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sunnami · 3 months

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❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[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: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

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.

“RITA, 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 season’s 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.”

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 garden—and 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. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.”

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re 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.

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” 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 you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s 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 world’s attention constantly and effortlessly.

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. “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” 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, you’re 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.

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but 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 me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.”

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” 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. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.”

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.”

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” 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. “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” 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, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.”

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” 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. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.”

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.”

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.”

Your expression falters—but 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. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” 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.

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” 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 you’d 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.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve 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 doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.”

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” 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.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” 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. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do 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.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

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 confrère 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.

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 tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” 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. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I 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,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” 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. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

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. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)

act ii. tonight, let’s 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, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

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 you—and 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 mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.

“Reveal yourself,” 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, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.”

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.

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?”

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. “And 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.”

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?”

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s 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, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.”

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?”

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s 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. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.”

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. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” 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.

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.

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” 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. (You’ve 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.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?”

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. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?”

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.”

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus 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.”

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” 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.

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.

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. “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.”

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.)

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. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.

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.

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.

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, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.

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. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a prison,” 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.

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” 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.

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?”

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. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” 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.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls.

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. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally.

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s 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, “Confringo!”

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 won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s 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. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” 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 House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether 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, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s 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.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

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, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve 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.

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” 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. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” 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 Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.”

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. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?”

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.

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.”

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” 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. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?”

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!”

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, “May I have this dance?”

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.”

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d 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 song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?”

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it.

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow.

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.”

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 hip—incidentally, where you’ve 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 you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought.

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re 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.

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” 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; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

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 hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d 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.

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

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.

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve 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: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.”

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!”

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. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.”

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?”

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve 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!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve 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 Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?”

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.”

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.”

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?”

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll 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 mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”

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. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade 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.

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly.

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.”

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”

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. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background.

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!”

Turns out, you are not fine.

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen.

—

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d 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 open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly.

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s 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. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.”

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.”

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” 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.

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.”

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!”

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!”

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.”

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.”

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” 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.

—

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 aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s 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. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.”

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors.

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.”

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not 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. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.”

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s 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.

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s 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. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.”

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling.

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.

You’ve 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, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve 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 can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?”

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly.

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

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 glacé 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 don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others.

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” 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. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.”

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s 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.

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After 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 shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

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 begins—like 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. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.”

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a 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 that—you 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.

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)

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. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?”

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.”

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.”

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more:

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!”

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets.

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s 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.

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?”

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?”

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?”

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.”

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.”

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius 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 this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.”

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve 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.

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes.

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words.

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them.

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?

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

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 host—that 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.

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.”

You want to go to sleep already.

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve 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 Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.”

You miss your cat.

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.)

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you 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.

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.

“We 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.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!”

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If 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.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” 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.

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

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 Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today 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.

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” 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 she’s misjudged a professor or two.)

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re 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 don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting 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.

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!”

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.

You scour the area frantically—there, 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.

“Daphne, get away from there!”

You hardly hesitate—you 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 away—each 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 fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.

But there is nothing.

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom.

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.”

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.

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. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.”

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t 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 Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile.

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.

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

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 she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s 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 girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” 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.

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms.

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s 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. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” 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.

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your 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 can’t 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.

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to.

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic?

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve 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.

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” 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. “I 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.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!”

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.”

The ingénue 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 don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.

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. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This 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.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And 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 world—do not let them see that you are afraid.”

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As 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.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert 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.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But 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. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(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. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” 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.

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and 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, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve 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 you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s 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.

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.”

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?”

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.”

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.”

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye.

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re 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.

“Hufflepuff!” 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, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.

(Hogwarts is the best!)

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 Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.

“So you were sorted there,” 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. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

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 didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued 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 she’s 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, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.

As long as you don’t 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 Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née 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.

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll 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 tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll 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.”)

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane.

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.

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve 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.

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t 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. “May I have this dance?”

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his.

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.

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl.

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.”

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

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.

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s 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. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)

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 cloaks—as 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.

“What is this?” 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. “Mother, what is going on?”

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. “My 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.”

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” 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 aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” 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.

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.”

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s 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? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . . I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

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. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

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.

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.

“Do you get it now?” 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. “This is your world from now on.”

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!”

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.”

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle.

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” 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 in—almost. 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 mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents.

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.)

“Oh, you cruel wench!” 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 someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?”

“How could I not, Lily darling?” 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. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.”

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re 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, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless 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 that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”)

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve 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.

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?

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.

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. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders.

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s 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. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” 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 confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.”

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!”

“Mother?” 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. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!”

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything 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!”

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!”

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s 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 there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” 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 palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?”

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. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But 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.”

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

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. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.

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 you’re 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 floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.

(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 don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.)

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.

Tom Riddle is handsome—you 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 own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard.

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” 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 you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.”

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.”

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!”

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation.

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.”

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?”

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word.

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name.

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.”

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you 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 proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills.

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)

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 one’s business but the Order’s—and yours.

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

(How cold is the floor? You don’t 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 Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas 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 can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter.

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.”

“I promise. . . you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.”

You pass out in her arms.

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s 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 internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.

You are tired.

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?

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 happen—if you just run away now.

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?

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.

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 horizon—if 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.

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” 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. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.”

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how 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.

You let your weight shift over the window.

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly.

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the 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. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?”

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.”

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. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.”

You stay silent.

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly 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.

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.”

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

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, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” 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 don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion.

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days.

To do what is right.

To endure.

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve.

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.

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 finally—

Your mother.

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.

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!”

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t 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.

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.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” 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. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!”

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.”

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” 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. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.”

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.”

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.

“Mum, wake up, please!”

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank 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.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s.

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!”

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s 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.

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll 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

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marvel-ous-m · 1 year

Text

Eddie Munson’s Guide for How to Adopt a Jock in Four Easy Steps (5/5)

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four

AO3 Link

A.N.: I’m actually kind of emotional posting this! It’s the first multi-chapter fic I’ve uploaded for ST and y’all have been so lovely this week. I hope you enjoy this 2,776 word ending (damn) to this fic that I’ve SO enjoyed writing and sharing.

I want to give a very special shoutout to my best friend @lamoabss for being my beta for this chapter and also just being an all-around wonderful person. Please give them a follow, they’re so insanely talented and we’re planning to do some collabs over the summer!

Okay, onto the last chapter!

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The first part of Step Three is easy enough- with all of Hellfire onboard, Eddie just needs to figure out the basics of Steve Harrington: likes, dislikes, allergies, school schedule, etc. All the things that high school students share with each other in the cafeteria over lunch or between class periods. So, Eddie makes like glue and sticks to Steve’s side. For the classes they share, Eddie moves to sit in the desk next to Steve- which is, sadly, pretty easy- no one is keen to sit next to the fallen king, probably out of some dumbass fear that they would catch whatever social pariah-ness that Steve had suddenly taken on. They trade notes during the classes that Steve zones out during- which, Eddie makes a mental note, are English and Math. (The other class they share together is Chemistry, and Steve can barely take his focus from whatever their science teacher is talking about to say ‘hi’ to Eddie when he comes into class five minutes late, which he does on a fairly regular basis. Eddie also files that information away for later).

By some unexplainable miracle, for the classes that Eddie doesn’t share with Steve, some member of Hellfire can fill in that space. Jeff takes Spanish 2 with Steve, Gareth has woodshop, and Grant has art and P.E.. Eddie employs them to run reconnaissance as they work together to make sure that Steve never has to sit alone in a class, and they begin to compile information through their various efforts.

Steve can draw pretty well, but he only uses pens to sketch. He loves art class and sits at the front to see the board better, so he probably needs glasses. He talked to the P.E. teacher last week and now all he does during class is sit in her office and file papers, I think she’s making him sit out for a few weeks because she thinks he has a concussion. Based on his behavior, he probably does. -Grant.

Steve hates woodshop. He sits in the back of the class and doesn’t pay attention, and if the professor catches him and makes him actually do work, he gets this look in his eye and panics a little. He does this thing with his right hand where he clenches it a couple times until he can breathe better. He won’t go near a hammer. I don’t really understand it. -Gareth.

Steve sucks at Spanish. He said something to me the other day about the letters not making sense. With the way he squints at his paper and the way he writes… I’m going out on a limb here, but he might be dyslexic? -Jeff.

Steve doesn’t pay attention in Math but he has an A, so he’s actually freakishly good with numbers. He doesn’t pay attention in English for the opposite reason, I think Jeff’s onto something. He loves Chemistry but he doesn’t have the best grade in that class. I think he pays attention because he wants to do a better job. He’s well rested on Monday and Friday morning, but Tuesday, Wednesday, and especially Thursday he looks like he’s about to fall over all day. I catch him nodding off in Math those days, and, maybe coincidentally, his shoes are really muddy on the mornings when he comes in tired. -Eddie.

With the new information, the boys get to work. Gareth makes himself Steve’s woodshop partner, doing the majority of the building and letting Steve relax for the most part, having him only do whatever wood staining that needs to be done. Grant shares some of his sketches with Steve in class to try and make him more confident about his art skills, which works surprisingly well. Grant also brings up his dyscalculia seamlessly over lunch one day and answers whatever questions Steve has. Jeff gives Steve his Spanish notes and asks to study together on Thursday nights. Steve turns him down- apparently Thursday nights he actually babysits Dustin so that Dustin’s mom, Claudia, can go to a Bingo thing with her friends, but Steve offers up Fridays after class in the library, which becomes a new tradition for them.

Eddie can’t offer much in the way of English notes (why read Shakespeare when there are hundreds of Sci-Fi and Fantasy books out in the world?) but he does make time to talk with Steve about English during lunch on Tuesdays. They go to the library instead of sitting in the cafeteria with the rest of Hellfire, and they work their way through whatever assigned reading their teacher gives them. Steve’s pretty tired, but not as tired as he is on Wednesdays or Thursdays, so it works, and they both find themselves actually understanding the subject matter for once. As for math- well, Eddie has Steve answer whatever questions he has rather than the other way around, but that seems to help Steve’s confidence about his math skills- which really are quite impressive. Eddie also finds himself as Steve’s lab partner for every Chem project. It’s a little bit chaotic- turns out that Steve understands Chemistry to a certain extent, but prefers to mess around more than actually learn something- which, yeah, dangerous, but also fun… very fun. (Eddie especially likes to play with the Bunsen burner- call him a pyromaniac- but his antics always pull a laugh from Steve, a bright sound that makes Eddie’s heart sing, so he keeps at it despite many, many reprimands from their Chem teacher).

