#oh also - I have no idea how this season will end

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

One thing that most fans of the show do is leap into conclusions that are not really implied anywhere or make any sense whatsoever, just so they can justify how “genius” the storytelling is. I kid you not, in most social media spaces they’re are lots of viral posts of people saying they saw the Kerri scene as a foreshadowing to Rogue One in the sense that he found a sister in Jyn (not that she’s actually Kerri but she’s a “representation” of her role on his life) which is not only dumb but also cheapens the narrative from both the show and the movie - not to mention this weird idea that women are all interchangeable and replaceable. But they can all pat themselves on the back to say how smart they are for “figuring it out”, while calling everyone else “media illiterate” with their full chests.

Oh God, the Kerri thing is so frustrating. I'm actually not super shocked that people who are desperate to like the show are making up stuff in their head about it. Because uh, let's look at the facts here:

Kerri is central to the opening of the show. A lot of people who barely cared about Cassian in R1 are basically introduced to him as "the guy who is looking for his lost sister". In a brothel, of course, because this isn't your dad's Star Wars! We look at all the ways in which the world is real and that means mostly implying nonconsensual sex with Latina women, apparently. Anyway.

Cassian is really intense about finding out her whereabouts in that scene. We see how he has made himself extremely unsafe to follow up this lead. This must be really important to him! Next, even as we mostly deal with the fallout of the cop killings, the show gives us a whole scene to introduce us to who Kerri is and why Cassian feels so badly about not having found her. Again, this must be really important to him!

And it's not just in the moral or interpersonal implications, by the way. It's also that we as the audience are introduced to Kerri with a scene that took a considerable part of the budget to film. Most people will not think about that consciously, but this still lets you assume "oh, this scene looks important!". It's in a completely new setting (jungle/forest setting. expensive to film. you have to lug all your equipment and cast and crew to the location). It's all-new, child actors in elaborate costume (for real, this looks expensive. filming with kids is notoriously expensive because of work-hour constraints, they had to cast all these kids, and make all those costumes and put them in make-up etc.). The planet has wide-shots with fully animated landscapes (again, looks expensive!). And then the planet has its own language. And all the child actors are speaking it. Someone got paid to create that language, and all these kids had to be taught that language, which I assume is paid work-time for them?

So, again. Wow, this girl must be really important to the plot of the show I've just started watching! ...nope.

Halfway through the first season, we get that one really strange line from Maarva, telling Cassian without any prompting not to look for his sister anymore, because she's for sure dead. I think all this was is a lazy fix when they realised at the end of the season they had completely forgotten about that whole plot line. But because it's so weird and sudden and we have been so primed to keep an eye out for this plotline, I straight up assumed she knew something she wasn't telling him, and this was going to become plot relevant. But no, Maarva dies off-screen and we never look back at Kerri this season. Huh.

There was a way to spin dropping this storyline completely, and they were clearly trying to go that route: Since they're so dead-set on telling us that losing Cassian Andor was a tragedy to the galaxy and he sacrificed all his potential on the altar of being a Force-sent messenger (in the strangest read on Rogue One's message I could have ever imagined), I think they were going for making Kerri's fate part of his tragic loss. Implying that, if only he had survived Scarif, he could have found his sister!

The trouble with that is that with the exception of the literal first scene, the show completely fails to convince me that Cassian is even trying to find her, or thinking about her at all after the first arc of the show. When he meets Luthen, we learn he was out of prison and out of the fight in his late teens. And yet, he makes a complete fool of himself when trying to find out about Kerri a decade later. This is not a man who has spent the past ten years doggedly searching for his sister! This is an idiot who got a lead for the first time and is fumbling it! And they clearly knew how to do visual shorthand of "Cassian is haunted by his little sister" - show her in brief flashbacks intermittently! But they immediately stop bothering to do that, so she disappears from his narrative completely. The only time someone brings her up is when Bix refers to her during a fight, to pay lip service to how he maybe feels like he failed to protect Kerri and is projecting on Bix. But that's such a stretch, because he was taken away from his sister against his will - yes, he may feel, irrationally, that it was still somehow his fault. There is a way to read him remembering her asking him to take her with him as that. But when you've invested so little time into it, that's a pretty big stretch and lot of telling instead of showing going on. And he doesn't even react to it!! He seems completely uninterested in the topic of his sister!

And then, maybe in the attempt to somehow turn their dangling thread into a tragic missed opportunity for Cassian, they briefly splice a shot of her into the final episode montage. But it fell completely flat for me. We haven't heard about Kerri in half a season. We have not seen evidence that Cassian has wasted a single thought on her in literal years. Why is he thinking of her now? What are we supposed to connect this to? Maybe saving Kleya made him think, well, at least I saved that one? If so, I genuinely don't like that, because it makes the case that Cassian sees all women in his life as vulnerable, exchangeable damsels whose fate depends on him saving them. Which could be an interesting character trait! I've actually used that in my own fic! But you can't suggest that at the end of your show and then move on - unless you think that's a correct view of the world and you, the writer, have nothing to add to it... almost like... you don't think of women as complex three-dimensional people...

Also, "Jyn reminds him of his sister" is a wild take. This woman is presented to him in shackles with a laundry list of crimes and has just knocked his buddy out with a shovel. She steals a gun from him and says the mission is only fair if she has equal means to murder him as he does her. Impossible to distinguish this from his angelic little sister, who we know absolutely nothing about except that she was cute and tiny and is probably dead! Then he watches Jyn be competent in both defending herself from imperial violence and dealing with extremist - both things that Kerri emphatically couldn't because she was a child, which is why he may feel like he is at fault for not protecting her. Then they have a difference of political and philosophical opinions. Pretty unlikely this reminded him of his pre-school-age sister? Then he's clearly shown being flustered and elated and affected by her physical presence in a way that I would find deeply concerning re: "spiritual sister".

(Look, we all know why a certain group of people is so adamant to connect Kerri and Jyn. They're trying to put Jyn in some kind of sibling category so that it becomes "gross" and "out of character" to imagine Cassian having a thing for her, because they feel that possibility would threaten their read on the character and his relationship with his ex.)

But the thing that is the most frustrating about dropping Kerri completely is that, again, they primed us to believe she and Kenari were going to be extremely important. They leaned on it hard in the promotion, too, about Cassian being "a migrant" or "a refugee" and all that lipservice to Mexico-US relations... and it went nowhere. It wasn't important at all. It wasn't a main part of the plot and we never saw it being a motivator for Cassian. And, what's worse - finding Kerri was the only thing we've ever seen Cassian do because he chose to. In the whole show. (One could maybe count rekindling his relationship with Bix, except... he did that off camera. We didn't see it. And when he did try to choose her, she didn't let him.) It's the one stated goal he had, it's how we are introduced to the character, and the show fucking forgot about it. That is terrible writing.

[noddytheornithopod]

Phineas and Ferb Season 5A Initial Reactions

Yep, we're here. And Disney+ (regrettably) is dropping the entire first half of the season on the platform. So I'm gonna post my episode reactions here. I'm gonna try and keep things short and snappy, not only because I know I could EASILY get carried away breaking things down (I'm gonna try and do those later however), but because I wanna see these new episodes! Curse you binge model!

Cloudy With a Chance of Mom

I've already talked about Summer Block Buster since it released earlier, so I'm gonna jump right to this, and at most acknowledge it in relation to this being the second half of that story.

"Miss it and my future mother in law is gone forever" I ACTUALLY SQUEALED

Also Monogram accidentally helping Doof lol

Oh yeah Kyle Menke storyboarding this big opener, not surprised. Think the other boarders are new, Chris Ybarra the director did storyboards on MML tho!

Well that was fucking awesome. Big explosive opener, lots of funny moments but also a surprising amount of proper pathos even as we're looking at such an absurd situation with Linda being vaporised meaning the literal vapour that was Linda's remains condensed into a cloud. Doof I guess never tested it on anything living, lol. Funniest parts were Baljeet trying to show off constantly and Doof getting his new plan from Monogram. Loved that everyone got their moment here, even Irving got a sweet moment at the end where Candace hugged him and asked him to take this year's family picture! Even Perry helped saved Linda too! And this year's picture isn't just the family but all of their friends too!!!!! God I love this show. Animation for the most part was good, any issues are just nitpicks/adjusting to Snipple... that being said, I think someone forgot to animate Baljeet in the group hug with Linda, because he's just standing there, and Isabella is hugging just him even though I feel like it's meant to be her participating in a group hug? Uh, win for Isajeet shippers, I guess? :P But gosh what a start, if this is a showcase of what we're getting then bring it on!

Submarine Sandwich Submarine

Okay the modified title sequence is a little tacky, the old animation with the edits to Phin's shirt and the updated voice lines are kind of jarring. Do think it's kind of neat the images at the end are upcoming eps this season instead of Season 4's though, kind of a nice tease of what's come.

Is bread bowl hot tub gonna be a running gag for a few eps

Also they animated Isa's entrance so well, so cute and flirty, feels almost like a callback to her OG entrance in Rollercoaster

wow has isabella been saving buford's ass a lot lately, to the point buford seems to call her "little miss safety patch", wonder if this is an allusion to time between summers or just general backstory

someone had fun storyboarding those filters

So first regular ep, wasn't super extraordinary but I still enjoyed it! Many nice gags that got genuine laughs out of me, and definitely a wild time for Candace, that's for sure. IDK how they got in and out of the Mariana Trench so fast, but it's a cartoon. :P The safety thing was kinda random but it does make sense, Isabella knows how to be safe BECAUSE she regularly does dangerous shit, Buford just wants to rush in without thinking (and again, if the patch thing was literal, love the implication of stuff between Summers). Don't have much to say on the B plot besides there being some pretty funny moments and a few neat interactions.

Also, first ep from new writer Oscar Lemus, co-written with PnF regular Joshua Pruett! I'm sure the giant fish was Josh's idea, lol. Director is James Kim, who storyboarded on MML. One new boarder, but also Wendy Grieb who was on OG PnF.

License to Bust

SHE'S 16! I meant that in a celebratory tone, I'm not yelling at people hitting on Candace. :v

"of course geckos don't have springs so we added that part" i don't think their feet stick in the way you made them either lmao

buff monogram... and it's real????

the hair swap is gonna last the whole episode lol

wait were they gonna just leave the gecko gear there

That was also pretty neat! Again, nothing too extraordinary or outstanding, but it's classic PnF, which is great to see! Lots of really funny moments here, love the gecko gear, love that the driving instructor (Brian?) not only was super impressed with Candace but actually related to her (also wow, his sisters seem way nastier than PnF if they're mocking him)? Song is probably gonna grow on me too. Nice to have Kim Roberson back too, she's been on the show since Season 1 and well there's a reason they had her around for so long! Doof plot had fun moments, also kinda funny that Doof actually did something good by driving that pregnant woman to the hospital. Good guy Doof is still around in there! Also lol, guess another ice-cream fell out of the air once Buford was satisifed with his pork.

