, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.Â
On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. Itâs the best birthday youâve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.Â
The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, âThis time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.â
âWhen that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.â Her eyes flash dangerously. âAnd you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this worldâdo not let them see that you are afraid.âÂ
And so, you donât tell her that sheâs petrified you to the bone.
âAs the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.â Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. âTo be envied by allâthe perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.â
When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, âYou must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumbleâif you let even a single person know what youâre truly feeling, all this will be for naught.â
The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.Â
âControl them before they can control you,â Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. âExert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.â
You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.Â
âSmile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.â Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. âBut most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. Youâll just be the greatest of them all.â
(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)
Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. âElsie will give Master her hat!â the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another.Â
Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of Septemberâa letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, youâre more than excited. (âOh, mother, look!â you exclaim, pointing to the various shopsâand also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. âA sweet shop! Fortescueâs ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!â) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hersâtoday is a special one, she decides. Youâre allowed a bit of fun. Especially since youâve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.Â
You get your very first wand at Ollivandersâand now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, youâll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you donât mindânot when youâve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.
As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world youâve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people sheâs warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you.Â
âWalburga!â Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesnât reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. âWhat a pleasant surprise, my dear.â She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. âOh, my! Is it that time already? Iâd forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.âÂ
Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. âFawley,â Walburga responds, rather displeased. âTalking my ear off, as usual.â Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. âAnd who might this little one be?âÂ
You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. âMadam Black, how do you do?â you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teethâthe two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.Â
Walburga stares you down harshly. âHow adorable.â Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. âSirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.âÂ
Missus Fawley laughs, a grating soundâmuch like warning bellsâas her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. âWhat a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.âÂ
âButâoh, dear, look at the time.â Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. âI promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. Iâd give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems youâre embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.â
âTa-ta!â She plants two, airy kisses on Walburgaâs cheeks before waving the three goodbye.Â
âThat,â Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. ââis exactly how to do it.â Â
You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what youâve gotten yourself into and what kind of world youâre about to live in.
How confusing.
All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.
âHufflepuff!â the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, youâll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.Â
(Hogwarts is the best!)Â
The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Thirdâs portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.Â
âSo you were sorted there,â Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. âThis would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matterâitâs not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bonesâ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Blackâs daughters as well.â
You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didnât want to be your friend, then thereâs no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twinsâ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pigâs head in the girlsâ dormitory just because.)
On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for youâmasqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests sheâs invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, whoâs already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.Â
As long as you donât trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?
(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Blackâs laughter haunts you.)
But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You donât fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black nĂ©e Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in.Â
You donât understand why Mother is so scared of these people.
But youâll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutorâyouâre bewildered at first, arguing that youâve consistently been at the top of your class. (âMadam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,â Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. âDance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. Youâll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.â)Â
Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorneâs cane.Â
Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.
Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor.Â
You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietnessâtruthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress youâve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S.Â
Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you donât at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. âMay I have this dance?âÂ
You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. âY-Yes, if you must,â you splutter, placing your palm in his.Â
He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing.Â
âIsnât it odd that the birthday celebrant wasnât dancing all this time?â he says, pulling you in for a twirl.Â
âI assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,â you reply timidly. âSheâs quite overprotective, you see.âÂ
âWho? That tall lady over there by Missus Black whoâs currently glaring at me?â James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. âShe couldnât possibly terrify me.â
âLily says thank you, by the way.âÂ
âOh? For what?â
âLetting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essayâsheâs downright shite at the subject. Donât tell her I said that, though.â
You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.
But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie.Â
When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real giftâyour debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where youâve never ventured before. Itâs deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. âBe brave,â is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)Â
In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaksâas though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her.Â
âWhat is this?â you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. âMother, what is going on?âÂ
Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. âMy lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.âÂ
âYou know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?â Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you arenât careful. âThe Cruciatus, the Imperius, andâ?â
âThe killing curse,â you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching.Â
âThatâs right, little one,â says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the manâs mouth. Itâs worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. âMuggles,â she spits the word out like venom. âLook at them. Theyâre filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.â
âKill him,â Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. âKill him and youâll have proved your worth to us.âÂ
âNo! No, please!â The man struggles against Abraxasâs arms. âPlease! I have a family! A c-child!â
You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. âIâ!â
âKill him, pet!â Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. âMake sure you mean it! Otherwise it wonât hurt!â
âYou know the words,â says Walburga, lifting your pliable armâa puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. âSay it.â
The man before you is real. Heâs a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? âMother, pleaseâI canât. I w-wont.â Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. âI donât. . . I donât understand.â
Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.Â
Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. âI canât do thisâplease!â
âYou will.â
You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. âAvada Kedavra!â
The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.Â
A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.Â
That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguishâyou cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.Â
âDo you get it now?â says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. âThis is your world from now on.âÂ
You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. âI donât want to live in your worldânot anymore! I donât care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! Youâre a monster!âÂ
âGood.â Fawleyâs voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. âThat means youâre ready for your next lesson.â
âDidnât you hear me? I said I was done!â you retort, sore from crying.
âDonât you see?â says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. âWe will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.âÂ
As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, âReady yourself. Iâll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.â Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.Â
When you return to school after the winter holidays, youâre forced to pretend that you hadnât taken the life of an innocent Muggle.Â
âDo not let them see you are afraid.âÂ
âUnfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dressâitâs crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,â you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give inâalmost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothersâvying for the pedestal youâve been put on by their parents.Â
For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. âCan you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?â
(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. Youâre more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideonâsomeone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just wonât.)Â
âOh, you cruel wench!â Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someoneâs life.
Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if youâre alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved itâwell, youâre not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassivelyâoh, itâs nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. âMy mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.â
âYou and your mother can kiss my arse!â she shrieks, eyes ablaze.
âGideon didnât deserve that, and you know it,â Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twinâs dejected expression. âHow could you even say that?âÂ
âHow could I not, Lily darling?â you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.
Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. âYou are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature Iâve ever seen.âÂ
She has the softest voice youâve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.Â
Youâve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that youâd wash the feel of your sins off your handsâitâs all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but youâre the fool that played right into her act.
You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, âThere are far worse creatures out there, Evans. Youâre lucky youâve been born only a Muggleborn.â
Fortunate that she wonât ever have to play the role that youâve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards herâeffortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake thatâs only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.Â
And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.Â
âSay another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,â Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.
Oh, how easy they make it for you.Â
You smile in delight. âSo you think Iâm pretty?â
Marlene lunges.
(You are so tired of it all.)
Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agathaâs lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (âAgain!â Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. âDo you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! Weâre going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!â)Â
While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, youâre stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, youâve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time.Â
But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely?Â
There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.Â
A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. Youâre not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctorâs stern orders.Â
You also learn that sheâs absolutely insaneâbut that is a fact youâve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, youâd let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycanâs curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.Â
âA werewolf? In Hogwarts?â Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. âNo, no, no. . .â she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. Itâs the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. âDumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!âÂ
âDonât worry, my dear,â says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusionâyou hadnât been worried about that student at all. âIâll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.âÂ
âThatâs it,â she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. âPerhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house propertiesâcan you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything Iâve worked so hard for!âÂ
âMother?â you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. âMother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,â you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. âYou canât do this!âÂ
âDo not tell me what I can or cannot do!â Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. âEverything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!âÂ
âWell then, why didnât you?â you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. âMaybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldnât have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!âÂ
Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think itâs in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and thereâs crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. âHa,â she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. âMerlin, what have I done? IâIâve gone too farâeven the Gods cannot save me.â
The despair in her voice is confounding. âCome here, my love,â she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palmsâhow many times have you been in this position before? âIâm sorry,â she sobs, shoulders trembling. âOh, my darling, I am so sorry. Iâm afraid Iâve doomed the both of us.â She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. âMy child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?âÂ
You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. âI am to die soon,â says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. âBut you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.âÂ
She lets her head hang limply. âI-I am tired, as well. Iâve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hardâthat is what Iâve lived by all these years.â
âAnd so must you.â Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.Â
You hate her.Â
You hate her with all your heart.Â
But even monsters need a heart to breathe.Â
A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (âThis is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,â your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. âDo not let him in no matter what.â) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.Â
The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and youâre lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floorsâyour breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddleâs chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.Â
(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You donât understand why this is the world you must live in.)Â
âCome here, my dear,â Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.Â
Tom Riddle is handsomeâyou notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your ownâinstantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and youâre nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimencyâobstinate bastard.Â
âThis one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.â Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath youâve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. âHow fascinating.âÂ
You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.Â
âMy Lord,â you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. âWhat an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.âÂ
Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. âDo not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!âÂ
âEnough, Bella,â Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. âIâve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.â She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for herâalmost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to childrenânow, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Naginiâs forked tongue flicking in anticipation.Â
âTell me, my dear,â says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. âHas your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.â
You grow frigid in his hold. âNot at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.âÂ
Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. âI see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?âÂ
Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. âMy Lord,â you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. âThe only reason there isnât much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophetâs eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,â you say, desperation pouring from each word.Â
You donât want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure itâyou can endure it all so long as you arenât eternally condemned to his name.Â
âTake that away, and youâll face significant repercussions,â you threaten boldly. âI promise you that. They look away because of me.âÂ
For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the publicâs attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partnersâyou had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposedâsuch as anti-werewolf bills.Â
And Voldemort would never notice that youâve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.Â
(Youâre also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)Â
If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no oneâs business but the Orderâsâand yours.Â
For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your motherâs cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrowâbut youâll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.Â
Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.Â
A day before youâre set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.Â
There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoyâs guest roomâthe Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawleyâs voices blend into a cacophony of panic. Theyâre shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulusâs hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.Â
But you donât feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.Â
You scream, cry, and scream againâyou feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skinâbut itâs not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.Â
Bile rises to your throat.Â
Tears fall from your eyes.Â
(How cold is the floor? You donât even care anymore.)
And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddleâs monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your armâAbraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You canât believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)Â
âIâll. . . kill him,â you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing youâll ever do, you will have Voldemortâs head on a silver platter.Â
âDonât be foolish,â Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. âNone of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that weâre given.âÂ
âI promise. . . you,â you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. âIâll destroy them all.âÂ
You pass out in her arms.Â
When you awake, youâre on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.Â
You donât bother attending your classesâseeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when youâre just a pawn in someoneâs, everyoneâs plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internallyâyouâve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.Â
You are tired.Â
How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?Â
Youâre only seventeenâhow can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?Â
The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happenâif you just run away now.Â
Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you?Â
Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.Â
Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabiniâclaiming that you had stolen her beau from her.
You toss the newspaper into the fire.Â
Some nights, you donât bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.Â
For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizonâif you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.
Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit.Â
Maybe. . .Â
If you move a few inches forward. . .Â
If you just fly.Â
Youâd be free.Â
âOh, I didnât know this window was occupied.â You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. âI guess Iâll. . . find somewhere else to brood.âÂ
I donât care.Â
Go away.Â
I want to die.
If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?Â
You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.Â
Starlings chirp and fly past youâhow liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with.Â
You let your weight shift over the window.Â
Maybe if you fall, you could see what itâs like to fly.Â
âH-Hey! Donâtâ!â Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embraceâthe both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. âWhy would you do that? Are you mad?â
You sigh.Â
Maybe tomorrow, then.Â
âOi!â Remus pokes your shoulder. âDonât just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.â His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at youâjust to make sure youâre still in front of him. âA-Are you okay?â he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. âDo you want to talk about it or anything?âÂ
You shrug. âNothing to talk about.â
His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. âI think thatâs a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.âÂ
An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.
Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. âHey. . . listen. We donât know each other all that wellâso this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?â
He opens his arms wide enough for you to fitâand you stare at him in horror. âCâmon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.âÂ
You stay silent.Â
He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. âI donât bite. Promise. One hug and weâll go on pretending like we donât know each other tomorrow. Marauderâs honor.â
âI havenât done anything to deserve your kindness,â you say with a prominent sneerâcertainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice.Â
Remus smiles. âI think youâll find that my kindness is freely given.âÂ
You nibble on your bruised lip.Â
Could you really?Â
Maybe just this once.Â
Youâre only human, magic as you are.Â
You take one step forward.Â
Then another.Â
Another.
Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, âYouâre alright, love. Let it out. Iâm here.â You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you donât feel like youâre floating away into oblivion.Â
Maybe youâd stay aliveâfor a few more days.Â
To do what is right.Â
To endure.Â
Perhaps, tomorrow will be easierâif such kindness is real, maybe youâre allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.Â
But your nightmare doesnât end when youâre awakeâit takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallowâs Eve.Â
Youâre not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddleâs followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of nightâit must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Luciusâs shadow. You search for your mother but she doesnât appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yoursâNarcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.Â
Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finallyâ
Your mother.Â
Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands.Â
You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your visionâNarcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.Â
âWe have found a traitor in our midst!â Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the groundâyour fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. âI caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!âÂ
âNo,â you whisper, dread knocking you backwardsâit just isnât possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands.Â
One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.
âIf the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!â Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.
Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. âIs this true?â he asks, drawing blood from your skin. âTell me!âÂ
âNo!â you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. âItâs notâlet me go! That is my mother! Youâre hurting her! Sheâs sick!â
âThat,â Riddleâs eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, âis a betrayer to our cause.âÂ
âSheâs not!â you scream.
âHow did she find out, then?â Voldemort flings you to the groundâimmediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and youâre blasted into the wallsâyou feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you wonât let him in. Heâll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.
The pain is searingâyouâre being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddleâs magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. âWeâre not traitors!â you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your motherâs listless body. âI swear!â
Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. âCrucio!â
âNo! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!â you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. âYouâre killing her!â
Tom snarls, âGood.â
Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manorâyou swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. âYour mummy over there is done for. But youâour precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.âÂ
She puts your wand and closes your fist over the woodâyour eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. âKill her. And you may live.âÂ
âJust say it,â Bellatrix whispers in your ear. âTwo little words. Youâve already done this before, petâthe second time should be easy enough!â
âNo!â you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at youâbut to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.Â
âMum, wake up, please!âÂ
You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops youâand you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. Itâs a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddleâs invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.
âThank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.â
âKill her!â Voldemort rages into your ear.Â
You watch as Fawleyâs eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. âItâs okay, my darling,â she whispers tiredly. âI. . . can rest now.â
For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someoneâs heartâthis time, itâs your motherâs.Â
âWhat are you waiting for?â Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. âKill her! Before I do it myself!âÂ
Thereâs a faint smile on her face.Â
âIâm. . . sorry.â
Those are Agatha Fawleyâs last words before you take away her life.
The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor.Â
But your eyes are on one person and one person only.
Tom Riddle.Â
âAvada Kedavra!â
He will know your pain.
Not today, not tomorrow.
But youâll destroy them all, one by one.
a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA
#poly!marauders x reader#hp angst#hp fluff#hp imagine#james potter x reader#lily evans x reader#marauders x reader#poly!marauders fluff#x reader#remus lupin x reader#sirius black x reader#reader insert#poly marauders#poly!marauders imagine#poly!marauders#sunny's hp fics#x reader angst#poly!marauders angst#poly!marauders x you#marauders fanfiction#marauders angst#marauders imagine
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iv. what's up danger?
SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. Iâm pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established Relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey
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âŻàŒ»â°ââââ
The room falls into a stunned silence, every gaze drawn to your disheveled, bloodied appearance.
You attempt a casual wave, but it comes off as weak and awkward. Blood drips from your bruised knuckles, each drop splattering with a muted plop onto the polished floor. âHey, everyone. Sorry, Iâm late.â
Jasonâs eyes flare with a dangerous glint of green as he barks, âWhat the fuck happened, kid?â
A typical dinner at the Waynes.
