#might upload to ao3 later

[bi-focal12]

Idolish7 fanfic- Morning (1,210 words)

a friend showed me this clip of Idolish7 and i've been binging the show ever since

this is my contribution to the fandom lol

--

“Iorin,” Tamaki whined, slumping into the doorframe of their dorm bathroom, still dressed in his pajamas. “Where’s my toothbrush?”

Iori continued straightening his school tie in the mirror, sparing an irritated glance towards his team member. “I’m not your mother.”

Tamaki’s head slumped lower on the frame. “But Iorin, it’s not there.”

“Where else would it be?” Iori shot back, thankful that Tamaki’s closed eyes allowed him to stealthily tally up the toothbrushes scattered around the sink. 

Iori’s toothbrush was resting upright in the cup meant for toothbrushes, as was Sogo-san’s and Yamato-san’s. Nagi-san’s- an obnoxiously pink, wand-shaped thing- was beside the cup at least, and Mitsuki’s was balanced on the tiny line of counter ledge the same way he’d done since they were young, and Nanase-san’s was in the shower like a heathen. 

Tamaki’s toothbrush was not there. 

“King pudding,” Tamaki mumbled. 

Iori stomped on his foot and Tamaki jerked to attention with a cry. “Don’t you dare fall asleep!” Iori chastised. 

“But-”

“Either go find it or go buy a new one, but if you’re late getting back I will leave for school without you.”

Tamaki yawned. “I’ll just have a mint.”

Iori frowned. “That’s unsanitary.”

“Then I’ll ask the manager for one.”

“That’s rude.” Iori pushed past Tamaki to exit the bathroom. “She’s way too busy already to go running errands for you.”

Tamaki groaned, letting Iori’s small nudge of his shoulder turn into a slow-motion pantomime of being shoved to the ground. “I just won’t go to school then,” he said, curling up on the hallway’s dirty carpet. 

Iori huffed and stepped over Tamaki’s limp body to make his way towards the kitchen where Sogo-san, predictably, sat at the table nursing a warm cup of tea. 

The mug was halfway to his lips when he noticed Iori’s approach and he paused, smiling. “Oh, Iori-kun. Good mo-”

“Tamaki’s on the ground because he’s lazy and can’t find his toothbrush and won’t go buy a new one and if he tries to leave the house with me without cleaning his mouth I might kill him.”

Sogo-san hardly blinked while Iori explained the situation, and only after a long sip of tea that had Iori tapping his foot on the ground in impatience did he finally say, “You’re not really a morning person, are you, Iori-kun?”

Iori frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sogo-san smiled gently. “You’re just normally a lot more…level-headed.”

“I’m being level-headed,” Iori huffed, “I went and got you, didn’t I?’

Sogo-san blinked. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Iori, maturely, resisted the urge to groan aloud and walked (not stomped) to the fridge instead to pour himself a glass of orange juice. As he watched the glass fill with bright pulpy liquid, he mentally recited, it’s good for you, there are antioxidants, it helps your gut and when he felt marginally more relaxed he turned to Sogo-san. Calmly. 

“You manage him for Mezzo, don’t you?”

Sogo-san made a so-so gesture with his head, mouth twisting with uncertainty and what were probably thoughts he wouldn’t dare let escape his polite mouth. 

“So manage him,” Iori demanded, downing his glass in one go and depositing it in the sink where it belonged. He wrinkled his nose at the myriad of cups still littering the counter from yesterday. 

Iori lived with a horde of pigs. 

Sogo-san continued to drink his tea, lightly tapping out the melody to one of their most recent songs on the tabletop with the soft pad of his fingertip.

The clock continued to tick away. 

Iori marched to the chair directly opposite him and stared- maturely and unflinchingly. 

Ten seconds, Iori predicted. 

Sogo-san’s tapping turned more forced, his gaze darting anywhere but Iori. 

Eight…

“He’s not my responsibility, you know.”

Iori lightly tipped his head in acknowledgement, then let his gaze track pointedly over all the empty chairs surrounding them. 

Six…

“Tamaki-kun needs to learn to do things for himself,” Sogo-san pointed out. “This could be a learning experience!”

Iori raised his eyebrow. 

Sogo-san’s mouth twisted. 

Four…

“This isn’t even Mezzo related. Not really.”

Iori scoffed. 

Three…

“Maybe…maybe he’s already gone looking for his toothbrush?” he suggested hopefully. 

Two…

Iori discreetly held his breath, hoping to punctuate the perfect silence permeating the dorms. There was absolutely no toothbrush-related ruffling. 

One. 

“Oh, fine,” Sogo-san sighed, rising unhappily from the table and pointing a finger towards Iori, “but I’m not his keeper.”

“Uh-huh,” Iori agreed lightly. 

“I’m not,” Sogo-san repeated, denial thick on his tongue as he walked toward the bathroom, tea still in hand. 

“And I don’t have a thing for idiots,” Iori murmured under his breath. 

There were still fifteen minutes before he and Tamaki needed to leave for school so maybe he could just shut his eyes for a-

Nanase-san suddenly pulled out the chair beside Iori and shot him a grin far too sunny for the early morning hour, placing two plates of toast down. “You don’t have a what?” he asked pleasantly, sliding one toward Iori. 

Iori squinted in the face of such brightness, then cleared his throat.

“Nothing. Is this all you know how to make?”

Nanase-san’s bright smile melted into a frown. “I told you I’ve never lived on my own before,” he complained. 

Iori took a bite of the offering, pleased. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“I am not,” Nanase-san denied halfheartedly, too used to this particular insult to rise to the bait like he had when they had first formed Idolish7. 

Iori would just have to try harder, then. 

“You didn’t even make anything at all! How’re you gonna stay healthy for the group if you’re skipping meals, huh?”

Iori spared a glance at Nanase’s overly sincere expression to ensure he wasn’t making things up but no, Nanase’s best rebuttal was an earnest appeal to Iori’s health. 

How cute. 

Iori cleared his throat. “How could I cook with Tamaki-kun making such a fuss?”

“What? Tamaki’s still asleep in the hallway.”

A spike of irritation shot through Iori. After he’d gone through all that effort to get Sogo-san to solve the problem, too. 

“He better not be. I’ll kill him.”

Nanase-san laughed, unfairly awake and amused at such an early hour. His right hand rested comfortably on the back of Iori’s chair. “You’re not much of a morning person, are you?”

Iori was…not sure what kind of a person he was, yet. 

Still, he knew he found delight in giving Nanase-san a hard time and, mature as he was, Iori couldn’t see a reason to give that up when it made him feel so pleasantly warm. 

Iori shrugged carelessly, tucking away any hint of the smile he felt growing in his chest. “Maybe I’d be cheerier if you didn’t burn my toast.”

“What?” Nanase-san exclaimed. “No way! I didn’t burn anything!”

Iori stared at him blanky until Nanase-san began to fidget, his cheeks taking on a bit of the color Iori worked so hard to see everyday. 

“Well,” Nanase-san mumbled, eyes darting away, “you ate it anyway so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

Iori rose from the table and placed his empty plate in the sink, where it belonged, lips curling upward only with Nanase-san at his back. 

“I’m very polite, Nanase-san.”

“Polite my ass.”

[itsnotmystic]

Ah shit my hand slipped-

It was an accident.

How was Phil supposed to know the players would purposely lure wardens to the surface? How was Phil supposed to know the damn thing could shoot sonic blasts? There's a reason he never visited the deep dark.

He groaned, stretching as he sat up in his bed, wings flaring out behind him. He hadn't experienced a respawn in... forever. At least, that's what it seemed like. He felt exhaustion tugging on his bones, encouraging him to lie back down and sleep off the phantom pain tingling from the warden. He probably could, he mused, if he really wanted to. Technoblade would keep an eye out on him.

Oh gods. Techno.

Phil shot up, back aching in protest, and stumbled out of bed to the door. It seemed Techno had the same thought because the door swung open before Phil reached for the handle, revealing his friend.

Phil took in his disheveled appearance, the hunch to his back clearly indicating he was in pain, and the panicked look on his face.

"Phil-"

"Techno-"

They both paused. Phil took a deep breath, and before he spoke, Techno rushed forward to wrap him in a hug. Phil squeezed him back and could feel the slight tremble running through Techno. He heard him take in a shuddering breath before speaking.

"Don't scare me like that, old man." Phil huffed lightly, but ignored the jab for now.

"I'm sorry," he said instead. "How are you, though? I can't imagine it was pleasant doing whatever you were up to and suddenly dropping dead."

Techno grunted. "Nah, it was fine. Didn't even feel a thing."

"Techno," Phil said warningly and stepped back to look his friend in the eyes. He could still feel the slight tremble in Techno's figure and see the slight pinch to his face. Techno averted his gaze and sighed.

"No, I definitely felt it," he muttered sheepishly. "Warden?"

Phil nodded. "Warden. Forgot they have that sonic scream thing."

"You're not helping the old man allegations," Techno joked, bumping his shoulder into Phil's. Phil just nudged him back. "Should we help kill it?"

"Nah," Phil decided. "At least, I won't. You're more than welcome to, mate."

Techno hesitated for a second before shrugging. "They've got it. I don't particularly feel like going out right now."