Dry Another Day

lol the show is now rated PG in Australia, scaryyyyyy

"futility for teens" candace is sisyphus

candace's scream at the tortoise sounded like a bird squawk omg

oh shit perry swamp UP the oil

huh another inator that dries things like moon farm, tho this is for drying and that was dehydrating

So that was neat! Don't have too much to say but Doof's plot was pretty out there, the ice luge was pretty unique, and there were many pretty funny moments. Also, first Danny Jacob song? Also not sure if all the swimsuits for the kids are returning, I think at least Phineas had orange shorts vs blue ones.

Also, first ep from Sunny Karnan! He definitely has a hang of the PnF style, I'll say that!

Oh yeah, first Stacy speaking appearance! Now we just need Jeremy.

Deconstructing Doof

was that a platypus controlling me reference

WAIT THAT WAS THE ORIGINAL PHINEAS DRAWING ON SHAMAI'S BOARD

HMM... well that was interesting! Definitely one I'm going to be eager to revisit. Less laugh out loud, but Dr Shamai's performance alone carried so much humour to it. Shamai himself was a really memorable one off character, the idea of an outside perspective realising what's going on and they basically become obsessed with it only to be driven mad when the truth can't be exposed is... wild. The songs were neat too, especially the therapy one. The hype for this ep was worth it. A little confused about some of the timeline implied by the first song, like is therapy only talking about last Summer, or this one too? But yeah, lots of really neat moments (I love that Baljeet was surprisingly close to getting Candace's whole deal, he's not exact but he's on the right track... also Ferb saying nothing in the interview, lol), and a very unique protagonist in Shamai (I keep writing Shumai cuz of a Danganronpa ship thing where that's a character's nickname given by the other person lol). The disco looks were cute too when that showed up. Also this ep is unique for showing stuff from an extended period of time. But yeah, very unique premise that shows there's still more things that can be done with this wild show.

First ep from Olivia Olson! Also written with her dad Martin, which doesn't surprise me.

Before I forget - neat how we still have the old style credits instead of the slide show thing MML and HaG does. Still yet to get a unique scene but hey replaying the songs is always nice.

Tropey McTropeface

wait is this the same heatwave featured in dry another day, is this an ongoing thing like bread bowl hot tub

"animation is so easy"

linda implying she'd be angry and pnf for tropey oof

were the van stomms flossing

also wondered if the parents were separated, nah i think they just argue a lot, and both sides look like buf lol

the news guy is the umbrella thief????

zoetrope god??????

isabella was clearly looking to having that ferris wheel ride with phin, the weird zoetrope ferris whell romance definitely set the mood

WAIT THE ZOETROPE AND FERRIS WHEEL REPRODUCED??????

Well... that was something. Is Scott now just writing shitposts? First giant mum cloud, now a zoetrope that isn't sentient but maybe actually is, Schrodinger's sentience? Anyway... yeah, that was certainly something alright. A zoetrope going on an adventure and having a romance with a ferris wheel while somehow becoming everyone's hero and everyone loves him. The self insert Phineas and Ferb fanfiction... from a zoetrope. Very cool unique.

Biblio-Blast!

ISABELLA JUST STEALS THE MINI PHIN IN A TUX FOR HERSELF LOL

AND BALJEET SAYS IT SHOULD BE ON A WEDDING CAKE, NO WONDER ISA YOINKED IT

"why would we need perry to build a bookcase?"

posh isabella

ferbenstein is a book

baljeet ain't falling for buford not liking reading when he disses kafka lol

wait is vanessa vegan now

"i'll put you in the NICE senior care facility"

Well that was a fun one. Josh clearly wanted to show off a love of books and reading. Lots of funny moments and weird goofy Doof plants. Surprised there was no direct callback to eg Pharmacists or something. The Doof plants singing is weirdly catchy. Not much else to say, I enjoyed it a lot! ...okay, fine, they seemed to like putting Phineas and Isabella together quite a bit, lol.

A Chip to the Vet

finally jeremy... credits don't specify who plays him tho

"protagonising"

okay the queer buford fans are gonna love the jeremy bit

screaming goat???

Feral Ferb????

Well that was neat! Glad this episode built exactly on the premise it sets up. Only thing I think wasn't necessary was the Phineas scene where he declines Perry being chipped, I feel like that didn't make too much sense (unless you wanna read into it and it's him subconsciously remembering Agent P but that's another story). The stuff was Candace was funny, the pet wash was cute with a neat song, and Perry outsmarting Doof was very cool and amusing.

More Than an Intern

lol the budget being blown on lair entrances

was that fuckin anton ego from ratatouille

oh he's just a screenwriter who happens to have notes

FERB'S DOUBLE LIFE IS AS A FOOD CRITIC????

wait random but is evil for extra credit based on the regular carl theme? hearing the remixes here made me wonder

love the weird girl who seems to like the fish lol (Brittany?)

"i have an engineering degree" rough, between this and carl working multiple jobs and an unpaid internship uhh yeah

dan and swampy, lindana AND love handel pizza

yay for using cute phinabella as a screen wipe

I liked this one a lot! I don't talk about it as much but I enjoy Carl a lot, so getting an episode focused on him was really neat. Guy really is working his ass off, poor dude. Monogram at least pays him for the pizza and says he'll validate his parking? So Monogram's still being shit, but he's giving Carl breadcrumbs... it's something. I really loved Tyler Mann's speech at the end, like you could really feel for Carl there. He really is just only sticking with the unpaid internship because he's that passionate about the job. But yeah, especially with stuff like worsening cost of living, I think Carl's story is gonna be very relatable to many. The bit with the kids play cross continental lacrosse was neat too, IDK if the people in Kilimanjaro were the same ones as Save Summer but I do love how this kinda lowkey expands the world they have regardless.

Wait, is Sunny a fan of the farmer and his wife bit? They've shown up in both of his eps lol. Also, bread bowl hot tub is definitely building to something, it's gonna save the day in a pivotal episode or some shit, isn't it?

The Aurora Perry-Alis

oh hey, derek thompson is back

AAAAAAA PERRY AND STACY HANGING OUT... i literally had to stop myself from screaming

HA STACY IS BEING PAID TOO, GIRL GOT LUCKY

MONTY'S BACK

did vanessa basically ghost monty

oh vore time

"it's not my pet, we have a complicated relationship"

are the clowns dating

Okay this one was actually really good! Phineas and Ferb doing stuff was a thing, but the standout was the B plot stuff for sure, with Doof and Perry going on their weird shrunken down adventure, and Vanessa and Monty being addressed. So they seem like an on again, off again thing, I guess? Vanessa evidently got tired of the whole gimmick hence the ghosting, but yeah. Do kinda wish Vanessa had more to say on her dad trying to be good but being evil but oh well. XP Also... Stacy and Perry bonding. Love it.

Lord of the Firesides

oh god i'm actually here time to see what's going on finally

wow those girls are serious about their cupcakes

not doof's bday yet if he's still 47

"he's more of a frenemy but our boundaries are fluid"

uh oh phineas is what makes isabella finally snap

OH NO PHINEAS IS SHOWING UP

"i guess girls do mature faster than boys" what does that even mean omg

omg the drum is isabella, rip

SON OF A PATCH

they keep cutting away from the fighting omg

IT WAS AN INATOR THE WHOLE TIME, AND IT WAS THE FUCKING PIGEON'S FAULT

oh many returning voice actors, neat

the hug with gretchen at the end aww

Lol little Melissa still being crazy

WOW THAT WAS SOMETHING ALRIGHT. Honestly, it might just be my personal investment in Isabella, but wow, this was something. Surprisingly tense. Like you knew SOMETHING was wrong, but you couldn't pinpoint what, but then everything just descends into further chaos as Isabella is the only one staying level headed... until even her limits are tested. Okay, the Doof stuff was fun and cute with Perry tagging along. But yeah... Fireside Girl chaos. They had no goal, they just wanted to be chaotic and follow their own interest. Kinda reminds me of "The Giggle" in Doctor Who (also rip using anarchy as a perjorative, actual anarchists believe in genuine cooperation). What I have to mention though is... Isabella didn't give in to the effects until very late. I definitely would love to hear if there's a specific reason why she managed to hold onto her sanity the longest, but my personal take is that she just has the strongest will, especially having to run the troop and all. But of course, even she has limits and can't fight this force forever... making fun of Phineas definitely seemed like one of the breaking points (she even recognised she wasn't feeling herself), but also damaging the Fireside Girl book was probably the final straw, given this is what she devotes herself to so much being treated so flippantly. Any will to hold on to being a rational leader was then gone, so time to duke it out. Gosh, I hope Phineas and Ferb have a chill time when they come back over. But yeah, the cute sweet but tough girls who always work together being made to embrace discord... this was begging to happen at some point, lol.

Also Oscar Lemus' first solo episode... what an impression to make.

The Candace Suit

oh back to the normal intro... but the voice lines are still updated, lol

oh a mysterious force namedrop

"we have breaks?"

buford all dressed up omg

BALJEET IS IN ON IT

oh yeah the dark lighting in some of these eps looks a lil weird, like this and the carl one

so he has a lot of candace... but even more of baljeet, WOW shippers are gonna go crazy

"it's nice to be appreciated" heh phineas looking for validation for once... and specifically from isabella... shipper brain shut up for now lol

wow isabella being mean over ducky momo, cancelled :v

ok what is even happening

they agree to put them on, and phin and isa in sync when agreeing to ferb hehe

pnf sharing a suit heh

wait is that one candace suit gonna come back later omg

Well uh... that was something. Very weird episode, I'll say that much, lol. I think my brain is getting scrambled from all this so apologies if I'm less coherent now. Phineas looking for compliments from Isabella is cute, though definitely something new, lol. Nice to see Candace and Stacy team up with Buford and Baljeet for a bit. Doof plot wasn't much overall. Candace suits are weird and creepy. Isabella thinks Ducky Momo is cringe, boo. Cliffhanger?

Agent T (For Teen)

stacy cow noise wtf

Uruguay??? In the Stacy ep???

monogram 4th wall break

pnf winning everything omg

stacy be kinda badass tho

doof accepting a beating cuz he didn't realise it would be this dangerous lol

stacy's 16, so it's been her birthday hehe

BOOO DISNEY+ SHRINKS THE EP DURING THE CREDITS (it's candace suit creepy baljeet room anyway but lol)

Okay that was awesome. Honestly so happy for Stacy, she's finally finding her own purpose in life. Honestly love that she's pretty badass but in such a mundane normal way. Love the friendship she has growing with Perry, like honestly it's like she could almost even be like a sidekick to him or something. Love that Stacy was even accepted as basically an agent too! Yay for Stacy!