âŻàŒ»â°ââââ
Wednesday, 6:54 PM - Catwomanâs Apartment, Gotham City.Â
Three Days Later
THE ROOM IS QUIET except for the occasional rustle of clothing as you pack your things. You carefully fold your favorite hoodie, tucking it neatly into the suitcase. Next, you grab a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, and your worn-out sneakers.Â
You pause, your fingers lingering on a framed photo resting on the edge of the dresser. It's a snapshot of you and Damian at a carnival, his arm slung over your shoulder, his lips gently pressed against your head.Â
Itâs been three days of radio silence between you and Damian. Three days of not speaking, which is practically a record for your relationship. And just when you were starting to get used to the peace and quiet, Bruce had to go and invite you and Selina to a celebratory dinner tonight. A gourmet guilt trip.
With a sigh, you place the photo gently on top of your clothes. Then you move to your desk, gathering a stack of notebooks crammed with sketches and half-finished plans scribbled on napkins and crumpled scraps of paper. You tuck them into the side pocket of your bag, carefully arranging the chaotic collection so that it all fits.
The door creaks open, and Selina steps into the room, her arms crossed with a proud smile playing on her lips.
âPacking up for your big adventure?â she asks.
You look up from your suitcase, a small smile tugging at your lips. âYeah. Itâs only for a month, but it feels like Iâm leaving for a year.â
âA month isnât so long.â Selina walks over, her feet thudding softly on the floor. She picks up a small figurine from your desk, examining it with a thoughtful expression. âThink of it as a chance to stretch your wings and maybe learn a thing or two.â
âThanks.â You smile and turn back to your packing, reaching for your suit. The sleek, black material glistens under the soft light filtering through the window. You run your fingers over the spider emblem stitched into the back, feeling the familiar texture beneath your fingertips.
âYouâre not seriously thinking of bringing the suit, are you?â she asks.
You hesitate, feeling the weight of the suit in your hands. âI thought I might need it. Just in case.â
âWell, youâre not planning on fighting crime in Stark Tower, are you?â she snarks, hands finding her hips as she gives you a look that clearly says sheâs not buying your excuse. âThis internship is a chance for you to have a life outside the vigilante shtick. Itâs good for your future. A chance to live a normal life.â
âNormal? Mom, I stopped being normal the day I got these powers. There's no going back to that.â
âMaybe not,â Selina concedes, running gentle fingers through your hair. âBut that doesnât mean you canât have something close to it. You deserve to have options, to see what else is out there for you.â
You meet her gaze, your resolve unwavering. âI hear you. But I think I need to bring it. Just in case something goes wrong.â
Selina sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. âGod. You are just as stubborn as me,â she says, rising to her feet with a resigned smile. âJust promise me youâll keep an open mind about this internship. Give it a real shot, okay?â
âPromise,â you hum, feeling a small sense of relief. As you reach for the suit to tuck it into your bag, your phone buzzes insistently.
Quickly, you glance at the screen.
Morgana:
Busy tonight? Thereâs a shipment near the docks. Tech equipment from what I see.
You could infiltrate. They have valuable info.
It's⊠Black Mask.
For a while, you stare at the phone, your thumb hovering over the screen, itching to swipe through the new messages. But Selina is still standing nearby. With a soft cough and a resigned exhale, you place the phone face down on the floor, deliberately ignoring the message for now.
You turn your attention back to your suitcase, refocusing on the task at hand. Selina watches you with a knowing look but doesnât press further. The silence in the room is filled with the subtle rustle of fabric and the soft clink of zippers as you continue packing.
âReady for tonight?â Selina asks.
You nod, though a knot tightens in your stomach. Bruceâs congratulatory dinner feels less like a celebration and more like an impending test, especially with the unresolved tension between you and Damian hanging heavy.
âReady as I'll ever be,â you reply, attempting to sound confident.
You zip up the suitcase, taking a moment to glance around the room. Everything seems to be in place, but you double-check, making sure you havenât forgotten anything essential.Â
Selina nods approvingly, then steps closer, bending to pull you into a hug. âIâll go get dressed. You do too, alright?â
Selina leaves the room, her footsteps fading into the distance. Turning back to your suitcase, you rummage through the clothes, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans and a red jacket. After slipping on some socks and sneakers, you reach for a black shirt. But as your hand hovers over the fabric, your gaze is drawn to your suit laid out on the bed.
The spider logo on its back glares at you, its eight-legged emblem almost seeming to reach out with an imperceptible pull, as if urging you to embrace your other self.
After a moment of inner conflict, you give in. You carefully pull on the suit beneath your clothes, the snug material wrapping around you like a second skin. With the suit in place, you slip on your black shirt, followed by the jacket and jeans. You tuck your mask into the pocket of your jacket.
Wearing a superhero suit under your clothes for a fancy dinnerâdefinitely not a sign of insanity. Totally normal behavior. Call it creative paranoia.
With everything packed and ready, you head downstairs. Selina is still in her room, and you catch sight of her as she steps into view, looking a touch more formal than you in a sleek, off-shoulder black dress that hugs her curves. Itâs short, tight, and elegant.
âDone already?â she hums, moving to her vanity and starting on her hair and makeup.
You nod, leaning against the doorframe and giving your hair a casual tousle. âYeah, figured Iâd keep it simple. Not sure Iâm in the mood for fancy.â
Selina glances at you through the mirror, a small, reassuring smile curling her lips. âYou look great. And donât worry too much about tonight. Itâll be fine.â
âI hope so,â you murmur, more to yourself than to her.
The clock on the wall reads 7:00. You have three hours before the dinner, and Selina, always the early planner, will be occupied with her preparations for a while.
Pulling out your phone, you check Morganâs message again. If you played your cards right, you could handle the shipment bust quickly and still make it to the dinner on time.
Clearing your throat, you push yourself off the doorframe and tug your hood back on. You head downstairs, making sure to keep your movements casual and unhurried, as if nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen.
âIâll be heading out for a bit. I want to get some flowers for Alfred,â you call out, your voice carrying through the house.
Selina glances up from her vanity, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. âAlright, but donât be too long. We need to leave once the driver arrives.â
âGot it,â you reply with a quick nod, turning and heading out of the room. You make your way downstairs, slipping out the front door and into the crisp evening air.
Once youâre in the privacy of a nearby alleyway, you waste no time. Tugging off your shirt, you shove it into the pocket of your jacket, feeling a rush of adrenaline. You slip on your mask, adjusting it carefully until it fits snugly, the familiar material settling comfortably against your skin. Your jeans, jacket, and sneakers stay on for practicality, and you plan to put the black shirt back on later.
With everything in place, you secure your earpiece and gadgets, pressing the earpiece into position and activating it. The familiar hum of your tech springs to life, and youâre ready to move.Â
The cityâs sounds fade as you slip into the shadows.
âMorgz? You there?â you call out, already scaling up the side of a building.
A crackle of static precedes Morganâs voice. âYeah, Iâm here. You on your way?â
âJust about to leave,â you reply, grabbing onto a ledge and pulling yourself up. âAny updates on the shipment?â
âItâs scheduled to arrive in about 30 minutes. The tech equipment is being unloaded from a truck into a warehouse. Securityâs decent, but nothing you canât handle. Youâre only 15 minutes away from your spot right now.â
âGot it,â you confirm, reaching the rooftop and taking a moment to scan the area below. âIâll keep you posted. Thanks for the heads-up.â
You launch into action, web-slinging towards the docks with a focus on speed. Normally, youâd be showboating and performing flips, but tonight, every second counts. The journey takes a bit longer than expectedâ20 minutes instead of 15.
As you approach the docks, you spot a boat pulling up to the edge, its silhouette cutting through the darkness.
âSurprised you even took this up,â Morganâs voice murmurs through your earpiece. âThought you weren't allowed to patrol on school nights.â
âTechnically⊠Iâm not,â you reply, weaving between buildings and adjusting your trajectory for a swift descent.
âYeesh. Going rebellious already?â
âTeenage angst, remember?â you quip, a grin forming beneath your mask as you prepare to intercept the shipment
Landing on a rooftop adjacent to the warehouse, you take a moment to plan your entry. The warehouse is a large, industrial building with a few tall windows and a side door that looks like itâs used for deliveries.
Security cameras are mounted on the corners of the building, rotating every now and then. You quickly survey the area, noting the guards' position.
There are a couple of guards patrolling the perimeter, walking in predictable patterns. One guard is stationed near the side door, checking his watch occasionally. The other two are more mobile, taking turns walking around the exterior and scanning the area.
Beyond the security, you see five workers moving boxes from the boat to the warehouse. The open doors at the far end reveal crates of tech equipment being unloaded.
You activate your earpiece. "Update. Three guards outside. Five active workers. They've got cameras. Can you get those down for me?"
Morgan's voice crackles through your earpiece. "On it. Give me a sec."
You watch the cameras, waiting for them to go offline. The guard near the side door looks at his watch again, oblivious to what's about to happen.Â
After a tense moment, Morgan's voice comes back. "Cameras are down. You've got about an hour before the system kicks in again. Oh. That and there are about 5 more guards inside."
"Perfect," you hum.
You time your movements with the guards' patrols, slipping through the shadows. You approach the side door, keeping low and quiet.
Inside, the warehouse is dimly lit, with stacks of crates creating narrow pathways. The workers are busy unloading the truck, their focus on the task at hand. You crawl up the walls swiftly and silently.
You spot a terminal near the back of the warehouse, its blinking lights indicating itâs connected to the inventory system.
Time to get to work.
âI'm at the terminal. Whatâs next?â you whisper into the earpiece.
Morganâs voice comes through with a steady tone. âPlug in the flash drive to copy the inventory data. While thatâs running, find the main control panel for the security system and plant the tracker. This will help us monitor future shipments.â
You nod, even though she can't see you. "Got it. Flash drive first, then tracker."
You slip to the terminal and plug in the flash drive, which hums softly as it starts copying data. Glancing around to make sure no one is watching, you head to the security control panel hidden behind some crates and quickly plant the tracker.
"The tracker is set," you inform Morgan.
"Great job. The data copy should be done soon. Once itâs finished, you can pull the flash drive and get out of there."
You head back to the terminal, keeping an eye on the workers and guards. The flash drive's light blinks, signaling it's almost finished. After a few tense moments, the light turns solid.
"Data copied," Morgan confirms. "Youâre clear to go."
You pull out the flash drive, tuck it into your pocket, and start heading toward the exit, blending into the shadows. Just as you reach the door, you hear voices nearby.
âHey, did you hear something?â
Your heart stops as the guardâs flashlight beam sweeps dangerously close to your hiding spot. You freeze, pressing yourself against the cold metal wall, barely breathing.
âProbably just a rat. Let's check it out just in case.â
You curse silently under your breath, watching as the guards start moving in your direction.
The first guard steps closer, his flashlight scanning the area. You silently crawl up the wall, positioning yourself above him. With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at the flashlight, yanking it out of his hand and into the darkness.
âWhat theââ the guard starts, but you quickly web his mouth shut and pull him up towards the ceiling, wrapping him tightly in webbing and securing him to the roof. You knock his head against the metal, and he passes out.
The second guard, alarmed by the sudden commotion, turns his back to you as he draws his weapon. The rifle fires, but your spider sense helps you dodge the shots.Â
Cursing, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground. Before he can react, you web his hands to the floor and sling his weapon away.
Dropping from the ceiling, you slow your landing with a web and slam your foot down onto his head, knocking him out.
Despite the quiet disposal of the two guards, the earlier rifle shot already alerted the other workers and guards in the warehouse. You hear shouts and hurried footsteps approaching.
âSomeoneâs here! Find them!â
Guards scramble, their flashlights slicing through the darkness, casting erratic beams that dance across the warehouse walls. You sprint away, weaving between crates and machinery, but a new threat emerges from the shadowsâa massive, burly man, easily twice your size. Heâs built like a brick wall, his muscles straining against his uniform, and his face looks like itâs been chiseled out of stone, etched with a permanent scowl.
âWhoâs messing around in 'ere?â the giant roars, his voice reverberating through the cavernous space. He brandishes a rifle, and from the looks of it, he seems to be their leader.
You glance at your watchâdamn, itâs been two hours already.Â
Only an hour left.
Still⊠you could probably get one fight in before leaving.
âŠ
Swinging out of the shadows, you land in front of the giant, hands on your hips.
âHi, Mr. Villain!â you call out, catching a punch he throws and giving his hand a playful shake. âIâm Spidey, your friendly neighborhood nuisance. Always nice to meet someone with such a âheavyâ presence. Looks like youâve got a bit of a security problem hereâtotally my bad.â
The giant snarls at you. He fires his rifle, but you deftly dodge the bullets. With a swift move, you fire a web at his feet and arms, pinning him momentarily to the ground. The rifle is knocked from his hands, clattering out of reach.
The guards scramble to regroup, and you spring into action. Flipping back into the air, you disarm the remaining guardsâquick web blasts here, a roundhouse kick there, an uppercut thrown. Each guard crumples under the assault, slamming against the walls one by one, webbed together in a tangled heap.
Thereâs a snap as the leader breaks free, roaring in fury and charging at you. You duck under his swinging arm and fire a web at a stack of crates. The crates topple and crash into his path, heavy wood and metal smashing together. He stumbles, cursing and flailing wildly.
âCareful there! You might just crush your own merchandise,â you taunt, sidestepping his erratic swings.
In that moment of distraction, you snatch his gun away with a quick webshot. But as you turn to face him again, a jolt of pure adrenaline slams through your veins, sharp and unrelenting, like an electric shock.
The world sharpens into hyperfocus.Â
DANGER!
Your instincts scream at you to move. You leap to the side, but itâs already too late. A shadowy figure springs from the darkness, their knife catching a deadly glint in the harsh warehouse lights.
The blade slices through your suit, leaving a searing, agonizing wound. You stagger, clutching your side as blood seeps through the torn fabric and pools on the cold concrete. With a pained grimace, you muster the strength to shoot a web at the attacker, slamming them against the wall with a forceful swing.
âSpidey?! Come in. Shit. What happened to staying stealthy?â Morgan's voice crackles through the earpiece. âPEPPER, run back their vitals on me.â
A mechanical voice responds through your earpiece. âVitals are stable. The wound is a deep six-inch laceration on the left side, with moderate blood loss, but the suit's padding has helped. The injury missed major organs and arteries. Immediate first aid and stitches are recommended.â
âLooks like Iâve got a new scar to show for tonight,â you heave, trying to ignore the throbbing pain as the giant stalks toward you. âBut Iâm not done yet.â
The man's roar shakes the warehouse.
âYou think you can take me, you puny spider?!â
You lift your chin, tilting your head with a smirk. âPuny? Thatâs funny. Iâve taken down bigger.â
The giant lunges, brandishing a scrap of metal like a battering ram. You barely dodge, feeling the whoosh of air as it swings past. You retaliate with a web shot to his face, but he roars and swats it away, his massive arms tearing through your webbing.
âCareful there, big guy,â you quip, âIâm not into heavy metal, but thanks for the offer!â
His hand clamps onto your chest, lifting you off your feet with an alarming strength. He hurls you against a stack of crates, the impact slamming you into the wall. You slide down to the floor, dazed and with blood trickling from a split lip.
While you're down, the giant strides toward you, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground like a mini earthquake. You struggle to rise, just as he launches a flying knee. Your senses scream, a blaring alarm urging you to move.
!!!
With a yelp, you roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow that hits where you had been seconds before.
âHey, watch it! Iâve got places to be after this!â you yell.
Before you can react, a powerful punch slams into your face, sending you spiraling backward.
âOwie. That oneâs definitely gonna leave a mark,â you groan, pain radiating through your skull. Desperately, you shoot a web at his legs, hoping to slow him down. The webbing holds for a moment before he rips through it with sheer brute force.
Groaning, you shake off the dizziness, rolling your shoulders to loosen them before pushing yourself back to your feet.
