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princess-of-lions · 6 years ago

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For International Women’s Day, several feminist book recommendations! By feminist, I mean both books about feminism, and books about strong, complex, nuanced female characters created by female authors. (This is a pretty long list. Took a while to put together.)

Dear Ijeawele, or A Feminist Manifesto in Fifteen Suggestions by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie can find her way right to the heart of the issues that confront women every day. This advice can apply to women in all cultural contexts, and in my opinion is a must-read for all feminists. There Are Girls Like Lions: Poems About Being a Woman by Cole Swensen A short poetry anthology about the moments of growing up as a girl and a woman. Circe by Madeline Miller Madeline Miller’s Circe is a triumph of storytelling and a triumph for feminism. In the Odyssey, Circe is treated as the selfish witch that Odysseus subdues. Here, she is given agency, life. She feels real and her desires and her courage and her fears will become your own. Madeline Miller has a true talent for epic prose. The Weight of Ink by Rachel Kadish An aging historian in London growing close to retiring as her body begins to betray her is given a chance to discover significant truths when papers come to light that tell an unusual tale. That of a young Jewish woman far in the past who longs to study and learn, to question philosophy and faith, and does so in secret while dreading the prospect of marriage. This book takes an unerring view of courage, personal truth, faith, philosophy, and what it means to be a woman. Flight of Dreams by Ariel Lawhon Emilie is not what she seems. And on the Hindenburg, it seems that everyone has something to hide. Suspenseful and enthralling, Ariel Lawhon’s imagining of the tale of the doomed airship flight is nothing less than a masterpiece.

Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi Tomi Adeyemi has created a high fantasy book that draws its inspiration from African cultures and legends. Her characters and setting are refreshing and compelling, and the words will settle in your heart and blood. The people love fiercely and deeply, and the losses are wounding. The parallels drawn to racial violence in America are at once heart-breaking and enraging. A necessary read.