The Haberdasher

"oh, it's just you" SAVAGE ISABELLA

rip hot tub

Baljeet: "and Ferb" WOW THEY ARE NOT HOLDING BACK TODAY

shouldn't it be more than 104 after the new summer started linda, also another rip to dan's claim that they do more than one thing a day

baljeet is so done with isabella forgetting ferb lol, tho he does kinda smirk at her when she corrects herself lmao, even buford raises an eyebrow

hey alan cumming is mad hatter willy wonka guy

eww proboscis

isabella has a candace moment hehe

Okay this was another really good one. I know Josh had this idea for a while, so nice to see him realise that. Moth Doof is gross. Haberdasher is a neat guest character. Enjoyed PnF's friends try to do something without them, not sure if we've actually seen them like this before without having some other thing motivating them. So yeah, they're forced to just work together, even if they refuse to at first because their own egos clash, lol. Now Phineas and Ferb get to see what Linda experiences I guess.

Out of Character

LUMBERZACKS

more nickel gags

was that a gravity falls gnome

buford's look of shame when the others eye him for taking the bed down lol

filming here for tax credits huh

"There you are, Ferb! That other guy talked too much" literal LOL

buford has schedules for everyone, not just jeet????

That was a smaller ep, but still neat! I can see how Baljeet would have this dilemma of being too literal minded to accept the pretend (more Autism fodder hehe), and then they actually get him to pull off acting by deceiving him. He's clearly not into the idea, but he does accept that it helped him. Wonder if we'll see him show up in this Space Adventure movie sometime down the line? B plot didn't have much for me to comment on, Doof's inator is wild tho, especially with how it helped Roger (who seems to have wanted to boost his own ego lol).

Meap Me in St. Louis

okay jon colton barry finally writes something

the counter for the trailer scenes is a funny touch lmao

oh my god jerry

BREAD BOWL HOT TUB

okay candace helping suzy despite their feud is cute

also does jeremy realise suzy still has it out for candace even after she was exposed in let's bounce lol

NOOOOO NOT THE BREAD BOWL HOT TUB DELAYED AGAIN

the mitch is back

wait so... stabbybarfpain was in fact... a made up hybrid season of every kind of weather at once... oh my god

sunny gloriousweather... is this by any chance named after sunny karnan esp since he is an actual scientist or at least studied science

somehow, balloony returned... guess he just randomly dies every now and then but doof blows him back up

wait is that baljinger content in the song

also yes phinabella together again lol i'm predictable

alyson stoner song is really nice as expected, even as the humour of the name stabbybarfpain is not lost of me

rip colin jr

was that the other dimension baby that eats guys

hey news guy weren't you arrested earlier

meap totally wanted to say "my ass"

phineas and isabella led song yay

candace looks so proud of herself hehe

wait... stabby barf pain... fifth season

also heh meap's wife chasing after him as a fugitive, what roleplay lol

ok no meap 4 trailer lmao

Holy shit that was crazy, lots of laugh out loud moments, nice Candace and Meap team up (the justice obsession feels foreshadowy too esp with her studying law in AYA hehe), Stabby Barf Pain is wild... yeah, so much crazy shit. Trailer stuff was hilarious. Doof and Balloony adventure too! IDK about how cop-y it felt but I'll think about that later lol

No Slumber Party

double sleepover omg

isa's little wave when phin said lady aww

are they doing the candace disconnected gag of never saying what they made

buford wants the girl talk

lol candace goes bust mode anyway

That was cute! Just everyone hanging out, and it's all a chill time. Some funny moments, song was cool too.

The Ballad of Bubba Doof

imo the biggest issue with westerns is the colonialist origins of the genre but ANYWAY

isa sick of the boys fighting lol

swole perry

jon isn't co story editor anymore, it's just scott after meap it seems, oscar is now staff writer tho

IDK if I'm just finally getting tired but this one was just fine. The forced perspective thing was fun, and more Doof relatives, cool. Maybe just not vibing with the Western thing (like Baljeet lol). Neat western outfits. IDK about Baljeet changing his mind deciding to watch Westerns at the end and IDK if the Carl stuff was meant to be an arc or just a gag. Wow I AM tired.

OKAY FINALLY I'M DONE NOW I CAN SLEEP AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[trainsinanime]

People keep trying to explain why the ML fandom is so relatively quiet right now, and I'll be honest: I have no idea. There are parts I get and parts I don't. (Some criticism of the show below the cut)

First of all, the end of season 5 - yeah, I don't think a lot of people dreamed of this particular way to conclude the Gabriel Agreste saga. I get it.

And more in general, the ML fandom has always focused more on potential than the actual show; on the open questions rather than the day-to-day. Season 5 has answered most of these open questions, and most of these in ways that were not super satisfying.

How will Adrien and Marinette get together? — Oh, he just asks her nicely.

What impact will the tension with their secret identities have? — None whatsoever, Ladynoir are just friends now and happy that way.

How will we both reveal the truth about Adrien's father while making it a happy ending for both of them nonetheless? — We won't.

There's been something going with Chloé, who has tried being a hero, sucked at it, backslid, got a little sister who loves her and might show her a better way, where is that going to lead? — She gets deported by her dad.

99% of ML fanfics are reveals, and now many feel the show has taken away the reason to care about that. Not me personally, I'm going to keep writing reveals and all sides of the love square and first kisses until I die. But I get why it's made some people less than fully enthusiastic; why there's less incentive to post theories and head canons than there might have been once. The show took most of the "wonder what happens" points and answered them, and not even in interesting ways most of the time.

Here's my problem with that theory: The finale of season 5 came out in September 2023, almost two years ago. We've discussed all this to hell and back already. And yet the numbers I have access to show a clear decline between 2024 and now. What changed lately?

The only thing I can think of is that season 6 came out, but, like… season 6 is fine? At least as good as seasons 4 and 5 on average. Do people actually dislike the new art style? To me it's better in every way, so I have trouble wrapping my head around that, but it is a take I keep seeing.

A related point I've seen is the idea that the discussion culture about the show has gone to shit, something I actually see in equal amounts both from those who are very critical of the show and those who intensely dislike the strong criticism.

Personally I am more on the second side of this divide (though maybe only 95% instead of 100%): I'm still having a lot of fun with this show no matter what anyone else is saying. But there is valid, potentially even interesting criticism. But also a lot of people who are doing criticism are going "<insert writer name here> sucks and is a lazy hack!", which is usually neither interesting nor fun to engage with. My long-standing policy is that you can safely ignore any hot take that mentions any particular writer by name, and that still feels as true today as it did back when season 3 aired.

Again, we've been having the same discussions since 2023, and it's not like there is a lot of new insight to be had. The angry people have either left the fandom or gotten angrier, the very invested people have stopped talking to them and gotten angry about the anger, and it's all gotten very polarised… but again, this isn't new. This doesn't explain a drop-off between 2024 and 2025. I think.

I'm probably missing something here, I just can't make much sense of it either way. I can find things to point to, but I have trouble forming a coherent theory. How about you all?

(Discussion, including strong disagreement, is absolutely welcome! But as I said, I'll absolutely ignore you if you mention any writer by name.)

[softquietsteadylove]

Miss your Maleficent AU. Could you maybe write some more of that ? Maybe jealous and protective Gil/Thena

(also I just want to say. I got into Eternals because of your. 👉👈 I love Don Lee, and I came across your post. I didn't know that he played in this movie. Thank you 💕)

Misery. Mating season was pure misery. As far as Thena was concerned, it always had been. Even back in the isles, all mating season meant was morons crooning at her from treetops like seagulls.

She had seen humans aflush with mating hormones. Usually in the spring, they began courting each other. They would trade soft, quiet words, perhaps sing sweet songs and trade trinkets. Humans had such cute mating rituals. Nothing like a bull flying too close and flapping his wings at her.

Thena curled around herself tighter as a couple flew past, way too close to her, and way too close to each other. Their wings were hitting each other on occasion. Some of their feathers floated down into Thena's space.

She stood with a huff, sending the errant feathers away. This was a poor place to choose as her waiting spot. But she had a view of the side entrance to the nest this way.

The patrol would be back any time now.

As the nights grew shorter, the patrols too grew longer. She could see from her higher vantage point the way Druig was one of the most eager to crowd the entrance. He was waiting for his own mate.

She was waiting for hers...in a sense.

Not that she and Gilgamesh were declared to each other. They weren't really mates, in the way most would consider the term. But she had his feather! And he had hers, even if not displayed publicly.

"They're almost here!" she heard one eager, young fae bubble gleefully to her friend waiting next to her. They were bouncing in their excitement. "Do you think he'll land first?"

Thena rolled her eyes. Young spring fledglings yet to face the harsh winds of the world.

"The captain always lands last!"

Thena bristled, as did her wings. She fluffed them, attempting to smooth them down of their own accord. She couldn't let her hackles raise to every young chick who was aflutter over Gilgamesh. She would never know peace if she did.

Gilgamesh was a very desirable specimen. He was the captain of the nest's border patrol, as well as a personal guard when occasions called for it within the nest. He was a good hunter, a provider, strong, a skilled flier, and he was handsome-

Thena walked away from her waiting spot, refusing to watch Gilgamesh be ogled as soon as he arrived with the rest of the border patrol shift. He could come and find her if he wanted to share some food, or her company.

She wasn't his mate, so what was she waiting on him for?

If she had to watch him be given mating trinkets she might not be responsible for her actions. She trudged through the tunnels instead, determined to take the caves back to the inner cliffs. Perhaps she would just drag herself back to her nest and lie around like a pitiful runt with a broken wing. At least she would be the only one to witness her own misery.

"Are you lost?"

She looked up, shocked to be spoken to in the middle of her brooding. She hadn't even realised she had passed another fae. He was an arctic fae, she gathered from his light coloured robes and the silvery shine in his hair and even his eyelashes. "What?"

"The gathering fire has been lit, they will be handing out food," he repeated, even pointing in the direction from which she had just come. "I wouldn't want you to miss out."

She frowned. What business was it of his if she missed the first servings of meal time? "Perhaps that is my choice to make."

"Yes, of course." But he smiled, showing off pearly white fangs. He was a pretty thing; she was certain he would also be giggled and flapped over by the eligible and awaiting fae out there.

Just like Gilgamesh.

Her mood still soured, Thena turned, determined to continue on her way.

"There will be fruit."