The winter months turn to Spring, and Steve begins to bloom at the same pace as the flowers and trees around town. He contributes to conversations at lunch, plans to hang out with the guys when he has spare time, attends their band practices and cheers them on- hell, by March he even agrees to play a character in Eddie’s newest campaign. Eddie makes him a Paladin, which he claims fits Steve the best out of everything he could think of. Steve loves the character and picks up on what it’s like to actually play the game rather than strategize pretty quickly- unsurprisingly, Steve loves it.

The Hellfire boys seem to take Steve’s blooming personality in stride- Jeff goes over to Steve’s to bake chocolate chip cookies one-on-one, which they bring to the next campaign. He and Grant bond over art, swapping sketches and gifting each other art supplies. Every time Steve receives something, his eyes get this look- and every time that Eddie witnesses it, he’s reminded of why they brought Steve into their small-but-mighty crew, and is extremely grateful that Steve is acclimating so well. Steve and Gareth are fast friends, which takes all of them by surprise. Apparently, Steve gave Gareth some hairstyling tips, and that was that.

Steve’s personality isn’t the only thing that’s changing come Spring. Eddie finds himself staring at Steve’s mouth much more frequently. In fact, he can count a number of times where he could swear that Steve was doing the same to him. They laugh at each other's jokes more frequently, share stolen moments by Steve’s locker in between classes where they speak in hushed voices about whatever comes to mind. It’s… nothing that Eddie’s ever experienced before. At the same time, Eddie can’t imagine life without these moments with Steve, and while Jeff’s cautionary words are still at the forefront of his mind, he can feel himself falling harder, and it’s slowly reaching a worrisome point-of-no-return.

Time flies, and in the blink of an eye, it’s June. Steve passes all of his classes with the help of Hellfire, Eddie fails English and P.E. again (which he unfortunately expected- another year in this hell doesn’t sound all that appealing, but he figures that he can at least hang out with the guys for another year, and with Jeff in Senior English maybe he’ll actually pass). The four of them attend Steve’s graduation, where they meet some of the middle schoolers that Steve had spoken so highly about over the last few months. They all sit together and cheer as loud as they can when Steve walks across the stage and gets his diploma, even earning a few hushed whispers from surrounding parents to sit down and be quiet. Steve’s parents were nowhere to be found, but when everyone caught up with Steve after the ceremony to congratulate him, it was clear that he didn’t mind- in that moment, he had everyone that he cared about surrounding him.

Hellfire presented Steve with a club T-Shirt as a graduation gift, which he took with a wide smile on his face and that same look in his eye. Eddie took a moment to mentally pat himself on the back- Step Three: Get Steve Fully Integrated Into Hellfire, complete. (Yeah, he fell harder for Steve, but he kept that to himself and got Steve through the rest of the school year while also giving him a new group of friends- and, theoretically, Steve was none the wiser about Eddie’s feelings. All in all- not bad, Munson. Not bad.)

The kids had to leave pretty quickly after congratulating Steve- something about getting Dustin packed for summer camp and Claudia having been the one to drive all of them to graduation- but not without Dustin and his friends making Eddie promise to let them into Hellfire when September came around, while simultaneously gawking about him letting someone like Steve into the group. (Their bright personalities and excitement about Hellfire helped Eddie feel a bit more optimistic about the year ahead- who knew, maybe ‘86 would be his year).

Once the crowd dispersed, the rest of the boys of Hellfire also going their separate ways to get a start on summer plans, Eddie invited Steve over to the trailer to share a joint and spend the night. Wayne was pulling a 24 hour shift, and Eddie figured Steve needed an opportunity to let loose before starting work at the new ice cream shop, a job Steve was dreading. (Although, Eddie was secretly pretty excited about Steve’s new job, given the embarrassing uniform that Steve had described).

Steve took Eddie up on his offer, which is how they ended up splayed next to each other on Eddie’s bed, legs tangled together and giggling through the soft haze that came with working through some of Eddie’s stash. One thing led to another, and, at Steve’s quiet, embarrassed request, they tried out ‘shotgunning’, which turned into a very heated makeout session.

The development was entirely unexpected, but, as was later revealed during a conversation at sunrise, mutually very welcomed. So maybe Step Three wasn’t entirely completed in accordance with Jeff’s warning, but whatever. This was good- actually, scratch that, this was perfect. Best-of-all-possible-scenarios, win-win situation. They started dating- keeping it secret, only sharing it with the other members of Hellfire, and then only because Jeff clocked it within three minutes of one of their summer D&D sessions starting. They were all very supportive (save for a warning glare from Jeff that Eddie was on the receiving end of), and for about a month, Steve was the happiest that Eddie had ever seen. And yeah, Eddie was the happiest he’d been in a long time, too. Sue him, Steve was a great boyfriend- and was fucking perfect in the bedroom. (12/10 stars, give the man an award, kinda perfect. And that sailor suit? Goddamn…) Eddie didn’t know how he got so lucky, but he was going to do everything in his power to keep this gift from the universe in prime condition.

June turned to July, and Eddie’s understanding of the world as he knew it completely changed come Independence Day. Eddie was woken up by a phone call in the middle of the night from Steve, who, sounding beyond exhausted, asked for a ride home for him and his coworker Robin. Eddie arrived at the scene and was shocked by the sheer magnitude of what he had unknowingly stumbled upon. There were at least five times as many emergency response vehicles than Hawkins had, the newly-constructed mall was actively burning to the ground, there was a huge crowd outside a long yellow barrier of police tape, and a few faces Eddie recognized beyond the police tape: specifically Steve’s middle schoolers, Nancy Wheeler, Jonathan Byers, and-

There was Steve, holding a blanket around his shoulders, sitting in the back of an ambulance next to his coworker Robin, who Eddie knew from theater, band, and the handful of times he came in to visit Steve at work. Eddie ducked under the police tape without much fanfare and made his way over to the ambulance, pulling Steve into a hug the second he was within arms length.

They left pretty soon after that, Steve quietly explaining that he had told Robin about their relationship after vomiting their brains out in the movie theater bathroom. Which- Eddie wasn’t really sure how to unpack all of that, but that wasn’t exactly important at the moment. He drove Steve and Robin to Steve’s house, and, at their request, Eddie laid in Steve’s parent’s California King bed with the two of them. After a few hours of all of them trying to sleep but coming up unsuccessful, Steve finally started speaking. Once he started, he couldn’t stop, and an explanation of the hidden dark side of Hawkins came spewing out.

It was dawn by the time Steve finished recounting everything, and Eddie believed him without question. He trusts Steve intrinsically, he knows Steve would never lie about something like this- something so life-altering and burdensome. Besides, Steve’s story matched events that Eddie could place: Will going ‘missing’, followed by Barbara Holland, then Will magically re-appearing around the same time that Steve had his falling out with Hagan and came back to school with a beat-up face from Jonathan Byers. Steve walking the tracks with Dustin as he’d explained all those months ago in November took on a new meaning- they were searching for a monster from an alternate dimension that Dustin had accidentally let loose. The clenching motion Steve made and his aversion to woodshop suddenly made sense, too. In the middle of recounting the events of early November 1984, Steve left his parents room and returned with a wooden bat filled with nails that fit perfectly in Steve’s hand- he explained with an embarrassed flush on his cheeks that it kept him grounded, that he couldn’t sleep without it- that sometimes, when he was anxious, he felt himself reaching for the thing- but if he was relaxed, the idea of holding something even vaguely similar made him sick to his stomach.

Steve then moved on to describe the sleepless nights, how he made himself patrol Hawkins from sundown to sunup on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday nights, often trudging through the forest with his bat, ready to kill the next ‘big bad’ that came from the dimension existing under their feet.

Robin contributed what she could when Steve reached the events at Starcourt. After hours of talking in hushed whispers under the covers of Mr. and Mrs. Harrington’s bed, the three of them passed out, too exhausted to keep their eyes open.

The next few weeks were hard, but the three of them got through the nightmares together. Before Eddie knew it, the school year was starting, Robin and Steve were inseparable, working together at Family Video (because the two could barely spend a minute apart), and July 4th, 1985 felt like a distant thing.

As the months passed, Eddie and Steve’s relationship only became stronger, and in March of 1986, when Eddie watches Chrissy Cunningham be killed by seemingly supernatural forces, he knows who to call.

With a proactive start on things, they kill Vecna on the first try. No one dies- really, the worst that happens is a couple of scratches here and there. They live.

They love.

One day far in the future, as Eddie watches his husband play with their daughter, he thinks back to that November day in 1984, and sends a quiet thank you to his younger self. That Eddie in the library may have had no idea the long-lasting effects that his plan would’ve had on his life, but Eddie couldn’t be more thankful. Steve was nothing like the ‘lost sheep’ Eddie had initially assessed him to be- he had grown so much, found himself, accepted himself. He was Steve. Eddie’s Steve. He was his own, beautiful, intelligent, kind, sometimes-awkward (yet adorably so), person.

Secret, Unplanned Step Four: Make Steve Harrington Fall in Love with Me (While I Fall Irresistibly in Love With Him), complete.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @ellietheasexylibrarian @cuips-not-cute @melodymeddler @i-have-three-feelings @sc00ps-ahoy @singmeyoursimpsong @patchworkgargoyle @spectrum-spectre @devondespresso @thesuninyaface @obsessivlyme @angeldreamsoffanfic @carlyv @nburkhardt @inspirationorinsanity @rebelspykatie @my2amgaythoughts @lavenderagenda @just-a-tiny-void @mamafaithful @breadboi66 @beholdingloser @randomfandomcontent @oftirnanog @yellowdevilkitten @steves-strapcollection @keep-er-steddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @bisexualdisastersworld @jinxjinn @copingmechanizm @blackpanzy @failedstarsandgoldenclouds @evix-syne666 @crisisinverted17 @satan-is-obsessed @shrimply-a-menace @anaibis @trashcanniballecter @thoughtfulbreadpolice @awholedamnmesstbh @chaoticvictorianspirit @jcmadgirl @satan-is-obsessed @tommyvelvet @sleepdeprivedflower @fruitmix @carvingsnowdogs @annabanannabeth @rhyswritesreadsandcries @a-little-unsteddie @goodolefashionedloverboi @escapingthereality @aellafreya @lololol-1234

#stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #my writing #1984 steddie meeting au my beloved #steddie fic #pre s4 #pre s4 meeting #s2 rewrite #steve harrington needs a hug #hurt/comfort

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morningberriesao3 · 2 months

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A THOUSAND FLOWERS COULD BLOOM

Eddie Munson X Steve Harrington

A Snippet for the Steddie Big Bang @steddiebang2024

A/N: Happy Sunday!! Here's another short snippet of the fic I'll be releasing in two short months! Mark September 23rd in your calendars if you want some classic morningberries angst, and a whole lotta smut, too. That's when chapter one will be released in all her glory.