âAlright,â you mutter, taking a deep breath. âClearly, the webs arenât working. Guess weâre sticking to fists. Put âem up, big guy.â
Laughing with a guttural, mocking tone, the giant charges at you. As he lunges, you brace yourself and bring your fist up to guard your face. With a burst of power, you jab forward. Your knuckles connect with his face with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone shattering and flesh splitting echoing through the warehouse like a thunderclap.
JAB!
The man staggers back, his head snapping violently to the side, blood spraying from his jaw. Before he can recover, you launch into a spinning kick. Your leg connects with explosive force, slamming him into the wall with a resounding thud.
You follow up with a powerful jump, driving a kick into his ribs. The impact echoes with a sickening crack. He roars in pain and collapses, slumped against the wall.
With quick reflexes, you shoot a web at a high pipe, coiling it tightly. You yank the pipe down with all your strength. It crashes onto the giant with a resounding clang, the impact knocking him out cold.
You take a couple of deep breaths, blood and sweat mingling on your clothes and face as you survey the wreckage. The giant groans weaklyâalive, but definitely out of commission for the moment.
âLooks like the big guyâs all out of steam,â you murmur, wiping the blood from your brow with a grim smile. âNow, time to find that exit before my own steam runs out.â
With a final glance at the chaos you've left behind, you swing toward the exit. The cut on your side throbs with each movementâthough it's slowly healing, the pain and blood are still very much present.
"Spidey? You alright? What the fuck, you just beat that guy within an inch of his life."
âHeâll live,â you huff as you swing through the streets. After fumbling around for a while, you pull your phone from your jacket and curse at the time.Â
Only ten minutes before the car arrives.Â
âUh, Morgz, do me a favor. Whereâs the nearest flower shop?â
"Christ. You just busted down an illegal tech deal and now you're out for flowers?" Morganâs response comes through the earpiece before you hear some typing. âThereâs a florist two blocks from your current location. Iâm sending you the address. ButâYou really need to take care of that wound.â
âNothing I canât handle,â you reply. There's a ping as the location pops up on your phone. âJust need to pick up some flowers. Trust me, itâs important.â
You adjust your swing to head toward the florist, landing quietly in the alley outside. With quick movements, you slip off your mask and start changing. You discard your jacket, revealing the bloodied suit underneath. The suitâs dark color masks most of the stains, but it's still a grim sight.
Pulling on your shirt over the suit, you try to conceal the worst of the mess. The sticky, wet feeling of blood against your skin is unpleasant, and you grimace as you adjust the shirt. Finally, you slip the jacket back on, hoping it will help you blend in and give you a semblance of normalcy.
Taking a deep breath, you straighten up and glance at your reflection in the nearby puddle. The image staring back at you is a disheveled mess: hair tousled, face bruised and bloodied, jeans stained with grime and blood, and a jacket barely concealing it all.
âNot my best look,â you bite your lip. âBut itâll have to do.â
With a sigh, you step into the flower shop. The bell above the door jingles softly, and the warm, floral scent is a welcome relief from the warehouseâs stench.
The florist looks up from behind the counter with a curious glance. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your disheveled appearance but he doesnât seem particularly fazed.
In Gotham, a bloodied teenager is probably just another Wednesday.
âEvening,â the florist says, his voice carrying the neutrality of someone accustomed to the oddities of city life. âWhat can I do for you?â
You give a quick nod, trying to keep your tone casual despite the blood still seeping through your shirt. âNeed something nice. Simple. No need for anything flashy.â
The florist nods and starts arranging a bouquet of flowers. You drift over to a corner and find yourself looking at some daisies, their bright, cheerful colors a stark contrast to your current state.
âSpidey? Howâs it going?âÂ
âAlright,â you shrug, though she canât see it. âCan I get a rundown on my vitals again?â
Morganâs voice hums and thereâs the sound of clicking keys. âVitals are stable. The cut is slowly healing, but youâll need to properly bandage and get some of that stitched later Happy to say you're not going to die bleeding out.âÂ
She pauses, and then adds, âYouâve got a couple of broken ribs though.â
You blink in surprise and pat at your sides, feeling nothing. âReally? Guess thatâs my pain tolerance working overtime. Didnât even notice.â
âPlease tell me youâre getting that treated first,â Morgan says, a hint of concern in her voice.
âNope,â you reply, moving to pay for the flowers. âAlready running late. Mom will kill me if she finds out.â
Morganâs voice is laced with skepticism. âSheâs going to find out anyway.â
You sigh, trying to ignore the twinge in your side. âIâll just say it was a mugging.â
âDo you really think sheâll believe that?â Morgan asks, her tone dry.
You let out a small, pained chuckle. âIn Gotham, maybe. But realisticallyâŠno. Iâm just hoping to buy myself a little time before it all catches up to me.â
With the bouquet in hand, you head back out into the night. You tuck the flowers into your free pocket and swing off into the darkness. As you soar through the city, you reach for your earpiece and say a quick, âGoodnight, Morgz,â before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans.
Just as you near the bridge, your phone rings. You glance at the screen and curse under your breathâSelinaâs calling, and from the look of it, sheâs been trying to reach you multiple times over the past hour.
Yeah, youâre fucked.
You answer the call, forcing a casual tone. âHey, Mom. Whatâs up?â
Selinaâs voice comes through, clearly agitated. You can hear her huffing as she closes the apartment door, the background noise of a car engine rumbling outside. âWhere the hell are you? Iâve been waiting forever. Weâre all set to head out.â
You quickly scan the streets below as you swing past, trying to gauge your location. âUh, Iâm on 2nd Broadway⊠actually, make that 3rd Broadway. And⊠4th of Broadway! Iâll be there in⊠twenty minutes tops. Almost there, Mom!â
Thereâs a pause.
â... Are you swinging?â
âNope,â you lie smoothly, narrowly dodging a pigeon that flaps angrily past your face. âJust a bit of a detour. You know how it is.â
âHoney. I can hear the wind. Are you really swinging around? Itâs a school night. You know the rulesââ
You wince, knowing youâve been caught. âJust⊠had a few things to take care of. Iâm on my way. Promise. Actually, why donât I meet you at Wayne Manor instead? Iâm near the bridge. Ya know, the one by the docks.â
Thereâs another pause on her end.Â
âWhy are you near the docks?!â
You avoid the question, trying to keep the conversation moving. âLong story. Look, Iâm running late. Can we just meet at Wayne Manor? Iâll explain everything after dinner.â
Selinaâs frustration doesnât ease, but she sighs. âFine. Wayne Manor it is. But donât think for a second youâre off the hook, young lady.â
You nod, even though she canât see it. âUnderstood. See you soon. Love you, Mom!â
àŒ»â°ââââ
BEEP.
Selina scowls as she ends the call and heads down to meet Alfred. The gritty streets of Gotham greet her, the cacophony of sirens and street chatter providing a harsh backdrop to her mood.
Alfred, noticing her irritated state, opens the door for her with a raised eyebrow. "Good to see you Miss Kyle. May I ask where the young miss is?"
Selina forces a smile, trying to mask her frustration. âSheâs⊠handling something that came up last minute. Sheâll meet us at the manor.â
"Very well. I trust sheâll be punctual." Alfred says, a hint of concern in his eyes, but he says nothing more. He closes the door behind her as she slips into the car, adjusting her coat and glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.
The engine starts, the low hum blending with the cityâs background noise. As the vehicle pulls away, Selina leans back against the cool leather seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, her mind already racing through the conversation she knows is coming.
You were dead meat.
àŒ»â°ââââ
After nearly an hour of high-speed swings through Gotham, you finally touch down in a secluded area near Wayne Manor. You're breathless and disheveled, your earlier efforts to look presentable having fallen short. You quickly scan the area, making sure the security cameras donât catch your arrival.
Taking a moment to compose yourself, you adjust your clothes and press the doorbell. The chime rings through the grand entrance. You glance at your phone and winceâyou're an hour and thirty minutes late.
The swinging took longer than expected, and to make matters worse, you had to intervene when this ginger reporter was being robbed. You couldnât just stand by and do nothing.
Now, as you wait by the gate, you hear footsteps approaching from inside. The door swings open to reveal Alfred, who freezes for a moment, his eyes widening at the sight of youâbruised, bloodied, and clearly worse for wear. You lean against the gate, your fingers curling around the metal.
ïżœïżœHâHey, Al.â
âGoodness me!â Alfred exclaims, hurrying over to the gate and pulling it open wide. He rushes over, opening the gate wider and pulling you inside with a practiced ease. His gaze sweeps over your injuries, concern etched deeply into his features. âMiss Kyle, youâre in quite a state!â
You manage a tired smile, carefully pulling the bouquet from your jacket. Itâs in rough shapeâtorn petals, crushed blooms, and snapped stems. It looks like itâs on the verge of dying.
âSorry Iâm late,â you say, wincing as you hold up the sad arrangement. âThese⊠are for you. I, uh, ran all the way here. I hope Iâm not too late for dinner.â
Alfred takes the flowers with a gentle smile, his concern momentarily overshadowed by a touch of warmth. âThank you, Miss Kyle. However, I assure you itâs fine. The others have already started eating. They wonât mind if youââ
âItâs fine! This is justâŠ,â you pause, pursing your lips as you scramble for a plausible excuse. You force a smile, shaking your head and pulling your jacket hood further over your face to hide the swelling bruise around one of your eyes. âHah, you know how Gotham can be.â
Alfred gives you a sympathetic glance but says nothing more. âVery well. If youâll follow me, Iâll show you to the dining room.â
He guides you through the grand hallways, your footsteps echoing in the vast space and mingling with the soft murmur of conversation. As you reach the dining room, the door swings open, revealing a table set with care and already abuzz with activity. Selina, Bruce, and the others are seated, their animated conversations abruptly halting as they turn to look at you.
The room falls into a stunned silence, every gaze drawn to your disheveled, bloodied appearance.
Selinaâs eyes narrow into slits, her irritation barely concealed behind a strained, tight-lipped smile. Bruceâs complexion drains to an ashen hue, his eyes are wide as saucers, looking like heâs about to pass out from shock. He casts Selina a panicked glance, which she meets with a weary sigh, her hands momentarily covering her face as if trying to shield herself from the mess. She looks utterly drained.
You attempt a casual wave, but it comes off as weak and awkward. Blood drips from your bruised knuckles, each drop splattering with a muted plop onto the polished floor. âHey, everyone. Sorry, Iâm late.â
Jasonâs eyes flare with a dangerous glint of green as he barks, âWhat the fuck happened, kid?â
Next to him, Cassandraâs face is blank. Her fingers fidget with her utensils as she shifts her gaze rapidly between you and Selina, trying to piece together the fractured narrative from your battered appearance and Selinaâs body language.
Bruce, who had been quietly observing, stands up and approaches you with slow, measured steps.
âYouâre hurt,â he says, his voice a deep, resonant murmur. His hands, surprisingly gentle for their strength, settle on your shoulders. His eyes, usually as inscrutable as the dark depths of a stormy sea, now soften with the tenderness of a lighthouse guiding you through a night. âWhat happened, kiddo?â
Thereâs a strange, twisting sensation in your gut, flaring just beneath your ribs. A lump rises in your throat, and despite your best efforts to stay composed, your eyes begin to well up.
âIââ you begin, but the words falter. Your gaze drifts across the room and locks onto Damianâs eyes. Theyâre like emeralds, gleaming with a ferocity that seems to pierce through the walls youâve built. Though he remains silent, his piercing look conveys a thousand unspoken thoughts and emotions.
A wave of shame is crashing into you, pushing your words back down. âJust⊠a rough night. Got into a fight.âÂ
Bruceâs eyes narrow, and a wave of seething anger ripples through him. You try to ignore it.Â
âAnd who was this?â he demands, his voice a controlled, simmering growl.
âItâs okay. It ended up alright,â you try to shrug it off, forcing a casual tone. âReally, itâs not as bad as it looks. Just a run-in with some rando on the street.â
Everyoneâs reactions vary, but itâs the look in Selinaâs eyes that strikes you the hardest. Selinaâs weary gaze peeks out from behind her hands, and the sight makes your face crumple.
âPull off your hood,â Selina commands, icy and devoid of warmth. As she straightens in her chair, her blood-red nails dig into the mahogany table, turning her knuckles as pale as frost.
You keep your gaze fixed on the polished marble floor, scuffing the dried mud across its pristine surface. The silence in the room grows heavier with each passing second.
âTake off the damn hood and show me your face!â
Scowling and clenching your jaw, you yank the hood off. As it falls away, the full extent of your injuries is laid bare. Selinaâs eyes widen as they take in the black eye, the bruises, and the cuts that mar your face. Her shock quickly morphs into a deepening scowl, her lips trembling as she fights to control her rising anger.
Everyone waiting for the outburst that is sure to follow.
Instead, Selinaâs hands fly to cover her face, and she looks as though she might fall apart at any moment.
Bruce stares at you with something akin to horror.
Before anyone can react further, Damian abruptly stands, his chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, he strides over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the room.Â
His muttered words are barely audible, âIâll take care of their injuries.â
Bruce moves back to Selinaâs side, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he tries to offer comfort.Â
You can hear his soft, reassuring whisper as you walk away, âYou can stay for the night. Itâs too late to head out now. Give her some time.â
Selina, her face still pale and troubled, nods gratefully, her gaze tracking Damian as he helps you toward the manorâs second floor.
Damian ushers you into his room, the door closing behind you with a decisive click. He motions to the bed, and you sink onto it with a heavy sigh, the weight of the day dragging at your limbs.
You watch Damian retreat to the bathroom, your gaze lingering on the raw, bloodied skin of your knuckles, tinged with a gnawing sense of guilt.
Moments later, he returns with a first aid kit in hand. He kneels before you, reaching out to tug off your jacket, but you quickly shake your head, not wanting him to discover the suit beneath.
âIâm going to change in the bathroom,â you rasp. Damian silently nods, moving to his closet and pulling out one of his cotton shirts and boxers. He hands them to you with a resigned sigh and leans against the wall beside the bathroom door, giving you the privacy you need.
You take the clothes from Damian and head to the bathroom. As you push open the door, the dim light casts long shadows across the tiled floor. You deliberately avoid meeting your reflection in the mirror, not wanting to confront the full extent of the mess youâre in.
Once inside, you drop Damianâs shirt and boxers onto the floor, followed by your jacket, shirt, and pants. The fabric makes a soft rustling sound as it lands. With a deep, steadying breath, you begin peeling off your suit, slow and painstaking.
As the suit peels away from your skin, the blood and sweat that have soaked into it reveal the severity of your injuries. You wince as the cut on your side comes fully into view, a raw, angry red line that stretches from just below your rib cage to the middle of your side. It looks even worse up closeâjagged and still oozing a bit despite the healing process.
You quickly change into Damianâs boxers, opting to keep the shirt off for now. You carefully bundle your suit and hide it under your jacket and pants, folding it as neatly as you can manage. With a deep breath, you step back into the room.
Damianâs eyes narrow as he assesses the cut on your side, now reduced to a four-inch scar due to your enhanced healing abilities. His gaze is hard, and you can almost see the weight of the lecture that would have come if heâd seen the injury in its original, more severe state.Â
âSit down,â Damian finally speaks, his voice firm. He begins to open the first aid kit, movements slow. You drop your ruined clothes in a far corner and plop back down on his bed, rubbing your hands together nervously.
A beat passes as Damian finishes cleaning the wound and reaches for the anesthesia, preparing to start stitching you up. You shake your head and push his hand away. âI can take it.â
âNo,â Damian scowls and continues his work. He applies the anesthesia despite your protests, injecting it around the wound to numb the area. The needle pierces your skin with a sharp sting, followed by a dull, throbbing sensation as the anesthetic begins to take effect.