Phil chuckled and wandered over to the rug by his bed, sitting down and patting the spot next to him. Techno sat beside him, and Phil draped a wing across his lap. Techno automatically started running his hands through the feathers, straightening disoriented ones and pulling out others. Phil relaxed and let out a soft croon, the tension bleeding out of his body.

"Bruh, the warden's scream really messed up your feathers," Techno mused. Phil hummed in response, leaning against his friend's side. The ache from respawning had almost completely subsided, and the comfort from Techno combing through his feathers left him tired. He could nap for a bit; Techno was right here. Yeah, he thought, giving into the soft pressure of sleep, that sounded good.

HEY hi

so: your pinned post mentions the life series and also emerald duo (of course)

concept for you: double life emerald duo soulmates (I'm thinking about it as a concept so now I'm sharing)

oh ho ho i love this idea! Sorry for taking a bit to respond, I had so many ideas I wanted to expand on with this. Been rotating it in my head all day

On one hand, I can see them very easily splitting up because they know and completely trust the other, and even if one loses a bit of health, then they'll still be okay. Quite frankly (at least following my headcanons lol), there wouldn't be too much out of the ordinary from their normal behavior.

But there is that heightened sense of awareness, fear. The fact that this isn't the normal day to day, but instead a survival and pvp style game. Now with the mechanism of losing hearts when the other gets hurt, I have the feeling that if one was to suffer a massive blow, the other would immediately be very clingy for a bit- not out of fear of death, but just the intrinsic knowledge of how bad that injury was and the fear of your partner being hurt.

("Nah mate, I'm fine! I'll just have a gapple and walk it off." "Phil, I literally felt that one and I don't even have wings, that it not fine!"

"Techno, my side really fucking hurts right now, don't you dare try to hide that stab wound from me")

On the other hand, I can see them getting progressively clinger as time goes on, especially after the first death that takes them to yellow, considering usually Phil is immortal and Technoblade never dies. I think the shock and reminder of death would leave them very defensive afterwards, and more hesitant towards going after others. Eventually though, they'll start going out together, as opposed to separately when they were on green, and maybe once they're more comfortable again they'll split up occasionally.

Now, red life, on the other hand, they're inseparable, mainly because of the idea that "if I die, he dies, too, so let's watch each other's backs. Two is better than one." It causes a long talk between them because by sticking together, they're consolidating their weakness into one spot, but by staying separate, they halve their strength. In the end, combining their talents wins out over both of them being in the same place.

I'm curious about what would happen tho if they were the last two. I feel like either they'd just chill with being the last 2 or, angsty route... I feel like Techno would pull some self-sacrificial thing. Like, I know they'd refuse to fight each other to the death, but there's gotta be a winner, and even tho Phil's like, "Death is literally my wife, we can work this out" Techno just wouldn't allow it.

But ya!! Feel free to add on any ideas you have, I'd love to discuss this more!!

[momo-t-daye]

...okay, so I suppose Christmas in 1995 was on a Monday and if the winter break is generally two weeks long and starts on the weekend before Christmas, then maybe the first Occlumency lesson (on a Monday evening) was on the 8th of January and Severus Snape was not yet 36 years old, but, ah, time is wobbly etc.

Has Severus taken the role of "Godmother" faster than Harry has managed to adapt to Sirius' revelation/declaration? Maybe, yes, probably. Does Voldy demand student drama and gossip from Severus? Yes.

Part Two

[happyk44]

When Annabeth becomes pregnant at twenty-three, everyone is excited. Percy, most of all. They get married in a small shotgun ceremony inside the safe haven of New Rome, mortal and godly parents in attendance, friends shedding tears of joy.

She gives birth a month early to a screaming, underweight bundle of joy. Everyone adores their son. He has fuzzy hints of black hair and wide curious gray eyes. He doesn't cry much after his birth, is abnormally quiet, observing everyone who holds him like he sees something more beneath the surface.

His quiet demeanour reminds Hazel a lot of Nico. When she mentions this in passing, Annabeth laughs quietly and squeezes baby Oliver's chubby fist. "He does, doesn't he?"

Her words sound unbelievably fond. The tone doesn't shock Hazel - she knows that the three of them have gotten close recently - but it seems... odd. Misplaced in its meaning.

She finishes off her final protective ward on Oliver's crib. "Has he met him yet?"

Annabeth hums. "He was here this morning."

She doesn't say anything more, and before Hazel can ask, she effortlessly glides the conversation to Hazel's training as a witch. Hazel takes the hint and lets the conversation change without any complaint.

-

Grover counts himself lucky in many regards. He's got a wonderful wife. He's Lord of the Wild. He hasn't been eaten alive by any monsters yet. All but one of the kids he's brought to camp are living successful happy lives.

And he knows the truth about Oliver.

They never talk about it - the circumstances that brought him into the world. It was just a few hints here and there in conversation, before he cuts the cord and just asks.

"Nico is Oliver's biological father, isn't he?".

Percy doesn’t even hesitate. "Yeah."

Grover watches from the kitchen, Percy at his side, as Nico emerges from what everyone thinks is the guest room, but Grover is confident is actually Nico's room. Oliver sits on his hip. The one year old is bundled up from head to toe. Nico himself has a matching beanie - bright blue with a warped crochet design of a yellow fish. He waves Oliver's little hand their way before disappearing into the shadows.

The two of them come back a couple hours later with In-and-Out takeout bags. Oliver is chewing on a lone french fry. He falls into Percy's arms with ease. Nico smiles kindly at Grover and comes to sit at Percy's side on the couch. Their thighs press together.

Grover doesn't ask about it.

They're happy. He can tell just by looking at them. Whatever thing is happening between the three of them, they're okay.

That's all that matters.

-

Piper loves Annabeth, she does. But she also believes in integrity. Oliver is three years old and the shadows tremble when he's annoyed. The air goes cold and frigid when he's upset. He doesn't talk very loud, but he's perceptive.

It's one hour into Piper's babysitting time when Oliver tells her that her grandfather says hello and she pieces it together. Oliver doesn't understand what he's done, the secret he's just revealed. She asks him to get her grandfather to tell him a story, just like he used to tell her. Oliver reaches out with one hand, and Piper's world turns upside down.

Annabeth and Percy come home two hours later, laughing and carrying a goodie bag from the restaurant. Grandpa Tom left half an hour ago, right when Oliver murmured a sleepy, "I'm tired", and let go of his hand. Piper doesn't know if he's still around, watching her. But it's the idea that he is, that keeps her brave.

When Percy disappears down the hall to check in on his sleeping son, Piper corners Annabeth in the kitchen.

"Are you cheating on Percy?" she whispers.

Annabeth blinks at her, startled. "What?"

"Are you cheating on Percy?" Piper whispers again, trying not to hide the urgency in her voice.

Annabeth is cool as she puts the leftovers in the fridge. "Why do you think I'm cheating on Percy?"

The question is easily answered, yes or no, and Annabeth's side-stepping is obvious and painful to Piper's heart. She changes gears. "Is Nico Oliver's dad?"

Annabeth pauses. It feels like hours. Then she closes the fridge door and crosses her arms over her chest. "People can have more than one dad, Piper."

Piper scowls and gets in close. "Does Percy know?"

Warm hands plant on both her shoulders. "He knows," Annabeth says, her voice soft. "And I'm not cheating on him."

Piper can't tell if Annabeth is lying. She wants to say more, ask more, but Percy's footsteps are loudly closing in. She takes a few steps back just as Percy rounds into the kitchen and slips an arm over Annabeth's shoulders. The image is sickly sweet. The two of them gaze happily at each other. They're so painfully in love.

Piper's stomach clenches.

The three of them stay up an extra hour. Percy is oblivious to the tension ruminating off of Piper. Annabeth seems fine though. It only stresses her out more. When she finally turns in, she doesn't know how to feel. She pauses just inside the guest room, the door pinched open. She can hear the two of them talking quietly in the hall. Oliver's bedroom door squeaks open.

Another voice, one Piper hasn't heard in a couple months, teases Percy from nearby. Percy protests his protective habits. Piper peeks through the gap. Nico is leaning against the wall. He's smiling widely in Annabeth's direction. Percy is oblivious, sneaking into Oliver's room. Annabeth takes Nico's hand. He pulls her close.

Piper relaxes for a minute. Maybe she doesn't have to say anything, maybe Percy will catch them before they can drift apart.

Or maybe he'll walk out of Oliver's room, shove Annabeth away and dive into Nico's mouth greedy, like he's starved for breath and Nico's mouth is oxygen. Maybe he'll tangle his hands into Nico's hair and push him into the wall with a low growl.

They don't separate, not really. Instead Percy drags Nico towards his - their - bedroom, Annabeth laughing as she follows.

The door clicks shut behind them. Piper takes a step back before pulling her own door closed. In the morning, Nico is gone and Percy is making pancakes. When Oliver asks for pomegranate juice, Piper passes it to him from the fridge and says nothing.

-

Leo doesn't know where this new baby came from. Annabeth wasn't pregnant the last time he saw her, but there's definitely a newborn asleep in the corner of their combined workshop. Annabeth doesn't even let him ask about the kid, just throws revised plans for their latest project in his direction before answering her screaming phone.

Oliver is there next to the baby, rocking her back and forth in her carrier. A picture book sits on his knee. He blinks up at Leo as he approaches. Leo likes Oliver. He's quiet and isn't afraid to use a hammer. The baby girl has small curls of black hair. She is bundled up in a fish-printed blanket.