I'll reblog this with an official posting schedule for all the chapters after, but the whole fic will be wrapped up by October 15th, meaning there'll be a new chapter every few days!!!

For now, here's Eddie pining because Steve is perfect and can do no wrong (yet)

Go to my AO3 to subscribe if you want to receive emails when I upload a new chapter.

The first time could have been a fluke, Eddie thinks. Seems even more outrageous that it's all happening again, that Steve could be into this, more than once, maybe even more than twice. That it might actually be real life and not just a fantasy that Eddie got to flesh out one time in a moment where emotions were high.

Saying goodbye is never easy, it could have been the only way Steve knew how all those months ago. Eddie wouldn't have held that over Steve's head—if things had changed, if they went back to normal.

But this isn't goodbye. Now isn't goodbye.

Maybe Steve could be like this to say hello, too. To say good morning, happy birthday, congratulations, I'm sorry, thank you.

Maybe Steve could just be like this.

It's almost as if Steve hears Eddie's thoughts, as if he can read them like fine print all over his face. He tugs on Eddie's restraints, pulls them back and back and back until they're looped behind his own neck. Until he and Eddie are nose to nose once more, so close that Eddie might melt and fuse there permanently.

"Eddie," Steve murmurs, lost in the air of the room. He brushes a stray curl from Eddie's forehead, tucks it behind his ear. "I tried to tell myself that I wouldn't—that I couldn't—do this again. I—I tried. But you live inside my mind, Eddie. You're here physically, yeah, but it's like you never left Hawkins, how much I think about you."

Eddie circles his hips, crams his lids shut because looking at the honesty in Steve's stare is too much. "Fuck, Steve."

The hand that fussed with Eddie's hair wraps gently around his neck instead, thumb burying inside the line of Eddie's jaw. The pressure wakes him up, makes him choke out a sound way too similar to a moan.

"But then I got thinking." Steve runs his lips over the same place his fingers are squeezing. They're soft as he speaks against Eddie's skin. "Why would I want that? Why would I not want to feel this way?"

Eddie tries to capture Steve's lips, because he can't physically restrain himself. He can't wait another second when Steve is speaking sweet words that sounds like he might want Eddie half as much as he wants Steve.

Those fingers tighten further, though. Stop Eddie in his tracks.

Steve must see the urgency written all over Eddie's face, because he grants him the tip of his tongue, slicks it over Eddie's lower lip. No doubt making it shine like it's glossed, like Eddie is all made up for his date with Steve.

He pulls back, smiles as if he likes what he sees.

"Damnit, Eddie. I'm... I'm confused all the time. All the fucking time, and this thing between us isn't helping." Fingers move from the straining tendons of Eddie's neck, pressure easing as they trail up his chin. To his spit-soaked lips. Curling inside, hooking over his bottom teeth, opening his jaw wide. "All I know is that it's impossible that it's a bad thing. Not when it feels so fucking right."

The noise Eddie makes might be one that he'll be embarrassed about later. Loud, garbled around Steve's thick fingers, the sound of spit bubbling in his mouth because he can't stop fucking salivating.

But right now, his mind is slipping off to somewhere else. Some paradise far away from his shitty one-bedroom, away from Indy, away from this country, this planet, this galaxy.

It settles in a universe where his soul and Steve's are intertwined. Not even that—to a universe where they were never separate in the first place. Always one being, destined to live and die together, to become a star that Eddie in this universe can see shining in the night sky. Can see speckled on Steve's skin. In his sparkly eyes.

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eekitseve · 2 months

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Chapter one of my charpim fanfic below the cut :) just in time for Christmas in July! will upload to ao3 in a few days once I get my account

Charlie was definitely more of a New Year’s guy.

The “new year, new me” leaves a length of time between Christmas and the beginning of the following year to act out, to be someone else, and to do stupid shit. It’s right between needing to be good for Santa and having the slate cleaned for the new year.

New Year’s Eve was a blast for Charlie (almost) every time. Charlie, for one thing, knew how to have a good time. He knew enough people who hosted annual parties. He knew enough people who knew how to get into the big ones, the exclusive ones, the absolutely nuts ones. He never had to worry about New Year’s Eve plans— it was a reliable holiday where he could lose his shit and be forgiven the next morning by the world. Alongside Saint Patty’s day, he could get black out drunk and not be seen as a loser for a day. He could be a blunt, wreckless version of himself that night and have no repercussions from it save for a monumental hangover the following day.

Of course, none of this logic was true. You get false confidence to send a few stupid texts, fight a few people, maybe kiss a stranger or two-- but once the night’s over, you’re the same person who did all those things. It was you the whole time, and it never changed. You might say you’ll be better the next day (or next year), but it being a new year doesn’t change you. Once that year long timer comes back to the last few hours, you do it all again.

Pim was more favorable of Christmas.

Instead of living in the moment, he thought of his future. He reminisced on his past to what might be an unhealthy amount. He was a Romantic; he felt nostalgic for a time he remembers differently than how it happened, and he daydreams for a life he will likely only partially succeed in achieving. His goals are always slightly askew; trying to relive a past that didn’t actually happen a certain way, or trying to work towards something that he’s only seen in several tacky romance movies.

That might be why he likes Christmas so much; every Christmas was recorded on awful home video VHS’s, and sure, there would be arguing, but he’d be right there on camera, smiling and enjoying Christmas like he should. He would watch them sometimes when he came home. Who cared if his dad was cursing out his mom in the back of the video? He’d just skip those parts and reminisce on how cool he thought the nerf gun set he got that year was. He’d skip past the part where he shot his older brother in the eye and they started brawling on the floor. He’d skip past the parts on the tape where it was him in highschool, despondent, confused, and scared with the added touch of his new baby sister screaming the whole tape. He would usually go until he hit the Christmas before he moved out. He always stopped the fast forward when he recognized the scene-- blue tinsel on the tree, their old house in Adelaide, Australia, and probably the last time he was as close with his family as he was. For a while after that, the tapes weren’t as charming. First off, he wouldn’t be there until a few years later when his family moved to the US. Not to mention, he could remember the rest of them vaguely.

Maybe Pim and Charlie’s preferred holidays showed some deep facet of their personalities, maybe not.

Regardless of what holiday they liked better for whatever unspoken reason, both critters were excited to leave the office once their clocks struck 5. They didn’t have a timeclock, no, but Mr. Boss remained on company grounds until the shift officially ended; he was dedicated, and he ensured his workers were, too. This meant skipping out early was unlikely. Very unlikely.

Especially on the last shift right before their holiday vacation started.

Of course, the concept of holiday vacation was something new. Since a certain OSHA non-compliant fatal workplace incident two years ago, Mister Boss began rolling the ball on mandatory holiday PTO. He made an effort to prioritize the health of his workers over a few smiles made during the holidays. Charlie wasn’t gonna deny free PTO, but he did question the logistics of having no one working during the roughest time of the year. He was reassured that they as workers were to be prioritized; if the people making others smile are dead, then how can people smile? It seemed like kind of a half-baked response for the trouble he’d have had to go through to support such a decision, but again, Charlie didn’t want to argue against free PTO.

Allan, Glep, Pim and Charlie all are relaxing in the breakroom now. The hum of the lights are louder and it seems like even the heater is ready for a vacation as it runs colder than it has the past month. Charlie and Pim only had two clients today; one old man who wanted to visit the moon before he died (he was on his deathbed and they staged a quirky performance dressed as aliens to convince him he was there, which only worked because he was high out of his mind on various medications-- he died immediately afterwards), and a super rich guy that needed help picking out a gift for his family that would make them smile and, by association, him too. They went through a classic montage styled time of trying out different gifts, but ultimately giving them each 3.8 million dollars in cheque worked. He gave Charlie and Pim each a lonesome penny to fund their Christmas’s. Pim was endeared. Charlie was not.

They got back with an hour to spare and have hung out since.

Allan squeaks the break room sink faucet on and off a few times. He grumbles.

“The hot wat-err is off againn.” He begins futilely washing his used coffee mug with cold water and a firm sponge.

“Awww, what?! I thought we just got that fixed!” Pim whines.

Glep tunes in and adds context— “aekajjsxhcah ptotuckcakc jvvjwalc cakscjs wjejrw cjcjde totij fusj xockd fjfjs.”

“Oh, that makes sense,” Pim responds, surrendering his frustration.

“Yea-hh. I guess Mister Boss is already on it.” Allan replies and continues washing the dish; Pim watches inattentively.

Glep is on his iPad doing important work. “Scouting for frowning faces online” was his excuse on his last self evaluation once it was brought up a third time by Allan.

Charlie was on his computer playing Rust.

Pim sat there, waiting.

Pim was extra excited for the holidays this year. He rarely got to spend time with his family. He felt very lucky that he could spend upwards of a week with them now, even if it was at the expense of Charlie’s life (sort of).

Pim looks over at Charlie. He seems very in his element; he’s a self proclaimed pro-gamer, why wouldn’t he be? Pim wonders if he’s gonna play Rust for the entirety of their break. Charlie mutters a quiet “shit,” and spams his mouse. It’s not enough, apparently, and he groans, releasing himself from the clutches of the computer and leaning back in the chair. Pim looks away.

It’s about seven minutes now until they’re free.

The door opens and Mr. Boss walks in. He sees Charlie gaming and watches for a second silently, only saying “oh, nice” when he gets a good item. Mr. Boss looks up at everyone. “Before you guys go, I’ve got a little somethin’ for ya.”

Mr. Boss pulls out a manilla folder and slaps it down on the breakroom table.

“What is that?” Charlie asks cautiously.

“Oh, just some homework for your vacation!”

They collectively groan.

“Don’t worry, guys!” Mr. Boss pulls thin packets out of the folder and passes them out. “I just want to make sure we get in the holiday spirit! I want everyone to make one person smile before the year ends, heehee!”

Charlie looks at the packet and thumbs through the pages.

“This is like, 7 pages dude. Double sided. This is more than we do for regular clients.”

“Yeeerrrp. It’s actually a paper version of our remote position client completion form.”

“There’s a remote position?” Allan asks— the dish is no longer important.