He sets the syringe aside and picks up a pair of sterilized tweezers and needle and thread. You watch as he carefully makes the first stitch, his hands steady and precise. The thread pulls tight, closing the wound with a series of tight, even stitches.
His long lashes flutter over his hooded eyes with each focused blink, his emerald gaze intense and filled with concern. The warm ambient light of the room casts a gentle glow on his deep tan skin, accentuating the chiseled contours of his face in a soft, almost ethereal light.
The beam of light highlights the light almost invisible scar that stretches from his cheekbone to his crooked nose, tracing the elegant curve of his cheekbone and the strong, defined line of his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his full lips, noting the perfect cupidâs bow of his upper lip.
His hair is meticulously styled, with longer strands on top falling in inky, sleek waves across his forehead, remnants of gel catching the light. Damianâs thick, well-kept hair frames his face like brush strokes, adding to his strikingly handsome appearance.
Unable to hold yourself back, you raise a hand to cup his cheek. Damian hums, a low, soothing sound that rumbles in his chest. He keeps his eyes focused on your wound but tilts his head slightly to press a soft, tender kiss to your wrist.
With the stitches complete, Damian shifts his attention to bandaging the wound. He secures the bandage, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he smooths out the edges. Finally, he raises his head and meets your gaze, eyes conveying everything he canât say aloud.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into Damianâs embrace, dropping your hands onto his shoulders. He responds instinctively, taking your hands in his. Large, calloused fingers gently lift yours, pressing a tender kiss to each of them before moving to softly kiss your bruised knuckles.
With a whisper of your name, Damian draws your hands over his shoulders. You smile, sinking deeper into his embrace, arms draped over his strong back. Damian holds you close, lifting you off the bed as he pulls you into a hug. His arms wound up around your waist, pulling you tighter against him.
âYou know, trying to keep secrets from me is pointless,â Damian murmurs, a thinly veiled threat in his words peppering kisses up the side of your neck. âI am the son of the greatest detective in the world. I will find out what happened.â
You chuckle softly, feeling the tension ease a bit. âYeah, yeah, I know. Just let me hold you, you insufferable know-it-all.â
Damianâs grip tightens slightly. His forehead rests against yours, hearts swimming in his emerald eyes. âYouâre lucky I tolerate your nonsense. But seriously, you need to start talking.â
âMaybe later,â you reply, smiling against his shoulder. âRight now, I just need you.â
àŒ»â°ââââ
An hour later, itâs already 1 AM, but you and Damian are still awake, watching a show on his television. Youâre curled up together on his bed, the flickering light from the screen painting the room in shifting hues of blue and gray, casting gentle shadows that dance across the walls.
You rest your head against Damianâs chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. Despite the late hour, the warmth and comfort of his embrace keep you from drifting off.
âThis show is surprisingly bearable,â Damian murmurs.
You smile, nuzzling closer. âTold you it was worth a watch. Thanks for staying up with me.â
Damianâs fingers gently stroke your hair, each touch a soothing rhythm against your scalp. âOf course Iâd do it, even if it means enduring your rather questionable taste in television.â
You scoff, pretending to be wounded. âQuestionable taste? This show is a gem. You just donât want to admit Iâve expanded your horizons.â
Damian raises an eyebrow, a teasing glint in his eyes as he gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. âExpanded my horizons? More like subjected me to a marathon of pedestrian entertainment.â
You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips despite his words. The episode continues, the soft hum of the TV blending with the comforting rhythm of Damianâs breathing. The earlier tension and worry seem to dissolve into the background, replaced by a quiet intimacy.
Damianâs hand moves slowly, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His thumb begins to trace gentle, deliberate patterns on your back. You shiver slightly at the unexpected sensation, a delicate ripple of warmth spreading through you. His touch is soft yet firm, spelling out something with careful precision.
Though you donât fully grasp the intent behind his touch, Damianâs fingers trace a delicate script across your skin, inscribing the words of Taliaâs favorite Arabic love poem onto your back.
âMy life shall be sacrificed for her beauty,â his thumb whispers across your skin, âmy blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for loveâs sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is.â
The gentle pressure of his touch, the rhythmic way his thumb moves, slowly eases you into sleep. As each verse of the poem is imprinted on your skin, you find yourself drifting off, nestled against his chest. Damian tenderly presses his lips to your temple, wishing you sweet dreams.
àŒ»â°ââââ
Thursday, 3:02 AM - Damian's Room, Wayne Manor.
Dick moves stealthily down the moonlit hallway, his footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. He reaches Damianâs door and pushes it open with a gentle nudge. Despite his careful approach, the old hinges protest with a loud, protesting creak, shattering the quiet of the night and immediately stirring Damian from his sleep.
The sudden noise jolts Damian awake, his reflexes kicking in. His eyes snap open, and in a heartbeat, his muscles tense as he instinctively tightens his protective embrace around you. The world outside fades as his focus zeroes in on the intruder.
Damianâs gaze narrows into a steely glare as he locks onto Dick. In a seamless, fluid motion, he throws aside the blankets and reaches beneath the bed, his hand closing around the hilt of a gleaming katana.
Without hesitation, he draws the blade with a swift, practiced flick, sending the katana arcing through the air toward Dick.Â
SHINK!
Dick stumbles back, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. The katana thuds harmlessly into the wall beside him, its sharp edge embedded in the wood just inches from his head.Â
"Such a dramatic wake-up call⊠Good morning to you too," Dick grins, clearly used to this routine. âAlright. I know itâs late, but Selina is still up. I think she wants to talk to Y/N.â
Damianâs snarl is a low, dangerous rumble. âIf you wake her, I will cut your hands off.â
Dick raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by the threat. âCome on, baby bird. Itâs not that big of a deal. Just let her know sheâs needed.â
Damianâs eyes remain locked on Dick, a burning intensity that could have melted steel. Yet, after a long, tense moment, he grudgingly nods, the anger in his posture easing ever so slightly. With careful precision, he unwinds himself from the cocoon of blankets that envelops you, making sure not to jostle you awake.
!!!
But as Damian shifts, your senses stir, your eyes fluttering open to the dim light of the room. Your hand moves instinctively, reaching out to grasp Damianâs wrist, your fingers curling around him with a surprising strength. The sudden contact startles Damian, and he pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you.
Confusion and concern flash across your face as you murmur, âDames?â
He pauses, his gaze softening as he looks down at you, his eyes reflecting a tender regret. âItâs okay. I apologize for waking you, but Miss Kyle is calling for you.â
You tense immediately, and Damian feels a pang of guilt unfurl in his gut for disrupting your rest.
You sigh softly and rise slowly, wincing slightly as though the wound still bothers you. Although your injury has healed, you keep up the act, unwilling to make it too obvious that youâre fine. You know youâre on thin ice, and the last thing you want is to make things more suspicious.
Damian instinctively moves to support you, his hand steadying your back with a reassuring touch as you rise. Dick, lingering at the doorway, casts an apologetic glance your way.
Damian helps you to your feet, his touch steady and reassuring. He retrieves his soccer jacket from a nearby chair and drapes it around your shoulders with a gentle, almost reverent touch. The jacket, well-worn and carrying the faint scent of his cologne, envelops you in its soft, reassuring warmth.Â
As you and Damian approach the door to his room, you hesitate and turn to him.
âI think I need to handle this alone,â you say quietly. âCan you wait here?â
Damian's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates, his protective instincts flaring.
âAre you sure?â he asks, running a hand up your back.
You give him a reassuring smile. âYes, itâs better this way. Iâll be fine.â
Damianâs expression softens reluctantly. âAlright. I will be right here if you need me, beloved.â
You watch as Damian retreats to his room, his hand sliding around the katana lodged in the doorframe. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he withdraws the blade, the metal glinting momentarily before the door closes softly behind him. Dick, meanwhile, falls into step beside you and guides you down the corridor. His presence is steady and reassuring, a calming force in the tense atmosphere.
As you walk, Dick leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur. âYour momâs been on edge all night. Iâm⊠not sure whatâs going on, but she made it clear she wanted to talk to you immediately.â
You nod, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. âI figured as much,â you reply, trying to keep your tone steady.
Dickâs expression turns serious, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. âYou really gave us a scare,â he says, his tone softening. âJust remember, as a future Mrs. Wayne, weâve got your back, no matter what.â
You chuckle softly, the warmth of his words offering a small measure of comfort. Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself for the conversation ahead as you reach the door to Selinaâs room.
You turn the knob and push the door open.
Tall windows, framed by heavy drapes, stand slightly ajar, allowing the Gotham breeze to drift through the room. The curtains flutter rhythmically, whispering softly against the glass panes. Selina stands by the window, her silhouette etched sharply against the cityâs glittering skyline. Her back is to you, tense and rod-straight.
The door clicks shut behind you, and she turns her head slightly, her gaze meeting yours with a cool, unreadable intensity.
"Are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?â
âI was justââ you stammer, struggling to find the right words. âI passed by, okay? I saw the situation and I had to interveneââ
Selina cuts you off with a sharp twist of her head. âI have eyes. I know what happened. I was informed about a tech shipmentâan underground tech shipment by the docks. It was infiltrated. They found all the men webbed. Webbed. To the walls and floors. Donât lie to me, honey.â
You sigh, the weight of the truth settling heavily on your shoulders. âYeah. Okay,â you admit, your voice trembling despite your efforts to stay composed. âIt⊠was planned.â
Selinaâs eyes narrow dangerously as she strides towards you, heels clicking sharply against the floors. Her silhouette, framed by the soft, muted glow of the city lights filtering through the window, looms larger than life.
âDid you have a single clue as to whose men those were?â she demands, her voice slicing through the silence like a whip crack.
âI knew,â you say quietly, âI knew they were connected to Black Mask. It was a tip-off, and I thought if I could justââ
âYou thought? You thought what? That you could handle it alone?â Selinaâs eyes flash. âThis isnât some playground for you to experiment with your powers. Youâre dealing with dangerous peopleâpeople who wonât hesitate to kill. And if you get yourself hurtâor worseâwhat good are you to anyone?â
You lower your eyes, feeling the sting of her words as if each one were a reprimand meant to cut deeper. âI know, Iâm sorry. I didnât thinkââ
âSorry isnât going to undo this mess!â she snaps, her hands gripping the edge of a table.
A hand tangles itself into her hair, strands of hair failing over her gaze. âDo you have any idea what youâve put us through? What youâve risked by acting recklessly? Iâm not just scolding you because Iâm angry. Iâm scared. Youâre my responsibilityâ
Your anger surges, and you shout, âI know, Mom! I know!â The words escape before you can stop them.
Selinaâs expression shifts from anger to hurt, her eyes momentarily softening before hardening again. âDonât take that tone with me."
âExcuse me?â you snap, stepping closer. âYou think youâre the only one whoâs ever lost something? Every time I bring up my mother, you just give me the bare minimum! I was going to start digging eventually.â
Selinaâs eyes widen, a mix of hurt and frustration flashing across her face. âYou think Iâm holding back information from you? Iâm trying to protect you! When your mother died, I promised myself I wouldnât let anyone else I cared about get hurt."
âWeâre so past that! Iâm already knee-deep in this world,â you say desperately, your voice rising. âMom, look at me! Just look! I have Spider DNA in my veins. My boyfriend is a vigilante. Iâve faced kidnappings and attempts on my life ever since I was born! You canât keep treating me like a child who needs to be sheltered from reality.â
âI raised you! â Selina screams, raw and primal, the words tearing from her throat with a force that leaves you momentarily stunned. âI gave up everything to keep you safe, to try and shield you from the worst parts of this life because I couldnât bear to lose you too!âÂ
Her voice shatters mid-sentence, the tears slipping from her eyes despite her best efforts to hold them back. But she doesnât stop, pushing through, her words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush. âEvery time you put yourself at risk, itâs like ripping open a wound that never heals! Donât you get that? I canâtâI wonâtâlose you, too!â
The raw emotion in her voice shatters your anger, melting it away like ice under a warm sun. You step forward, your movements gentle as you grab onto her shoulders, guiding her down into a chair.Â
âI know, Ma,â you murmur, your voice softening as you try to soothe her. âI know itâs okay. Iâm here, and Iâm not going anywhere. Iâm sorry.â
Selina breathes heavily, her anger still simmering just beneath the surface. âI know. I know youâve been through so much. Itâs justâI donât want you to be a target for Black Mask. Heâs a fucking monster, and I didnât want you to be in his crosshairs.â
âIâm already in his crosshairs,â you whisper, bending down and reaching into your sock, where youâve hidden the flash drive containing the information you retrieved from the warehouse. You had tucked it in earlier while changing in the bathroom.
âThis,â you continue, holding up the small device, âis information on all his future activities. This was the mission I had earlier.â
Selinaâs eyes widen in alarm, her fear quickly reigniting into fury. âHave you put no thought into the rules I set? Putting yourself in that kind of dangerââÂ
âDanger Iâm already in,â you cut her off. âDanger Iâm about to face.â
"Y/N," Selina hisses out in warning, her eyes flashing dangerously, fangs glinting in the moonlight like a cornered cat.
âWhat? You think you can stop me?â you scowl as she stands. âIâm done playing by your rules. And if you get in my way, I wonât hesitate to take you down.â
Selinaâs eyes narrow, and a scornful smile twists on her lips.
"Prove it."
âWhat?â you manage to choke out.
Without a word, she launches herself toward you. Her foot whips out in a sharp, hard kick, sending you reeling backward. You hit the small balcony with a heavy thud, the harsh chill of the metal biting into your skin.
A pained grunt escapes you as you scramble to regain your footing, the cold air wrapping around you like a bitter embrace.Â
"Prove it, honey," Selina taunts, her voice dripping with contempt as she saunters toward you. She draws her claws with a slow, deliberate motion, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light. âShow me youâve got some fight.â
Before you can fully recover, Selina is on you again. You barely evade her claws, landing heavily on the cold metal railings. The chill bites into your feet, but you push off the railing with a powerful leap, ready to re-engage.
Selina's leg sweeps toward you with brutal intent, aiming to knock you off balance. Reacting quickly, you shoot a web to the railing, swinging yourself back into position and avoiding her strike.
You retaliate with a hard kick to her chest. The impact sends Selina sprawling, her body slamming into the ground. She rolls to absorb the blow, springing back up.
Her eyes flash with anger as she leaps from the balconyâs ledge, executing a high-spinning kick. You twist in mid-air, grabbing the edge of the balcony to dodge her attack and pulling yourself back onto solid ground.
âIf you try to stop me, if you try to control me, youâll only push me further away,â you shout, breath coming in sharp bursts. âAnd I promise, Iâll fight back with everything Iâve got.â
"Then fight!"Â
As she swings at you again, you snatch her wrist, twisting it with a sharp, decisive motion. With a sudden push, you force her own claws against her, the cold metal slicing into her shoulder.
Selina hisses in pain, her body recoiling as she shoves you away. The razor edges of her claws carve a deep, angry line across her shoulder, a vivid stripe of crimson blooming against her skin and staining her outfit.
The sight of it catches you off guard, a sharp pang of guilt gripping you as her pain registers. You stand frozen, eyes locked on the streaks of red that disrupt the perfection of her skin.Â
âMomââ your throat tightens. âIâm soââ
Selina starts to smile, a small, almost reluctant grin that slowly grows wider. The sight is so unexpected that it momentarily takes you aback. Then, much to your surprise, she begins to laughâa rich, genuine sound filled with a mix of relief, amusement, and something deeper you canât quite place.
âYou think this is funny?!â you exclaim, bewildered and on the verge of anger.
Selina looks at you with a bitter smile, her laughter fading. She clutches her bleeding shoulder, her expression softening as she lets out a long sigh.