"Who's this, big man?" Leo asks, squatting down to get a closer look.

The four year old stares at him. Then, "Ariel. She's my sister." He pauses, before adding, "She's really loud."

"When did your mom get a baby?"

Oliver stares some more before answering. "My uncle made her yesterday."

Leo doesn't know what to say to that.

-

Oliver and Ariel are joined a year later by a third and final child. While Ariel's origins are still speculated by anyone not in the know, it's clear from Annabeth's round belly where Eve was going to emerge from. She has thin wispy hair so blonde it blends into her skin. Her bright sea green eyes mimic her father's.

But Nico is her favourite. By now everyone knows not to bat an eye when instead of "Daddy" or "Mommy", her first word is "Papa". She reaches for him more than anyone else. As soon as she is old enough to crawl, her favourite place to wiggle towards is his lap.

Frank watches as she tries to pull herself to a stand. He runs a hand over the head of a nearby cat. It purrs loudly. Nearby Nico's hands are outstretched, ready to catch her if she falls.

Like Grover, he cuts the cord fast. "Is she yours too?"

Nico doesn't falter. "No."

Eve doesn't make it to a stand, but gets close enough before she falls face first into Nico's arms. He bundles her up to his chest and she squeals, reaching out with one hand to tug at his necklace.

He doesn't wear the camp beads anymore. Instead, it's a silver band looped through a golden chain. The band has three different jewels studded into it - a diamond, an aquamarine gem, and an onyx. What each jewel represents isn't a question. The fact that Percy and Annabeth wear the same silver band just above their wedding rings isn't much of a question either.

Frank takes Eve when offered and holds her close. Her green eyes look exactly like her father's, look exactly like her sister's. Her blonde hair is soft against each stroke of his fingers.

Nico comes back with drinks. Frank doesn't go for them when offered, content with where he is. Nico puts his can next to his foot, before lowering himself back to the ground. Frank watches him for a moment.

Then, "I thought you were gay."

Nico shrugs as he pops the top to his soda. "Annabeth's pretty," is all he says after a slow sip and Frank snorts.

He hands Eve back when Nico reaches for her. "Is that why Oliver was first?"

Nico's grin is wicked sharp, but happy in all its angles. "No," he says. "That's because I'm pretty."

-

Jason watches as Ariel and Eve team up to drown their older brother in the lake. In retaliation, he summons skeletons that ignore Ariel but grab at Eve. She screams, loud and unholy, as she’s tossed through the air and lands with a gigantic splash. Oliver pulls himself out of the water, shaking wet black hair out of his face. Ariel bats her eyes at him as he approaches, unafraid even as he picks her up and tosses her into the lake himself.

The two girls laugh as they surface, before swimming speedy laps around each other. With a short scowl, Oliver settles on the towel next to Jason. He does not enjoy swimming. Jason remembers the first summer after his birth.

They had tucked his feet into the water to splash and he’d screamed bloody murder. People joked about how Percy’s ocean powers clearly hadn’t made themselves known yet. But now it was pretty well known that Oliver didn’t have any ocean powers.

It had been pretty funny when Ariel came around. She took to the water like a fish and Oliver had panicked himself into a stressed out ball around the edges of the lake before he accidentally summoned a dozen ghosts to wrestle her from Percy’s arms and bring her back to the safety of dry land.

Percy hadn’t been allowed to hold Ariel for the rest of the day after that. If he tried, shadows would whip at him with Oliver’s frustration. He stayed tucked around his little sister while she cooed at the ghosts still protectively hovering nearby.

After that, everyone had pieced together what they had already started guessing at, if not outright knew.

The three of them never said how, or why, or even when, it had all come together for them, but they seemed happy nonetheless. And Jason was good with that. Nico deserved to be happy in whatever shape or form that came in. He didn't bat an eye whenever Nico kissed Annabeth's cheek before leaving with Jason. He didn't question it whenever the two of them came back and Percy clung onto him like needy barnacle.

Nico would flush a soft pink, and his smile was gentle, almost hidden sometimes. But he was happy, genuinely happy.

And that made Jason warm to see.

He pulls out the book Oliver had packed for their day out. Oliver puts on his glasses, thin round frames just like Uncle Jason’s, rolls over onto his stomach, and begins reading. In the lake, the girls are still splashing one another. A couple times they glance over at Oliver, like they’re thinking about pulling him into their game. But they know better than to bother their brother when he’s reading.

Oliver hums curiously and kicks his legs. Jason glances at him. “Good book?”

“Yes,” Oliver says.

He still speaks quietly and slow, each word a deliberate thought. It makes him the worst person to argue with. Ariel and Eve get loud and passionate - Ariel like Annabeth, cutting sharp like a knife, each spit of her words an uncontrolled punch; Eve like Percy, thunderous and vibrant, fast and off the cuff.

Watching the three of them fight a genuine fight is a masterclass in terror. The last time it’d happened - Eve blowing out Ariel’s candles on her sixth birthday and Ariel throwing a tantrum that exploded cake all over Oliver’s face - Jason had thought the whole city was going to be destroyed with every scream and thrown punch.

It had taken nearly half an hour to separate them. Oliver remained furious, refusing to cry even as Jason helped him wash the cake out of his hair, and stubbornly avoiding everyone for the rest of the day. Eve, like her mother, refused to admit she was wrong, steadfast in her determination not to apologize (although she caved fast when Nico came back with Ariel). Ariel got over it fast, she always did, which Jason found hilarious considering how emotional each of her fathers’ were. But her eyes remained red rimmed and she would tear up each time she caught sight of her siblings’ bruises.

She hit the hardest. Always did.

But when they fought together? In defense of one another? Amazing to see. It reminded Jason of the wolves, of the Cohort - working in tandem with one another, flying seamlessly off one another. A well oiled machine, each cog fitting together like the pieces of a puzzle. Oliver was the leader, in charge of each attack, Eve assisting in his command, and Ariel the powerhouse ready to take aim.

It’s clear where they picked it from.

-

The kids are half-asleep in a pile on the floor as Nico crawls across the couch cushions and into Annabeth’s lap. He dangles mistletoe above her head. She laughs and rises up for a kiss. In the chair nearby, Percy watches with half a grin across his face.

“That’s gross,” Eve mutters tiredly.

“Go back to sleep,” Nico calls back before kissing Annabeth again.

Ariel makes a gagging noise. Oliver swats at her before he slips out of their pile to rise slow to his feet. His glasses are lopsided on his face, but he doesn’t fix them. Instead he leans down to pull both girls to their feet. Eve yawns as she ducks her face into his shoulder. He slides one arm across each of their shoulders before tucking them in close and dragging them off to bed.

Percy pushes off the chair and flops against Nico’s back. Annabeth groans under the added weight.

“Seaweed Brain,” she grumbles. “Get your fat ass off my boyfriend.”

“Fat?” Percy huffs. He leans in harder. Nico laughs while Annabeth groans louder. “Woman, I am toned.”

“You have a dad bod,” Nico says. He tilts his head back and Percy accepts a kiss.

“You’re just jealous because you can’t put any weight on your bones.”

Nico rolls his eyes. Percy squeezes his hips and pulls away. Annabeth breathes easy, and then easier when Nico pulls himself from her lap. Percy turns off the TV as Annabeth rises groggily to her feet. Nico tucks her under his arm, and the two waddle off to bed.

Percy crawls in soon after.

In the morning, Eve will ask for pancakes, which Percy will make while she helps. Ariel will braid Nico’s hair in the bathroom and he will braid hers. Oliver will argue with Annabeth about the philosophy of Plato.

In the evening, the kids will ask the question that no one else has ever been brave enough to ask. And without falter, their parents will answer.

It was never a secret to begin with.

[ceiling-karasu]

Jollin and the Festival

The afternoon before the start of the Dano Dragon Boat festival, Nayeon greeted Jollin as he returned home from his rounds, chattering happily as usual. As the spring crops came in around her family farm, the bunny had come by multiple times in the past few weeks to borrow the cart he used for larger courier and mail deliveries around his assigned area of Flower Hill.

Jollin did not mind. Nayeon only borrowed it when she knew he was going to have a light load the next day, or had the day off. And besides, letting her borrow the cart increased the chances of her gifting him a few extra bits of produce as a neighborly thanks, a luxury unheard of back when he was a half-starved laborer in the Weasel Kingdoms.

The entire community seemed to think he was too malnourished for his own good, not knowing that his thinner body and less fluffy tail was due to him being a dormouse scout for the enemy, and not actually a squirrel as they assumed. He dreaded to think about what would happen if they figured it out. Then again, instead of publicly exposing him, they would likely contact the Cherry Valley command center, who would explain that yes, he had actually defected long ago, and was happily being used as bait to lure out other scouts who may have escaped the roundup of the other Tokgasi agents. Or so the hedgehog and squirrel commander had assumed, and continued to believe.

“���I do hope you are able to attend the festival, tomorrow! I just hope it is not interrupted by the Weasel Unit, but surely not even they would be inconsiderate enough to attack a peaceful festival when an international crowd is around. Even I get to perform on stage in the afternoon! I have been practicing in every free moment I get! But I won’t tell you what I am performing. It’s a secret you will have to see for yourself,” Nayeon could hardly keep still as she laughed, bold and shy at the same time.