“Oh, yeah, sillies! We have 372 smiling friends workers working remote around the clock to make people smile! They get to work from wherever they want, choose their own hours, and they even make more than you guys do!”

There’s a moment of silence before everyone seemingly opens their mouth to speak. Mr. Boss is quicker, though.

“Aaaaanyway, I hope you guys have a good vacation! And make sure to fill out the entire packet! Remember, you only have to make one person smile, but you do have to fill out the registration form on the back of page 4 and the release form on page 3 and also the customer satisfaction form on the back for them confirming that they smiled. It’s really not that much!”

Mr. Boss was in the doorway about to leave.

“Wait wait wait wait, Mr. Boss,” Charlie is desperate, “about the remote position--”

“Byeeee guys! Merry Christmas!”

He closes the door.

“And happy new year!” He yells to them, muffled through the door.

Charlie groans and melts into his chair a little.

“I never knew there was a remote position,” Allan confesses.

“Me neither,” Pim mutters a little despondent.

“I… how much more do you think they make?” Allan asks, setting his dish down to dry.

“I dunno. I mean… probably… a good bit more.” Pim answers.

“Well,” Charlie closes his laptop and stands up, “I’m heading out. We have nothing else going on and I haven’t eaten anything all day. Anyone want to go to Spaghetti Disco?”

“That’s fancy,” Pim comments as he scratches at some crud on the table with his finger.

Charlie starts packing his laptop away in its case. “I’m just craving spaghetti, man. Are you in?”

“Yeah, I guess. What about you, Allan and Glep?”

“I guess, sure-uh.”

“jwkewjekjwefsdjkfskdhe.”

“Oh, that’s right, Glep, we were going to go on that movie double date. How could I forget-uh?”

“Oh! What movie?”

“Bimblar Seven. Kickolas Nagé is in it.” Allan rubs at a water droplet mark on his tie.

“Oh, wow! The pro footy player slash pro swimmer slash pro actor?”

“Yeah. I would invite you but I think the tickets are sold out-uh. And it’s a double date.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Pim’s definitely a little bummed out-- “I’ll be getting spaghetti with Charlie, anyway.”

“Okay, well,” Charlie claps, “you ready to go, Pim?”

“Yep!”

“Cool. Uhhhh, see you guys next year then?”

“See ya.”

“Jwejwejkwesdfj.”

“Aight. C’mon, Pim.”

///

Of course spaghetti disco had a bar— and of course the main course Charlie aimed for was some special holiday drink he saw them posting about on social media. He took a seat at the bar before Pim could suggest a booth or maybe a table somewhere.

It’s fine, Pim thinks. Really not the end of the world.

Pim struggles to work his way up on top of the bar stool. When he finally makes it, he’s just a little bit out of breath. Charlie looks over just in time to say, “oh, dude, I could have helped you.”

Pim waves it off with a smile. His shirt is wrestled out from so tightly tucked in his pants. It’s fine, he’s gonna be eating (and presumably drinking the way Charlie wants to take this night) so he may as well leave himself a smidge disheveled.

“You know, Charlie,” Pim tries three or four times to perch his chin on his balled fist comfortably, “I didn’t ask what you’re doing for Christmas. You celebrate, right?”

Their spaghetti arrives and they thank the waitress. It’s in the same cup they use for their drinks; a trademark of Spaghetti Disco. It almost looks like worms, and Pim scrunches his face at it a little.

“Well yeah, I’m Catholic,” Charlie adds pointedly. The bartender slides an Iron City to each of their spots in addtion to Charlie’s Christmas themed drink. They both thank him subtly.

“Well— I wasn’t sure, I mean.. I know a lot of people that are Catholic that don’t practice.”

Charlie throws back a hefty swig of the beer. He grimaces and sets it down. Some of it dribbles down his lip. He steals a sip of the Christmas drink and cringes worse.

“Yeah, but like— here’s the thing, Pim. Christmas is like, not even a holiday anymore dude. It’s like…” Charlie takes off his hat, runs his hand through his hair, and replaces the hat, “it’s just a thing to get people to buy shit now. You know? Like-like I haven’t had, like, a magical—or whatever— Christmas since I was a kid.”

“Oh, Charlie! That’s not fair,” Pim frowns. “You deserve to have a good Christmas again. That’s so sad!”

“No no, Pim, you’re missing the point. I’m saying no one has them anymore once you’re older. Like it’s all just fuckin… matching Christmas pjs at Walmart that you wear like, once… and stuff that kinda just goes on sale and-and they throw away after Christmas because no one fuckin-“ he burps— “Excuse me. No one fuckin wants, like… a fuckin “Ho Ho Ho I’m- there’s a baby on the way!” shirt after, like, Christmas morning. Like it all just gets thrown away.”

He takes a big sip of his drink and a heaping bite of spaghetti, commenting under his breath that it’s hitting the spot. Pim takes the minute to really hear what he has to say.

“Hmm.” Is all he has to reply with at first. Charlie is still chewing, so Pim articulates a better response as he winds up a fork of spaghetti. “You know, I think-I think it’s situational. I think it’s really wonderful in the right situation. Like, the-“

“Like the… Pj’s? And shit?”

“The- yeah. Like, if it’s with the right people.”

Charlie shoots him a suspicious look as he says this.

“What, are you talking about your family? Because-“

And they both talk at once,

“Yeah! I mean, they’re not perfect, but— oh.“

“Because they seemed horrible last time— oh.”

A quiet moment passes. Charlie looks away awkwardly.

“Sorry, Pim.”

“You thought they were horrible?”

“I mean, yeah, man. They were like… fully fucking shooting at each other. With guns. Like that’s…. That’s abnormal. I’d honestly avoid people like that. And try to get the, um, kids out of that situation.”

“Well, yeah, they shouldn’t— I mean I’m not disagreeing with you, but they’re still my family, and it’s not that bad if you just go away when they do it.”

“Pim. That’s not normal. Like- like genuinely, I’d avoid them. That sounds awful. You get to go away, they don’t.”

“But, I still love them, you know? Like, I can’t just… and you know, the kids, too. Like they need to talk to someone, um, normal. Like I think coming by is good for them.”

“Just call, like, CPS.”

“Oh, um- Mister Frog actually got rid of CPS a few months ago.”

“What?” Charlie stops mid bite. “Like- like really?”

“Yeah, he- it was kind of sudden. Um. I think I told you when it happened, like at the office, I guess you didn’t hear me…”

“Yeah, no, I definitely didn’t. That’s awful. I hope those kids’ll be alright.”

With the conversation becoming a bit heavier, they both take a minute to eat. Pim looks at Charlie a lot. At some point, Pim opens his mouth to talk, then closes it. Then,

“So, you’ve got no plans then?” Pim asks.

“I’m gonna get wasted and I’m gonna play some Rust. The patch they just put out should make these idiots running the server I’m on lose everything. It’s gonna be great.”

“Oh. Well, anything else?”

Charlie finishes his beer and it’s replaced with a new one when the bartender passes by. The Christmas drink is being ignored.

“That’s pretty much it.”

“No holiday stuff? At all?”

“Probably gonna find a new years party.”

“Nothing for Christmas. then?”

“Nah, I guess not.”

They both take long gulps of their drink.

“So.” Pim says. He doesn’t make eye contact. “Charlie…”

“Yeah?” Charlie has spaghetti taking up his entire mouth and face. He suffers from late stage spaghetti kid syndrome, evidently.

“Would… so, you don’t have to, and I know you just kind of made your stance clear, but I thought I’d ask…” Pim takes a big breath. “I’m supposed to stay a little over a week at my family’s house for Christmas and I can do it alone, I do every year, but I thought I’d ask because-”

“Pim. No.”

“Oh please, Charlie! Come with me! I promise we can make it fun, it will be a grand adventureee!” He throws his arms up for emphasis.

Charlie crosses his arms.

“No, dude. I’m firm about this. There are a million other things I’d rather do. I’d have to, like, lose my apartment or something.”

Pim frowns and leaves it.

If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be, Pim thinks. No use forcing it.

“Alright. But if you feel super sad and lonely and in need of Christmas cheer text me-“ “I won’t.“ “-because I’m leaving around lunchtime.” “Okay, man.”

They eat the rest of their spaghetti, have a few more drinks, and talk about remote work. They talk a lot about remote work. They both leave for their separate apartments by the end of the night.

Charlie, cranky,sits in Pim’s car the next morning, his overnight bag in the back and his snarkiness in full swing. Pim is practically bubbling over in excitement at the wheel.

“I just can’t believe both your power and electricity went out as soon as you got home,” Pim can’t hold back his excitement in his voice. “What are the odds?!”

It was true-- Charlie was only home for a few minutes before everything fizzled out. He’d got a call a few minutes later that the power to his apartment building went out (duh) due to the generator being crushed by a wrecking ball used in nearby construction, so there would be no heating or electricity at his place for at least a week. They didn’t even say sorry-- it was an automated call.

His first move would be to couch surf until then, but his options seemed exhausted before he even began looking. Zoey was in California for a highschool friend’s wedding and Christmas with her family, and her roommates definitely wouldn’t want him staying there alone. His uncle lived all the way over past Pittsburgh, so that was a no. Tyler moved to Pittsburgh too a few months ago after getting let off. He claimed the music scene there was “just better”. Fuck Pittsburgh, Charlie thought more than a few times after getting the news. Everyone’s moving to fuckin’ Pittsburgh.

He could get a motel or hotel or Airbnb or Vrbo or whatever, but with the cost of that he might as well go to Brazil and back all over again. He called Pim and he came to pick him up. He crashed at his place and got hardly any sleep.

Pim’s excitement alongside all of this rubbed him the wrong way.

“Pim, can you not treat this as some awesome thing? For one thing, I had to throw out my groceries this week ‘cause of all this. I had, like, really good leftovers I was looking forward to eating.”

“Oh, Charlie, don’t be like that… we can go to the place it’s from when we get back if that’ll make you feel better. My family’s probably gonna cook food all week for us, too, and maybe you can take home some leftovers if you’d like!”

Charlie groans.

“That’s not the point though, man. I just wanted to go home and relax. This year has been nothing but chaos and I think I deserve to just do what I want for a little.”

Especially when the only reason we have this break is because I literally died, he nearly adds, but he bites his tongue.

Pim is quiet. He would hardly call playing Rust relaxing the way he’s seen Charlie react to it, but to each their own he supposes. He tries to think of solutions.

“Well, I mean, you could just take whatever time we have left outside of activities to play video games, or watch your shows or whatever it is you do to relax.”