âYou really are my daughter,â she murmurs.
You slowly ease from your defensive stance, confusion furrowing your brows.
âAlright, fine. Point proven,â she continues, voice gentler now. âTrying to cage you would only make you fight harder to claw your way out. Literally. I should know better than anyone how that feels.â
âO⊠kay?â you mutter, still grappling with the sudden shift in her demeanor. âSo, I guess weâve proven my point. What now?â
âNow,â she says slowly, âwe talk. Like sane adults. No more clawing each otherâs faces off.â
àŒ»â°ââââ
An hour later, both of you sit on the edge of the bed, cradling cups of warm jasmine tea from the tea set provided in your roomâbecause, of course, each guest room in the Wayne Manor has one.
The steam rises gently from the cups, warming your fingers and offering a soothing contrast to the cool air. Selina sits across from you, her shoulder wrapped in bandages.
As you sit on the edge of the bed, you fill Selina in on everything thatâs happened: the mugging with Morgan, the shooting when you saved her, and the whole "guy in the chair" thing. Youâre honest about all the other stuff and the support youâve received, but you leave out the fact that Tony Stark knows your secret identity, keeping that bit to yourself for now.
Selina stares at her cup of tea, her eyes wide with disbelief. The steady ticking of a clock fills the room, punctuating the silence as she processes what you've just shared.
âSo, youâve been pulling all the strings?â she asks. "Orchestrating all of this?"
You lick your lips, choosing your words carefully. Orchestrating is a strong word. More like everything is falling into place. But that does sound better.
âSomething like that,â you say, nodding.
Selina blinks, taking a slow, contemplative sip of her tea. âTrying to rein you in would be a lost cause at this point,â she says, setting her cup down. âSo, what exactly is the plan from here?â
You place your cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink, the porcelainâs gentle chime briefly breaking the quiet. âI need to dig deeper into Black Maskâs operations. With Morganâs help, Iâve got the tech and the intel, but thereâs still a lot we donât know.â
Selina nods, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, her gaze distant. âBatman will notice. The moment you step out into the city proper, youâre going to be a target. And once youâre on his radar, a contingency plan will be set.â
You stay silent, fiddling with your fingers.
Selinaâs gaze hardens. âAnd thatâs what worries me. Bruce is just a manâno powers, no special DNA. But if he sets his mind to something, he can take anyone down. I donât want you caught in that crossfire.â
You open your mouth, but Selina cuts you off.
âThatâs why Iâve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.â
You glance at her, a thread of dread weaving itself into your thoughts. âContingency plan?â
Selina nods, her tone heavy. âWhen I first took you in, my plan was to leave Gotham as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got⊠sentimental. I couldnât bring myself to leave. Still, I made sure we had a backup.â
âBackup? What do you mean?â
Selinaâs expression softens slightly. âI bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was supposed to be a safehouseâsomewhere to go if things got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for us, just in case we needed to disappear fast.â
âMetropolis?â you ask, your disbelief coming through with a half-smile. âSeriously?â
Selina winces, her expression sours. âYes, it was meant to be a last resort. If things ever got too out of control, or if our secrets got out, it was our escape plan. I didnât want us to be hunted down. I wanted us to have a safe place to go.âÂ
She cracks her knuckles, releasing some of the tension in her hands.
âItâs still an option if things get too messy. But for now, Iâll help you as much as I can here."
àŒ»â°ââââ
Damian walks up the stairs, his steps muted against the polished wood. In his hand, he clutches a thick blanket heâs taken from the storeroom. The absence of your presence has made his room feel uncomfortably cold, and he refuses to go back to sleep without you there.
As he nears the guest room where you and Selina are deep in conversation, he slows his pace, the soft hum of your voices drifting through the slightly ajar door.Â
He knows he should respect your privacyâa lesson heâs learned the hard way after being caught tailing you during patrols more than once. But his curiosity tugs at him.Â
He lingers outside the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, straining to catch snippets of the conversation drifting through the slightly ajar door.
âThatâs why Iâve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.â
The voices are muffled, but Damian can detect the guilt in Selinaâs tone.
âContingency plan?â
There was a pause.
âWhen I first took you in, my plan was to leave Gotham as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got⊠sentimental. I couldnât bring myself to leave. Still, I made sure we had a backup.â
âBackup? What do you mean?â
âI bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was supposed to be a safehouseâsomewhere to go if things got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for us, just in case we needed to disappear fast.â
Damian freezes.
"Metropolis? Really?"
Selinaâs voice carries a note of sorrow. âYes, it was meant to be a last resort. If things ever got too out of control, or if our secrets got out, it was our escape plan. I didnât want us to be hunted down. I wanted us to have a safe place to go.âÂ
Damian remains frozen in place.
Hunt? Who was hunting you down that made Selina think it was necessary to move rather than seek help from his father? Did she not trust Batman's abilities? Did she not trust his?
His grip on the blanket tightens until his knuckles turn white, the rough fabric digging into his palms like a searing brand. A bitter, acrid taste rises in his throat, mingling with the bile of frustration and helplessness.
Had he not proven his devotion enough? Each time he threw himself into the fray, each time he fought with everything he had, did she still doubt his ability to protect you? His every act of defiance, every sacrifice, should have been proofâshouldnât it?Â
Did she think that running away was the answer? Did she believe that abandoning Gotham and leaving him and Bruce out of the fight was a better choice? Her secretive plans, her carefully crafted illusions of safety, were they really a solution?
Panic starts to claw at him, twisting his insides into a tight knot. Or maybe it was because of him?Â
Gods, he knew you were too good for him, but was he so inadequate that she thought hiding you away was the only option? The thoughts gnaw at him like ravenous insects, feasting on his insecurities. He can almost feel the raw, hot sting of failure as it eats away at him from within.Â
He remembers the first day he was left with Bruce, the way his own father looked at him, the way his brothers looked at himâlike something about him was inherently wrong.Â
He was the outsider, the boy who had to claw and tear and rip his way into their world, proving his worth to a family he barely understood, a family that barely understood him.
Every mistake he made, every bout of uncontrollable rage, felt like blood on his handsâdark, sticky, and impossible to wash away. Another mark on his name.Â
And now, Selinaâs confession feels like another blow to his fragile sense of self-worth. If even she doesnât trust him, if even she thinks heâs not enough to protect you, what does that say about him?
His legs grow numb, his head spins with disorientation. The edges of his vision blur, and each breath comes in shallow, frantic bursts. He stumbles forward, driven by an overwhelming need to escape. His body moves on its own, carrying him towards his room.
Was he what Selina was protecting you from?
The thought strikes him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling. The blood, the violence, the cold efficiency with which he was taught to killâit all comes rushing back. Damian was trained to be an assassin, raised by the League of Shadows to be a weapon, a tool of destruction.
He feels numb as he stumbles into his room, the familiar surroundings doing little to comfort him. He collapses onto the floor, his legs giving way as he sinks to his knees. Clutching the blanket to his chest, he tries to draw some warmth from its fabric, but it feels like an inadequate shield against the cold, hollow emptiness that gnaws at him from within.
The voices of doubt and self-loathing grow louder, echoing in his mind. Damian doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the floor, trying to control his breathing. Time seems to blur, each second stretching into an eternity. His thoughts spiral, a maelstrom of fear and insecurity, until he hears the soft creak of the door opening.
You stumble in, and he freezes.
Your eyes widen as you take in his disheveled state, the blanket clutched tightly in his hands, his face pale and eyes wide with panic. You rush to his side, dropping to your knees beside him.
"Dames," you whisper. "What happened? Are you okay?"
He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he shakes his head, unable to meet your gaze. He doesn't deserve to.
You hush gently, raising your hands to his face. "Can I touch you? Youâre having a panic attack, baby."
He nods, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. Your hands are warm and steady as you cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks.
"Look at me," you murmur softly. "Focus on me. Breathe with me."
He struggles to follow your instructions, his eyes locking onto yours. You take a deep breath in, exaggerating the motion, and slowly exhale. He tries to mimic you, his breaths hitching but gradually evening out.
"That's it," you encourage. "In and out, nice and slow. You're doing great."
Damian's grip on the blanket loosens slightly as he continues to focus on your breathing, finding a semblance of calm in the steady rhythm. Your presence anchors him, drawing him away from the chaotic storm in his mind.
"Youâre safe," you whisper. "Iâm here with you. Just keep breathing."
Gradually, the tension in his body begins to ease. He leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. The panic that had gripped him so fiercely started to ebb away, replaced by a fragile sense of security.
He sits there, the silence heavy around him, before his voice breaks through it, rough and raw. "Are you scared of me?" he asks.
The question hangs in the air. He doesnât mention what he overheard, but the question reveals the depth of his doubt.
You gently brush a strand of hair from his face, your eyes soft with understanding. "Scared of you? Damian, Iâm not scared of you."
He clenches his fists, the blanket still wrapped around his hands. "I⊠I canât seem to do anything right. Itâs like Iâm always falling short."
"Youâre not falling short," you reassure him softly. "Youâre human, and youâre trying your best."
You lean in, your lips pressing against his in a tender, reassuring kiss. As you pull back, your eyes are filled with a deep sorrow.
"Can I ask what brought this on?" you whisper.
Damian takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the floor as he gathers his thoughts.
âI overheard part of a conversation between you and Selina,â Damian begins, his voice sharp and dripping with bitter resentment. âShe spoke of a contingency plan involving an apartment in Metropolis and expressed concerns about someone hunting you down. If⊠If she felt the need to protect you from something by leaving, does that mean that Iâm not enough? That Iâm not capable of keeping you safe?â
His words come out with an edge. He meets your gaze with eyes darkened by hurt and anger. âI wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who could safeguard you, not merely another liability. But now it seems Iâm just⊠inadequate. As if my dedication and efforts amount to nothing.â
You start to speak, but Damian interrupts. âWhoâs hunting you down? Whatâs going on? Beloved, Iâve let you into my lifeâplease, let me into yours.â
âI know, baby,â you say softly, running a hand through your tousled hair as you try to gather your thoughts. âAlright, okay, I need to tell you about something important. Itâs about the spider vigilante, alright? Thereâs something you need to understand.â
âAgain with this?â Damian scoffs, his hurt evident as he starts to rise from the floor. The movement makes you panic, and you grab his arm, pulling him back down.
âNonono, wait,â you say urgently, trying to steady your voice. âForget that for now. Thereâs something else I need to talk aboutâsomething personal. Itâs about me, and I need you to listen.â
You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. âOkay. Thereâs a lot more going on than you realize. Iâm investigating Black Mask. Heâs got some operation threatening Gotham, and itâs connected to everything thatâs been happening lately. Iâm trying to figure out what heâs up to, andâŠâ
You pause, struggling to find the right words. âAnd I might have something to do with that vigilante spider youâve seen around.â
Damianâs eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He stands there, his mind racing as he pieces together the implications of your confession.
The increased absences, the unexplained injuriesâsuddenly, everything starts to make sense. He canât believe he didnât see it sooner. How did he not connect the dots? The vigilance, the secrecyâit all makes sense now.
Youâre the one being hunted.
Brows threaded together, Damian steps closer, taking your hands in his. His fingers brush over your skin, gently massaging small circles.
âI understand,â he says with a grave tone. âI suspected as much. You donât need to explain yourself, beloved.â
You smile in relief, misinterpreting his seriousness for support of your dual life as Spidey.
âI was going to tell you,â you say, your tone warm and reassuring. âJust⊠couldnât find the right moment.â
Damianâs eyes soften, but a steely resolve glimmers within them as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, his lips lingering.
If the spider is the threat, then itâs the spider heâll take down.
àŒ»â°ââââ
Thursday, 7:53 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.
Hours later, Damian pulls up to the sleek, glass-fronted Stark Industries building. The structure towers above, its façade a mesmerizing expanse of reflective glass panels that catch and scatter the sunlight, creating a dazzling play of colors. A polished steel entrance welcomes visitors, a bustling crowd already walking in and out.
As the car comes to a smooth stop, he turns to you with a soft, reassuring smile. You reach over, pressing an affectionate kiss to his lips.
His fingers gently brush your cheek as he murmurs against your lips, âBe careful.â
âI will,â you beam, pulling back to meet his eyes. âPromise.â
With one last lingering look, Damian reaches over to unlock the car door. You open it and step out onto the curb, unloading your bags. Damian gives you a final wave as he shifts the car into gear, gliding smoothly down the street and disappearing into the cityâs bustling flow.
You clutch your bags tightly in your hands. Exhaustion pulls at your every muscleâpatrol, the fight, and the travel have left you feeling like you're on the edge of collapse. After everything that went down last night, you canât help but feel a bit relieved about the month off from school, courtesy of your internship.
Bags under your eyes betray the sleepless night, while the oversized shirt and sweatpants youâve borrowed from Damian make you look more like youâve just rolled out of bed than a professional intern.
Technically, you did roll out of bed, having snagged only about three hours of sleep.
How the hell did Batman and the Robins manage to juggle this kind of life week in and week out? Right now, you feel like death is just a breath away, waiting to claim you.
âHey, kiddo!â Tony Starkâs voice calls out from a distance, cutting through your fog of exhaustion. âYou planning to stand there and stare at the building all day?â
He steps out of his sleek convertible, tossing his keys to the valet with a flick of his wrist thatâs more showmanship than necessity. As he strides towards you, his eyes do a quick sweep over your state.
âI offer you the top spot in my program, and this is how you show up?â Tony says, giving you a light shove on the shoulder.
You give a weary sigh and shuffle alongside him into the building. âGood to see you too, Mr. Stark.â
Tony continues with a smirk, âDonât worry, youâre not the first intern to look like theyâve been dragged through a war zone.â
He leads you into the sleek, glass-walled elevator, pressing the button for the upper floors. The elevator hums softly as it ascends.
You turn to him, trying to muster the energy to keep up with his banter. âSo, whereâs Morgan?â
âWorking on your new tech stuff,â Tony replies. âSheâs buried under a mountain of circuits and cables. If youâre lucky, you might get to see her emerge from her tech fortress.â
The elevator doors slide open, revealing the upper floors of Stark Tower. Tony leads you down a pristine, modern hallway where glossy surfaces catch the ambient light, enhancing the towerâs futuristic vibe. He stops in front of a door adorned with a sleek plaque bearing your name.
You gawk at it, your sleep-deprived brain barely processing the sight. âDamn.â
Tony pushes open the door, revealing a spacious, elegantly furnished room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the cityscape, and the room is equipped with a large, comfortable bed, a sleek desk, and a cozy seating area.
âWelcome to your new digs,â Tony says, gesturing grandly. âIâd say itâs a bit of a step up from your old place. Given your current state, though, Iâd suggest you take it easy for now. Rest up, and maybe try to look less like youâve just walked off a horror set, okay?â
Despite your exhaustion, a small but genuine smile tugs at your lips as you take in the surroundings. âThanks, Mr. Stark. Itâs really⊠nice.â
With a casual salute, Tony heads towards the door. âAnytime. Now, go on and get some rest. Iâll let Morgan know youâre here. If she manages to claw her way out from under her tech mountain, she might swing by to say hi.â
àŒ»â°ââââ
A few hours later, youâre well-rested and dressed in a much more presentable outfit: a crisp white button-up shirt with the first few buttons undone, tucked neatly into flared slacks, and paired with white sneakers.
After one last check in the mirror, you give your appearance a satisfied nod, then rub the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. You head out of your room and make your way toward the elevator.
Pressing the button, the elevator doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss. You step inside and swipe your ID card against the scanner. The elevator's high-tech screen lights up, displaying a seemingly endless list of floor options. You whistle as you scan the array, finally selecting the tech room.
Just as the elevator begins its ascent, a voice suddenly speaks up, making you jump with a startled yelp.