It was impossible for her to hide that her ears perked at that. They were practically fluttering like her wings at the thought. Winter had made it hard to find the sweet, delicate morsels she so loved. Her eyes must have looked bloodthirsty when she looked at him again.

He smiled warmly, hands folded into the sleeves of his robes. "I heard that once mating season begins, the last of the dried fruit rations are distributed, as a celebration that fresh fruit will begin growing once more."

She regarded him cautiously. He was promising a great treasure--almost too good to be true. "Heard?"

"Ah, I have travelled much in my life, I too am not native to this area," he excused with a laugh. "Although I come from the north, I had the pleasure of experiencing the southern Isles many years ago. I remember how lush the fruit was, no matter the season."

Indeed, it was the only thing she missed of the Isles. She approached him again. "You lived on the Isles?"

"For a time, yes," he sighed, opening his eyes again. They were a pretty colour, she had to admit--much like the waters of her island home. "I was quite happy during the time I spent there."

A smile came to her face, perhaps from sheer nostalgia. The thought of warm winds and soft sands and the sounds of her brothers' laughter (when they were still small and cute) came to mind. "They are pleasant."

"Pleasant, yes," he agreed. His smile changed slightly and he stepped closer to her, "and beautiful."

She blinked; had she misread his intentions. Her feathers weren't standing on end, but she couldn't help but tilt her head at him. "Hm?"

"I do miss the beauty of the Isles," he repeated. He was no coward. "The soft gold of the sands, the sparkling green of the seas. Truly the most beautiful sights one can behold."

She clasped her hands behind her back. She couldn't very well tell him he was speaking to a mated fae--he wasn't. Her tongue turned sour again and her frown returned without any need to force it. "I don't-"

"Ah, forgive me," he offered with genuine sounding contrition. He even stepped away again, back to a more respectful distance. "I do not wish to cause you discomfort."

She eyed him. He had taken no for an answer, which frankly put him ranks above plenty of the hormone driven bulls out there. She straightened her back, stating firmly, "I'm not looking for a mate."

"Then let it be so," he agreed easily. His voice was like silk. "I will not ask anything of you."

Thena maintained the distance he himself had offered. But if he truly was ready to accept her answer, then perhaps something of a friend would not be the worst to have in this mothernest. She was starting to realise that with exception to Gilgamesh, she had made little effort to find more, now that this was their home.

"I confess I knew you were from the Isles the second I saw you," he offered, again his own defense, but not disavowing his declaration of her beauty. "I have longed to return to the Isles for many years now. I was eager to speak with someone else who knew them."

"Hm," she contemplated her options aloud. She could surely talk with him about her past home. There weren't many other options, after all. And so long as he kept it to himself if he found her beautiful or not, she could concede having some company besides Ikaris might be nice.

"Your brothers flew here with you, yes?"

She relaxed some at the mention of her brothers. She was not the only one he had learned about. "Yes, we all made the journey together."

"Druig, the younger one," he began carefully. "I was not able to connect that he was from the Isles and your kin until recently, I confess."

She had to smile. Druig did look quite her opposite, in many ways. He had short horns, dark and coiled tightly to his head. Dark hair, sharp features, and his wings were like the darkest part of the ocean.

"He is mated with Makkari, the lightning guard."

That was a fitting name for her, Thena had to admit. "I am quite happy with the match."

"What of your other brother?" her new acquaintance asked, his hands back in his sleeves again.

Ikaris was like a medium between her and Druig. He had some grey in his hair, peppery toned wings like a great owl. Thena sighed. "I fear no one would be able to stomach him as a mate."

Her companion laughed. He had a nice laugh, his voice light but also somewhat husky. "Surely he can't be so bad."

"I fear he is worse," she rebutted, making him laugh more. It wasn't as nice as Gilgamesh's laugh, but it was nice to hear any laughter, now that she thought about it. Perhaps mating season was getting to her after all.

"I have seen him with Ajak's assistant," he offered.

She too had seen him hovering whenever Sersi was in the open. But Ikaris was too ungraced to approach her directly. Thena feared that he had picked that up from her directly. "She will need to court him herself if she has hopes of making it through his agate of a skull."

"An agate for a skull?" he questioned, humored by her term for it.

"Large, some might find it pretty, but it's technically hollow inside."

Her friend threw his head back in laughter, truly enjoying himself now. She had to smile, too. It was nice to make someone laugh.

"I have heard much worse about siblings from others, if anything he should be grateful you compare him to something so desired," he chuckled, wiping a tear from his silvery eyelash in laughter.

"Indeed, he has had females pursue him in the past," Thena lamented, back to ruminating upon mating season. "But he is too dense to realise. I end up having to break the news to them that he is...not the courting type."

"Ah," he made a face of feigning understanding.

She frowned again, looking at him. He was a pretty fae, she could see that. But something made her bristle again. "Why aren't you out there?"

"Hm?"

"I know why I am here," she continued, feeling as if the air were shifting around her. Her feathers started rising. "No one uses the tunnels."

He tilted his head at her, utterly innocent looking. "I thought a quiet walk might be nice. All the mating season chirping-"

"Your wings drag," she pointed out, looking down at their feet, her sandals and his slippers. Indeed, his silvery wings were dragging on the ground behind him, they were so long. He wouldn't be taking the cave tunnels unless he had to.

He sighed, and harshly at that.

Her brows furrowed. "Did you expect to find me?"

"I followed you in here," he grumbled, some of the smoothness of his voice leaving him. "I've been trying to speak with you for some time now, but you're always slipping away like a wriggly little eel."

She shivered; she hated eels.

"When I saw you come down here I thought," he shrugged, making quite light of the confession to having tailed her like a predator. "This was my chance to talk with you."

Whether he meant that literally or was alluding to more than speaking, she bristled. She was no one's prey. "Was any of what you said true?"

He gave her a look, thoroughly irritated with her now. It was a sharp contrast to how gentle and soft he had seemed mere moments ago. "I didn't falsify anything. I did just want to talk with you."

He did seem genuinely discouraged. Perhaps it was the privilege of being a bull that he had no idea how threatening it felt to find herself entrapped with him like this.

"But you're always hanging around with that meathead."

Her wings bristled for an entirely new reason. "Who?"

"The captain," he sighed--scoffed, rather. "Gilgamesh?--throws his weight around, doesn't talk much. I have only seen him a few times during his duties and he seems...staunch."

He couldn't have been further from the truth. "He is not."

"You fly with him often," he pointed out, and she tried not to let it ruffle her. "He was your escort when you arrived from the isles."

She stood her ground.

"I always thought it should have been me," he muttered, letting some bitterness come through in it. "I volunteered, actually. I told Ajak about living in the Isles in years past--it made the most sense for me to be your escort!"

He sounded quite certain about that.

"But she chose him," he rolled his eyes, even pulling his hands out of his sleeves to run a hand over his horns. They were long, but they were downturned. Thena liked how Gil's flowed back from his head, like the depictions of old dragons in some cultures.

"You are envious of him."

He made a face, and Thena realised that perhaps this was one of those times when she was no more graceful with their own kind than Ikaris. It was an uncouth thing to say aloud. He looked at her with wild eyes and approached her with his shoulders forward. His wings raised and even confined within the space they were, they were huge. "Me?!--jealous of him?!"

Thena took a step back, but he continued to push his way into her space. She shouldn't have said that (even if she was right). And now she was trapped in a tunnel where she wouldn't be able to fly, at least not at any decent speed.

He slapped the cave wall between them, his temper now in full control. "What could that urchin brained, thick skulled, sea salt coated idiot have that I don't-?!"

Thena blinked as he was yanked backwards so far that he fell straight onto his wings. He yowled and grumbled as he was stepped over, his pretty wings being bent and rumpled as he attempted to pick himself up with the weight of them working against him.

"Careful you don't hurt your thick skull."

Gilgamesh stepped over the other male, completely unbothered by his agonised groans radiating through the tunnel around them. He walked over to her, leaning down to her ear, "are you unharmed?"

She nodded, happy she was still clasping her hands behind her and around her wings, which were absolutely vibrating at the sight of him. Her heart hammered in her ears. "Yes."

"Good." Gilgamesh's voice was deep, and smooth, and pleasant to the ear. He turned back to the other fae present. "You!"

"Ugh," the male grunted, finally able to pick himself up. He huffed and puffed, hair ruffled and wings positively bedraggled. "What the hell was that for?! I was-"

Gilgamesh was in front of him in a second, nose to nose, eye to eye. His fists clenched audibly. "If I ever hear of you following anyone around, let alone trapping them in a tunnel?"

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't trap her-"

Gilgamesh grasped the front of the opposition's robes. He brought his face close, growling right in it, fangs bared, breath heavy. "If I ever see you say even a word to her again-"

"Won't happen," he was quick to try and slither his way out of trouble. Like a wriggly little eel, Thena thought.

"Ever!" Gilgamesh roared right in his face, shaking him. "You come near her again, and I'll shatter your wings so badly you'll never even feel the wind in them again."

The fae paled; it was about a serious a threat as there ever could be. He wrestled himself from Gilgamesh's grip and began backing his way out of the tunnel, head down, wings pressed flat. "Never again. Consider me gone."

They could hear his steps scurrying out of the tunnel almost the entire way back to the opening. Gil turned back to her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She looked down at her toes. She felt foolish for having thought he had innocent intentions, even for a second. And perhaps he did, but she didn't feel any better about it.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked her gently, coming to her and reaching out for her hand. "I landed and went looking for you."

She kept her eyes down, not wanting to admit that she hadn't wanted to see him fawned over by other faeries. "I didn't feel I had the stomach for it."

She wasn't exactly explaining herself. But Gilgamesh accepted that, moving closer until he could pull her into his arms. She sighed as his hand drifted between her wings, massaging the knot that had formed there.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her, burying his nose in her hair. "I should have been here to fend him off."

She inhaled the scent of him from his robes. She did want that. She wanted him to be around to fend off others in the name of keeping them away from his mate. She wanted to be able to tell the young fledglings that openly lusting after another's mate was unseemly. She wanted him to be hers as much as she felt he already was.

Gil pulled away first, holding her cheeks to kiss her properly. Their lips parted but he stayed close, his forehead to hers. "I know I'm not...we're not...I know. But I'm your mate, Thena--I am. And I'm not gonna let anyone think otherwise."

She pulled her head back enough to look at him, her lashes fluttering. He stared into them, his eyes such deep brown pools that made her want to sink into them. And they were so honest--she could believe everything she saw in them. She blushed.

Gilgamesh accepted as she kissed him again, slipping her hands under his wings and up his back. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm here now."