Jollin could guess that she would probably perform a dance, perhaps in tune to some folk music, or even an opera song. Over the last few weeks, she had taken to wearing a traditional hanbok- or chosŏn-ot, as Flower Hill called them- in every spare moment, twirling as she moved. Even Jollin had noticed her gracefulness, which made her a prime candidate for one of the floating dances performed on the peninsula. He had heard of those, although it had previously been a delicate spectacle reserved only for the weasels and other upper class groups in their mansions and theaters. Granted, she still had to work, so the chima was not as long as to cover the boots, and was not adorned in complex patterns, but she would likely be wearing a proper version at the festival. Still, even he knew not to spoil the surprise, needing to fake some cheerfulness and mimic the excitement of the fools of the country.

“Oh! I simply cannot wait! The Command Center does need me to deliver a few packages tomorrow, but I bet they will need to be taken to the festival anyway,” he laughed. Really, the commanders had already approached him with intel that another Tokgasi agent was to appear at the festival, and wanted him, the supposed defector, to hunt them down. “But it will be getting dark soon! You had best be on your way home so you can help the others with the crops! Otherwise, you will all have to do it in the dark, and that can be dangerous! You might oversleep.”

“Yes, sir!” The bunny tittered She waved, then quickly moved down the path and around the hills towards her home, pulling the cart.

Jollin was not necessarily worried about Nayeon being out alone in the dark. Granted, the Tokgasi survivors were hiding out in the area, but it was unlikely they would go for her. There was a danger of a rouge scout taking her hostage to try and get the dormouse courier to shelter them, of course, thinking that they were close friends. But he knew that despite her looks, Nayeon had already been through the mandatory conscription of Flower Hill. She should know how to fight off an attacker, especially given her grandfather being a top general.

Which made him wonder if she was really the happy, bubbly bunny she appeared to be. As far as he was concerned, his paranoia over her being a plant by Cherry Valley was fully justified. Particularly after her grandfather, the doddering old retired soldier, who would absentmindedly, in his loneliness and age, give away secrets about Flower Hill’s defenses and movements, had turned out to be a fully in charge general, who was feeding him false information as part of a Flower Hill plot to use an enemy scout to destabilize the opposing army. Apparently, Flower Hill, as with other nations, were surprisingly fine with allowing a scout to live and work in their homeland. However, the fact that the scout was not sending the false information back to his handlers as they had planned was an actual problem, as it meant that Weasel Unit forces were not falling into traps that had been set up. It forced the general to drop his charade early out of frustration, and for the Flower Hill commanders to formally induct him as a defector from the enemy.

So, what about his granddaughter, Nayeon? Living so close to the Command Center, it was possible that her role to play was to casually drop information on what he should be doing, in a way that would not sound like an order, should he prove obstinate to demands. Come to the festival, a loud place he had no interest in, and stand near a stage, possibly to meet up and chat with a ‘friendly’ hedgehog about infiltration he had seen other than the Weasel Unit soldiers who had been purposefully invited.

On the other hand, she could simply be that innocent, somehow. It would be a bad idea to question her. If it was the latter, and she found out he was one of the enemies? I wouldn’t see her as often. There would go all the extra food, and news from around Flower Hill that he did need to pass on to his handlers. As far as he could tell, she had no parents, and lived with her grandfather, and given the current war and occupations, there was usually a reason for that.

So, being a bit paranoid about what he said and did was reasonable. The commanders and the soldiers saw it as typical mouse nervousness, while the citizens out of conscription saw him as a poor shellshocked victim from the border, afraid to make friends in case he lost them again. Let both those groups believe that. It makes it easier to meet up with Tokgasi alone.

Which was another reason Jollin needed Nayeon to leave so early. He could see the smudge on one of the stones leading up to the walkway to his house his own house. Someone like him, a Tokgasi scout, would easily recognize the faint Weasel Unit symbol on the ground, signaling that there was a message for him. Jollin lay a hand on the fence post, waiting for Nayeon to shift positions, so the straw hat hanging off his back would block her view of his hand snatching the calling card from Tokgasi affixed to the fence post.

My own house. He hardly could have dreamed of having his own private residence in his previous country. Small, but his own. His own bedroom, a main room, working plumbing in a bathroom, and closets for extra clothing of all things. And the fools had just given this to him, either thinking he was one of their own, or had happily switched sides.

He could get an even greater house if he gave Flower Hill over to Tokgasi and the Weasel Unit. A larger home, with luxuries Flower Hill eschewed, maybe even his own servants, as he had seen other mice get for procuring a great victory for their weasel masters, should they be so inclined.

And perhaps, despite how nice they had been, the thought that Flower Hill fully deserved destruction for their inaction towards the suffering taking place in Usuhan Jiyeog still arose. Just sitting back and not interfering as his people starved and died of sickness, hardly having a care in the world about those who had slighted them generations ago. Jollin had seen the firepower around Cherry Valley and elsewhere, knew that with precision strikes they could have easily wiped out the leaders and most of the Weasel Unit, making their country safer, but they were too soft to do so. Once the weasels were gone, most of the mice would likely starve to death without overseers telling them what to do, so Flower Hill should not have to worry about that.

Still, the firepower he had been allowed to casually see gave him pause in reporting anything.

Either way, there would be a meeting tonight. The message noted to leave the door unlocked.

……………………………………………………………………….

The hill in front of his house blocked his view of the valley below, and he assumed that hedgehogs would spy on him from there. Which meant it was a perfect area for Tokgasi and his agents, along with other scouts, to survey as well to make sure they were not being watched.

The mice gathered in the main room, some watching the windows to make sure no one snuck up on the house. Nervous fools, Jollin noted. One of these days, during one of these meetings, someone was going to make a mistake and capture a hedgehog who passed by, instead of hiding. The smarter infiltrators had run away when Tokgasi’s scout ring had collapsed, helped by Jollin’s instructions on the lax security that appeared during specific times. He had heard the other mice whispering rumors of Geumbanji’s mercenary group running a series of safe-houses for deserters, ending somewhere near the border of Chaand Hadia.

Which, while an odd tactic for mercenaries to use, made perfect sense. Geumbanji himself needed to lie low, now that Flower Hill had realized he was a traitor, and with other countries likely keeping a lookout for him as well, he might be bored. Besides, he would get money, news, and supplies from the traffic, while Flower Hill could watch a steady stream of soldiers leave the ranks of the Weasel Unit. The gold ringed mouse could run his mercenary operation from anywhere.

Fleeing to Chaand Hadia had also been one of his possible routes for desertion, but the stories he had heard about the endless food supply and idiotic citizens of Flower Hill who would just give him things had been too tempting. Besides, he would rather see if the foreign country he knew almost nothing about would actually welcome mice and allow them to assimilate. Best not to be among the first. Even if not, he could still hide somewhere.

But that was not important at the moment. Tokgasi was giving him orders.

“We have finally managed to make contact with the second scout we have embedded around the Command Center. We know that he will be at the festival working security, which is good for us to sneak in. Once you make your deliveries, seek him out and give him this message,” Tokgasi handed him a light pink data chip. “These will give him his next instructions.”

“Activating the sleeper agent, eh?” Jollin snickered, trying his best to sound like a typical mouse, fawning over his boss.

“Naturally! It is time that we start to make our moves to prepare to strike.” Tokgasi smiled back, all previous suspicion of Jollin being a traitor who deserted gone from his mind

“Alright, it should be easy enough, sir! I will complete my mission!” Jollin saluted properly.

The other mice smiled and cheered softly, not wanting to arouse suspicion from outside, if anyone was lurking.

Well, this is interesting. Two Weasel Unit scouts embedded in the command center could spell doom for Flower Hill. But Flower Hill also expected him to find a scout at the festival, which meant that they might already know, betraying the remainder of his own little group of friends.

Jollin supposed he would have to see how it would go.

…………….

End Part One

[chromatic-crow]

soooo this was hastily written in like 3 hours cause group chat be chattin, so rip leafy boys or whatever, heres 1.6k+ of connor surprising brandon in col after being eliminated

The flight isn’t till the day after break ups and exit interviews but he’s already nervous, wondering if it's a mistake for him to fly down to Denver, worrying that he’ll just be a distraction. But the two of them had an agreement; anywhere one went, the other would always be welcome.

So Connor packs his bags and spends the plane ride trying to calm himself down, it’s not like it's been years, only a month or two since they last saw each other. He asks Brandon if anyone would pick him up, knowing already that he’s going to be busy at practice, Brandon telling him that Jo would be able to, making sure to tell Connor to make himself at home, that Jo would have the key. And it’s weird, weird to him that it’s not Minnesota, weird that it’s not going to be the same apartment he knows by heart, that he’s been to so many times before.

Jo picks him up from the airport, smiling at him as he gets in the car.

“Welcome to Denver, Dew won’t shut up about you, you know? He’s really missed you.” They talked often enough that he knows that already, Brandon always making sure to text him something stupid, a little reminder.

“Thanks, hopefully good things. Uh he’s told me a bit about you and the rest of the guys but not much.” 

Jo tells him all about the team as he drives Connor to the apartment, mostly talking about Nate and how amazing he is, how he understands exactly what they’re going through. And it’s weird, learning this much about a team that had been heated division rivals for so long. Which sure, they weren’t anymore but that feeling doesn’t just go away overnight or even after being traded to a team out of the division.