âGood morning!â the voice says cheerfully. âWelcome to Stark Tower. How can I assist you today?â
You quickly recognize the voice as FRIDAY, the buildingâs AI system. Youâve read about it in papers and seen it on TV before. The holographic interface on the screen activates, displaying a friendly, animated avatar of FRIDAY. The AI greets you with a warm, digital smile and a cheerful tone.
âOh. Hi!â you respond, a bit thrown off. âIâm, uh, just heading to the tech room.â
âUnderstood,â FRIDAY replies smoothly. âIâve already noted your arrival. The tech room is on your left once you exit the elevator. Please let me know if thereâs anything else I can help with, sexiest vigilante.â
You blink at the nickname.
âThatâs definitely Morganâs touch,â you mutter.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing a workshop that looks like itâs been hit by a tornado of technology. Equipment is strewn everywhere, and tangled wires snake across the floor. In the center of the chaos, a few remains of a fire extinguisher lie scattered. Morgan is crouched in the middle of the mess, her hair a wild tangle and her face streaked with grease and soot. Sheâs working intently, completely absorbed in her task despite the disorder around her.
You clear your throat, and Morgan looks up, freezing mid-action. Part of her shirt is charred, and a small flame flickers from one of the devices sheâs holding.
âLetâs be honest,â she says, waving a wrench at you, âyouâve seen me in worse shape.â
Shaking your head, you step into the room.
âLooks like youâve been busy,â you remark, your eyes scanning the cluttered area.
Morgan quickly puts out the fire and brushes a few stray wires out of her path before standing up and stretching with a groan. âYou wouldnât believe the morning Iâve had. Between the latest tech malfunction and the mini-explosion, itâs been one chaotic circus.â
âShould I even ask what set off the explosion?â
Morgan chuckles dryly, wiping her hands on a grease-stained rag. âOh, just a little experiment gone wrong. Nothing major. Just some excitement to kick off the day.â She steps over to you, grabs a case from a nearby workbench, and hands it to you with a grin.
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, as you take the case from her. With a click, you open it to reveal a pair of sleek, high-tech glasses.
Morgan plucks them from the case and holds them up with a grin. âFor you. Theyâre packed with all sorts of featuresâreal-time data, targeting assistance, and even advanced communication options. Basically, theyâre your new best friend in the field.â
You slip the glasses on, adjusting them to fit comfortably. The world immediately sharpens, and a translucent display overlays your vision, showing various readouts and notifications. You gasp in awe, your amazement reflected in Morganâs fond smile as she watches your reaction.
She then moves to grab another deviceâa metal-looking belt that covers your entire stomach. At its center is a spider emblem. She clasps the belt around your waist and gives it a reassuring pat.
âTell it to go on,â Morgan instructs.
Confused, you turn to her. âHuh?â
âJust think of a suit wrapping around you and command it to do so.â
You give her a skeptical look but decide to give it a try. Closing your eyes for a moment, you focus on the idea of your suit materializing.
âActivate?â
Immediately, you feel a tingling sensation as nanoparticles begin to stream from the belt, enveloping your body. The sensation is oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a warm, secure embrace. The suit materializes in shimmering panels, stretching and shaping itself around your form. The glasses transform into a sleek helmet, molding to fit your head with a satisfying click.
The entire process takes mere seconds, and when you open your eyes, youâre fully suited up.Â
The suit fits perfectly. The color is a deep, vibrant red that covers the majority of the suit. Black accents trace intricate web patterns that start from the center of your chest and radiate outwards.
The chest emblem is a bold, black spider, its legs extending across your torso and seamlessly merging with the web patterns. The helmet, now a sleek, black mask with a smooth, glossy finish, features white eye lenses that glow faintly. The same high-tech display you saw in your glasses is now visible in the helmet.
Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. âNot too shabby, right?"
"What. The. Fuck."
âŻàŒ»â°ââââ
#damian wayne x reader#damian wayne#batfamily#dc robin#damian wayne al ghul#damian wayne imagine#selina kyle#bruce wayne#batman
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the syndicate
i went through all of my old medibang files to see what was lurking there and found this old sketch i started doing back during techno's birthday stream. the group picture of the syndicate always stuck out to me, and im p sure its because of my own overfondness for group/family pictures in general lmao
anyways, it was a really nice sketch, so i redid the lines and slapped some colors/shading on it. all in all, i think this is one of my favorite things ive drawn this year. i didn't expect to do dsmp fanart, but i think it might always crop up every now and then, the same way i still draw warrior cats every now and then in my sketchbook
also, unless i finish a couple of other things in my drafts, i think this is gonna be the last thing i draw in 2023. so i hope you enjoy it! let the new year be like frozen yogurt in the good place; just okay.
edit: theres a speedpaint for this if youre curious
#art#artwork#digital artwork#digital art#digital drawing#drawing#dream smp#dream smp fanart#dsmp#dsmp fanart#dsmp art#ds#dsmp artwork#dsmp drawing#dsmp ranboo#dsmp philza#dsmp technoblade#dsmp nihachu#dsmp niki#the syndicate#dsmp syndicate
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GOD your view on dave n jack is such a breath of fresh air, im much more inclined to view them as rivals than anything romantic, although I am personally more of a fan of the good ending rather than the neutral ending (in fairness ive only played the good ending so might be a bit biased), but even in the good ending, i think jack's moreso forced to cooperate and understand how dave was manipulated so terribly by henry, and in the end dave isnt fully redeemed but hes not really a villain anymore. I dont mind davesport, but im tired of how its so prevalent! give me more of jack and dave lowkey hating eachother!!!
omfg first off i wanna apologize for the late reply i've been taking a break for some time off of here... and second, i'm so glad to see that i'm bringing forth more people who think in a similar way to me!! hello!!
i hesitate to say that the neutral ending is my absolute favorite because my interest in the three main ones alternates and shifts around quite frequently, but for the moment i am very drawn to the neutral ending :) you should consider playing it if you haven't already seen bits and pieces of it already through videos of some sort if you want a good laugh because i swear it had me laughing my ASS off it's very funny also, straying from that topic; you are so based and i agree it feels like it's less talked about how dave and jack *do* have tension and even some kind of loathing towards eachother, mainly if you're counting the instances where jack ends up refusing dave's offer to perform another killing spree the fact that davesport is so prevalent is a part, but not the biggest part of why i hate the pairing so much. like honestly i do not care for shipping whatsoever but i would definitely rather have a less common ship like one involving the phone guys shoved in my face instead of being forced to see a pairing i despise almost every time i scroll through the dsaf tag
shipping in general is just one of many things that bother me but there's nothing i can really do about that since...fandoms just do that and they've done that since forever. i just kind of wish people could look at character dynamics in any other way except romantically "but even in the good ending, i think jack's moreso forced to cooperate and understand how dave was manipulated so terribly by henry, and in the end dave isnt fully redeemed but hes not really a villain anymore." <- yes. i have nothing to add to this except that you are right. imo you just described literal canon to me and i feel like you get it fr and that's cool as fuck
#bat insane ramblings#AGHHH SORRY I TRY TO KEEP THIS STUFF SHORT WHEN I ANSWER BUT THEN I JUST. i cant. its impossible and i am so sorry for the wall of text#i cant stop fucking YAPPING...#sobbing#dsaf jack#dsaf dave
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my favorite things
it's me birthday
so just incase anyone wanted to know some stuff about V
heres some random info about my life as well as some of my favorite things
i am a libra sun, aquarius moon, capricorn rising
i like dark chocolate more than any other; i have since i first got my period. i like gummy candy and starbursts but my favorite are the little cola bottle candies. i like tea and coffee sweet, but flavorful. i like energy drinks and slushees and wanted my first tattoo to be a cola-mtn dew slushee but it wasnt. i like waffles more than pancakes but would prefer a toaster strudel or muffin. i like apples and lemons and cinnamon and garlic and truffle and black cherries but not maraschino. i dont like onions or cilantro or swiss cheese. i dont like chili because something about the consistency of wet, tomato-ee hamburger makes me ill. i also can't drink hard liquor.
i like smells like thick cologne that lingers and juniper and spearmint and old houses and honeysuckle and the smells of the earth when it stops raining in the summer. i like the smell of other peoples laundry soap and coffee more than my own. i like eucalyptus and aloe and teakwood and dragons blood incense.
i like classic rock from my dad and 80s pop ballads from my mom and afi and lincoln park from my older sibling and 4*TOWN for my younger sibling. one of my earliest loves in music was Paramore, and hayley is an inspiration of mine. i like pop punk and the band ive seen the most is sleeping with sirens, 4 times now. i like hip hop and rnb and acapella and piano. i like music that makes me feel alive. anything from violin to screaming, i just like passion. i'm a very passionate person and always have been despite myself.
i sing and like singing in the car, while i shower, and cook. i am very loud but sometimes can do cool things. i like how singing makes me happy and helps me relate to other people and also my predecessors. i like how i feel connected to those before me through my voice. my first time singing in public was my 4th grade talent show. I sang The Only Exception by Paramore because my parents thought Almost Lover was too dramatic and adult for a 12 year old
i like old movies and i used to fall asleep to them at my grandparents and wake up to them at weekends at my dads apartment. i like musicals like ride the cyclone and drama like the fault in our stars and action like john wick and will always be down for a horror movie. i like get out and candyman and hereditary and black swan and blair witch and creep. i like the twilight zone and rod serling has a special place in my heart. i also like alex trebek from jeopardy, matthew grey gubler, penn badgely, andrew scott, evan peters, and my biggest current celeb crush is matt rife.
i like being alone in busy places. i like to talk to people but i also like to disappear to the other room during the party. im the girl you find sitting outside sometimes smoking, or on the balcony. i enjoy walking back into a concert midsong and seeing all the happy little people being happy. i like stepping away from chaos to appreciate it. i like driving on highways at night when its empty and im high. i like watching airplanes land. i like sleep and i sleep in a tank top and underwear but never socks. my dreams always take me back to this very similiar place every single night doing different tasks with different people. i might start calling it the twilight zone. i like to paint my emotions in my makeup and artwork. i have always felt very deeply and openly.
i like the moon and the stars and it is so fascinating to learn about the same beautiful big rock my ancestors saw. i feel drawn to white butterflies and birds and bumblebees and skinks ( they r tiny lizards). i like history and culture, but im really bad at math.
thats all i can come up with for now. if you have any questions let me know
thanks for reading about me, lmk if youre in love yet
valentine, 22 today <3
#non tickles#nontickle#vthetease#info dump#my birthday#libra birthday#birthday yay#birthday#libra#libra sun
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No shade towards this user! But I would actually love to address this statement or thought process.
(And its actually ÂŁ37 for you!)
But nonetheless, there are many things to consider when youâre criticizing an artist for the price of their works and here are a few!
How much time goes into the process of a piece(s)!
For example, I made not only one zine, but two in the span of 7 months. While working a 40+ hour a week active job. So all my free time was consumed with this zine. You may think $43 is a lot for a zine, but I am just one person make a whole NSFW zine. I wasnât one of 20+ artists and fic writers putting one piece into a whole zine. And I wonât undervalue myself and my time! Also, most of my commissions, for one custom piece, cost more than not only my nsfw zine, but both my zines combined.
How much time goes into the technically side of the piece(s) (I.e. creating the actual zine with printing companies and sizing and resizing, and shipping and handling artists usually handle themselves)
For myself, it was hours and hours of file converting and resizing and in the end it still didnât look good in zine previews, thatâs why I decided to go digital.
The exclusivity of the artwork(s)
Youâll find a lot of things of this nature are either limited time products or exclusive to the product itself! For example, all my pieces in my NSFW zine, are for the zine supporters only, as well as my SFW being half favorite pieces and half new, zine exclusive pieces!
The content of said artwork(s)
My zine for example, is a âtabooâ type of artwork, itâs basically a book full of porn. Not a lot of artist draw porn and even less nsfw artist, share it on social media! But here I am, sharing a whole exclusive zine of porn for two lovable characters! Oh, and as trans characters haha. Theyâre t4t in my zine because I draw the representation I want through my favorite characters!
* And in the end really! *
Youâve got to understand, as artists, we are putting out so much free content on social media. Whether itâs every day, every other day, once a week or once a month. You, as a consumer of our work, get free content (both old and new), all for free! Is that not wild?! For example, people pay $10 a month to see all the porn Iâve ever drawn on Patreon on then get to see the latest porn and sfw stuff I post! Ive been told by so many friends that I should charge more even! But thatâs not the point of this post.
Artists could never share again, or put their craft and skills behind a massive paywall, but we love sharing and putting art into the world, cause fuck, a world without art would kill me. I literally love scrolling through my social media and seeing all my mutuals and artists I follow share their work and interests through art. I love seeing their minds work and what they felt so proud of to share it with the world.
And on top of that, if you think something is a bit too high in price, just remember all the free content the artist puts out, remember what art piece you love the most from them and why you followed them in the first place maybe! And by purchasing an item(s) from them, is a way of showing them support for all the joy their art has brought you đ«¶đ and just supporting artists in general vs large corporations who usually underpay their artists or just straight up steal art.
**In the end, I wonât undervalue my time and skill for a quick sale cause Iâve had people happily support me at the prices they are and Iâm so grateful te for them.**
*** No artist should undervalue their work! We have a skill and took time to create this skill and study our skill to become better and better đ«¶***
I do hope that anyone with the same mind set as this user, might have a new POV on the artists side/ BTS side of an artist and content creator when judging their prices.
#artists#art#text#I was just having this conversation with my mutual! who#when I was going to support the whole set of plushies and keychains#but couldnât it was like $200 usd#so I asked if I could do the 2 plushies and 2 keychains instead#and he said he wished he could lower the prices but just couldnât#and I said nah man donât worry about it! making these cute fucking plushies and charms isnât cheap!#and Iâm happy to support you and get cute lil items in return!#and told him this conversation above and he felt so much better after that#Iâm like dude??? youâre putting out so much free content on top of super cute merch like a mf machine!#you price it what itâs worth! donât undervalue yourself!#and there are even artists out there I just love but couldnât support their items and merch cause it was just too much! I understand that#but Iâd never go to their profile and say wow? $70 for a plushie? :/ /#cause I understand the work and time that goes into making it and producing a product!
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LOST MEDIA ? GUYS IM BACK FROM THE DEAD BUT WITH SOMETHING NOT PRISMO RELATED BUT I NEED YOUR HELP, PLEASE SPARE ME
I APOLOGIZE PROFUSELY. I AM SO SORRY BUT I NEED HELP.
I have some media on my hands that i cannot find, but it cannot possibly be lost, ive been looking for it for hours and i cant find it anywhere. bear with me-
when i was getting âa little too oldâ for kids cartoons, but i would still watch them, there was a new show that came out on [likely] nick jr. other possible programs for this could be sprout, disney jr., or PBS, but i dont think was on PBS. this mustve been around 2010-2014. it was a show about these scientist kids who all lived [?] in a labatory. im PRETTY sure all of them were either all monkeys, or different types of animals, maybe with different lab motifs like a rat and a bunny, since those are lab animals. the main character was this know it all monkey that i HATED as a kid because he was the one who solved EVERY SINGLE PROBLEM like the little gary stew that he was. his little thing was that every time there was a problem, he would shout, âEUREKAâ! and then he would solve the problem with science or friendship or whatever. i just remember thinking how annoying it was that he had no flaws.
i remember this one episode where another monkey character got sick. he was a lighter shade than the main character and im pretty sure he was just a younger side character who wasnt exactly there all the time. i think he was a younger sibling of sorts? anyway, he got sick and he had to stay home all day. from what i can remember he was the only one who was shown to have a home, unlike the other kids, who lived by themselves in the lab. he kept on wanting to go to this party his friends were hosting, but his mother said he was too sick to go. she served him this weird mushy food that he hated and didnât want to eat, but the bowl she served it in was the exact shape of his head, so he had the idea to make it look like him and sneak off. he went to the party and all of his friends were concerned for him and told him he should be getting rest at home. i cant remember how the episode ends. i think he was one of my favorite characters, and i also think that there was one female character who was obviously dressed in all pink so that you knew she was a girl.
i also remember a bumper for the show where the gary stew mc said his eureka catchphrase as a green potion popped up with a speech bubble, though this could have been something im making up. i remember feeling annoyed when it appeared.
the artstyle was 2D and had a thick outline look to it. it looked kind of like wow wow wubzy.
it was not wow wow wubzzy or sid the science kid. i do not think it was AstroBlast, but if someone pulls up an episode like the one i described, i might change my mind.
below i have some poorly drawn visions of what the show may vaguely look like. the first picture depicts the MC, and the second is the bumper. ill reblog this and add more if needed as i kind of remember what the episode i described looked like. also if you dont want to see non-related prismo stuff block the #notprismopostingsorry tag.