“Yeah but Pim, that’s the thing, I want to do that and only that. Not that and- and activities, I just wanna relax man.”

“Oh, it will be fun, Charlie!” Pim nudges Charlie with his elbow. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I would and I am.”

They drive for about an hour, stopping for coffee at Wawa on the way. It helps, but the annoyance of the whole situation still grates on Charlie, and the looping track of “Dooty Da” on the radio doesn’t help. Charlie decides that it has lost its charm and he turns down the dial.

“If I’m forced to go along with all this, then I’m choosing the music. ‘Kay?”

“Yeah, sure, I can listen to whatever.”

Charlie pulls out the filthy old phone adapter cord for the company car (the end where it plugs into the phone is bent and worn so bad the wire is exposed) and he sloppily plugs his phone into the AUX.

“Alright, uhhhhhh… how much longer do we have on the drive?”

“Hmm? Oh, um… another half hour, I’d say.”

“Okay, Pim, you gotta listen to this. Like really listen. It’s like a yearly tradition for me to listen to this album.”

Pim’s interested now.

“And you haven’t shown me this before?” He fiddles with the seam of the leather steering wheel.

“Nah, it’s like- you gotta listen to the whole thing if you’re gonna listen...”

“Yeah, alright! Put it on, yeah.”

Charlie sits through around 12 seconds of two different Youtube ads, skipping as soon as he could.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…”

“Oh, it’s Christmas music! This sounds pleasant!”

“This is the most recent one that came out last year. Every year he writes a new one and adds it to the album. I’m waiting on this year’s.”

“Who is this?”

“Uhh, Mac Demarco. His stuff is amazing, man. Seriously, he’s like, an idol of mine.”

Pim’s happy to see Charlie a little happier. The next song comes on and Pim subtly bops his head to it.

“This one’s a little creepy, haha.”

Charlie takes a big sip of his coffee. “Yea, he’s got range.”

They listen to the music some more and comment on a dog they see in a passing car. Some flurries start up as they take the exit off the highway and ease into the suburbs. House after house is decorated in elaborate Christmas decorations that Pim excitedly gawks at and points to, to which Charlie feels his blood pressure heighten. The further they go outbound, the less fancy the light displays are. There are more of those silly inflatable yard decorations, now. Then, it eases into maybe a few strings on a hedge, or maybe a partially driven over blow mold decoration arrangement, glowing Santas beaming at Charlie and Pim as they drive by.

The album lasts them the rest of the car ride. They talk over some songs and Charlie shushes him for others. When they reach the familiar apartment complex, Charlie seems to be in a better mood overall. Pim makes a mental note to let Charlie DJ in the future.

They pull into the back and see Pim’s mother smoking on the back porch. The flurries have calmed entirely to a flake here and there and there’s a thin layer of snow over everything, replenishing what melted the previous day.

The two get out of the car and she sees them.

“PIMOTHY!”

Pim’s mother snubs her cigarette quickly and rushes over in her pink slippers. She wraps Pim in a big hug, swaying him a little. Charlie goes to grab their bags, and when he comes back, they’re talking about so many different things so quickly Charlie has trouble keeping up. He accidentally makes eye contact with Pim’s mom, who, almost as if she were waiting for a cue, swoops Charlie into a hug.

“Oh, uh,” Charlie doesn’t hug back. He’s visibly uncomfortable.

“How are you, sweetheart? Are you keeping Pim under control?”

Charlie pauses. He realizes he has an opportunity to be very funny and also get revenge on Pim.

“Oh, you know. He’s all mixed up in trouble at the office,” he deadpans.

“What?!”

“Oh he didn’t tell you? Yeah, Pim’s been really into getting up to unprofessional scandalous stuff at work. He brings women in all the time--”

Pim’s contented expression watching the family bonding unfold quickly morphs into one of confusion, then horror.

“HAH! Charlie’s joking,” and he pushes at Charlie’s belly to separate the two. He looks at Charlie desperately. “Right, Charlie?”

“Yeah, I’m joking,” he cheeses and looks back at Pim. Mischief lingers in his voice. “Except the last part. He’s one hundred percent a total ladies man. He picks up chicks on the job all the time, honest.”

“PIM! Is this true?! I thought this job was going to keep you honest!” When the pressure was on Pim, Charlie didn’t mind it at all.

“Agh- Charlie! No, it’s not true, mum…” He facepalms.

“What about Jennifer, man?”

“Who?”

“Jennifer, with all the- from the Shrimp adventure.”

Pim looks away quickly, his face heating up. His hands fidget with each other.

“Well…that was different.”

“I thought you would have grown out of that, Pim.” She sighs, and starts walking back to the duplex. “Come inside, get out of this cold. Your siblings have been talking about you all day.”

Pim turns to the car to start carrying bags, and Charlie already has them all in his hands as he shuts the door.

“Oh-- do you want help? That looks heavy…”

“I’m good, man. Just get the door. And do the talking.”

“Okay, sure.”

They follow a little distance behind his mom. Charlie leans a little towards Pim and asks, “so, what’d you grow out of?”

Pim can hear the smile in his voice and he hides his face in his hands. He blushes in embarrassment.

“Argh. I didn’t think she would bring that up…” Pim sighs, “Alright. I dated a ton of girls in highschool-- that’s it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she kind of focuses on it a lot, I don’t know why, maybe its a mum thing--”

“Nah, not that. I’m shocked that you- that you had game in highschool.”

“What? Oh, well. I didn’t really know what I was doing,” he confesses. “I was definitely… doing it wrong, looking back.”

“Clearly not, man. You said it, I mean, you dated a ton of girls. And your parents are still mad about it, that’s gotta count for something.”

Pim laughs a little as they get to the patio door.

“You’re funny, Charlie.”

They go inside, wipe their shoes, and are greeted with chaos. If the kids had the capabilities to bounce off the walls, they would be. When Pim walks in, they swarm him. They dogpile him with a hug and before Charlie can get a firm count of how many there are, they’re off again, crawling through the walls and running up the stairs and chasing each other from room to room to room. Pim looks overjoyed and very frazzled down on the floor. Charlie wordlessly helps him up.

“Let’s go set our stuff down upstairs, Charlie.”

They pass through the front room (the holiday tinsel is up and Pim cups his hands to his cheek in adoration) and Charlie hears the TV on in the living room as he follows Pim up the stairs. His dad must be watching something. The occasional shout or laugh from the kids running around keeps Charlie a little on edge.

As they ascend the dark, carpeted staircase, Charlie squints at all the photos, trying to scrape up any blackmail against Pim. At some point, he sets down a bag on the stairs awkwardly and he puts his hand on Pim’s shoulder to stop him.

“Hm? Yes Charlie?”

“Looking pretty dapper here, buddy.”

He points to a photo of Pim wearing a tux, bow tie, and corsage— not to mention the girl on his arm. His smile is massive and his glasses are apparent. The girl looks a little uncomfortable.

Pim laughs-- “Oh no, I thought mum took this down a while ago,” and he reaches for it, only for Charlie to grab it off the wall first.

“Charlie! What are you doing?”

“I need a picture of this, man.”

“NO! What do you need that for? That’s horrible!” He tries unsuccessfully to grab it from Charlie’s hand. Charlie just holds it higher.

“You owe me for dragging me along. This totally counts as part of it.”

“No way. Charlie!” He tries to reach it again, and he accidentally encroaches on Charlie’s personal space. He bumps into Charlie’s stomach and puts a hand on his belly to brace himself. He looks up at him.

“It’s this or something worse.” Charlie threatens casually.

Pim goes quiet.

“Like what?”

“I ‘unno, I’ll think of something.”

They look at each other.

Charlie knows Pim will accept the conditions just looking at his expression, so he sets the other bags down precariously and grabs his phone from his pocket.

“Ugh, fine.” Pim resigns as Charlie takes the photo. He then takes a selfie with it with a fake horrified expression in reaction to it. “Why that one?!”

“I dunno,” he laughs, “thought it might be funny.”

Charlie grabs the stuff again and they continue upstairs.

“Alright. I better not see these in the work Slack, though.”

“No, no, of course not,” Charlie replies, having already sent it to the work Slack.

The rest of the photos on the walls are all pretty innocuous; it all is very domestic. Charlie feels like he shouldn’t be allowed here in this bubble of domesticity before the storm of reality that is Pim’s family hits. He kind of wishes that something will just ruin the moment already so he doesn’t have to look around the corner for something horrible, metaphorically.

Non-metaphorically, Amy pokes her head out from around the corner at the top of the stairs.

“Ew— Pim? I thought you weren’t coming to Christmas this year.”

“What? Who said that?”

“Oh. No one, I made it up. But I was still excited for you to not show up.”

Pim laughs nervously.

“Well, here we are! I brought my coworker Charlie to stay with us. You remember Charlie, right?”

Charlie does a peace sign. “Yo.”

Amy stares blankly at them.

“Anyway, Brad’s over, soooo… don’t bother us.”

She goes back to her room and slams the door.

“She was nicer to me that time, I think.”

They make it to the once-Pim’s-room-now-game-room-slash-guest-room and drop their stuff inside. There’s one kid idling in there and playing Roblox on his Kindle. Pim shoos him out of the room and closes the door behind Charlie and himself.

“Here we are!” Pim says whimsically. “Oh, so many wonderful memories in here…”

Charlie looks around— it’s a mess of toys, AC units, and other child memorabilia that wasn’t deemed important enough to have out. Crazy messy.

“So we’re staying in your family’s storage room? Why don’t they just get like, a storage unit somewhere?”

“I don’t think it’s enough to warrant a storage unit, do you?”

“Maybe, man. You might get cockroaches or something if you leave it all on the floor like this.”

“Hmm. Maybe you’re right.” Pim thinks to every other issue in this house that he’d like to resolve first and shakes away the tidiness mission for later. “Anyway, there’s an air mattress around here, I just have to find it,” Pim starts looking under stacks of various clutter.

“Yeah. I was gonna say...”

They both eye the single twin bed.

“I’ll find that as soon as possible if you want to start unpacking…” Pim starts checking the closet. “Agh. It’s just board games in here, and… oh wait! Yes! Epic!” He pulls out a crumpled air mattress with an air pump still plugged into it. He starts clearing out an area for it on the floor. “I’ll take the air mattress since I’m not sure how reliable it is. Would you mind taking my old bed? It’ll be much comfier than this.”

“Yeah man, I don’t care.” Charlie starts grabbing handfuls of toys and cramming them into the already crammed space under the bed. There’s some semblance of bedding, but years of crumbs, dust and dead bugs have accumulated. “Uhhh… got any different bedding?”