He waves as Jo drives away, fiddling with the keys in his hand as he makes his way to the apartment, opening the door to an unfamiliar place, void of the same personal fixtures of the previous. He doesn’t bother to lock the door, he has the only key, and if this was going to be the surprise he wants it to be, he doesn’t want to have to open the door. The clock on the stove shows that there’s two hours till Brandon should be back, enough time to shower and get himself ready.

Connor takes his bag into the bedroom, digging out his toiletries and heading to the shower. It doesn’t take him long to wash up, rinsing off the travel and grogginess of time zones as best he can. He grabs his phone as he towels off, checking the time, really hadn’t been long at all but still worried about having enough time to prepare. He digs through the bag he brought in, finding a partially used bottle of lube, sighing as he turns it over a few times before uncapping it. 

Prepping himself is his least favorite thing to do, normally Brandon would do it for him, taking his time and getting Connor close with just his fingers, sometimes leaving him to lay there without touching him for a while, just to hear him ask for it. He refused to beg, usually turning it around on Brandon if he tried cause Brandon would beg, and sound oh so good doing it. He feels his dick twitch at the memories, starting to get interested as he thinks, knowing what’s coming as he rubs slick fingers against his hole, pressing one in before adding the second.

It’s not the same as when Brandon does it, he grits his teeth as he pushes them deeper, letting his eyes close and trying to relax. This is why he hates doing it himself, never able to entirely relax, not able to enjoy the feeling as he spreads his fingers a little like he likes when Brandon does it. After a few minutes he pulls his fingers out, sighing as he does, looking at his foggy reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands before tapping his phone.

There’s a text from Brandon, saying he’s leaving the rink now, Connor drying his hands before walking to his suitcase. He’d buried them on purpose, feeling stupid about it now as he digs through the whole thing, taking out a small bag and emptying it onto the floor. He probably has twenty minutes at least, pulling on the garter belt first, then taking his time putting on each thigh high, careful not to rip them as he does, clipping the garter to them. It always makes him feel weird putting on lingerie, almost like putting on his gear before heading onto the ice, but never as weird as the first time though, a full lace bodysuit that Brandon had all but destroyed.

He doesn’t bother putting anything else on, shoving everything back into the bag before digging out one last thing out of his suitcase, One of Brandon’s team issued jerseys, the one he had sent Connor after getting traded. He pulls it on, fitting too big without pads like it’s media day at the start of the season, the bottom of it not quite reaching the top of the thigh highs but close. He looks over to the closet, smiling as he sees the jersey he had sent in return hanging up there, crooked on the hanger.

Brandon should be there soon if he had to guess, settling himself on the bed, fidgeting with the hem of the jersey as he waits. It’s a few minutes before he hears the door unlatch, footsteps walking in before the door closes, a muffled call of ‘dew?’ coming from the living room. He feels like his heart is going to break through his chest, keeping quiet as Brandon quietly talks to himself as he gets closer to the bedroom, it’s not like it’s a big apartment.

“Dew? Did you fall asleep? Didn’t kn–wh–.” Brandon juggles with his phone for a moment, almost dropping it as he walks into the room, “holy shit Dew.”

“Hey, uh surprise?” he can’t help but grin at the stupid look on Brandon’s face, looking like he’s two seconds from drooling.

“Uh yeah surprise, fuck I wasn’t, jesus,” he walks towards the bed, hesitating to touch him for a second, looking like he’s not sure what to do before stripping down into his boxer briefs, “shit you aren’t even wearing– fuck you’re gonna kill me.”

“Just touch me already idiot.” 

Brandon does, climbing onto the bed and covering Connor with his body, touching every inch that’s uncovered as he kisses him. The jersey is scratchy between them, Brandon pulling back to look him up and down again while biting his lip, and Connor can see his dick twitch, a damp spot already starting, still looking a little unsure. Connor sits upright, getting onto his knees as Brandon just stares.

“How, uhm I can–” 

He pushes Brandon onto his back and picks up the bottle of lube from where he had set it, pulling off Brandon’s boxers watching him blink, breathing out a quiet ‘okay yeah’ as he does. He uncaps the lube and squirts some onto his hand, warming it up a little before wrapping his hand around Brandon’s dick, listening to his sighs as he gives it a few strokes. 

He tries to think about how he should do this, his body making the decision for him as he climbs into Brandon’s lap so they’re face to face, watching how Brandon’s expression changes as he sinks down onto his dick. Connor lets out a small moan, eyes fluttering shut as he bottoms out. He’d missed this, missed Brandon, whatever weird but comfortable thing they had. Brandon’s hand comes up to his face, running along his jaw and beard with a hum before pulling him into a slow kiss.

Brandon’s hips twitch up into him after a minute, the movement sending a jolt through him, panting as he pulls back from the kiss. He puts his hands on Brandon’s shoulders, bringing himself up a little bit before slowly dropping back down, sighing as he repeats the motion, listening to Brandon’s quiet sounds each time he drops back down. Looking at Brandon’s face is too much for him, closing his eyes to avoid the amount of adoration with a tinge of sadness.

And Brandon must realize this, tucking his face into Connor’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the junction of his neck as he wraps his arms around him. It hits him just how much he’s missed him, hips stuttering to a pause before Brandon takes over, tipping him back onto the bed, the scratch of the jersey stitching on his back. He doesn’t waste time before rolling his hips into Connor, mumbling into his neck, small whispers and moans of ‘missed you’ barely audible over Connor’s own quiet moans.

Connor can’t hold it back, wrapping his arms around Brandon, trying to buck his hips into him, wanting more, and Brandon gives it to him, snapping his hips quicker, quiet moans getting louder. He’s so close, neglected dick pinned between them as Brandon’s thrusts start to lose rhythm, Connor coming with a cut off moan, Brandon rolling his hips as he fucks him through it, kissing Connor’s neck as he comes. 

They fall asleep like that, Brandon half on top of him like a too heavy weighted blanket, not even bothering to pull out until Connor wakes up and shoves him off, taking off the jersey and everything else before curling up against Brandon again. He’s a little annoyed when Brandon wakes him up an hour or two later, smacking him with a pillow just like old times as they laugh.

[villruu]

“Soulmates who are fated to kill each other” with Alex and Tim?

send me a reverse trope and MH & I'll write something for it

Went a bit overboard but the idea of soulmarks appearing only once it is clear you are going to end up killing each other/try to kill each other is so appealing.... Ough.

On AO3

⸻

The writing appears once Tim watches the tape he had taken from the Hooded Figure.

Tim had been curious about the tape, and it was one thing to distract him, one thing to make him not think about Jay (he had been so still…). Once he had gotten home, he had beelined towards his room, making sure to avoid the living room as best as he could.

The floor had still been littered with crumbled pages and Tim had gotten just a small glance of the dried black spot on the floor before he had hurried on.

The laptop struggles to turn on, and Tim waits impatiently, everything set up for the videos inside the tape to be transferred. Despite how bad Tim is with technology, this is a process he had gotten used to lately, helping with the channel.

The screen finally comes online, showing the factory desktop. Jay had borrowed his laptop so many times, to edit videos, to transform them, to upload them, that practically all folders in sight were made by Jay, carefully named with the date and possible entry.

Tim ignores them, focusing on just extracting the information on the tape. This laptop is a monument to Jay’s presence, and that is the last thing he needs right now (how long had he laid there, bleeding out, lonely?). 

After a few more minutes, Tim is left with a video. 

The thumbnail is an image of Brian, Tim would be able to recognize him anywhere. Worried and anxious, he double clicks on the file and watches it in silence.

Oh, he thinks, watching a young Brian joke and smile with a young Alex, That hoodie… That was Brian’s.

With shaking hands, Tim pauses the video. It’s the same hood, the same exact color, maybe a bit cleaner, but it’s the same.

(it’s the fucking same, it’s the same, oh my god, it was Brian, that was Brian, it was Brian, iT WAS BRIAN, BRIAN IS DEAD, HE IS DEAD, HE IS DEAD HE IS DEAD—)

That was at least three people that would be here if it wasn’t for Alex.

Three people. Three People.

(Three people, but what about Amy, about Sarah, about Seth, abOUT JESSICA—)

Alex Kralie is personally responsible for the death of Jay and Brian.

(it’s his fault, it’s his fault, it’s HIS IT’S HIS IT WASN’T HIM IT WAS ALEX ALEX ALEX-)

Tim startles, shouting, clutching his arm as a burning sensation overtakes him.

It hurts, it feels like liquid fire, like despair, it hurts so badly, and Tim can only dig his nails into his arm and try not to scream.

It burns oh so badly, and when Tim takes a lot, he is met with scratchy writing, shaky words etched into his skin as if someone had taken a carving knife to his flesh.

If there’s someone left, you have to kill them. And then yourself.

A soulmark.

Tim had learned about them during his childhood. One of the other patients had one, written in choppy letters and lopsided, wrapped around her neck and left shoulder. A Soulmark. He had heard the nurses, he knew what this meant, he knew, and yet, he touched the words cut into his arm with trembling fingers.

“Either I killed him, or he killed me,” She had told him once, smiling satisfied and bitter, “I hope you never get one kid, because the second the words appear, it is too late for either of you.”