#notprismopostingsorry#lost media#astroblast#help me find this#obscure media#nick jr#early 2010s#wow wow wubbzy#sid the science kid
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Practical Jokes Aboard
On this April Fool's, I'm unpaywalling an old whaling history essay from my patreon about the various pranks fellows played upon each other. Here you are! Silliman B. Ives, a two-time veteran whaler aboard the Sunbeam in 1868, talked about the phenomenon of every ship having their âfoolâ for entertainment.
âOn board all ships carrying a large crew there is generally one among the company who by his awkwardness or want of sense becomes the butt for the whole crowd, the object of innumerable practical jokes, and a great source of amusement for the whole crew.â
The rest is under a readmore, since as usual there are many a' primary source.
On William B Whitecarâs 1850s voyage on an unnamed whaleship, that shipâs fool  was a man whom he nicknamed Kedge Anchor. Kedge had drawn the attention of all hands for his boasting of seamanship and long experience on the waves, only for it to be revealed in short time through his own ignorance that he had no such experience at all.
âHis sickness, and ludicrous exclamations of âI wish I was on the steam-wagon againâ (he had formerly been a brakeman on the New York and Erie Railroad), and pathetic entreaties to be allowed to die in peace, when desired to do anything, excited the mirth of all, no sympathy being tendered to him except in one instance, when one of the seamen offered him a pint of salt water, assuring him it was a cordial; a mouthful was sufficient to undeceive him, he spat out the nauseating draught, and the queer expression he wore on his phiz, and no less queer entreaty to take the darned thing away, were so humorous as to shock his auditors into merriment, and secured him against farther molestation.â
Seasick greenhands were often the easiest targets on the first days out. In one humorous exchange recorded by Charles B. Nordhoff on an unnamed 1850s voyage, a sick greenhand lamented the ship's food not agreeing with him. He went on to say that if he could only have a nice piece of pie like his mother used to make heâd be well again soon enough.
âPie!â exclaimed the boatsteerer, âas I live, I am glad you mentioned the word. Thereâs a whole cask of pies down below, which was sent aboard by the owner, on the purpose for the sick ones.â âSuppose I were to ask the captain to hoist it up, and give me some?â suggested the sick man, eagerly. âYou could not do a better thing.â âIâll go to him immediatelyâhe seems to be a kind man, and I will tell him how badly I feel.â Accordingly he dragged himself slowly aft, and there meeting the captain, stated the case to him, and ended with a request that some of the pie might be given to him, as he felt convinced that he would soon recover on such a diet. The captain, smiling grimly, explained to him that some unfeeling wretch had been trifling with him, and that pie was an impossibility at sea.â
A lack of knowledge about how the ship worked led to many a greenhand being advised by another crewmate to make such absurd requests like climbing up to the man at the mast head to ask what time it was, or to go to the mate and tell him to âsecure the barometerâ and âask him if the masts were workingâ. It wasn't just seasick greenhands, however. Any man could find himself fair game, especially those who fell asleep during their watch. One of the most popular pranks involved tying a line around a manâs legs while he was sleeping, and then working together to haul him up into the air. William Abbe once found himself at the rope end of this. He was a Harvard law student who had signed on the whaler Atkins Adams in 1858 âfor his healthâ, and at times due to his education tutored other men on board in writing and reading. He showed a great allegiance to the after cabin, including a particular noted favoritism from the Captainâs wife, and could get quite self righteous about the behavior of his shipmates. This didnât always endear him to his fellow foremast hands.Â
âThat night I laid down for a little while on my chest during my watch on deck + Shanghai making the fore lift fast about my legs, the rest of the watch bowled away till I brot up against the steps, taking in my passage hither an alarmingly sharp cut + twirling around in a way that would have immortalized a circus tumbler. Shangâthe rogueâpretending ignorance + when I went on deck all hands were cooly singing â âBully in the Alleyâ â + as innocent as so many sucking pigsâI couldnât help laughing, though at first I was slightually mad. I am now waiting a chance to make S fast. Such tricks are common + all make common sport of each other.â
J.E. Haviland, greenhand aboard the Baltic in 1855, enjoyed partaking in this prank every chance he got, after having it done once to himself:
"After a great deal of trouble [I] finally succeeded in getting it made fast around one of his feet. I then went carefully up on deck where the other end of the rope was + 6 of us got hold of it and gave poor Matt what I call an after haul. To use his own words however he did not wake up until he felt himself strike the Deck right plump on his setdown. In trying to haul him up through the scuttle by his leg he got fast in the steps + then for the first time commenced to sing out bloody murder. After he got on his togging + came on Deck I commenced consoling him + he laid it to everybody else but me. This makes five times I have bent on him + I am the last person he suspects of doing such a deed."
Sometimes the pranks were a little more visually lasting, as Whitecar highlighted another joke set upon Mr. Kedge Anchor.
âOne fine Sunday morning Kedge Anchor expressed a desire to have his hair cut. Here was an openingâand a conspiracy was immediately formed against his cranial adornment. One went to work and cut his hair. When finished, a dozen voices exclaimed against the barbarian who had put so outre a cut on his poor head; others recommended a little more off behind. The victim acquiesced, and submitted to the operation. A second, third, fourth, and fifth lent their aid in denuding his skull, and by the time the last had finished he was a picture for a painter.â
The captain often didnât bother to step in to put a stop to such tricks, having other things to concern himself with than the antics of the fo'c'sle. Albert Peck, on board the Covington in the 1850s, described what happened when a whaler, nicknamed Duff, made his complaint to the captain about being the object of a prank.
âSpeaking of duff reminds me of another little incident which transpired a little while before. One evening as Duff (not the cookâs duff but our Duff) was lying on the fore hatch enjoying an evening nap, some mischievous chap smeared his hair and face with tar. A short time afterwards, waking up and finding it out, he at first tried to find the author of it and failing in this he posted aft to where the captain and mate was sitting and began to make his complaint to the captain that some one had been tarring him. "What did you let them for?â âI didnât know it, sir.â âYou were asleep, then. They wouldnât have done it if you hadnât been. Keep awake and you wonât get tarred. Clear out and donât you come to me with any more of your complaints.â He could get no satisfaction either forward or after, and was forced to swallow it down, vowing that if he ever found out who it was he would serve them the same.â
Often times payback was handled internally in the fo'c'sle, usually with a deliverance of the same prank upon the culprit. From Whitecar,
âI remember one poor fellow, who prided himself much on his agility, giving us a specimen of the movements of the kangaroo, sweating and exerting himself for a whole afternoon, delighting us, as he supposed, with his farcical antics, until he discovered on his back a large paper figure in imitation of himself. He said not a word at the time, and sat down totally abashed; but ere long a paper Punch figured on the back of the supposed instigator.â
"We are constantly abusing each other in fun," William Abbe cheerfully recorded. Among such abuses:
"I have known Shanghai when on deck in his wilfull, mean spirit of mischief + coarse trickery - go to the forecastle hatch and pointing his breech down the gangway discharge such a tearing report that the sleepers have actually startled in their bunks."
âAfter sunset often all hands play âWhang O Doodleâ round the windlass, or chasing each other and spankingâfast + terrible are some of the blows â and we are kept in a roar of laughter at the contorted faces and the rubbing with hands of the wounded parts.â
Regardless of how the decades stretch away from the height of American whaling to our present, the phenomenon of...a bunch of late-teens-to-early-twenties lads spending the dull periods of their voyage farting on each other and running around slapping each other's ass is Truly Enduring.
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this location within the spiral, the spirit realm itself, stands out to me as a very memorable area. design wise i just really enjoy it, very fond of the stylization and simplicity of it - and specifically one of my favorite elements from each world in this 2008 wizard game was the fun skyboxes, and i find the ones drawn for the spirit world to be particularity striking. this area ultimately just is very different from everything youâve seen up to this point, even when compared to nightside and such. it serves as an arena for only two battles - if im not mistaken - and thats also a reason why i enjoy it so much and leads to so much of the memorability to me.
the other delightful thing about this area, and what most people remember it for, is the strange sight found if you stand and peek over the edge, you might be greeted by what seems to be a ghostly blue face of some sort, staring back
this is just. here. it disappears and reappears maybe every 20-40 seconds or so, and to add onto it, all music would stop playing when standing at the edge, and you are only left with ambience and this oddly misplaced asset - however, while this asset has remained here for 14~ years, the effect of only ambience seems to have been patched out? and for a moment i almost believed the âfaceâ was missing aswell, until of course it reappeared to greet me
something interesting that i noticed recently - what ive never seen anybody bring up about this odd weird little freak, this alleged âcreepy face in mooshuâ is the fact that its actually the asset utilized in the wraith spell
theres not really much else to say about this connection, i just find it interesting. and when it comes to the actual asset itself you could still ask ... what is it? id say its a skull, but it really does just look like a face. who knows. maybe it truly was misplaced in this void, or some cheeky developer thought it would be funny to place down there. its one of those âcreepy mystery/phenomenon in an old video gameâ things that i just really love, and i hold the few bits of âcreepyâ wiz trivia very dear to me xP
#wizard101#wizzy#i take fun creepy game mysteries like this very seriously and care about them so much. you'll have to forgive me for writing so much about a#single asset#i also just wanted to gush about old low polygon environment design#yipppiii yahooo#i miss this kinda stuff so bad. nothing beats a bunch of wizard kids going crazy over this one weird asset or arguing over whether or not#the ghost girl in the pyramid of the lost horizon was real or the alleged voices in the lava#i also just miss straight up playground rumors. you dont really get that anymore. mew under the truck. that time that somebody just made up#an evil animal crossing villager named brutus. and of course things like herobrine#everyone knows too much about whats in the files and what isnt. i wasnt even a kid who fell for things like herobrine but it was still fun#to think about#(nowdays we got deltarune which is like all those creepy internet/playground rumors but real. and its so fascinating#god bless
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CAPTAIN BRITAIN COSTUME RATINGS
Totally impromtu and totally subective to my tastes! Focusing on Brian because his are the costumes i have the strongest feelings towards. Here we goooo!!!!
Original: 6/10
This one is a-okay and ive seen it look really cool in the hands of some artists, but itâs not a fave. The mask is cool, i like the big lion, and the Union Jack armbands are pretty neat, but it just doesnt really come together to me. Also i think Lionheart wore it better, but nobody gives a damn about her đ
Alan Davis design: 10/10
PLEASE look at this suit, the simple iconic design, the color placements, the boots, the COOL helmet with the chin guard, i love it so much. I used to be confused by the huge X his costume makes but it does fit with how much he associates with X-Men characters. This will always be one of my favorite Alan Davis designs, and now that Iâve seen the other potential costumes he drew when brainstorming i can say we hit the fucking jackpot here.
Alan Davis Redux: 9/10
I dont like this one as much as Davisâ original design, but itâs still really good. The color balance is more or less the same, and as as a person who has drawn the previous Captain Britain suit i do appreciate the simplification. Plus, the biggest thing I appreciate Davis bringing to Captain Britainâs design is his beefy physique, and that has yet to change. So whatâs to complain about?
Britannic: 2/10
In terms of 90s redesigns this is about as inoffensive as you can get, but itâs so damn boring. This looks like something Brian would wear for some one-off Excalibur mission, but itâs just his regular suit. Hell it looks like an undersuit thatâs missing some kinda armor! Literally only thing worse than this costume to me is the name âBritannic.â Like are you kidding me. The only reason he isnt 1/10 is this is some of the best hair Brian has ever had. Literally a helmetless version of any of his costumes with this flowing hair would be SICK.
King of Otherworld: 3/10
Really donât give a fuck about this one tbh. Itâs not all bad, itâs clearly drawing from his original costume with some of the iconography and i can certainly see that working, but without the mask??? The best part of his original costume??? Or maybe some variation on helmets? Also, again, Lionheart basically wore a version of this suit that was better in every way.
New Excalibur: 8/10
Okay now weâre talking!!! A nice update of the classic design that makes a few interesting changes. I always thought the black sleeves were kinda neat, as is the helmet resembling a more traditional superhero mask. The modern detailings, however, iâm completely indifferent toward. You could tell me this was Ultimate Captain Britain and id believe you (which is funny as some of the Ultimate designs resemble the classic suit way more than this one does). Still, not bad at all!
M.I. 13: 4/10
Im gonna be real, this is probably my least favorite one, but i donât think itâs the worst. Itâs just so bland. Itâs not like a helmetless look couldnt work, Brian and Betsy rock that look quite a bit, and Ultimate Jamie Braddock KILLS with it. But like the overly simplistic design, thinner build, lame haircut, heâs just missing so many vital qualities.
Sword of Might: 7/10
This design is very cool and i love how it combines his og and classic looks in a more armored appearance. If he had blue covering his mouth this would be my favorite upgrade of his original design. However i ultimately donât think this is a design id wanna see regularly because i just donât like his original suit that much. But still, so cool to see!
Captain Avalon: 6/10
I greatly appreciate the return of the BEEF but i find this suit kinda mid. Itâs just a Captain Britain reskin, like heâs Thunderstrike or the Scarlet Spider. But thatâs perfectly okay. Frankly my biggest problem with it is that I donât get why it exists. Like okay Brian is retired and he seems fine with that but thereâs a million Captain Britains. There are LITERALLY retired Captain Britains hanging out in Otherworld all the time! Did they get new costumes too? Who knows. On the other hand, this is the least connected to Britain heâs ever been in terms of name and design, so in a way that makes it a secret 10/10!!! Wow!!!
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HIII THISIS ME FORMALLY ASKING ABOUT BG3 AND YOUR TAVS AND WHATNOT... OR ANYTHING REALLY !! IVE BEEN MEANING TO ASK BUT IW AS SOSO SCARED. FOR SOME REASON. (AND IF YOU ALREADY MADE A POST SOSORRY MY NOTIFS ARE ALL FUCKED UP AND WHATNOT YOU KNOW HOW IT IS)
HI. I AM MAKING THIS POST NOW I KNOW I SAID IâD MAKE IT EARLIER AND I REALLY WANTSD TO BUT. I HAVE BEEN SO SO BUSY AND ALSO THERE JS THE BURNOUT. YOU KNOW HOW IT IS. Anyway thank you for asking it finally gave me the kick in the butt I needed to Make The Post!! Yippie! Under the cut bcs of length etc etc <3
Okay so first is my main girl Peony!! Sheâs my durge and I love her <3!!
Some info:
She/it. Kind of a girl but not really. Transfem <3
Asmodeus tiefling and a war cleric of Tiamat!