The Ash Princess by Laura Sebastian Her home was invaded. Her family murdered, and her paraded about as a trophy. Princess Theodosia struggles to reclaim who she is and what she stands for in a world that has beaten her and her people to the ground. If she is to free herself and her people, she must remember what she truly is. A queen. The Chosen Maiden by Eva Stachniak In the early 20th century, the world of ballet experiences a revolution. Vaslav Njinsky, hailed as a prodigy, provokes confusion and outrage with choreography that is strange, halting, jarring – to many, ugly. This is the tale of his sister, Bronia, also an extraordinary ballet dancer. As revolution sparks in Russia and war begins in Europe, she learns to chart her own path and defy expectations. Lands of Lost Borders: A Journey on the Silk Road by Kate Harris Kate Harris loved to read. She wanted to explore. To see the frontiers of everything. So, she decided to become an astronaut. But exploration can come in many forms, and she chooses to bike the Silk Road on her own journey of exploration. Told with candor, wit, and sweeping prose, this is my favorite travel book. Sold by Patricia McCormick A young girl in Nepal believes she has the chance to have a job, to help provide for her family. But when she arrives, she finds that the ‘work’ is not what she expected. Trapped in a brothel, she is forced into sex slavery. This is a difficult and emotional read, but an important one. The Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley A retelling of the Arthurian legends from the point of view of Morgan Le Fey, Ygraine of Cornwall, Guinevere, Viviane, Morgause, and others. It’s a very good read with very human characters and a heart of tragedy. The women in this book are wholly women and wholly human, with flaws and love and fear and difficult choices. Though I have one important note: I discovered this after I read the book, but later in life the author was revealed to have sexually abused her daughter and other children. Because of this, I wasn’t sure whether to include this one. I decided to because of the book’s merits and its influence on feminism in the nineties. I leave it to your judgement. Women & Power: A Manifesto by Mary Beard Mary Beard is a historian with penetrating understanding of the place women occupy in society. Her manifesto addresses the power imbalances women have faced throughout history and in the present. My Own Words by Ruth Bader Ginsburg A collection of the writings of Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the second woman ever to be appointed to the Supreme Court. Accessible, logical, and wryly amusing, she provides insight into the workings of the Supreme Court, law, women’s rights, and many other topics. The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah During World War II, two sisters are separated in occupied France. They find their own ways to survive and rebel against the German presence in their land. A well-written tale of sisterly and familial love, loss, courage, and endurance. The Girl of Fire and Thorns by Rae Carson A fantasy story about a princess chosen by a prophecy. Her journey to find, understand, and accept the power within herself is as poetic as the book’s title. The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro Two women, separated by a generation, bonded by memory. This book is captivating – and makes you wish you had some perfume of your own! Memory and scent, love and resentment, mystery, and fearless choices twine together in this story. A Bound Woman Is a Dangerous Thing: The Incarceration of African American Women from Harriet Tubman to Sandra Bland Poems honoring black women who have been held back and trapped and chained throughout America’s history. This is not a comfortable read. But it is a worthwhile one. I Am Malala by Malala Yousafzai This one doesn’t really need any explanation. It’s definitely a must-read though. Code Girls: The Untold Story of the American Women Code Breakers of World War II The meticulously researched story of the girls who broke codes in World War II. While their husbands and brothers and sons went off to fight, they went to Washington and learned to do work that greatly impacted the course of the war. Since they were all sworn to secrecy, their stories were almost lost. But not anymore. The Other Einstein by Marie Benedict Mileva Maric was a brilliant physicist and mathematician from Serbia. She attended the University of Zurich and was the only woman in her classes. After university, she married her former classmate: Albert Einstein. Her husband’s shadow is very long, but this woman deserves to step into the light. This is a rich portrait of a woman who was far more than merely Albert Einstein’s wife. Women in Science: 50 Fearless Pioneers Who Changed the World by Rachel Ignotofsky This one’s pretty self-explanatory too. It’s an awesome book with gorgeous illustrations and many awesome and brilliantly smart women. Wonder Woman: Warbringer by Leigh Bardugo Well, Wonder Woman, obviously. In this novel, Diana is finding her place as an Amazon, a warrior, and a teenage girl. Her confidence, courage, and loyalty is extraordinarily compelling. The book tackles the difficult issues she must face, involving war, peace, and the true meaning of strength. A Secret History of Witches by Louisa Morgan I always pay attention when I see the word “witch” on the cover of a book. In history, witches have been the women who were feared for their differences – for their knowledge, their beauty, their independence, etc. It’s a powerful word with a powerful meaning. In this book, witchcraft is real, and the women are too. It follows five generations of the same family of witches, examining and celebrating the bonds between mothers and daughters while telling a tale fraught with tension and courage. Face Value: The Hidden Ways Beauty Shapes Women’s Lives by Autumn Whitefield-Madrano An examination of the perception of beauty and its effects in women’s lives today, touching upon insecurity, image, idealization, and numerous other things. The Map of Salt and Stars by Jennifer Zeynab Joukhadar Another tale about two girls in different time periods (I love these). Here’s the blurb: “- a modern day Syrian refugee seeking safety and a medieval adventurer apprenticed to a legendary mapmaker – places today’s headlines in the sweep of history, where the pain of exile and the triumph of courage echo again and again.” The prose is lyrically beautiful and the story is richly crafted. An incredible read. Double Bind: Women on Ambition edited by Robin Romm Ambition can be a complicated thing for women. What we want to do can be altered by how we want to see ourselves – or more accurately, how we are socialized to see ourselves. An ambitious woman may seem aggressive and overconfident to others – while an ambitious man may seem dominant and just the right amount of confident. This book is worth a look. Book of Ages: The Life and Opinions of Jane Franklin by Jill Lepore A collection of her own writings tied together by the biographical work of Jill Lepore. In this portrait of Benjamin Franklin’s younger sister, Jane Franklin emerges as a shrewd, resilient, and confident woman. Pirate Women: The Princesses, Prostitutes, and Privateers Who Ruled the Seven Seas by Laura Sook Duncombe This book is so awesome. It just is. Badass women from all over the world who wanted their freedom and took it. Need I say more? Geisha, A Life by Mineko Iwasaki ‘"Many say I was the best geisha of my generation," writes Mineko Iwasaki. "And yet, it was a life that I found too constricting to continue. And one that I ultimately had to leave." Trained to become a geisha from the age of five, Iwasaki would live among the other "women of art" in Kyoto's Gion Kobu district and practice the ancient customs of Japanese entertainment. She was loved by kings, princes, military heroes, and wealthy statesmen alike. But even though she became one of the most prized geishas in Japan's history, Iwasaki wanted more: her own life. And by the time she retired at age twenty-nine, Iwasaki was finally on her way toward a new beginning.” A tale of courage. the princess saves herself in this one by Amanda Lovelace A story told in four collections of poetry. The story of the princess in the tower, and the story of you. The Diplomat’s Daughter by Karin Tanabe After the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Emi Kato is imprisoned in an American internment camp. Later, she and her family are sent home to Japan, where war threatens everything. This is a tale of love, sacrifice, resilience and hope in the middle of a war told in elegant and touching prose. The Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker A retelling of the Iliad (The Trojan War) from the point of view of the women – primarily Briseis. The wars of ancient times are often thought of as glorious. The picture this book paints of the siege on Troy shows the other side of war. It’s illuminating, intricately detailed and bluntly told. Everything Here Is Beautiful by Mira T. Lee A difficult story of family, mental illness, sisterhood, immigration, and fulfillment in life. Every word rings true, sometimes painfully. Stay With Me by Ayobami Adebayo This one was a really difficult read for me. It’s heart-rending. The love, jealousy, commitment to family, completely different cultural context… A difficult read, but worth it in the end, for the exact reasons that made it hard. The Lost Girls of Paris by Pam Jenoff Another World War II spy story! But this one is less about code-breaking and more about the feet on the ground in Paris. A fictionalized version of a true story. Daughters of the Winter Queen: Four Remarkable Sisters, the Crown of Bohemia, and the Enduring Legacy of Mary, Queen of Scots by Nancy Bazelon Goldstone “Brilliantly researched and captivatingly written, filled with danger, treachery, and adventure but also love, courage, and humor, Daughters of the Winter Queen follows the lives of five remarkable women who, by refusing to surrender to adversity, changed the course of history.” Pretty self-explanatory. An awesome and engaging book. Daughter of a Daughter of a Queen by Sarah Bird Based loosely on a true story. Cathy Williams is a slave. But she is also the daughter of a daughter of a queen, and her mother never lets her forget it. In this daring tale, Cathy rebels against her constraints as a black person and a woman and joins the army disguised as a man during the Civil War. Hidden Figures by Margot Lee Shetterly I’m sure a lot of you have seen the movie based on this book. The untold story of three of NASA’s brilliant black female scientists during the Space Race. The book came before the movie and is just as satisfying in print as on the big screen. There’s also more exposition and nuance to the story. The Beekeeper’s Apprentice by Laurie R. King Sherlock Holmes has retired to keep bees in Sussex. Then, he meets Mary Russell, a young woman with a mind to rival his own. What adventures shall they encounter? It stays true to the tone and spirit of the original Sherlock Holmes stories, but Mary provides a fresh perspective. Wonderfully done. She Explores by Gale Straub These stories are so inspiring. I want to go out there and travel the world and explore the wild and live on the road every time I read them. All Hail the Queen: Twenty Women Who Ruled by Jennifer Orkin Lewis Ruling throughout history has not been only the domain of men. There have been multiple women that have ruled with strength, cleverness, and sheer daring. These are the stories of twenty of them from all over the world.