Everyone knew that if your soulmark appeared it was because you would be either a murderer… Or the victim.

There was little to think about who it could be. It was too obvious, too easy. 

But Tim didn’t want to kill Alex. He didn’t want to kill him. Alex… Alex needed help, it wasn’t his fault, it was that thing, preying on him. Alex was innocent, Alex didn’t…

He didn’t want to kill Alex…

And, and he wouldn’t do it! He wouldn’t kill Alex, he wouldn’t. He refused.

Tim hadn’t survived this much just to let some stupid words define his fate. He would save Alex. He would save him and then Tim would move as far away as possible from this place and would never come back to Alabama and everything would be fine. He would move on and nothing bad would ever happen.

A month and a half later, Tim stared at a bleeding body and tried to not notice his own handwriting burned into Alex’s neck, looping around the bleeding throat like a tight choker.

You missed someone, it accused.

Tim hoped it had hurt when it appeared.

[bundles0fminho]

just started writing a 2Min fic on AO3, if you’re interested, give it some love ♡

[whimsical-sonic]

eee finally made great progress in writing this sickfic. i think i'm gonna split it into two chapters so hopefullyyyy my brain works with me

[akinosenoragami]

Team W plays elden ring

A Blackstar theater starless fanfiction written by me. Tldr I got inspired by a discord convo between me and my friend.

This was written during W's Diety's game event but I had to put I off because of assignments. Apologies for having to finish this so late.

Summary;

Taiga invites Team W to play Elden ring. That's it. Enjoy.

"Is the camera on?" Taiga asks as he checks the Webcam, "It's working." Takami replies.

"Good. Hello everyone, welcome back to another episode of gaming with Taiga~. With your host Taiga." 

"What kind of an intro was that?!" Akira questions

"Anyway, today I'm here with my team. Team W~, now please introduce yourselves. "

"Team W's top, Kokuyou." 

"...that's it? Nothing else?"

"Yeah so?" 

" Aw~ C'mon man you're no fun!" 

"Akira you're next."

"Hey y'all what's up! Team W's singer Akira! Nice to meet you pretty ladies on the internet." 

"And that's how you do it Kokuyou." 

"Shut up. Who's next."

" I believe that would be me. Hello everyone my name is Takami and I'm Team W's no.2" 

"HA! Takami did it better." 

"Now now you two don't start a fight here. Sin its your turn now." 

"There is a good level of maturity in your words which attracts a lot. I'm Sin."

"I'm sorry what? Takami translate."

"What Sin is saying is that it's nice to meet you."

"Ok whatever I guess…so anyway today we are going to be playing some Elden ring." 

"Whoo! I don't know how to play this game but let's fucking go!" Akria shouted in excitement. 

"Why did I agree to this…." 

"Kokuyou it's for our team PR, to promote our upcoming show." 

"Oh yeah, Diety's game is gonna be showing soon! And you should all be there!" 

"Alrighty…..should we play the game now?" 

"Yeah. We should."

"OK for the record 3 of us aren't really gamers per say. So we're gonna start off in easy mode just so they could get the gist of it." 

"Is everyone in?" Taiga asks

"Yea I think so." Akira responded 

"Shit. How do you control this? How do you go forward?" Kokuyou said as his character starts spinning all over the place. 

"Ahahahahaha kokuyou you suck at this!" 

"Shut the hell up Akira." 

"In the sense of things, Sin and I have both entered the game."

"Alright, so whose the easiest boss to fight…how about the soldier of Godrick?" 

"Yeah sure, why not?" 

"Aight. Let's go."

They get to the location of the soldier

"Time to take this thing down…what are you guys doing?" Taiga questions

"How do you run straight in this?!" Kokuyou starts spinning. 

Takami starts looking up the players manual, "So is this how you punch?" 

"Take that!" Akira shouts as he's faring quite well.

Meanwhile Sin. Does nothing. 

After 30 minutes or so they finally beat the soldier. 

"H-how the fuck are you guys so bad at this?!"

"This is stupid. If we have time to play this, shouldn't we be rehearsing?" Kokuyou says 

"Bitch! This is free marketing for our show alright." 

"Now now, calm down Taiga." 

"Right…*inhales exhales* say Akira since you're doing quite well, you wanna try beating a harder boss?"

"Yeah, bring it on!"

"Alright…let's see here…who is..How about Malenia, Blade of Miquella?" 

"Sure thing."

Taiga and Akira make their way to the Haligtree while the other 3 take a little break.

When all of a sudden disaster struck.

"Ah shit…my controller's out of battery!" Taiga said as he shakes his controller

"What?! How? I thought you had it charged yesterday?" 

"I did but this one is somewhat faulty."

"Well shit man…what am I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, Solo Her!"

"Aight then, imma solo her! Wait her?!" 

The boss fight begins.  [...Heed my words. I am Malenia. Blade of Miquella. And I have never known defeat. ]

" ZOO WEE MAMA! She's HOT!" Akira just screams. 

"Akria what the fuck-?" Kokuyou said, startled when he turned around. 

"Well I must admit, her character is quite attractive. " Takami said in a calm tone. 

"...." Sin just stays quiet.

[Waterfowl dance occurs]

"NoNoNoNo…"

[Akira Dies]

"Ah…damn it." 

" A loss is a loss, but those who rise above the initial failures are to be crowned the victors." 

"Sin please, that is not helping the fact I lost to a HOT babe." 

____________________________________

"And that's it for today's gaming with Taiga, tune in next time to see us prank the other teams."

"What?! Oh no We ain't doing that!" Kokuyou said as his face looked like he was about to beat up someone.

"Kokuyou...Stay." Takami tried calling him down.

"L-Like, Comment and S-Subscribe if you wanna see me live and don't forget to come to our show…fuck RUN!"

| to be continued >

[sunreisets]

aight I have a dentist appointment and imma start writing my narrative writing by pulling a loscar fanfic out of my arse, thanks @littlelqtte for the story plot <3

@princeofpyrenee how’s urs going

[eldarianduelist]

The void was not always the void. Contradiction lies at the heart of this blasted plane, once reality and home to all manner of thing-now hollow, weeping. Delilah seeks to remake the world in her image ignorant that her action will only give birth to another void, another prison. Only one of each, never two. In that this place will fall to nothingness.

The sea in the sky is dead.

Space is not space.

We are alone within, without the Void.

Of all I have learned in four thousand years this much is true:

History abhors a paradox.

[sunnami]

❝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

[pale-opal]

I saw this post yesterday and I have decided that the answer is yes. To all of it. To show you what I mean, I wrote something for it (if that's okay). Also: I have decided to pretend that Cataclysm Theory (the idea that Zero killed off most or all of the original cast before getting sealed away) is canon for this (so there is a content warning for descriptions of death and violence (there's also some religious symbolism)), in order to help me get my point across a little better:

---

Paved With Good Intentions - A Oneshot

It was over.

Thomas Light had, in every sense of the phrase, screwed up.

Not that it was entirely his fault, of course. Even when the world was being torn asunder right before his every eyes, he still knew how to show himself grace. He couldn't have possibly anticipated that the creation of X would have indirectly caused the deaths of his other children.

The monster had gotten to Blues first.

There wasn't much left of him, according to Rock. All that had been found at first was a puddle of yellow blood near the park he was known to frequent. Then Rock had found his scarf. And when he found a pair of broken sunglasses a little further away, that's when he realized something was wrong.

Rock, naturally, had been next. He had always possessed this need to do right, to bring justice. So of course he went to avenge his brother, once he brought what remained of him to Thomas. And of course he didn't surrender to the killer. Not even when he had just about been torn to pieces.

And yet, somehow, the beast wasn't satisfied. It desired more bloodshed, always more. So the other Robot Masters were next. Elec Man, Cut Man, Jewel Man, Splash Woman - every robot created by Dr. Light, gone in an instant. Soon Roll was the only one left.

Thomas thought he could do something different with her - keep her safe, keep her away from all of the suffering somehow. He had made precautions to change her appearance. Blonde hair to brown, blue eyes to gray. He'd bought her a sweater and pants to wear instead of her usual dress. Made her trade in wearing her hair tied up with a bow for pigtails. He'd even made changes to her frame so that she would be taller. But all of that wasn't enough. All it took was her taking a step outside to go to the store, and she was finished.

And now Thomas sat in his living room, held at buster-point on his very own couch. And it was here, in this dire state, that he came face-to-face with the murderer of his children. He wasn't anything like he thought. In fact, he looked no older than X had been designed to be: fifteen years old. And he had the most curious blue eyes and blond hair. Not to mention the way his eyes sparkled when he looked around the room - he was like a child, one who had been taken to an aquarium or to the zoo for the first time. Just like how Roll and Rock and Blues had been when they were first created. But even Lucifer was called an angel of light, Thomas reminded himself. Even if the wretch before him possessed some form of innocence, he had still killed almost every creation of his that he held dear. Thomas could not afford to let his guard down, could not afford to let this demon take anymore from him than he already had. He still had one child left, after all.

"What is it that you want?" Thomas asked finally, staring into the eyes of the creature before him.

At first, the thing looked him up and down, assessing him. No doubt checking to see if he's a threat. Once he'd come to a determination, he spoke: "Mega Man." Thomas blinked, stunned. "What?" "I want to see Mega Man. I was sent to destroy him." Thomas almost checked the little devil in the face at hearing that, but he managed to control himself. "Nonsense. You have already killed him."