Using her to romance Astarion
Sheâs super pink because I love pink and itâs my favorite color. Yes itâs self indulgent no I donât care. Heart <3
Similarly, her name is Peony because peonies are pink and I like them. Heart x2 <3
Aside from that, though, the main inspiration behind her design is that I love love love how pink and red are both Valentineâs Day colors / âgirlyâ colors and the colors most heavily associated with blood and guts and viscera. Wanted to play around with the idea of a character who is kind of the physical representation of that. Of the way pink and red are associated both with violence and with love and femininity. The duality of the heart as both a symbol of romance and as the thing that keeps your blood pumping etc etc
As such, she is very much the embodiment of that concept! At first glance, sheâs very soft and sweet and feminine and doting, but her behavior is pretty much the antithesis of her appearance! She Is An Asshole. And a violent one at that! She has very little regard for what is good or right or just or moral, but she isnât just out for whatâs best for her either, she likes violence for the sake of violence! Even if causing it isnât in her best interest
This doesnât mean that she doesnât have any kind of an interest in sex and romance and stuff tho. She does! The kinds of relationships that appeal to her are just a bit Fucked Up
Gets weird about the sight of guts and organs and blood and viscera, for example. Kind of girl who would be posting on tumblr about the inherent eroticism of cannibalism if tumblr existed in dnd
Annoys the rest of the party when she stops to examine and poke through the blood and guts of every corpse she passes. Sheâs not even LOOTING, sheâs just Admiring, and everyone else canât stand it (âletâs just get a damn move on already!â)
Also, I wanted to make her a war cleric of Tiamat *specifically* to further play into this concept. Like, everyone assumes clerics are good-aligned healers for the most part, so I wanted her to not reflect that AT ALL. She worships the living embodiment of avarice and hate and prays for MORE death and gore, not to heal it
In terms of backstory, I donât have it Super figured out, but I imagine that she grew up in the hells amongst the large scale suffering and violence there and began to resent life and goodness as a result. She also developed her Fixation with viscera as a fucked up coping mechanism. Canât be traumatized by the blood and guts if you train yourself to like seeing them, after all
Beginning to worship Tiamat is definitely where she really started to REALLY go downhill, though. Devoting yourself to hatred and malice and war is bad for you, it turns out!
I imagine she started this worship as a second Fucked Up Coping Mechanism. If the world is going to be cruel no matter what you might as well embrace it and worship that cruelness, yeah? Make yourself a part of it. Canât be the victim if youâre the perpetrator, and itâs every man for themselves after all
Is drawn to Astarion initially because heâs also mean and a bitch! Like heâs not an asshole in the exact same way as her but she likes his Vibe. Is DEFINITELY suspicious of him at first, though. She can pick up on the fact that heâs Hiding Something, even if she doesnât know exactly what. She actually respects it though! Doesnât mind someone with a couple secrets, and sheâs got a few herself anyway
She IS nosy, thoughâ like a massive gossipâ so she definitely does dig deeper until she Figures It Out. Doesnât ever bring it up because itâs good to have blackmail and she isnât THAT fond of him yet but she Knows
When he tries to bite her she initially gets angry because she assumed he was trying to sneak up on her and kill her. Not because she was offended at the concept of someone plotting to murder her, though, but because she thinks that itâs cowardly to SNEAK UP on someone and then kill them. A real âfight me properly if you want me dead bitch!!â moment
Then she finds out that he just wanted her blood and very much just went âoh? Is that all?â about it. Like doesnât even bat an eye in the slightest. What already being Weird about blood and viscera does to an mfer
After they start getting closer, Iâd imagine that they both have an âoh I can make them so much worseâ moment about the other. But itâs like multiplying two negatives and getting a positive and instead of making each other worse they actually end up making each other better! They both realize that maybe they Do care, maybe they Do want good things for the other (and therefore for themselves) and are both very pouty and bitchy about it at first
In terms of her relationships with the others, Iâd imagine it varies! She likes Laeâzel almost as much as she likes Astarion, and they get along pretty well. She thinks Gale is so so boring and tries to avoid him at all costs. Wyll has good stories but heâs also a goody-two-shoes. At least he can give good advice for slaying demons, though. She thinks heâs meh, overall. She sees SO MUCH of herself in shadowheart (manipulated/groomed into serving an all powerful evil deity) and it makes her SO uncomfortable. She doesnât want to admit that serving the literal personification of violence and hate is Bad For Her, even if she can see how bad serving Shar is for shadowheart. So she tends to avoid her to avoid that uncomfortable feeling you get when you recognize your suffering in another even when you donât want to admit that youâre suffering at all. She also feels that Karlach is a goody-two-shoes (much like Wyll) but tieflings have to stick together. Sheâs biased towards her and likes her, overall. However, seeing someone whoâs suffered to the degree you have still be kind when youâve chosen to be cruel is a hard pill to swallow, and while thereâs definitely some resentment there for that, by and large it just makes her want to be Better, even if she wont admit it
Aside from the Angst, I imagine that she does have hobbies and interests just like everyone else. Sheâs still a Person, after all
She likes flowers, and in a world where she can settle down and be happy I picture her being an avid gardener! In this same world, I think she could use her obsession with viscera in a productive way by becoming a butcher! In fact, she probably DOES become a butcher, after she settles down post game
Cares probably a bit too much about her appearance for someone who doesnât really like people all that much
Physical touch is her love language! Sheâs bad with words and doesnât know how to pick gifts, quality time feels awkward when you havenât yet learned how to act around people without assuming that they mean to do you harm (and that YOU mean to do THEM harm) and acts of service just arenât her thing. But she sure as hell does know how to drape herself over you like a cat or hug you so tight you canât breathe! Big on PDA. Of course, all of this happens after lots of discussion and boundary setting and Time, when it comes to Astarion specifically
Speaking of PDA, Karlachâs warm hugs (post engine fix) are her favorite :)
Predictably, sheâs a carnivore who loves to eat meat. For her, the rarer the better (much to the disgust of her campmates and especially Gale, who wonât cook raw food, no matter how much she asks)
Probably takes up wood carving at some point as a more Productive coping mechanism, just so she can do something with her hands and a knife that isnât violent. Her favorite things to carve are bunnies <3 (theyâre her favorite animal)
Speaking of bunnies, sheâd probably get a pet rabbit postgame as she learns to trust herself with delicate, vulnerable things again. Itâd be a white one, and sheâd name it Sugar, I think :)
Okay I think I will shut up now. I have thought literally SO MUCH about her and Iâve already written a barely coherent essay full of random stuff but!! There is still more in my brain. I will maybe talk about Seraph later, but this is already an essay so Iâm leaving it at that! Thanks again Kosmo for asking and Iâm so sorry about the length of this half incoherent ramble!!!
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i was tagged by @you-are-so-much-better-than-thatââ and @mikhailoisbabyââ to do this fic writer/artist tag! ive never seen an artist version of this so this is exciting :D
1. Do you post on Ao3? If so, how many works do you have on AO3? If not, where do you post?
i dont post art on ao3 but i post fics there,,,,not gonna say my username though
2. What is your total art count?
we gotta be like 500+ by now
3. What are your top 5 pieces by likes/kudos?
theyâre all dan and phil surprise surprise i was surprised that the first one has 12k notes for some reason. im just going to link them
spooky week sketches amazingphil shop spon PHIL QUIFF DEBUT!!! black ânâ white dan phil is not on fire collection
4. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?
i try to but sometimes i forget and i also dont have notifcations on any social media turned on so i miss a lot of things
5. What is your current fandom, and what was the first fandom you drew for?
currently drawing for umbrella academy, shameless and stranger things. first fandom i properly drew for was one direction but i was drawing stuff for like panic at the disco and powerpuff girls and my little pony and my chemical romance when i was like 7
6. Have you ever received hate on any art?
tonnes lol, iâd say every 2-3 pieces i draw gets some kind of negative attention. recently thereâs been an asshole in my asks accusing me of fetishising ian and mickey so thats something to look forward to every time i poseÂ
7. Whatâs a fandom/ship you havenât drawn for yet but want to?
i want to go back to shows i watched as a kid like total drama island and draw the characters in my art style, i did it with the winx club earlier this year and it was fun. i want to draw harringrove but im not mentally prepared to be like,,,sent death threats atm
8. Whatâs your all-time favorite ship?
i dont know tbh ian and mickey are up there i guess
9. Do you draw outside of fandom?
yeah im a graphic designer so i draw a lot of shitÂ
10. Whatâs the an art piece youâve drawn that came out completely differently than you expected?
this one actually
11. Do you draw smut?
sometimes
12. Have you ever had any of your art stolen or copied?
yeah of course, someone sells my shit on redbubble and i have to keep reporting them
13. Have you ever collaborated on a piece?
yes! @mishervellousâ and i did that amazing comic together for gallacrafts and im so proud of that! also collaborated with a lot of dan and phil artists to make a calendar, a phil is not on fire poster and some general collabs for fun (if anyone wants to collab hmu bc im down)
14. Whatâs an idea you have that you have yet to draw?
i really want to draw drummer mickey for some reason
15. What are your drawing strengths?
people i guess, maybe like details on clothes and stuff?
16. What are your drawing weaknesses?
hands and feet lol
17. Whatâs your favorite art piece youâve drawn?
im so proud of this drawing even though no one really liked it, like looking at it makes me so happy
18. What is one thing youâd like to tell people about your art that they might not know?
like harvey said haha i also use the same colour palette especially skin tones and hair colours also i sketch a lot of the drawings traditionally and then trace over it on photoshop
19. What inspires or motivates you to create for fandom?
myself. i would still be drawing even if no one notices it. heck i draw so much stranger things stuff only for a top of 10 people across instagram, twitter and tumblr to interact with it.Â
20. And finally, can you describe your process a little? Do you have a favourite place to draw? Do you play something in the background? Do you do research or just go for it? Give us a little insight
i sit at my desk and use a wacom tablet and my laptop. I have my other laptop open and im normally listening to a tv show that ive seen so i dont have to pay attention or a play through of a game or some creepy stories. sometimes i listen to music on my record player. i always spend ages looking at pose references and rage quitting when i dont draw it right the first time before coming back to it a few hours later. i draw mostly in the evenings, after dinner. sometimes i drink a hot chocolate if its late enough lol.Â
im gonna tag @mishervellousâ @doodlevichâ @heymrspatelâ @adakechiâÂ
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Hey will there be any musubi fantasy shirts available at the Chicago popup? I'm a huge musubi fan and I love your musubi fantasy stuff
i think i have exactly 1 black one left over one but i dont know if somebody ordered it and i accidentally left it out of their order or not but the amount of times ive posted "email me if you haven't got your order" has been several so i might bring it? idk. i was thinking abt reprinting a couple but idk if i have the time. i will probably do something with that drawing again though because like ive said before on here its one of my favorite things ive ever drawn so if it doesnt work out don't worry too much or anything.
the main stuff i am planning to bring:
the cavity/dennis shirt (tentatively called ketchup and mustard: from the fridge)
gmod toenail shirts
i love pimple and toenail shirts/sweaters/tanktops
a couple of HSM hoodies (if time permits)
exactly 1 jalapeno shirt (my embroidery machine is broken or else there would be a couple more im sorry ;_;)
i think i have 2 cool ranch shirts
the minimum price of a shirt there is probably going to be 60 dollars!! im not set on the price of the dennis/cavity shirt yet but probably at least 100 dollars (its 15 screens, which is, a lot of work. for reference the HSM stuff was all like, 8-10 screens, and in the same place every shirt. they are also printed on shaka wear blanks which are expensive and very high quality, very heavy. and they use a Lot of ink). im doing the pop up partially to fund my travel expenses to just otherwise visit the city and hang out with my friends im not gonna lie so like i need da money.
and then i have a couple ideas for other stuff if i have time but irdk im working my butt off im recording vlogs and shit while i do everything so like whatever happens happens and itll be documented but idk if you come out im gonna give u a sticker or a pin or something at least probably. ill doodle u a toenail idk.
excited to see anybody that comes!! please don't be weird to me or flirt with me but otherwise i will be nice to you ok!!
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5 + 11 + 20âŒïž
5. Anything you havenât drawn yet but want to?
Ugh yes like 800000 things Im literally dying. A lot of them are like more elaborate ideas that I want to wait until I have more skill to try to execute them, even though trying to do things you donât yet have the skill for is literally how you improve but whatever. other than wips Im working on rn I wanted to do all the og crows bc I have some design ideas for all of them but I wanted to check first on some things Iâll do that later. The pipe dream I have is to one day do like an animatic to a song or whatever. Cringe I know but itâs ok. Not even like a full song maybe 30-60 seconds? I might attempt it this summer Iâll have time then.
11. Favorite comment youâve ever recieved on your work?
this is not only the nicest thing anyone has ever said abt my work, but also possibly the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid to someone elseâs art, in history. nicer than what that guy said in the dr who vincent van gogh episode. it was a while ago and over some drawings I didnât even like that much but it was so nice :,)
but ofc every nice comment people leave I really like and appreciate it and thank you sm and et ceteraÂ
20. What works have you drawn fanart of?
Im going to answer this for since I started doing digital art regularly in 2021 because before then I was exclusively into incredibly embarrassing things. Not counting the OCs of people I personally know as fan art Ive done wolf 359, witch hat atelier, jason bourne franchise I guess (drew him literally 1 time lol), ace attorney, star trek ds9, wings of fire (I drew a generic icewing once because I had art block), the owl house, teppu, our fair city (these drawings will never see the light of day lol), the new albion radio hour, monster high, moon knight (2016 comics not the show), revolutionary girl utena, the movie encanto, tf2, nichijou, mob psycho 100, and paranatural. which is way way way more things than I thought there would be. this is over the course of 2.5 years to be fair and most of these have only 1 or 2 drawings to their name. The vast majority of what I draw these days is OCs for sure.
#ty for asking :)#these questions are very fun I think this is a solid list#I want to draw people DOING things on BACKGROUNDS in ENVIRONMENTS#hopefully I will achieve this someday someday
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Do you have any OCs? feel free to talk about them if you do What was the first piece of media you engaged with on the internet? Are you still interested in it? What's something you made or did that you're proud of? What's something that made you smile this month?
ooh this is so fun tysm!!!
i do have some ocs! ive been working on them on and off since high school and i still dont have an overarching story or anything for them but i'll go over the basics if anyone's interested o.o
the basic premise is a group of friends who start a band called good question, but ive always considered the main couple of this universe to be renee and pj (who i just renamed a minute ago dont worry abt it) even tho they aren't really in the band. the band is made up of alysha on lead guitar and vocals, juan on drums, and anis on bass, with meg as a roadie and sati as their social media manager (and also regular manager). calypso is the newest addition to the group, they're the youngest and im not entirely sure how they'll fit in but i think they're just gonna be a younger college student or something. ive sketched and drawn everyone in the group, some more than others, but i'm still really working on their designs and physical & personality traits and backgrounds and all that. i know that pj likes anime and sati & anis are exes and alysha is an amputee and renee is jewish and all kinds of stuff but i haven't really fleshed them out as much as i want to eventually. lmk if ur interested in hearing more abt them bc it would definitely encourage me to work on them more hehe
i dont really remember what my first internet media was, but i feel like it mostly started with youtube and stuff like charlie the unicorn. my first fandoms were book series, the hunger games and hp and the mortal instruments and all that, and im absolutely not into most of it anymore except the hunger games i still think they're brilliant
i'm definitely proud of some of the stuff ive made! i havent been working on my skills as much lately but my gf has been inspiring me bc i love drawing her body <33 so other than those drawings of her in my top posts rn and that taz comic i did a while ago i like these too
lots of things make me smile!! getting this ask made me smile! also harper got her first tattoo and it happened to have my lucky number in it and my cat is so cute so im happy every time i get to see him and i saw the sun set on bare trees in front of dark clouds a few days ago which is one of my favorite things to take pictures of <3
thank u again for all this!! i love sharing things abt myself and idk if this was like a chain or what but i might send it along to someone else anyway bc it's so nice ty
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