"Hm," she purred, happy just to enjoy a moment with him away from prying eyes. She rose onto her toes to nestle her nose right into the folds of his robes. And there, she found her feather, tucked away against his heart. She was in her rightful place, as far as he was concerned.

"Hey, you didn't eat, right?" he asked, eager to move past this unfortunate episode. "I found you something."

Her ears perked again--wings fluffed again.

Gilgamesh pulled out a pouch. Before it was even open her eyes went wide at the scent. He grinned, "we flew out pretty far today. But I found a few of these."

Her eyes sparkled as he handed over the treasure; an agate in its own right, filled with its own kind of jewels. She loved pomegranate.

"How 'bout we get away from all the noise," he chuckled, handing over the treasure so he could wrap his arm around her waist. "And I'll feed you those little seeds."

"Arils," she corrected, but with a wide smile, entirely too thrilled to have one of her favourite - rare - fruits within her hands again.

Gilgamesh just chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Anything my mate desires."

[sskk-manifesto]

The best 68 seconds in anime history (and a 22 minutes 32 seconds of prelude to that, I guess)

[hexados-on-a-string]

her: they're probably thinking abt other women

me: at the end of episode 52 of nv when everyone's saying goodbye, helios and drago talk abt hopefully the next time they meet they'll still be friends and be on the same side. when spectra shows up again in ms he tells them that yes they're still friends and on the same side, however when he comes back the brawlers are falling apart and dan has a link to magmel and is also generally being a Huge Jerk™, which might be an understatement. bringing back spectra during this arc was a brilliant idea bc other than being the writers' clear favourite, nv already set up parallels between dan and spectra and the contrast between how dan's acting and how even spectra of all people is actually disturbed and concerned by it shows how bad the situation has actually gotten.

[dennistakesamentalhealthday]

not going to write out the essay forming in my head but it’s so crazy to me like i know my vision of dennis is not universal and is mostly influenced by me thinking it’s fun to woobify him with fellow tumblrinas but it’s like…..how are people watching the whole show and thinking he is actually cold hearted angry and calculated and a genius potentially a secret serial killer and that this extends to his relationship with the gang…like idk it’s just funny to me…..there is so much in the show that goes against that

[sateurn]

😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

These sobs really limited my tags?????

I have so many more thoughts this is so so much less than 1/2. Broski. Big dislike

[ambreiiigns]

so jjk w brother. i'm feeling weird abt s2. i felt weird on my first watch and it's still there i can't even put it into words. i reaaally wanna talk to brother abt it. i have almost completely lost excitement over watching jjk i wanna start madoka noooowwwwww aaaaaaaaa

[the-aviary-system]

Mood. We've had to stop playing games like this because we'd get unhealthily addicted to "number go up"

Like we'd get a withdrawal like effect, we'd get anxious about missing out on potential number going up if we didn't have whatever idle game we were obsessing over running in the background of our computer 24/7. Doing schoolwork? Keep it in the background and tab in like every 5 minutes to check in on it and buy upgrades. Planning D&D? Same thing.

Other games that use the "number go up" formula often got greedy with their players and kept trying to exploit their addiction to make them spend money, they made it more and more grindy until it was impossible for free-to-play people like us to keep up. (We didn't have a job, so no consistent money, so that's a reason why we were FTP. I dunno if we would've fallen into the trap of spending tons of money on games like these if we had a consistent income)

After getting disillusioned with our latest "number go up" simulator, I decided to try cookie clicker because I heard it wasn't pay to win. Yeah, I used an autoclicker too. And CC was pretty neat and all, it wasn't exploitative, which I appreciate- it was a grindy game in its purest state, grinding for the sake of grinding, gaining numbers for the hell of it, instead of trying to make money off of players- but since it wasn't actively trying to exploit us with FOMO it let us stop and think, and we realized we don't even enjoy these kinds of games that have taken up hours and hours of our lives.

So we made a rule for ourselves. No more of these games. From now on, we only play games if we're actually enjoying them, not just playing it out of obligation to make the number go higher. And it was really hard to stop playing since we got that same kind of withdrawal effect, the little itch in the back of the head that "I could be more productive right now, if I just had one of those games open in the background while I write I would be more productive" but we had to just fight that.

Anyway, that's not to say nobody should play these games. I'm not writing this to shame anyone for playing them, I'm not trying to sound preachy and hope that it doesn't come off that way- this comic just reminded me of our experience with these types of games and I felt like talking about it since we were addicted to these kinds of games for a good while. Some people will definitely be able to handle the addicting nature of these games better than we can. Some people genuinely enjoy the grind because it lets them just turn off their brain for a little while or not have to focus too much on something. Just be mindful to not let it become an addiction, is all.

So yeah that's the story of how we had an addiction to really grindy idle games

-Emyr (he/it)

[oikarma]

love in the air

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: you take your long-time friend as your plus one to your dad's wedding. you catch the bouquet. maybe that's when you start agreeing with the internet that . . . lando norris is a little more than a long-time friend to you.

a/n: thank you to anon for the request i had no idea they were dating LOL this was so fluffy

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tiktok

@/landossluttywaist I CANT BREATHE LANDO WAS AT THE SAME HOTEL AS ME

user1 you rich rich, then

user2 she probably gets paddock passes for doing her chores user3 guys why are we hating on this girl let her be excited 😭 i would be too

user4 what hotel is it?

landossluttywaist he's gone now (this was as he was leaving) but it was the four seasons in philly

user5 thanks for respecting his privacy and not posting until he left!

landossluttywaist lol i love him but at the end of the day he's just a human who doesn't need people hounding him 24/7

user6 but what is he even there for??? philadelphia??? there's ltr nothing interesting there...

user7 idk bradley cooper is the best thing to come out of that town user7 omg and also they won the super bowl user7 but that was a long time ago user8 maybe he's just an eagles fan

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liked by versace and 7,032,810 others

gigihadid My darling B, what a wonderful thing it is that we found each other. I can't believe we're now married — I'm still smiling, because such happiness carries on for a long time. You are so kind, so sweet, so caring, so utterly magical. I am beyond lucky to have you. Your belief in me makes me who I am today and who I will be. This new chapter will be a long life, full of laughter, full of a new family.

∞ Always, your G.

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yourinstagram i'm so happy for you and dad <33 you are an amazing person and you bring so much light to our family! your dress was gorgeous but even more so was you. hope you have a great time on your honeymoon

gigihadid I love you so much ;) Thanks for coming. There's so much love in the air!! 💐 yourinstagram hey, hey, we talked about this gigihadid I didn't make the rule user1 i love how well they go together user2 bro if my step-mom was gigi hadid. user3 wait wait wait did y/n catch the bouquet??? user4 omg

user5 actually radiant

bellahadid best wishes from your baby sister 💕

gigihadid ❤️❤️❤️ user6 do they know they're real user7 omg bella drop the fit i NEED to know what you wore cause gigi's dress is already blowing all my expectations out of water

user8 man if only bradley had insta

user9 this is how i find out bradley cooper and gigi hadid are dating whaaaaat

user10 me too girl me too

user11 why is this the only post with photos????? i need to see all of it

user12 maybe they agreed not to post until after a certain time or like gigi got to post first cause yk it's her wedding user13 bella posted!

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liked by lando and others

yourinstagram to the two of you 🥂

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user1 omg y/n paints?? did she do that?

yourinstagram yes 🙂‍↕️ i gave it to them as a sort of wedding gift! user1 aww that's so cute thanks for sharing with us <3 it's a beautiful drawing

user2 oh gosh that's such a beautiful place 🥺

user3 y/n were you at the bachelorette

yourinstagram hell yeah user4 we need the photos baddie yourinstagram maybe someday, lol

user5 wait where did they get married

user6 philly, the last pic is where they announced their engagement user5 ohhh no wonder

user7 lando you sly dog why are you in the likes

user8 well they're friends user9 dyt he went to the wedding user10 tbf wasn't he in philly a few days ago it's not crazy

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f1gossipofficial Lando Norris was seen at the wedding of Gigi Hadid and Bradley Cooper.

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user1 I KNEW IT

user2 you guys are crazy 😭 how could you even tell those were him

user3 he's with YN IN ALL OF THEM

user4 where did these even come from

user5 isnt he dating magui??

user6 lando? user5 yeah user6 probably, but he and y/n are good friends user5 shit man they look good together user6 what do you mean these are all 120p quality

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f1gossipofficial Formula 1's YouTube account posted a full video of Y/N Cooper and Lando Norris on a Hot Lap.

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user1 why is this gossip it's literally just a video

user2 the way he looked at her and she started screaming at him 😭 poor guy just wanted some eye contact

user3 she's so precious but jesus the amount of swear words out of that girl's mouth user4 lando wasn't even shocked he was like well lol oops

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liked by f1 and others

yourinstagram lucky

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user1 LANDOS LUCKY CHARM SPOTTED

mclaren might need to keep you around in the paddock more often

yourinstagram 😕 'fraid i have a job

user2 oh she knows shes hot

user3 someone tell her we're not in texas anymore

user4 who cares she served

lando photo credits where??

user5 stop being a pick me lando user6 yn is this man bothering you user7 he just needs everyone to know yourinstagram let me breathe lan i can't like all these comments trashing you fast enough user8 i love her already

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f1gossipofficial Lando Norris and Y/N L/N after the Las Vegas Grand Prix

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user1 shit? shit!

user2 "we're friends" NO YOURE DATING

user3 are we sure that's lando?? it looks like y/n but we can't see the guys face

user4 yeah idk there are plenty of brunettes out in vegas user5 def yn tho shes wearing the same top in her last insta post

user6 she's so glad rn bradley doesn't have insta lol

user7 is gigi going to rat her out??

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you spot him slouched against the side of the taco truck, curls flattened from sweat and his own hands. there's powdered sugar on his lips. his phone's in one hand, the other holding a half-eaten churro.

lando sees you and his face changes.

"you came," he says, voice a little hoarse. "finally."

you walk up, wobbly on your heels, heart all over the place. "yeah. i had to. you were being dramatic."

"i'm hard," he says instantly. "and i missed you."

you nearly trip. "lando."

he shrugs, eyes dragging down your body without shame. "look at you. fuck. that top's killing me."

you’re giggling before you can stop it. "you're drunk."

"so are you. and you kissed me."

"you kissed me first, okay?"

"you were straddling me. in the club."

you pause. "you asked me to sit in your lap. you liked it."

lando nods. "loved it, yeah."

you're both quiet for a second. he's watching your mouth and you're watching the way his chest moves when he breathes. his hoodie's sliding off one shoulder and your fingers twitch like they want to touch him.

"you're so pretty it's making me insane," lando says. "like i want to fuck you and cuddle you at the same time and i don't know what to do about it."

you're breathless. "jesus."