“Oh, sorry, yeah. I’ll get that for you now.”

While Pim’s gone, Charlie goes on his phone. He has a few missed snaps— two from Zoey, one from Tyler. Zoey’s is at the beach. She’s smiling and having fun with her friends— they’re all drinking zany colored drinks. Charlie wishes he was too. Tyler’s snap is of a house party where he’s made it behind the DJ’s stand, absolutely destroying the crowd with his stuff. It’s short, but Charlie can tell he’s having a blast. He replies to each of them with a photo of a dead spider on the bed. He captions it, “me rn”. Pim gets back and he puts his phone away.

“Oh, geez man, you got all that?”

Pim holds a tower of bedding— two sets of comforters, pillowcases, blankets, and sheets. “Can you take the bedding off your bed really quickly?” There’s a frantic element to his request and Charlie does as told. He tosses it by the door and Pim drops the bedding on the bed with an exaggerated exhale. He starts on making the mattress.

They spend maybe twenty minutes setting everything up. Charlie settles for a sheet and a blanket, but Pim insists on making it for him if he wouldn’t. The air mattress is only a foot away parallel to Charlie’s bed.

“Alright, it’s 6:30. What do you want to do next, Charlie? I think my family wanted to go out for dinner.”

“You know, I’d really like to but I’m feeling pretty tired, man. I might sit that one out and catch up on some sleep here.”

“Aww, alright. Did you want me to get you anything?”

“Uhhhh, yeah. You know what I like,” and Charlie kicks his shoes off as he sits on the side of his bed. Pim heads over to the doorway. “Lights off?” He asks, to which Charlie politely says, “yes please.”

“Okay, well… sleep well.” Pim smiles sweetly at Charlie and closes the door behind him.

Now it’s time for Charlie to do what he wanted to do from the start.

Rust time.

The second Pim’s footsteps hit the stairs, Charlie speeds over and locks the door. Going back to his bed, he sits down and roots through his bag. He pulls out his laptop, mouse, charger, and headphones, and sets everything up. He’s all ready until he realizes he needs wifi.

He checks everywhere. It’s nowhere he’d expect it to be. He considers texting Pim for a minute, but his cover would be blown. Out of options, he returns to his bed and lies down. He groans and sets his stuff on the floor.

He’s pissed— the only thing he wanted to do was check this update. He’ll ask Pim as soon as he gets back. Maybe he can squeeze in an hour or two tonight when they get back. He hopes Pim won’t have an issue with him staying up late to play.

He drifts off, missing his apartment and what he could have had for the next week. He doesn’t expect himself to actually fall asleep.

Charlie wakes up to Pim opening the door. The excess light that comes through the door behind Pim’s silhouette is enough to make Charlie squint.

“Agh.”

“Oh! Charlie! Sorry— I didn’t know you were awake!”

Pim takes a step in. He isn’t wearing what he had on before— it’s some navy blue crew neck and sweats.

“How long was I out?” Charlie asks as he sniffles hard and rubs his eyes.

“Well, it’s 11 something…”

“What?” Charlie sits up incredulously. “Why didn’t you wake me up when you got back?!”

“You looked so cozy, I couldn’t! Plus, the dinner was, uh… weird. I assumed you’d want to sleep through the aftermath of that, so.”

Charlie checks his phone and doesn’t respond to Pim. He didn’t have any new texts. Maybe the notifications didn’t register— he opens Snapchat and checks it anyway.

“So…” Pim continues, “I mean, I just got ready for bed, I was gonna go to sleep now.” His sentence fizzles out. Then he throws on, “I don’t know if you want to go back to sleep, or…?”

He eases back down. “I guess,” he says with no confidence in his voice. Pim closes the door behind him and it goes dark. Charlie only now notices the glow in the dark stars that littered the ceiling over by the window. Pim climbs in bed.

“Your food’s in the fridge, by the way. It’s labeled.”

Charlie shoots back up.

“Oh- okay. No, I’m doing that definitely, yeah. I’ll be right back.”

Charlie doesn’t care to put his shoes on as he sneaks downstairs. The lights are all out, and the television is still on. Upon further inspection, Pim’s dad is asleep on the couch. He snores loudly.

Charlie finds the styrofoam box with “Charlie :-)” written on it. He spares no time in putting it in the microwave. He grabs a fork (he goes through all the drawers and of course it’s the last one) and a napkin. While it cooks, he roots around for something to drink. There’s some orange juice left in the bottom of a jug. He grabs the entire thing and, as his food finishes up, carries everything he foraged with him upstairs.

He sneaks into the room, closes the door quietly, tiptoes over to his bed, and sits down. It’s fries and what looks like a Buffalo chicken wrap. He takes a massive bite and it all feels worth it for a second.

“Charlie, are you eating in here?” Pim’s voice is meek.

“Oh shit. I thought you were asleep already.”

Pim laughs sleepily.

“Almost. That smells really good though.”

“You want a fry?”

“I already brushed my teeth,” Pim says dismally. Charlie shrugs and Pim can’t see.

“You can always rebrush ‘em.”

Pim stretches in his bed and makes a noise Charlie ignores. “Mmm. Maybe.” After a few seconds of thinking about it, he says “yeah, pass me one.”

“Alright!” He hands it to Pim and fist bumps him before he takes his hand away. Pim’s fist is limp and unexpecting. “You know, if it helps, Pim, I’m not brushing my teeth. I forgot my toothbrush at home.”

“Charlie! You could have told me, we could have stopped somewhere…” Pim sits up and scoots over to the edge of his mattress to grab more fries from the box in Charlie’s lap.

“We can get one tomorrow and I’ll brush twice as long or something tomorrow night to make up.”

“That’s not how that works,” and Charlie hears the smirk in Pim’s words.

“Yeah it is. I’ll just scrub off what I didn’t scrub off tonight, it’s not like it’s keeping count or whatever. And— besides, people from like, the 1700’s were making laws or whatever for our country and they didn’t even brush their teeth, they didn’t have this shit, so… yeah.”

“Is that true?”

“I dunno, probably. But it’s not gonna kill me if I skip one night.”

“I’m googling it.”

Their hands touch as they both reach for a fry. Nothing is said.

“It says-“

“What says? What’s your source?”

“Uhh, Reddit. They say-“

“Dude. Get a different source. Go to Wikipedia or something.”

“What? This is fine, they probably took their answer from Wikipedia anyway. They say that people have been brushing their teeth since ancient times with sticks and such, but the added sugars in our diet today make our teeth rot. And something about our teeth being closer together now too.” Pim looks up. “So you should definitely get a toothbrush tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t gonna argue with you, I’m just saying one night is fine.”

“Well, let me look that up-“

“It’s not gonna change what I do. I don’t have a toothbrush right now, I don’t really have any options, man.”

Pim clicks his tongue. “Right.”

“Yeah.”

Charlie finishes his wrap and pim finishes off the fries that Charlie couldn’t force down. Pim goes to brush his teeth again and Charlie lays back down. He’s not really tired, but that’s never stopped him from sleeping.

Charlie can’t help but to thank god for the short day. At least there was good food, good music, and good sleep.

Now they just had to do that for a week.

#sf #my art #smiling friends #charpim #my writing #smiling friends but it’s a hallmark movie #long post

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lincolndjarin · 1 year

Text

Best Kept Secret

chapter eighteen : portrait of a man (RE-UPLOAD)

ao3 link ✿ series masterlist ✩ main masterlist ✧

pairing : bodyguard!Din Djarin x afab!princess!reader

rating : 18+ mdni

word count : 5.4k

summary : the mandalorian and reader do some reading

warnings, etc. : language, mentions of sex

A/N : i had to change accounts so this is a re-upload of my ongoing fic bks!!

It’s deliciously warm when you wake. You can feel his heartbeat and you can feel the soft traces of sunlight dancing along your back. You stretch in his arms slightly but freeze up as you feel him nuzzle his chin into your hair, planting a kiss against your hairline.

His helmet is still off.

And the room is completely illuminated by the sunrise.

He seems to sense your hesitancy and after some adjustment his face is concealed once more as you gaze up at him.

“Sorry sarad, I must have fallen asleep without it on.” His voice is gravelly and thick with sleep as he looks down at you. He’s acting like it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you accidentally saw.

It might very well be.

You know his creed is precious to him, even if he says he is an apostate. You don’t want him to break it just for you and end up regretting it later.

“I don’t want to see until I’m allowed to.” That doesn’t really make sense and you know it. “Will I ever be allowed to? How does that work?” He sits up as you speak, stretching his arms above his head.

“I’ll explain it another time, right now I need to get you back to your room before someone realizes you're gone.” He’s crawled to the edge of the bed and he’s already pulling his boots on.

Oh yeah.

It was easy to fall into a fantasy of staying here with him. For a moment there you had completely forgotten that you were married, and expected in other places. You stand looking for your dress as he attaches his armor.

“Don’t change yet, it’ll be easier to sneak you back in if you aren’t wearing a shimmery gown.” He’s so quick with it, in the time it takes you to even find your gown he’s completely done getting ready. “Do you have everything?” He turns to face you as he takes the dress from you and throws it over his arm.

Your eyes dart to the shelf.

Your knife is up there.

He chuckles when he catches your line of sight.

“Not gonna happen, princess. Let’s go.” He takes your hand and hastily drags you out of the cabin. In the morning light you can see what he had been carrying you over last night.

The cabin was built partially on top of the lake. It must be a pain having to carefully step over all of the water but he doesn’t seem to mind as he scoops you into his arms and looks to be contemplating something.

“Is your bedroom window unlocked?”

That’s an odd question. But you know it is, you’re several floors up so you never lock it.

“Yes, why?”

“No reason.” You can hear a grin on his face.

He starts walking, not really caring if he steps into the water as he carries you towards the castle. Once you're through the gardens and past the forest trail he adjusts his cowl to cover your face. You rest your head against his chest as he makes his way towards what you assume to be the servant's entrance. But you never hear a door open, instead he leans down to whisper to you.

“Keep your eyes closed.”

Is he about to take off his helmet in broad daylight?

You don’t get a chance to question it as you shut your eyes and you feel the cowl ripped from your face, there’s an unfamiliar rush of air against your skin and the sound of a click and a creak.

“You can open them now.” He whispers again, you aren’t sure what you expect to see when you open your eyes but it certainly isn’t him standing on the outside of your window sill, balancing you in his arms.

You know immediately that it’s a mistake as you look down and find yourself several stories off the ground.