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cienie-isengardu · 6 years ago

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Salazar Slytherin and pure-blood ideology? [part 1]

(OR: A Long Rant about Slytherin, Chamber of Secrets, beginning of Hogwarts, purebred wizards and witches, the situation of Middle-Age magic society, Merlin and his Order and in general everything that makes me think too much about Harry Potter lore)

The Harry Potter book series (from the Chamber of Secrets beyond) made it pretty clear pure-blood ideology is unmistakable linked to Slytherin - one of four Houses of Hogwarts. Salazar himself didn’t want to teach muggle-born wizards and witches, what was a source of conflict between him and Gryffindor - to the point Salazar left the school for good. Later, one of his descendants, Tom Riddle a.k.a. Voldemort, for years terrorized magical Great Britain and spread the hate for Muggle-born people. Like him, many, if not most Death Eaters who believed in pureblood superiority over Muggles and Muggle-born wizards grew up in Slytherin House.

By his choice and the effects it has on the Harry Potter story, Salazar seems to be the black sheep between all founders of Hogwarts, right?

But frankly, I think the reasons why he was so against teaching muggle-born wizards and witches aren’t exactly the same reasons for the hate that happened later on, from International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (1692) to modern times. After all, many things change over the centuries, some turn into legends, others are forgotten. And so could happen with Salazar’s reasons too.