The response Thomas got made his blood run cold. "There is another."

X.

He's talking about X. "No," Thomas lied, not knowing what else to do. "There isn't. You are mistaken." The fiend's eyes narrowed, and his buster began to squeal. "I suggest you stop lying to me." "You seem awfully sure of yourself," Thomas commented. "Who told you that there was a second Mega Man?" "My creator."

"And who is that?"

"Dr. Albert Wily."

Ah.

Now that explained everything. It told Thomas everything he needed to know - why this brute of an automaton had been so bent on killing everyone he had ever created, why he wanted nothing more than to destroy Rock and X. "I see."

"So?"

"'So' what?"

"So where is the second Mega Man?"

"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about."

The vermin's voice ran icy. "Liar."

BANG! Thomas hissed as a buster shot grazed his shoulder, and burned a nicely sized hole in his wall. "I suggest you start telling me the truth," the blond demon said. "Or else my next shot will go through your head." "If you kill me," Thomas retorted, "You'll never know where he is. Only I know of his location." The devil pursed his lips. Thomas tried not to grin - now was his chance to get him on the ropes. "Although, I don't think I should tell you. It's for your own good, really."

"How so?"

"Well... what do you think Wily will do, once you've killed the last of my creations?" The monster paused for a moment. Then, he answered in a way that made Thomas want to gag from how innocent it was. "He... he would be proud of me."

"Psh. That isn't the case at all." Thomas couldn't help but shiver with satisfaction when the beast's face fell. Good, he thought. Be disappointed. Feel a fraction of what I have felt because of you. "Are you familiar with the Robot Master 'Clown Man'?" "I don't believe I am." "Well, of course you aren't. When Wily had no need for a clown-based Robot Master, he scrapped him. And... well, you do know Frost Man, don't you? He used his parts to create him." The fiend's eyes grew wide, but the gesture dissolved as quickly as it had taken place. It was soon replaced with a head tilt, a sure sign of confusion. "What are you saying?"

"Once he has no use for you, you'll be disposed of - he'll kill you."

The blond beast sucked in a breath from shock, and for a brief, fleeting instant, Thomas felt bad for scaring him. But he soon remembered what became of his children, and the guilt is then swapped for rage. He didn't sympathize in the slightest when the monster spoke again. "But - but he loves me. He - he said so." "You really are stupid, aren't you?" Thomas snapped, and felt himself glare. "Albert will do anything to get the results he wants. And he's not one to leave loose ends lying around, unless he believes that they will be useful later. And he won't have anything for you to do, once you kill X. And you've swept through all of my other robots - you're too dangerous to keep around." The brute said nothing, at first. He simply lowered and deactivated his buster after about a minute, then told Thomas his next course of action: "Then I will kill him first. And when that's done, I will return and kill the second Mega Man. Then my purpose will be fulfilled, and I can continue to live." Thomas gasped in horror as the wretch began to leave. That wasn't what he had intended! Not at all. "What - no, no! You can't do that - that's a crime. You'll - you'll be hunted down, and killed anyway. You'll just make things worse for yourse--" The Wilybot stopped only to give a brief answer before he left. "Then I will kill those who hunt me." And with that, the monster was gone, out the front door - out the way he came. Thomas' whole body tensed, cold sweat running down his back. He needed to make a phone call.

---

Pick up, pick up, pick up, pick up -

A soft click on the other line made Thomas sigh in relief. Finally, after fifteen tries, Albert had gotten to the phone. His familiar dry, nearly hoarse vocal tones soon followed. "Who is this?! What do you want?! I am a very busy man, you know! If I don't pick up three times, that's a sign you should stop calling me! And how did you even get this number?! This is a private line -" "Albert. Albert, it's me. It's Thomas." That put a stop to Albert's rant quickly. A stubborn hmph came from Albert's mouth. "What do you want from me, Light?" "It's about the robot you sent to my home." Albert laughed, shrill and excited. "Ahaha! So Zero made it to you, then? I know he's killed your robots. Are you here to whine and complain about having finally lost? Or perhaps he hasn't gotten to all the disgraces you call 'creations' yet, and you want to beg for mercy. If so, that's fine. Just plead for it and admit that I'm the best, and I might just consider it." Zero, Thomas thought to himself. So that's that thing's name. "No. It's not like that at all." Thomas could just about see Albert's frown. "Then what is it?" "I called to warn you."

"Warn me?" Albert crowed. "Warn me about what? You're the one who's got a killer robot out to have your head, Light." "Not anymore," Thomas stated. "He wants you dead, now." Albert was silent. "Albert? Do you hear me?" "Stop messing with me, Light. Zero has been nothing but obedient-" A sharp scream cut Albert off from his train of thought. "...Shadow Man?"

Another voice could be heard over the phone. "Metal Man! Metal, help me! He wants to get to the Doctor -- AAAAUUGH!"

The sound of Shadow Man screaming as he fought to stay alive seemed to give Albert all the evidence he needed that his life was, in fact, in danger. "BASS!" Thomas jerked his head away from the receiver - he didn't know Wily knew how to yell like that. He returned the phone to his ear when Bass could be heard. "What do you want, old man?" A bark came from somewhere nearby - Treble was with him. "Fuse with Treble so you can fly out of here. You need to go. Do you hear me?"

"What?! Why? What's goin'--" Another loud scream echoed through the receiver, and the sound of a door sliding open came afterward. "Dr. Wily." It was Zero. "I know you are here. I have to speak with you."

Albert's tone took one a thick hint of affection. "About what, son?" Bass made a tch sound in the background.

"I know you intend to kill me, once I kill the second Mega Man."

"What?! No, I wouldn't - one second." Wily spoke harshly into his phone. "What did you tell Zero, Light?"

"I - I wanted to get him to change his mind about killing X. He's all I have left."

"Oh, so it's all well and good if he kills me, then?"

"No! I didn't want any of this to happen, I-"

"So why in the world did you make him think that I would want him dead?!"

"Well maybe," Thomas began, "You shouldn't have stolen X's blueprints. Maybe then none of this would be happening. Did you ever think about that, Albert? That maybe you have a part to play in all this?"

Albert huffed. "Whatever, Light. now if you excuse me, I have to do damage control." His tone became sweet again when he spoke to Zero. "Now, Zero. Think for a moment. Why would I want to hurt you? I spent so much time and effort making you-"

"You did the same for Clown Man, did you not? And yet, you discarded him to create Frost Man."

A little gasp came from Albert's mouth. "That's - I - That's not..!"

"Silence." Zero's voice sounded closer. "I will not allow you to dispose of me. You will die before I permit that."

Albert's voice was far from the phone now, and Thomas had to strain to hear him. "Bass, get out of here."

"...I ain't doin' that."

"Don't you understand what's about to happen?! He's going to-" "Not on my watch. C'mon, Treble!" A final bark was heard, and a loud whoosh took its place as Bass and Treble presumably fused. "Hey, oversized slag! Nobody lays a finger on my old man, you hear me?!"

Busters fired off, one after the other. Metal scrapped against metal, and Albert desperately begged his two robots to stop fighting each other - but Zero's name was said the most. It seemed like he was doing the most damage. A horrible, sickening shriek came out of Bass before it was abruptly quieted, and then the sound of a sharp clang. But there was nothing after that. "...Albert?" Thomas asked, hesitant. "Albert are you there?" A low sigh was Albert's response. "You're still here, Light?"

"Yes -what happened? Are you alright?"

Albert snorted. "Well, let's see, Light. One of my sons is dead, and I just knocked my other son out with a piece of rebar. How do you THINK I'm doing?" Thomas could hear Albert swallow, and his voice indicated that he was fighting back tears. "Zero will only be out for a few moments, I need to - how did this even... what am I going to do?"

"Albert," Thomas started again. "I'm so-" But Thomas wasn't given a chance to get the word "sorry" out of his mouth. "Thomas?"

"Yes, Albert?"

"Never call me again."

"...I understand."

Thomas didn't need to be told to hang up.

---

Thomas licked one last envelope closed as he rose from his desk. He had spent the last week writing letters. One for Mikhail, one for Noele, one for Pedro, and even one for Albert.

Now all he had to do was mail them.

But before he left his house, he threw his key to his private lab into the trash. Not the best means of disposal, he knew, but he didn't have any other ideas. At least it bought X some time to finish his thirty years of stasis undisturbed. Thomas had no doubt that Zero would come for X again. He knew, deep down, even though he wasn't entirely sure how he knew, that Albert wouldn't have scrapped his last creation - even if it was abundantly clear to him now that Zero was nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. He made his way to the mailbox outside, letters in hand. He was about to put them in the slot, send out what may very well have been his last words (he had been having the most terrible headaches lately - he suspected that it was nothing but paranoia, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it was connected to something worse. He would have to schedule a doctor's appointment) to his longtime friends (or longtime former friends, in Albert's case). Every note contained an apology, a summation of things he would've done differently. The ones to Mikhail and Albert were especially long. What else could he do, for a man who had his daughter kidnapped due a rivalry that Thomas had failed to nip in the bud long ago. And what else could he do for a man who had lost both of his sons because of his unhindered need to push the limits of robots could do? That was how all of this had happened, right? Who did Thomas think he was, playing God? Giving life when there was none? Giving free will to machines? And at the same time, he couldn't firmly say that he would take any of what he had done back. So all he could do was say that he was sorry, in every sense of the word, and talk about how he wished things had been different.