“Maker! What is wrong with you!” You cling to him tighter but he simply laughs as he peels you off of him to set you inside.

“Sorry, hand me your clothes.” There’s a sudden urgency in his voice that keeps you from arguing, you strip to your undergarments and toss him the things you borrowed, he doesn’t hesitate to throw your dress onto the floor. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.” You’re left staring dumbfounded as he jumps off the ledge at the same moment your door swings open and Elaine’s voice fills the room.

“I’m telling you, we don’t have to knock, she isn’t here, we’ll just wait for h-“ She stops and stares at you with wide eyes and your face gets hot at the implications of her words.

“Good morning girls.” You stammer out as they both look surprised to see you.

“Apologies for not knocking my lady.” Elaine bows as she says it, cocking an eyebrow in your direction but you don’t give her a reaction as you simply walk to the mirror to be prepped.

They seem relieved that you don’t have anything to say and you’re relieved that Elaine doesn’t press further as they begin to dress you. The gown Lysa chooses for today is a soft gray color, the fabric shimmers in the light and it sort of reminds you of the Mandalorian’s armor.

Nobody seems to have anything to say to each other this morning but you truly don’t mind. In a few minutes you’ll get to see him again.

And things are okay now.

Right?

You’ve established a mutual want.

But what does that mean?

Shit.

You hadn’t really talked about that. But that shouldn’t matter, he had practically confessed his love, he had given you his name.

You need to talk about it.

But he never wants to talk about it.

This time has to be different though, things are good.

It has to be different.

You don’t even realize they’ve finished until Elaine clears her throat.

“Kriff, sorry, thank you girls, you’ve done wonderful work as always.” It’s true. As you look up at yourself in the mirror to take in another amazing job done by them. You can’t even tell that you were being carried through the forest less than an hour ago.

“Thank you, my lady, shoes?” Lysa holds up a pair of flats and you nod, taking a seat at the vanity and hiking your skirt up a bit.

Shit.

You’re still wearing his socks.

In your rush you must have forgotten about them.

She stares for only a moment, her eyes darting up to your face before she removes them, slipping on your flats. You can tell by the way her eyebrows raise ever so slightly that she sees the dirt on the soles of your feet from your barefoot walk in the gardens last night, but thankfully she says nothing. After a beat of silence you cough awkwardly.

“Thank you girls, that will be all.” They nod as they both take their leave. You give them time to make their way down the hall before you grab your journal and some pens, as you throw the door open he’s there just like always. He doesn’t look like someone who had flown you up to your window this morning, he looks exactly the same as always. There’s no sense in concealing the smile on your face as you stare at him.

“Library?” You ask as he nods, you begin your trek and he still stands behind you but closer than ever before, just a step or two back. “Can we talk today?”

“Of course, princess.” A wave of relief washes over you as he says it. This might be the first time he’s ever had a positive reaction to that question. You walk in a happy silence until you arrive. Today you do not hesitate to sit in the nook, no longer haunted by the memories of what’s transpired there.

He stands sort of bashfully, looking at you and then at a few chairs nearby.

This is why you need to talk.

It’s things like this, your relationship is so vaguely defined and in the cold light of day, just Din, doesn’t know where to sit.

You scootch over a bit and pat the space next to you.

“Sit with me?” You say softly to hopefully ease the anxiety that is apparent in his body language. He relaxes a bit as he takes a seat next to you, you fit like puzzle pieces, like the nook was made for the two of you to sit comfortably.

It’s an added bonus that it’s far enough into the shelves that you’ll hear anyone coming before they see you.

He leans back against the glass as you open your journal, uncapping a pen and lazily doodling. You can feel his gaze on the pages but you don’t mind.

“What did you want to talk about mesh’la?” He murmurs as he begins to trace his fingers along your back, drawing shapes into the fabric of your dress.

It shocks you a bit.

His blatant affection.

Nothing could have prepared you for him to act like this in the daylight.

Of course he had humored you in the markets, and when you had been “together” he had always been kind but now his voice had a certain devotion to it, and he touched you like he needed to do it to stay grounded.

He almost seems… clingy.

It makes your heart flutter.

“I guess I just wanted to talk about this,” You gesture at him with the pen. “us.”

He hums softly in agreement.

“Okay, what about us?” He tugs gently at one of the ribbons on your corset, not hard enough to pull it loose, just hard enough to grab your attention. You shoot a glare at him, there’s no actual fire behind it.

“I thought you said you’d be good?”

“And you said I could touch you a little.” As he says it you roll your eyes before turning back to your drawings. You’ve been sketching the same curved line. The hook of his nose you had felt last night. If he recognizes it he doesn’t say anything.

“Fine. What exactly are we?” He resumes his tracing as you say it, it feels like a juvenile question, it’s what you would always ask your boyfriends back on Hoth after a few weeks of screwing around, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“What was it you called me in the gardens? Your lover? I could be that if that’s what you’d like me to be.” His fingers have moved to your shoulders now, the shapes on your pages have turned into rough outlines of what you remember his jaw is shaped like.

Lover feels too impersonal.

This is more than that.

He certainly isn’t your boyfriend, can you even have a boyfriend? Afterall you already have a husband.

Would Din want to be your husband someday?

Could Din be your husband someday? Kodo certainly wouldn’t just let you leave, the trade deals your family so desperately needed would be useless if you did. Is it too soon to be thinking such a thing? You have only just truly become emotionally involved but also you’ve spent every waking moment with him for several weeks at this point. And you’ve had sex.

Maker, why does this have to be so confusing?

“Is there maybe a Mando’a word for what we are?” You turn to look at him again.

He starts to say something but then he stops, seemingly changing his mind.

“How about kar’ta?”

“Kar’ta? What’s that mean?” You like the way the word feels in your mouth. His knuckles are dragging against your arm now.

“It means heart. You would be my heart and I would be yours.” His voice is warm and it feels like you’re sinking into his touches.

His heart.

You like that.

“My Kar’ta.” You say, looking down at your drawings, you have several mixed and matched faces, none of which seem to look right, you hold them up for him to see. “Do any of these look correct?”

He points to the one of the bottom left, the eyes are lopsided.

“That ones the closest, other than the eyes, none of the eyes are right.” You sigh, you already knew he would say that.

“They never are.” You flip the page and start drawing pairs of eyes. You’re silent for a few minutes, he continues tracing shapes into your back and you continue drawing, you eventually realize he’s mimicking your sketches.

You know what you want to tell him. It’s a strange pivot in conversation but you need him to know.

Your next words force themselves from your mouth. “I don’t love Kodo, I don’t even like him.” His movements stop, only for a second before continuing.

“I would hope not, I don’t know if you noticed but he’s a bit of a monster.”

“I know, I just wanted to say it. I just- I mean, I don’t think of myself as married to him, it’s more a title than anything else.” You hesitate for a moment. “And we don’t have sex. In case you were wondering.” You haven’t thought about that fact in a while.

Someday Kodo will want heirs.

It makes you shudder a bit.

Maybe Din will get you out of here before that happens.

He senses the tension you’re suddenly plagued with and he switches to just rubbing gentle circles against your back.

“Okay.” He speaks so quietly now.

“I don’t ever want to have sex with him.” You whisper, mostly to yourself.

It had always been an inevitable thing. A duty you had to fulfill. But that was before you knew who he was. Before you knew you had married a monster. And that was before Din, before your kar’ta.

“You don’t have to. I promise.”His voice is soothing but it does nothing to put you at ease.

It’s a promise he can’t keep.

But you don’t want to linger on this any longer so you nod, much to your chagrin he senses your hesitancy as he sits up.

“Hey, I mean it. If he so much as touches you again, I swear it will be the last time.”

“You can’t guarantee that Din.” He’s taking your sketchbook from you, setting it aside before holding your hands in his.

“He isn’t going to touch you. Ever again. I never should have let him in the first place.” His grip on your hand tightens ever so slightly as he recalls the memory, you can’t help but frown.

“I’m glad you let him, you wouldn’t be here right now if you hadn’t.”

That makes him go quiet.

You both know you’re right, if he had laid a finger on Kodo he would at the very least have been fired. Worst case scenario he’d be dead.

“He won’t touch you again.” He sounds firmer this time. “I’m sworn to you. No one gets to touch you unless you want them to, not even me.”

You want to believe that he could stop Kodo. That he could stop all six of his battle droids. It’ll be easier if you just let yourself believe it.

So for now you do.

You drop his hands and rest your head on his shoulder.

“Okay.” You mumble.

“Okay.” He tilts his helmet slightly to rest against your head.

You reach around to grab your book back. Opening to the page with the eyes.

“Which ones are right?” You point around the page. He analyzes them for a bit before taking the pen again, scribbling until he’s drawn messy but identifiable eyes.

“Like this.”

His drawing is crude but the eyes are nice. You carefully tear the outline of them out before placing them over the other drawing he had pointed out.

It almost looks right.

It almost suits the person you know.

He lets you stay leaning on his shoulder so you don’t bother moving as you flip to an empty page. You think for a few moments on what to draw.

The tiny toothbrush.

You think of the sketch of mismatched parts you now have of him and what you’ve been able to feel out and you subconsciously start drawing a child.

You give him Din’s nose, and dark curls. You don’t bother trying to copy his eyes, opting to instead give the little boy wide dark eyes. You scribble out several different versions of the child you’ve made up as he watches silently.

Eventually you stop and just stare at the page full of little faces staring up at you.

Does this boy exist somewhere out there?

It sort of seems that way, when you look at all the pieces of Din that don’t seem to make sense. The toothbrush, he had mentioned a kid at one point but hadn’t said much about it and now you know that he willingly showed his face to someone. Was it his child? Why did he have to say goodbye to his own child?

Can you imagine Din being a father? When you think of how well he takes care of himself it makes you worry a bit for any child in his care but then you think of how well he takes care of you.

Selflessly.

He’s probably a good father. That must be where his protective nature comes from.

His laughter breaks you out of your trance and he points to one of the drawings, the boy in that one has the largest eyes, and the pupils take up nearly the entirety of them.

“You got his eyes right in that one.” He says as he chuckles.

“What?” You stammer out.

His eyes.

“I assume you’re trying to figure out who he is? None of these are even close, but those eyes, those are his.”

Of course he knew what you were doing, nothing got past him.

You wait for more but that’s all he gives you.

You can wait longer, until he’s ready to talk about it. Based on the way he sighs you think that moment might be right now but he says something else instead.

“I don’t think I’ve apologized yet for what I said. Truly apologize.” You close the journal on your own this time before setting it down.

He’s talking about what he said.