"don't call him." your noses almost touch. "call me."

you laugh into his neck. "you're ridiculous."

"you're glowing" lando mumbles, hands sliding down your sides. "like. actually glowing. i can't believe i've known you this long and didn't do something about it."

you tilt your head back. "do something now."

he kisses you like you're a prize he's earned, slow, filthy, so hungry it makes your knees weak. his hands are all over--waist, hips, ass, back under your top like he needs to feel skin now.

you break away, panting. "lando, we're at a taco truck."

"yeah," he says, mouth all over your jaw. "so hurry up and let's leave. before i do something i'll get arrested for."

you grin. "you're such a slut."

"only for you."

he laces your fingers together and starts walking backward toward the street, still staring at you like you're his first and last meal.

"wait," you say, dizzy from everything. "what about your churro?"

"don't need it," he says. "got something sweeter now."

[jo-speaks]

Jealous Quinn Jealous Quinn I beg

CAN HE TOUCH YOU LIKE THIS?

overview: your past hookup gets quinn riled up.

warnings: 18+ content below. mdni. mentions of alcohol consumption, poor past hookups (sorry jack), unprotected sex, etc.

note: this request is from january… anyway! also, not proofread </3

Parties at the lakehouse weren’t uncommon. If anything, they were expected. Jack was always the usual planner, his lack of college frat parties making him compensate with the loudest, most entertaining functions. 

As a usual guest at the house, your invitation was always the first to go, considering you practically lived with the Hughes boys the second their seasons ended, your parents having been friends for a lifetime and some. You were closest with Jack due to age, but Quinn had always felt like something more than to label him ‘just a friend’.

Currently, you were sitting on the couch, legs draped over Jack’s as you both drank from your red solo cups and engaged in the conversations you could hear over the music.

Quinn sat on the other side of you, your head resting on his thigh as you put your cup on the ground. His free hand mindlessly dropped to yours, bringing it up to your shoulder so he didn’t have to reach down. It wasn’t romantic, it was strictly platonic. While he wasn’t off limits, you knew him well enough to know that this is how he felt the most grounded in an overwhelming scene.

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be too happy if the guy I was talking to ghosted me out of nowhere.”

Your words were directed towards Trevor, a usual suspect when it came to leaving his trail when it came to summer hookups. The conversation had started when he began talking about some girls he had hooked up with in LA before flying to Michigan, getting looks from you and Quinn at the way he overshared about his experiences. 

Trevor scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, “Yeah, well, you’re a girl. Of course, you think that way.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, “Or maybe she just has decency? C’mon, Trev. You gotta admit, you sound pretty messy right now.” 

“Obviously you would say that,” Trevor retaliated, “You wouldn’t get it. You and Y/N hooked up and are still friends.”

You nearly choked on your spit, the shock on everyone’s face making yours feel suddenly warm. Jack squeezed your shin, deciding whether he should laugh it off and move on or explain how it didn’t mean anything to either of you. Unfortunately, Trevor’s words had struck a different brother in a distasteful way. 

Quinn’s hand tightened its grip on yours, squeezing your fingers as if you were going to get up and run away. He didn’t picture it, he just pictured you. 

How did you react? Did you like it? Would you do it again? 

Do you like Jack?

He could feel the jealousy coursing through his veins; the mere idea of his younger brother seeing you in your most vulnerable state plagued his mind. He knew Jack. He knew that most of his hookups were centered on his pleasure, not the girls. Did he even care to make you cum?

Your bubbly voice pulled him out of his spiral, “One time thing when we were eighteen, Trev. Get over it.” The sound of your laughter pulled everyone out of the awkwardness, treating the conversation as if it had never stunned you into silence. “Plus, it didn’t mean anything anyway.” 

“Oh, it’s like a dagger in my heart.” Jack teased, playing into it. 

Quinn, on the other hand, was having none of it. He sat you up, letting go of your hand. “I think I’m gonna call it for tonight.” His tone was short and snappy, as if someone had just insulted him. 

It was impossible to notice the way he weaved himself past the group sitting at the bottom of the stairs, making his way up to his bedroom before shutting the door. While Trevor and Jack returned to their conversation, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with the man upstairs.

“I’ll be right back.” You excused yourself, shifting your legs off of Jack’s lap and trailing the same path Quinn had taken to his room. 

The party downstairs was disregarded when you knocked twice on the door, turning the knob before he ever gave you the go ahead. Quinn was never one to lock his door, but he couldn’t say he was upset at you when you switched the lock as you stepped in and closed the door behind you. His eyes locked with yours for a moment before going back to stare at his TV. 

You let out a sigh. “You okay? You kinda upped and bolted in here.” He didn’t get the chance to answer before you sat down on his bed, crawling over to where he lay, “Was it the hookup talk? I swear I was gonna tell you, but-”

He cut you off with a scoff, shaking his head before looking at you, “It’s not that.” 

Your head tilted at his statement, “Then what’s wrong?”

Quinn sighed, his arm coming across to drape over your shoulders as he pulled you closer into his body, “I hate thinking about the fact that he didn’t take care of you properly.” You weren’t sure what you had expected him to say, but it hadn’t been that. He chuckled at your shocked expression, your eyes shifting between his as you processed his words. 

“What?”

“Y/N, be real. Did he even make you cum? Or did he just make you so tired of him that you faked it?”

His vulgarity stunned you even further into silence. On some level, though, his words had truth. Jack hadn’t made you finish when you hooked up, but you gave him the benefit of the doubt because “He was eighteen, Quinny. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Still, your defense didn’t make the anger brewing inside him simmer down one bit. Before you knew it, his hands were gripping your waist, pulling you up onto his lap so you straddled him. “Let me show you what he should’ve done, yeah?” 

Your brain short-circuited. Were you hearing him correctly, or were you just turned on by the way he was determined to prove he was better than Jack? Before you could process your own question, you were leaning forward, capturing his warm lips in a heavy kiss. 

Quinn flipped you both over, finding his comfort in being on top of you rather than below. His lips moved in sync with yours, his tongue already pleading for entry, which you gladly granted. You could feel his knee pushing your legs apart, the skirt you had chosen to wear for the now long forgotten party giving him easy access to press his knee against your warmth. 

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips instinctively rocking towards it as you felt his lips travel down to your neck, finding a spot and suckling on it.

“Did he do this for you?” He asked in a quiet voice, “Did he make sure you were this wet before even trying to fuck you?” 

A whine slipped past your lips in response, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you sped up your movements. Quinn brought one hand down, fingers bruising your hip as he stopped you from moving. “Words, baby. Tell me.”

“N-no.” 

Quinn hummed, “No?” 

“No, he didn’t.” You groaned, trying to move your hips again, but to no avail, “Please let me move, Q. Please.”

Satisfied with your words, he loosened his grip, letting you grind against his sweatpants-covered leg again. He was hypnotized by the small furrow in your eyebrows as you started to feel your orgasm build, the way your breaths started to come out in soft pants rather than big huffs. It was the small details that told him exactly what you wanted, what you needed. 

He pressed his leg up closer to you, intensifying the pressure that sent your head reeling. Your eyes struggled to find his, the urge to close them becoming overwhelming. But you did yourself a favour, keeping eye contact as you got closer and closer.

“Quinn,” You moaned, biting down on your lip to maintain yourself quiet enough so that the guests wouldn’t catch wind of what was happening upstairs. “Gonna cum.” 

The look on his face was unforgettable. He was proud of himself. Proud he had you so desperate underneath him that you were getting off by using his body. Proud he got you there, unlike your past experiences with Jack. It was pure pride and satisfaction, and fuck did it feel good. 

“Atta girl, sweetheart.” He praised, whispering in your ear. “Let me feel you cum all over me before I’ve even fucked you.”

His words sent you over the edge, his ego rising as he could feel the way your fingers tightened on the skin of his shoulders, the way your body shook gently as you dampened your panties and his pant leg. He was learning all your tells, something he knew no one had bothered with before. 

He kissed your cheeks, meeting your lips as his hushed words guided you through your orgasm. Your body was hot against his as he stripped off your skirt and damp panties, following suit and revealing his body to you. As you calmed down, your bleary vision cleared up just in time to stop him from pulling off his pants, your hand covering his that sat on his waistband. 

Quinn stopped moving, smirking at you as he took your wrist, placing it where his was previously, and lifted both hands up. He watched as your mouth all but watered as you pulled down the fabric, exposing his navy blue boxers and the bulge that threatened to tear through the cotton. He stepped out of them as you stared in awe, amazed at the dark, wet patch that was barely noticeable due to the colour. 

You reached for it, your hand cupping around his cock as he let out a soft groan, anchoring himself back onto the bed as he took your hand and pinned it over your head. His lips were back on yours instantly, his lips moving with more frevour than they had before, as if it was his last chance at kissing you. 

His hand reached down for his cock, stroking his length briefly as he slapped his tip against your swollen clit, whines escaping your lips at the inconsistent pressure. His actions showed no signs of a rush, but your body was so desperate to have him inside of you that you could barely control your words as they slipped out.

“Please just fuck me,” You begged, “Know you can do it better than him, Q.”

Those words cracked him because before you knew it, he slipped in with one harsh thrust, filling you up so quickly that you had no choice but to scream. Quinn covered your mouth with his hand, wanting to reserve your noises for no one else but him. 

You watched with wide eyes as his jaw fell agape as he started to move, his thrusts speeding up as your arousal coated his cock, making it easier to move. His hand came off your mouth, a rookie mistake because the second he did, you sang his praises.

“So, so big, Quinn.” You babbled, your cock-drunk mind focused on nothing but the way he hit all the right spots so effortlessly, like he’d mapped out your body to the tee. “Oh my- fuck! Best I’ve ever had, please don’t stop.”

His cock twitched at your words, his hand lifting your shirt as he leaned down to scatter kisses across your chest. “You feel so fucking good, pretty girl.” He targeted your nipple, pinching one while he swirled his tongue around the other, switching constantly as he felt you clench around him. “Pussy was fucking made for me.”

He could feel the way your body tensed up again, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as you slammed your hands down on his sheets, pulling the cover tighter as he hit the spot that had your head falling back and your eyes seeing stars.

“You look so pretty,” He teased, speeding up his thrusts so you couldn't chirp back. “Bet he didn’t see you like this, huh? All fucked out underneath him?” Quinn’s words were poisoned with spite, fuming at the thought of someone missing out on everything you had to offer. “More for me, though, isn’t that right, baby?”

Your head nodded rapidly, words not coming as an option as you could feel your abdomen tighten the more he abused that spot inside of you with each thrust. You were pulled a little closer back to reality when you felt his finger flick your clit, the sudden action leaving your mouth to widen even further. 