But then, he recalled the tears he had shed while he had been writing, how the drops of saline had stained the pages. He couldn't send those letters. The last thing he wanted to do was give his friends something to worry about. Thomas turned and went back inside. He would rewrite the letters in the next day - it was getting late, and he was tired. He slid the envelopes back into his desk drawer, showered, and changed into his nightclothes before heading to bed. But the letters were never sent out.

Because in the morning, he did not wake.

---

And... yeah, that's about it! This was my first time writing a sympathetic Dr. Wily, so I hope that it turned out okay. But I'm feeling pretty good about this one. What I was trying to say here is that Dr. Light definitely had a sense that things were going south, and that he had something to do with it. He would probably try to right his wrongs where he could, and for what he couldn't change... well, I suppose we have the X series to answer that. (Also, I suspect that I was subconsciously inspired by "Double-Cross" by kaguys2pt0 (via ao3), so check that out as well (heads up before reading, though: there is strong language present in that fic. A lot of strong language).)

do you think light could feel the impending chaos in his bones? do you think he sat in his lab and cried from time to time? do you think he dreamed of times long gone, of regrets he'd moved on from but still lingered in the back of his mind? do you think he wrote unsent letters to everyone he ever loved? did he die scared? alone? relieved? at peace?

[stitchthesewords]

I'm gonna upload this to ao3 later but I wanted to post this now before its too late! @eydilily happy birthday I wrote some Tangtho based on the art you posted. Warning for smoking and Redstone being treated like an addictive substance.

Redstone buzzed. It was important to know that. Redstone buzzed and when you were surrounded by it for hours on end, it seemed like your head never stopped buzzing. Like somehow the buzzing could form words that would cure all your woes with your latest project. Like they whispered exactly what you needed to do to get the right torch to turn on. Tango was constantly surrounded by redstone.

Sure, it was healthy necessarily, but the server was encompassed by people who didn’t know when to quit working on their projects. Tango wasn’t even the worst of it – Decked Out 2 notwithstanding. But, to be fair, Tango’s new big project was all redstone.

Minecart rails didn’t buzz in the same way! They didn’t buzz at all – which is what Tango told himself when he was down in the bowels of his binary system. Decked Out 2 was loud; this was quiet. This was peaceful, even. Sure, he was still troubleshooting and running into problems every five minutes but it wasn’t like he was down there for days on end. Staring at an observer line as it blinked but didn’t go off correctly for the thousandth time.

Color him shocked when he noticed the fire on his head died down to embers and his back ached in a familiar way. Okay. Okay maybe he needed to move, get some fresh air. See his neighbors. Maybe he had mail!

No mail was to be found but that was fine. It gave him an excuse to stretch his legs beyond the confines of his factory. A quick look at his communicator told him Etho was online and who better to go see – easily within walking distance, a redstone buddy he could complain to. It was the perfect solution. His tail flicked side to side as he thought about just what to say to his good friend. Fire reignited on his head and he even found himself almost buzzing. Just like redstone.

Etho was just…nice to talk to. Different from Impulse or Zed when he wanted to troubleshoot, different from Skizz to hang out with. Something quiet, contemplative. Calm in a way Tango could never hope to be. He liked that about Etho.

His tail sparked as it flicked around when he saw his neighbor outside, working on his landscaping. Perfect! Tango was worried he might be buried in Frogger or something and he’d have to be the one doing the redstone retrievafication. Retrievifying. Whatever. He waved his own clawed hand at himself.

Etho was absorbed in his landscaping, but there was a way to his movements where it was clear he knew someone was watching. Every move of his hands was deliberate, and when he stood up from the dirt, he half turned to smile at Tango.

“That was you! How’s it going buddy?”

Tango grinned. The two of them met somewhere in the middle of Etho’s front yard and exchanged a hug, where Etho visibly scrunched his face under his mask. “You smell like redstone.”

“You act like that’s a bad scent! Ead de Perfume de Tango or however it’s said. If I don’t smell like redstone, that’s when we have a problem.” His sharp teeth glinted in his grin as Etho rolled his eyes and waved Tango inside.

“So, I’m where you decided to take your break?” Etho held the door open for Tango, dodging his sparking tail as he walked past. Tango’s fire didn’t really hurt; it was warm, it produced heat, but it was more like extra voluminous hair. Made of fire. Still, the instinct to didge fire still hadn’t really left the hermits senses.

Etho had his own reasons to be nervous around fire.

“Who better to hang out with than my good buddy good neighbor Etho, huh?” Tango propped himself up on a block, crouched over so he was eye level with Etho and leaning his chin on his hands for balance. “Your house is coming together now that you finished Frogger. Could you imagine if I built a little home after Decked Out?”

Tango laughed a little and Etho’s eyes held a fondness. “You lived in Decked Out – and besides, Frogger is not nearly the same size of a game.” He smacked Tango on the shoulder and laughed as he knocked tango off his feet and spilling onto the floor in a heap of Blazeborn glory. He still offered Tango a hand, pulling him up with enough force he pulled Tango right to his chest. Tango’s hair ignited into an inferno. Etho made a sputtering noise, mouth full of his firehair.

“Sorry.” Tango skittered back, looking anywhere but Etho’s face. He could hear the little, too knowing chuckle pass Etho’s lips and that made him pout, cross his arms. Stomp his foot even a little.

“You are adorable when you pout,” Etho said. He didn’t let it hang in the air for long, walking past Tango towards his back door. “So are you here to troubleshoot the factory or just hang out?”

There was one long glance cast over his shoulder that had Tango scurrying after him in the wake of it, hair dying down back to its normal warm blaze but slowly. Ever since Decked Out 2, but probably before if Tango thought about it too hard, Etho’s voice made him blush. Maybe it was the first Decked Out that did him in. Maybe he’d always been done in.

“Hang out, I suppose. You’ve got a nice little garden, everyone is telling me I need to touch grass. Seems like a win win.” Tango followed Etho without really watching where Etho led them, but soon enough he was greeted to the sounds of the outdoors and the sights of Etho’s landscaping.

It was peaceful in a way a steampunk factory was not and Tango almost felt bad for dotting Etho’s neighborhood with it. Almost. He stretched, feeling his shoulders creak and then pop. Etho leaned on his fence, almost like taking a seat on it but not quite, gaze up towards the roof.

“I need to be able to see the clouds from here, I think. Roof is too solid.,” He said, turning to look at Tango. “Wouldn’t it be nice. Smell the dirt, see the clouds. Get some sun. I feel like everyone is always complaining we both need to do that.”

Tango hung on to Etho’s every word, nodding his head and leaning on his head. “At least you get a nice, unobstructed view of this lake you built,” he said. Etho agreed.

There was a silence, nature playing out its own theater for the two of them to enjoy in each other’s company. Tango spent plenty of time with the hermits this season – at least he felt like he did. People were constantly coming by the factory, he was playing Frogger occasionally. He raided bastions with Skizz and Impulse. He teased Scar. But for the first time he realized he’d missed the company that Decked Out 2 had. Getting a kiss on the forehead for good luck. Sitting in the lobby holding someone’s hand. Everyone sleeping piled together so they could get right back to it in the morning.

Tango’s ears flicked, slightly, and he opened his mouth to say something. What that something might be he wasn’t sure. Every season it was like the hermits had to work their way back up to admitting they missed each other, to sharing kisses and beds again. It felt like they’d only just gotten there in season 9 and now Tango was some kid to scared to admit he had a crush again. He closed his mouth. He opened it again, trying to work around it, when Etho cleared his throat.

He didn’t actually say anything, but the noise threw Tango off as he dug around in his pockets. Tango’s attention was transfixed when he produced two redstone torches and fidgeted with them for a moment. “Do you want one?”

Tango reached over and plucked one from his hand. They were...it was hard to explain. Redstone buzzed, yes, but it could also vaporize. Being surrounded by powered redstone meant you were breathing in time bits of vaporized redstone. Sure it wasn’t good for you, but it was another danger of being a redstoner.

What didn’t help is they often sought it out on their own.

Tango placed the torch in his mouth. It needed to be close to your face if there was only one, something that was just there to dull the itch to get back a redstone project. Etho held his own in his mouth, hand cupped around his face to hide it from view. Like he was embarrassed by it.

Tango felt that need for closeness again and stood up, going to be beside Etho. There was a gentle, bubbling water sound from the lake just before. The rustle of wind. Etho’s...beautiful and scarred face. Without a word, Tango found himself reaching out to cup Etho’s face in his own hand instead.

There was maybe more of a mischievous grin as he pressed the two redstone torches together. Redstone flew off in little sparks, a small cloud of faint red they really only saw because they knew what to look for. Etho chuckled.

There was a moment longer before Tango stood back a bit and, holding the torch in his teeth managed a ‘thank you’ that was...probably coherent. It made Etho chuckle again, a delightful sound that warmed Tango’s whole chest. He took the torch into his hand and Tango’s knuckles to his lips and pressed a kiss there.

Redstone buzzed. So did the feeling of companionship.

[marvel-ous-m]

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.

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