“I was… bored. You were entertainment.”

He knows you haven’t simply forgotten about it. Afterall, how could you?

“It doesn’t excuse what I did, but I didn’t mean a word of it.”

You want to believe him terribly, but that nagging feeling in the back of your mind is persistent. A reminder that any moment he could decide to stop being Din, and go back to being nothing more than your shadow.

“Why did you say it then?”

You don’t want to have this conversation either. The last thing you want to do is relive those moments but you aren’t an idiot, your insecurities will eventually bubble up, it’s better to take care of this now before it grows into resentment. He’s leaning back again, out of your peripherals.

“I meant it, when I said that I ache.” Is he sitting like that so you can’t look at him? “None of what I’m about to say is a good enough reason to explain my actions, nothing ever could be. You control my every thought and decision, sarad. I suppose I just thought that it would be best if you hated me, that it would make the pain dull, instead it only served to make me realize that I cannot live without you.”

That’s one hell of a proclamation.

“You wanted me to hate you?” As you say it you feel Beskar rest against the back of your shoulder.

“For a while. It seemed like the least painful option. I deserved- deserve, your loathing. At first for feeling the way I did towards a married woman, a woman I was supposed to be protecting and instead was picturing naked.”

Hot. It’s hot in the library. It hasn’t been hot in the library for some time.

“And then I saw the two of you together. And I knew immediately that you did not feel an ounce of love for that thing you were forced to wed. At that point I simply needed you to hate me to soothe the ache that signified that you could never be mine.” He sighs, and there’s a moment of hesitation before you hear the hiss of air you’re becoming all too familiar with. You aren’t exactly sure what you expect, it definitely isn’t the feeling of several kisses being peppered along the curve of your shoulder but you certainly aren’t going to complain about it. “I did not know weakness before I met you, you have turned me from a man made of steel to one of glass.” His voice rings clear and unfiltered throughout the room.

He plants another kiss into your hair, there aren’t any traces of lust behind the action, just a pure adoration, he brushes a bit of your hair out of the way and for a moment you feel the bridge of his nose press against the back of your neck before he places one final, chaste kiss against your spine. When he speaks again his voice is modulated once more.

“I don’t want your forgiveness, I certainly haven’t earned it.” He finally leans forward so he’s back in your field of vision. “But I will. Someday I will be worthy of you, I promise.”

He already is. He always has been.

Will you ever get used to this? His genuine affections? It takes your breath away more than the sex did, the way he talks about you like you are not a woman, but a deity. The way he removes his helmet as if it doesn’t mean anything, just so he can feel you against his lips.

There’s no sense in telling him that’s all you needed to hear. You know him, he won’t accept that, he’s far too stubborn. So instead you opt to make things more lighthearted.

“How do you plan to make it up to me, my kar’ta?” As you say it you can visibly see some of the stress leave his body, thank the gods.

“I have plenty of ideas.” The way he says it makes your heart flutter and you nearly forget that he’s promised not to fuck you. “I was thinking I could take you to the library tomorrow.” You’d be lying if you said that didn’t sort of kill your buzz, considering where you’re currently sitting but he senses your reluctance and chuckles. “The big one, in the city, cyar’ika.”

“Oh.” You can’t help but laugh along with him now. “You know, you’re getting better at talking, about the important stuff that is.” You give him a smile.

“It’s easier when you don’t look at me.” He says it a bit abashedly.

“Why is that?”

“Before you I never felt like someone could see my face. Yet everytime you look at me it’s like I’m not wearing a helmet at all, like you’re staring right at me.” He takes your hand and brings your fingers to the bottom of the helmet, tilting his head down slightly so you can feel his lips as he kisses the pads of your fingers before withdrawing them.

Maker.

Yeah, you’re never gonna get used to that.

Eventually he gets up to find some books, bringing you a mystery romance novel, you wouldn’t normally pick it for yourself but the cover art is interesting enough to draw you in, he appears to have some kind of maintenance guide on ship engines, you have no idea how he reads that kind of thing. As he hands you the books he motions for you to stand, when you do so he sits in the nook horizontally, with his feet up on the cushions, his back leaning against one of the surrounding shelves, motioning for you to sit between his legs.

You want to protest that it won’t be comfortable for him but your resolve simply isn’t strong enough to resist as you crawl between his thighs, your back resting against his chest as you hand his literature to him. The nook isn’t really built for two people to sit like this, it’s a bit cramped but you couldn’t be more comfortable, you want to make sure he’s okay with this position but he’s already got his book open, held in one outstretched hand so you simply open yours, placing it on your bent knees.

It’s surprisingly good. You’ve always had a preference for campy, over the top romance books. The sort of books with shirtless men riding horses on the front. The more ridiculous the better. But you’re completely absorbed by the story you find yourself in, gasping every so often at the reveals.

It’s shocking once you realize you’ve already made it to the last chapter, you had completely forgotten you were lying against Din until you turn and see that he must have finished his book at some point because now he’s reading yours over your shoulder.

“Can we finish this before I take you to get your dinner?” He mumbles, leaning forward slightly.

There is a peace to this situation that you’re sure you’ve never known.

This is the kind of life you could have with him.

You can’t seem to find the words to respond, and the lump in your throat won’t let you make something up so you nod, and you lean your head back against his chest and continue where you left off.

You like the ending. Much to your surprise the story ended happily, you had even teared up a bit when you realized everything was going to work out for the love interests. You might let him pick books for you more often, as long as he lets you find him something less boring to read. There has to be at least one exciting book about ships in here.

If there isn’t, you’ll find him one tomorrow when you go to the city library.

He sits up, which of course means you also sit up. He lets you stand first, your legs are stiff from being in the same position for hours but you find your footing quickly. He seems to be having no issues as he’s putting the books back.

You’re waiting for him to take your hand so you can fetch dinner, the two of you standing in silence for a moment, when it hits you, you feel like an idiot.

He isn’t going to take your hand.

Because you’re leaving the library and someone could see.

You plaster on a strained smile before leaving, thankfully he says nothing about your hesitation as you begin walking towards the kitchens.

Leo is of course waiting for you by the entrance. (You’ve come to accept that he’s simply everywhere at this point.) And you do the same thing you always do, he asks what you’d like to eat, you tell him whatever they’ve cooked, he insists you can request anything you’d like, you insist you’d like what they’ve cooked.

The only difference this time is that you ask for seconds.

He disappears in a huff before swiftly returning with several sealed dishes, as always he hands them to Mando and not you.

✩

The two of you return to your chambers and when he steps inside you lock the door behind you.

“Sit.” You say it as sternly as possible. Like it’s an order. He sets the food on the floor before sitting with his legs crossed next to it. “You’re gonna eat, this is non-negotiable.”

He immediately begins to protest but you shush him.

“You don’t need to feed me anymore. I can take care of myself.” He starts trying to stand but you firmly plant your hands on his shoulders and push him back down.

“Clearly not, you didn’t eat once today, I’m sure of it.” You frown down at him.

“Neither did you.”

“That's because I was watching you! And now to make up for it I’m going to eat real food, not ration packs.”

He doesn’t budge, still staring at you blankly.

“Listen… if you do this, I’ll reward you.” You raise your eyebrows suggestively.

You hadn’t really planned to give in so soon but you’re only human, he had gotten you pretty fired up in the library today whether that was his intention or not.

And you certainly aren’t going to say it, but you miss being with him in that way.

“Are you trying to bribe me with sex?” The disbelief in his voice is apparent, you ignore it, dividing up the food, making sure his portion is considerably larger, they always give you too much food anyway.

“Is it working?” You set the plate in front of him, batting your eyelashes innocently. He coughs nervously, leaning back.

“No. I don’t want sex to be a currency with you, I want you to want it.” His voice is strained and you can’t help but smirk.

“That’s a shame, because you’re going to eat either way.” You stand, walking so you're behind him, sitting back to back, your plate in your lap.

“That’s a wild assumption, princess.” His voice is still modulated so you know he hasn’t made any attempts to listen.

“I thought you were trying to earn my forgiveness?” That shuts him up. He grumbles for a few moments before you hear a hiss and a clunk as he sets his helmet on the floor. “Thank you.”

“Don’t sound so smug, you can only use that reason so many times before I stop giving in.” He mumbles through a mouthful of food, it makes you grin.

“Speaking of your road to redemption, can I ask you any questions I want now?” You swallow a bite as you say it.

“Sure, I’m not going to guarantee an answer, but sure.”

“What was on the flower, the one I gave you for your birthday?” He groans the moment you ask it.

“Please don’t make me say it, I know you know.” He sounds terribly embarrassed but you’re simply furrowing your brow in confusion. Are you supposed to know? You think on it for a few minutes, chewing thoughtfully before your eyes go wide.

“Was that a piece of my nightie that you ripped the first time we-“

“Yes.”

Your face couldn’t possibly get any redder and your smile couldn’t possibly get any wider.

“I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.” You can’t help but tease, he’s so rarely flustered in lighthearted moments like this.

“There are plenty of things you don’t know about me.” You hum softly at his response. “I’d like it if you did know them.” He always has to have the upperhand, he can never just let you tease him without leaving you breathless.

“I’d like to know everything.”

“I’d tell you everything.” He sounds so sincere.

But he doesn’t sound ready.

“When you really want to.”

He’s quiet, briefly, and then he reaches back to set his empty plate down next to you, you aren’t even halfway done with yours. You turn around as he stands, you didn’t hear him put his helmet back on but there it is.

“It’s late princess, I need to go home.”

There’s undeniably disappointment on your face as you stand, following him to the door.

“You don’t want to stay? I’m pretty sure I owe you a reward.” You give him a hopeful smile and his glove covers your eyes, your heart is racing.

There’s that wonderful hiss of air. It’s quickly becoming your favorite sound in the world.

You’re practically vibrating with anticipation.

And then you feel a soft kiss on your forehead.

In an instant the glove is gone and the helmet is back in place as if it had never moved.

“Good night, sarad’ika.” You feel ridiculous as you pout at him.

“You can’t be serious.”

He chuckles as he opens the door.

“Are you really going to turn me down?” You reach past him to try and close it again but he holds it open, still laughing.

“Yes, I am. Tonight I am.” He’s got one foot out the door now.

“Din… I’m giving you permission, I swear, it’s fine.”

“I’m afraid it’s not gonna happen tonight, cyare”

For Maker’s sake you’re practically begging him.

“Then when?” As you ask he leans forward, just a tiny bit.

“When you really want to.”

And just like that he’s leaving, shutting the door behind him.

Cocky bastard.

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