“What did I say, hm?” He scolded, the pad of his finger now swirling rapid circles around your swollen bud, as if he was trying to keep you speechless. “Words, or you don’t cum.”

You whined, “All for you. I was made just for you, Q.”

He hummed in satisfaction, your words shooting straight to his cock as he kept his pace, feeling your body twitch underneath him as the knot in your stomach threatened to let go. “No,” Quinn breathed. “You cum with me or not at all, you got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The idea of keeping yourself teetering at the line of your orgasm felt like torture, but your mind had already adapted to Quinn’s rules, rewired to listen to him no matter how badly you needed to let go.

He groaned, the sound coming straight from his chest, as his fingers gripped your thighs, pushing them further back to push deeper into you. It was overwhelming, your walls spasming around him as you fought back your orgasm, wanting nothing more than to tip over that peak as he filled you up.

A few more harsh thrusts and he was right there with you, his forehead touching yours as he mumbled praise to you before saying, “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

And that was the only cue you needed. Your movements were involuntary, your back arching off the mattress and pressing your skin flush to his chest, your shooting up to tug his hair. He was no different, the way his muscles tensed and a sinful moan slipped past his swollen lips, his cum spurting into you as he tainted your walls white, filling you up to the point where it leaked out of you in drops.

You could feel his breath clashing with yours, the mixture of warmth bringing you comfort as you felt his cock soften inside of you, one of your hands coming down to cup his face. Your thumb rubbed the skin soothingly as he dropped his weight onto you, catching his breath and embracing your warmth.

“So,” You began, shifting that hand to toy with his now damp curls, “Was that you just trying to prove to me that you fuck better than your brother?” Quinn groaned into your skin, the vibrations tickling you slightly. He lifted his head, catching your gaze as you waited for his answer. 

“One, I knew I did. Two, no. I’ve been hoping you’d look my way since we were kids. But you were closer to Jack, so I don’t know. Didn’t wanna play the guessing game with you until I knew for sure.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “You could’ve said something sooner. It’s never felt like just a friendship with you.”

The relief that washed over him was visible, his body relaxed as he let out a sigh. Quinn had never thought he’d get to even have this conversation with you, so he cherished your response as if he’d forget it the next day. 

“Well, I’m saying something now.” He smiled cheesily at you as he leaned up for a quick kiss, which you gladly gave in to. “Let me take you out tomorrow?”

[bendover-productions]

bless tenor @lagging-jets for coming through with the details:

WAS ANYONE GOING TO TELL ME SAM WAS A DANIEL RICCIARDO FAN OR WAS I JUST SUPPOSED TO FIND THIS OUT BY WATCHING SEASON THREE MYSELF

[blueberrybirdsworld]

Plus one 5/9

Summary : When Lando Norris realizes he's the only F1 driver attending the Monaco F1 movie premiere without a girlfriend, he panics and convinces Oscar to help him find a last-minute plus one.

Author note : I get this story idea after the private projection of the F1 movie with all the drivers in Monaco (also can we imagine they weren't wearing their team kit and actually did dress up).

Genre : pure fluff

Serie masterlist

Main masterlist

The second they stepped out of the venue, Lando exhaled.

The Monaco night wrapped around them like a sigh: cool air, soft streetlight glow, the hum of a distant scooter and the faint music still drifting from the rooftop they’d just escaped. He felt his shoulders drop for the first time in hours.

Y/N walked beside him, holding her clutch under one arm as she turned to him with a smile.

“So,” she said, “any cravings?”

“Honestly?” he glanced at her. “Anything that doesn’t require a silver spoon or come with truffle foam.”

She laughed. “Italian?”

“That’s dangerously close to romantic.”

“Lucky us,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I know a place. Not far. Tiny. Looks questionable from the outside. Excellent garlic bread.”

“Sold.”

They strolled through the quiet streets, away from the glitz, through narrower lanes where vines crept over balconies and the air smelled faintly of sea and basil. Five minutes later, she pointed across the street at a little trattoria tucked between a closed bookstore and a florist.

“Here,” she said proudly. “No dress code, but lots of candles. So it still counts as a vibe.”

And it did.

It was dim and warm inside, strung with fairy lights and mismatched chairs. The smell of tomato, oregano, and melted cheese was instant comfort. They were seated near the window with a bottle of water and menus. Perfect.

He leaned forward, grinning across the table. “You know what I still can’t believe?”

Y/N looked up, eyes wide. “What?”

“That you have a crush on me.”

She groaned immediately. “Oh my God.”

“I’m serious!”

“Lando.”

“No, no, no. You said it. I’ve held back all night thinking I’d misread every signal and that you were, like, just being friendly because you’re nice and you felt bad.”

“I am nice,” she muttered, hiding behind her menu.

“And now I find out you’ve had a crush this whole time?” he leaned back dramatically. “I think I’m owed a little compensation.”

She peeked over the menu. “Compensation?”

“For emotional damage.”

“Oh my God,” she said again, half laughing, half dying. “You’re so annoying.”

“You’re blushing,” he grinned.

“I am not.”

“You are! That’s the second time tonight. I’m keeping count.”

Their food arrived: two bowls of pasta, steaming and fragrant, and a little basket of bread placed between them like a peace offering.

Lando twisted his fork into the pasta, then glanced at her curiously. “So, wait. If you had a crush on me… does that mean you actually watch the races?”

She blinked, a bit caught off guard. “I used to. A lot, actually. My dad and I would watch every Sunday. It was our thing.”

He smiled, genuinely touched. “That’s sweet.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I loved it. But once school started getting intense, I stopped keeping up. It just got… hard to make time. Assignments, work, studying. Watching practice sessions and races wasn’t exactly a priority anymore.”

Lando nodded. He knew the feeling: too much to do, too little time to breathe.

“But,” she continued, “when Oscar made it into F1, I started watching again. At first just to see how he was doing, but then I got back really into it last year. And I actually ended up going to a few races. With Lily.”

Lando froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Wait. You were at some races?”

She laughed. “Yeah. Not many. But a few. One or two last season. One this year. Just in the paddock with Lily, not like, grandstand tickets or anything.”

He put his fork down, looking stunned. “How did I not see you?”

She shrugged, smiling. “I don’t know. You were probably busy being famous.”

“No, but, seriously, which races?”

She thought for a moment. “Silverstone last year. Zandvoort. And I came to Australia this season. So technicly I saw you win 2 times”

He stared at her, floored. “That was you?”

“What was me?”

“I remember Lily had a friend with her that day. But I didn’t even catch your name. I think I said hi and left to change helmets or something.”

Y/N grinned. “See? Missed your moment.”

He sat back, looking betrayed. “Oscar knew you. He could’ve introduced us properly.”

She tilted her head, teasing. “Well… he kind of did eventually.”

“I’m gonna have a word with him later.”

“To be fair,” she added, taking a bite of pasta, “Oscar’s so clueless with this stuff. He probably had no idea I liked you. He’s not exactly a mind reader.”

“Lily definitely told him,” Lando muttered.

Y/N laughed. “Lily absolutely told him. She for sure pressure Oscar to make this happened.”

“And now it all makes sense,” Lando said, shaking his head. “They plotted this.”

“Well,” she said softly, “it worked.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, tucking her hair behind one ear, eyes shy but warm, cheeks a little flushed from the wine or maybe the teasing.

He smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “It really did.”

The dinner plates had been cleared, the last sips of wine gone warm in their glasses, and outside the restaurant the streets of Monaco had grown even quieter. The kind of quiet that felt intimate, not empty. A soft hush between tall pastel buildings, with streetlights casting pools of golden light along their path.

They were walking slowly.

Neither of them had said it, but they both knew, neither of them wanted the night to end just yet.

“You cold?” Lando asked, glancing sideways.

Y/N was hugging her arms lightly to her chest. “A little.”

Without hesitation, Lando shrugged out of his jacket and gently placed it over her shoulders, his hands lingering there just a second longer than necessary.

“There,” he said, like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Can’t have you freezing. Would be a bad first date review.”

She smiled, tugging it around herself. It smelled like cologne and fresh air. “Chivalry looks good on you.”

He gave her a mock bow as they turned a corner.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets now, “you’re staying with Lily and Oscar?”

“For the weekend, yeah. I figured I’d crash there instead of going back and forth.”

“Wait,” he said, hopeful. “Does that mean you’ll be at the race?”

She nodded. “Oscar got me an invite.”

His face lit up like he’d just won a trophy. “Good. I won’t ignore you this time.”

Y/N laughed. “I didn’t think you ignored me last time. You were just... busy being Lando Norris.”

“Well, this time,” he said, bumping her lightly with his shoulder, “if you want, you can hang out on my side of the garage.”

“Oh?”

“You know. The best side.”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. “I’ll think about it.”

He grinned. “Take your time. No pressure. But the snacks are better and my engineers are funnier.”

They kept walking, side by side, shoes clicking against the stone, shoulders brushing now and then. There was something so easy about it. So normal. And yet it felt anything but ordinary.

Y/N glanced at him, the corners of her lips tugging upward.

“I don’t know what this is,” she said quietly. “But it feels... different.”

He looked at her. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Like...safe. Familiar. And new. I’ve never felt like this with someone. Not this fast.”

He stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“It’s like... I already know you,” she said, “but I still want to know everything else, too.”

Lando’s heart tugged at that. Because he felt the same. Like he’d just stumbled into something real without even knowing how much he’d been needing it.

When they reached Lily and Oscar’s building, she paused by the front steps, turning toward him.

He stood a little stiffer suddenly, hands half in his pockets, clearly unsure of what to do now. His eyes flicked to her, then away, then back again.

Y/N noticed. All of it.

To ease the tension, she gently reached for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. Her skin was soft. Warm.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice soft and honest. “For tonight. It was… great.”

He smiled. “Messy. But great.”

She nodded. “Exactly.”

They looked at each other then. Really looked.

And everything stilled.

The air was thick with something unspoken but loud. He was searching her face like he didn’t want to miss anything. Her eyes dropped to his lips just briefly. And that was all he needed.

He leaned in, slowly, cautiously, giving her every second to back away.

She didn’t.

His forehead gently brushed hers, breath warm between them. Then, with one last glance into her eyes for permission, he kissed her.

Soft at first. Tentative.

Then more.

His hands found her hips, pulling her a little closer, and she leaned in too, her hands resting on his chest. The kiss deepened, gentle but electric, like every word they hadn’t said was spoken between them in that moment. Like they'd been waiting all night, maybe even longer.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless and close, her forehead still rested lightly against his.

“Wow,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” he breathed, smiling. “Wow.”