So, let see what we know about beginnings of the Hogwarts and about the Salazar Slytherin.

The main source of knowledge is The Sorting Hat, who sang few times about the Four Founders. In 1991 [Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone] the song told us that:

[...]

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting Hat can't see,

So try me on and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring, nerve, and chivalry

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff,

Where they are just and loyal,

Those patient Hufflepuffs are true

And unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

if you've a ready mind,

Where those of wit and learning,

Will always find their kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

You'll make your real friends,

Those cunning folks use any means

To achieve their ends.

[...]

The first time Sorting Hat described Slytherin House as a place in which You'll make your real friends, and that those cunning folks use any means to achieve their ends. So, loyalty, cunning & ruthlessness are the traits related to Slytherin House (thus favored/possessing by Salazar himself).

Nothing much about blood purity but since it was the first book from seven, it is understable such detail was omitted.

The second song happened in 1994 [Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire] and told more about schism between founders:

A thousand years or more ago

When I was newly sewn,

There lived four wizards of renown,

Whose names are still well known:

Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor,

Fair Ravenclaw, from glen,

Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad,

Shrewd Slytherin, from fen.

They shared a wish, a hope, a dream,

They hatched a daring plan

To educate young sorcerers

Thus Hogwarts School began.

Now each of these four founders

Formed their own house, for each

Did value different virtues

In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were

Prized far beyond the rest;

For Ravenclaw, the cleverest

Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were

Most worthy of admission;

And power-hungry Slytherin

Loved those of great ambition.

While still alive they did divide

Their favourites from the throng,

Yet how to pick the worthy ones

When they were dead and gone?

Twas Gryffindor who found the way,

He whipped me off his head

The founders put some brains in me

So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,

I've never yet been wrong,

I'll have a look inside your mind

And tell where you belong!

This time we learn more about both the founders and the sorting system itself.

The Four Founders were born (and represent) different part of Great Britain: Godric - England, Helga - Welsh, Rowena - Scotland and Slytherin most likely Ireland.

There is not many information about how wizards and witches educated themselves prior to Hogwarts. From Chocolate Frog Cards we know about Queen Maeve (whose title of Queen suggest connection to Muggleborn royalty, since Lupin assured Harry in HBP that “There are no Wizarding princes”) who was involved in the training of young wizards and witches in her native Ireland. There is no certain date when, but we know the Queen Maeve’s magical education happened for sure before Hogwarts was built and since Slytherin most likely came from Ireland, he could be aware of such events. Of course, one may wonder if the idea of Hogwarts wasn’t partially related to the Maeve’s practice of passing down her magical knowledge - and more important, did he agree with such practice at court of Muggle-born king/husband of the great witch?

The song keeps mention Founders in the same order: Gryffindor - Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff - Slytherin. If that was intentional, then Hogwarts was shared a wish [Godric], a hope [Rowena], a dream [Helga] and daring plan [Salazar], which I guess suits ambitious nature of Slytherin just fine.

And who knows, maybe Slytherin was inspired by Queen Maeve after all, while being ambitious to make the school available to every young wizard and witches in whole Great Britain?

Here is one thing more to think about - building Hogwarts (the castle) wasn’t the most difficult problem the founders faced. Children (students) must be found and brought safely to school and after finishing the education, taken home. They must be feed, provided with necessary accessories (ingredients for potions, a sheet of paper, ink, and so on) and of course some children are gonna be from poor families, thus required additional material help. There is so many logistic problems the school needed to face to function properly that I can’t imagine the four great sorcerers of their time never talked about the issue who should be taken into their care before education started. Fine, Godric may not think too much about that since he seems like the type of doing first, thinking later but Rowena and most likely Salazar did pay attention to such detail, since both character emphasize intelligence / thinking ahead. The fact that all agree to form their own Houses (that represents different values) seems to me they came to some decisions about how the teachings is gonna happen once Hogwarts will be open for good.

At first the four great sorcerers chose by themselves their future students. We don’t know how that happened, if those young wizards and witches were put on some trials or if there were sort of interview with them? Because somehow the Founders have to see if those young and untested/unknown people have in them something “worth” their time and effort, right? While still alive they did divide their favourites from the throng kind of make it quite clear all founders selected students, so their judgment must have been based on something, right?