Neither of them moved.

Because maybe this was where something really began.

And neither of them wanted to rush it.

Texts messages

Oscar:

where did you go

Oscar:

I swear if you left me alone with the Sky report guys again I’m gonna lose it

Oscar:

Zak is looking for you

we were supposed to do press pics

he asked me “where’s the other one”

like you’re a lost suitcase

Lando:

I left

Oscar:

no shit

where?

Lando:

taking her on a real date

Oscar:

HER???

Lando:

yes, her

Y/N

Oscar:

you what now, how ???

Lando:

uh

I confessed

she blushed

I teased

we kissed

:)

Oscar:

what do you MEAN you kissed

Lando:

I mean I kissed her

or she kissed me

I don’t really know

we were very close and then it just

happened

Oscar:

I go get a drink

and you go fall in love??

Lando:

seems like it

Oscar:

you actually did it

Lando:

I did

Oscar:

you

the most hopeless man alive

kissed the girl you’ve been panicking over all night

Lando:

I was not panicking

Oscar:

I cannot believe you actually did it

this is huge

I’m proud of you

still mad you let me suffer through Zak’s passive-aggressive “where is Lando” rant

but proud

Lando:

I was having a movie-worthy kiss in front of your building

I had bigger issues

Oscar:

you are the most annoying person I know

but I’m happy for you

you were a lost cause

Lily and I did god’s work

Lando:

oh I know you did

speaking of which…

Lando:

so she admits she had a crush

which Lily apparently knew

which means YOU knew

and still you introduced us, like, only NOW???

Oscar:

👀...

Lando:

I’ve literally cross pass her at races

you’ve literally brought her around

AND NEVER SAID ANYTHING

Oscar:

you weren’t ready

Lando:

I was very ready

Oscar:

you were not emotionaly ready

Lily's words

Lando:

I’m going to yell at you in the garage tomorrow

Oscar:

that’s fair

but worth it?

Lando:

yeah

worth it

Y/N:

LILY !!!!

HE KISS ME

lando norris KISS ME right in front of the door

Lily:

you’re home???

Y/N:

YES

just walked in

I haven't even taken off my shoes

Lily:

wait

start over

kissed where??

Y/N:

ON THE MOUTH

with his hands on my waist

like a real kiss

Lily:

YOU’RE KIDDING ??

Y/N:

I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING TO SAY GOODNIGHT

AND THEN HE JUST

LOOKED AT ME

AND I JUST

DIED

AND THEN HE KISSED ME

AND I DIED AGAIN

Lily:

okay wow calm down tell me everything

start from when you LEFT THE PARTY WITH HIM???

Y/N:

we went to get pasta

like actually just wandered into this tiny restaurant

he was so sweet

he gave me his jacket

we talked the whole way back

and then he walked me to the door

and he looked all nervous

so I held his hand

AND THEN HE KISSED ME

Lily:

I can’t breathe

you actually did it

Y/N:

LILY

HE SAID I COULD COME TO HIS SIDE OF THE GARAGE THIS WEEKEND

“THE BEST SIDE” HE SAID

I THINK I’M IN LOVE

Lily:

you’ve BEEN in love

I’ve known for months

Y/N:

WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME HE FELT SOMETHING TOO

Lily:

because he didn’t

until he met you tonight

and then it was VERY obvious

Oscar and I have had bets about how long it would take

Y/N:

I HATE YOU

I LOVE YOU

I’M GOING TO PASS OUT

Lily:

go to bed

sleep in

you have a boyfriend now

Y/N:

LILY

Lily:

ok fine

“maybe-boyfriend”

but that kiss sounds like a pretty strong maybe

Y/N:

I can still feel his hands on my waist

what do I do with my body???

Lily:

sleep. dream about him. will be here when you wake up

Y/N:

I actually might cry

he was so soft

and funny

and awkward

and perfect

Lily:

yeah

he’s kind of the best

especially for you

Y/N:

okay

shutting up

going to bed

but if I wake up and it was a dream I’m suing you

Lily:

you’ll wake up and he’ll probably have texted you first

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[inhonoredglory]

Aziraphale’s Choice, the Job Connection, and Michael Sheen’s Morality

Update: Michael Sheen liked this post on Twitter, so I'm fairly certain there is a lot of validity to it.

I’ve had time to process Aziraphale’s choice at the end of Season 2. And I think only blaming the religious trauma misses something important in Aziraphale’s character. I think what happened was also Aziraphale’s own conscious choice––as a growth from his trauma, in fact. Hear me out.

Since November 2022 I’ve been haunted by something Michael Sheen said at the MCM London Comic Con. At the Q&A, someone asked him about which fantasy creature he enjoyed playing most and Michael (bless him, truly) veered on a tangent about angels and goodness and how, specifically,

We as a society tend to sort of undervalue goodness. It’s sort of seen as sort of somehow weak and a bit nimby and “oh it’s nice.” And I think to be good takes enormous reserves of courage and stamina. I mean, you have to look the dark in the face to be truly good and to be truly of the light…. The idea that goodness is somehow lesser and less interesting and not as kind of muscular and as passionate and as fierce as evil somehow and darkness, I think is nonsense. The idea of being able to portray an angel, a being of love. I love seeing the things people have put online about angels being ferocious creatures, and I love that. I think that’s a really good representation of what goodness can be, what it should be, I suppose.

I was looking forward to BAMF!Aziraphale all season long, and I think that’s what we got in the end. Remember Neil said that the Job minisode was important for Aziraphale’s story. Remember how Aziraphale sat on that rock and reconciled to himself that he MUST go to Hell, because he lied and thwarted the will of God. He believed that––truly, honestly, with the faith of a child, but the bravery of a soldier.

Aziraphale, a being of love with more goodness than all of Heaven combined, believed he needed to walk through the Gates of Hell because it was the Right Thing to do. (Like Job, he didn’t understand his sin but believed he needed to sacrifice his happiness to do the Right Thing.)

That’s why we saw Aziraphale as a soldier this season: the bookshop battle, the halo. But yes, the ending as well.

Because Aziraphale never wanted to go to Heaven, and he never wanted to go there without Crowley.

But it was Crowley who taught him that he could, even SHOULD, act when his moral heart told him something was wrong. While Crowley was willing to run away and let the world burn, it was Aziraphale (in that bandstand at the end of the world) who stood his ground and said No. We can make a difference. We can save everyone.

And Aziraphale knew he could not give up the ace up his sleeve (his position as an angel) to talk to God and make them see the truth in his heart.

I was messed up by Ineffable Bureaucracy (Boxfly) getting their happy ending when our Ineffable Husbands didn’t, but I see now that them running away served to prove something to Aziraphale. (And I am fully convinced that Gabriel and Beelzebub saw the example of the Ineffables at the Not-pocalypse and took inspiration from them for choosing to ditch their respective sides)

But my point is that Aziraphale saw them, and in some ways, they looked like him and Crowley. And he saw how Gabriel, the biggest bully in Heaven, was also like him in a way (a being capable of love) and also just a child when he wasn’t influenced by the poison of Heaven. Muriel, too, wasn’t a bad person. The Metatron also seemed to have grown more flexible with his morality (from Aziraphale's perspective). Like Earth, Heaven was shades of (light?) gray.

Aziraphale is too good an angel not to believe in hope. Or forgiveness (something he’s very good at it).

Aziraphale has been scarred by Heaven all his life. But with the cracks in Heaven’s armor (cracks he and Crowley helped create), Aziraphale is seeing something else. A chance to change them. They did terrible things to him, but he is better than them, and because of Crowley, he feels ready to face them.

(Will it work? Can Heaven change, institutionally? Probably not, but I can't blame Aziraphale for trying.)

At the cafe, the Metatron said something big was coming in the Great Plan. Aziraphale knows how trapped he had felt when he didn’t have God’s ear the first time something huge happened in the Big Plan. He can’t take a chance again to risk the world by not having a foot in the door of Heaven. That’s why we saw individual human deaths (or the threat of death) so much more this season: Elspeth, Wee Morag, Job’s children, the 1940s magician. Aziraphale almost killed a child when he couldn’t get through to God, and he’s not going through that again.

“We could make a difference.” We could save everyone.

Remember what Michael Sheen said about courage and doing good––and having to “look the dark in the face to be truly good.” That’s what happened when Aziraphale was willing to go to Hell for his actions. That’s what happened when he decided he had to go to Heaven, where he had been abused and belittled and made to feel small. He decided to willingly go into the Lion’s Den, to face his abusers and his anxiety, to make them better so that they would not try to destroy the world again.

Him, just one angel. He needed Crowley to be there with him, to help him be brave, to ask the questions that Heaven needed to hear, to tell them God was wrong. Crowley is the inspiration that drives Aziraphale’s change, Crowley is the engine that fuels Aziraphale’s courage.

But then Crowley tells him that going to Heaven is stupid. That they don’t need Heaven. And he’s right. Aziraphale knows he’s right.

Aziraphale doesn’t need Heaven; Heaven needs him. They just don’t know how much they need him, or how much humanity needs him there, too. (If everyone who ran for office was corrupt, how can the system change?)

Terry Pratchett (in the Discworld book, Small Gods) is scathing of God, organized religion, and the corrupt people religion empowers, but he is sympathetic to the individual who has real, pure faith and a good heart. In fact, the everyman protagonist of Small Gods is a better person than the god he serves, and in the end, he ends up changing the church to be better, more open-minded, and more humanist than god could ever do alone.

Aziraphale is willing to go to the darkest places to do the Right Thing, and Heaven is no exception. When Crowley says that Heaven is toxic, that’s exactly why Aziraphale knows he needs to go there. “You’re exactly is different from my exactly.”

____

In the aftermath of Trump's election in the US, Brexit happened in 2018. Michael Sheen felt compelled to figure out what was going on in his country after this shock. But he was living in Los Angeles with Sarah Silverman at the time, and she also wanted to become more politically active in the US.

Sheen: “I felt a responsibility to do something, but it [meant] coming back [to Britain] – which was difficult for us, because we were very important to each other. But we both acknowledge that each of us had to do what we needed to do.” In the end, they split up and Michael moved back to the UK.

Sometimes doing the Right Thing means sacrificing your own happiness. Sometimes it means going to Hell. Sometimes it means going to Heaven. Sometimes it means losing a relationship.

And that’s why what happened in the end was so difficult for Aziraphale. Because he loves Crowley desperately. He wants to be together. He wanted that kiss for thousands of years. He knows that taking command of Heaven means they would never again have to bow to the demands of a God they couldn’t understand, or run from a Hell who still came after them. They could change the rules of the game.

And he’s still going to do that. But it hurts him that he has to do that alone.

[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