And frankly, I think in the first years of Hogwarts, students didn’t start at the same age. It seems to be quite weird to take only those children at the age of 11. If the school was something new in Great Britain, then some older wizards & witches could came there too, couldn’t they? I mean, who wouldn’t want to be educated by one of the greatest sorcerers, especially if there is limited way to gain knowledge and skills under competent teachers?

Sorting Hat became a way to decide to which House students should go after death of Slytherin, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. The Four Founders put “some brains” in it, which means the thing carry inside the combined magic (and thoughts and values?) of all of them. It makes me wonder then if Salazar was the “black sheep” of their little group, does the “power hungry” description is objective or more subjective (as in: colored by Godric, Rowena or Helga’s feelings toward Salazar?)

According to Rowling’s: Hogwarts: An Incomplete and Unreliable Guide / Pottermore (x) the “The Sorting Hat is one of the cleverest enchanted objects most witches and wizards will ever meet. It literally contains the intelligence of the four founders, can speak (through a rip near its brim) and is skilled at Legilimency, which enables it to look into the wearer’s head and divine his or her capabilities or mood. It can even respond to the thoughts of the wearer.” According to informations from Pottermore, Legilimency was Salazar’s area of expertise (x). So he definitely put some of his own magic in the Sorting Hat - and mind you, Slytherin’s magic is pretty important part, since Legilimency is what allows the Hat to look inside students’ heads!

So, we heard that Salazar was “power hungry” wizard who loved those of great ambition. He was also described as shrewd (“having or based on a clear understanding and good judgment of a situation, resulting in an advantage. Synonyms: astute, calculating, clever [Cambridge Dictionary]). Which is gonna be important soon.

What is important for now to remember, all four Founders valued different traits, thus I guess, have different way to perceiving magic (and humanity?).They also made some plans (like sorting students) for future, when they are dead and gone, so the school could still work and function properly under someone’s else guide.

The next (and last) song - that I’m gonna split in smaller parts - happened in 1995 [Harry Potter and the Phoenix Order] and gave us another informations worth to examine:

In times of old, when I was new,

And Hogwarts barely started,

The founders of our noble school

Thought never to be parted.

United by a common goal,

They had the selfsame yearning

To make the world's best magic school

And pass along their learning.

"Together we will build and teach"

The four good friends decided.

And never did they dream that they

Might some day be divided.

For were there such friends anywhere

As Slytherin and Gryffindor?

Unless it was the second pair

Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,

So how could it have gone so wrong?

How could such friendships fail?

Why, I was there, so I can tell

The whole sad, sorry tale.

Said Slytherin, "We'll teach just those

Whose ancestry's purest."

Said Ravenclaw, "We'll teach those whose

Intelligence is surest."

Said Gryffindor, "We'll teach all those

With brave deeds to their name."

Said Hufflepuff, "I'll teach the lot

And treat them just the same."

These differences caused little strife

When first they came to light.

For each of the four founders had

A house in which they might

Take only those they wanted, so,

For instance, Slytherin

Took only pure-blood wizards

Of great cunning just like him.

And only those of sharpest mind

Were taught by Ravenclaw

While the bravest and the boldest

Went to daring Gryffindor.

Good Hufflepuff, she took the rest

and taught them all she knew,

Thus, the houses and their founders

Maintained friendships firm and true.

Once again we are told that Helga, Salazar, Rowena and Godric were A) good friends who shared the same ambitious dream - to build the best magic school, a place to teach young wizards and witches and to pass their own knowledge B) never thought they are gonna be divided by anything.

The fall of their friendship is mainly related to Salazar’s lack of will to teach Muggle-born wizards and witches but the song make it clear that all Founders had their own idea of what kind of students should be taught:

Slytherin, "We'll teach just those Whose ancestry's purest."

Ravenclaw, "We'll teach those whose Intelligence is surest."

Gryffindor, "We'll teach all those With brave deeds to their name."

Hufflepuff, "I'll teach the lot And treat them just the same."

and ALL of those differences caused little strife.

Hufflepuff was the only one willing to teach ALL students, while others looked in children for special traits (either social/blood status and/or abilities they had/respected themselves). The previous song though make it clear that Helga once too favored certain kind of people: hard workers were most worthy of admission. The same as Hufflepuff changed mind to teach ALL, the description of Salazar switched from “power-hungry Slytherin loved those of great ambition” to caring mainly for blood status. A blood status that did not mean that much in Middle Age:

Slytherin’s discrimination on the basis of parentage was considered an unusual and misguided view by the majority of wizards at the time. Contemporary literature suggests that Muggle-borns were not only accepted, but often considered to be particularly gifted. They went by the affectionate name of ‘Magbobs’ (there has been much debate about the origin of the term, but it seems most likely to be that in such a case, magic ‘bobbed up’ out of nowhere).

Magical opinion underwent something of a shift after the International Statute of Secrecy became effective in 1692, when the magical community went into voluntary hiding following persecution by Muggles. This was a traumatic time for witches and wizards, and marriages with Muggles dropped to their lowest level ever known, mainly because of fears that intermarriage would lead inevitably to discovery, and, consequently, to a serious infraction of wizarding law. (x)

Not to mention an example of so called pure blood families, like Malfoys, who might always look down on Muggles but did not mind hang out with their nobility and have been on speaking (or marrying) terms with Muggles (x) prior to International Statute of Secrecy (1692)

To be fair, it may be just author’s inaccuracy due to progress of the story. Salazar Slytherin was already connected to pure blood ideology since Chamber of Secrets, so of course he must be the source of problem that give a ground for the conflict happening in times of Harry Potter.

But at the same time, the song states clearly that even though Salazar wanted to teach only those whose ancestry’s purest* he still took only pure-blood wizards of great cunning just like him. So, even between those of “proper social/blood status”, Slytherin still looked for the smartest kids to deal with. With raises question - did Salazar care more for pure-blood of students or the skills/smartness? As someone described as “power hungry”, I tend to think the lack of proper blood could be omitted by Salazar if he met a truly ambitions & cunning child. Did Salazar truly took only pure-blood students into his House? Blood Baron** may suggest otherwise, but for now let’s finish all the info from the song.

*what kind of doesn’t make much sense in light of newest Rowling’s writing for Pottermore since Muggle and wizarding worlds were intertwined for ages so how Salazar could check family line of all children in Great Britain? How he understood purest ancestry anyway? Did family with three magic generation counts as such? Four? More? Or maybe the children of parents that both are sorcerers were okay, regardless if one of parents was half-blood or Muggle-born themselves? I’m gonna come back to this soon.

**Took only pure-blood wizards… but Bloody Baron, one of the first Salazar’s students may not be pure-blood himself, if once again Lupin’s words may be recalled into discussion. Baron was born into nobility, but aristocrats are Muggle thing. Sooo, either this is simply error on Rowling’s part or in Salazar’s time, pure-blood status could be seen in different way. Not as status / blood connection to certain families, but the magic in someone’s blood? Living close and/or in magic world? Anything else?

The “little strife” between Founders seems to prove that they indeed talked about what kind of students they are gonna teach. Frankly, if they were great friends (Godric & Salazar were close to each other), I have hard time to imagine that issue of Muggle-born sorcerers was never bring into discussion before. Especially since back in Middle-Age - and in general, in past - sorcerers and no-magic people live along each other and there were plenty half-blood witches and wizards. The mixed marriages were much more common than they are in modern times, so there is a big chance that all of Founders could be half-blood or Muggle born themselves or have blood relatives between no-magic people; this is not topic that was hushed down back in their times, so I don’t think there would be reason for such great friends to not talk about Muggle-born & half-blood wizards and witches and what is their view of them, the situation of magical world and about potential future students. The songs seems to agree with me, because despite all their differences, the “houses and their foundersmaintained friendships firm and true.”

(Also, please note, this is third time when Sorting Hat connects Slytherin to true friendship which means despite power-hungry, ruthless and ambitious nature he wasn’t the back-stabbing type of person and was capable of loyalty / connecting to other people).

Now, time for the part focused at the schism:

So Hogwarts worked in harmony

For several happy years,

But then discord crept among us

Feeding on our faults and fears.

Sorting Hat once again provides important facts, like

A) Despite different values on which all Houses were built, Founders worked in harmony for many years.

B) Salazar did not resign just after school opened and pick up his students and taught them for more than at least two years

C) most likely something must happened to bring back the discord between them (maybe the tragedy of Helena Ravenclaw and Bloody Baron? I think it would fit timeline-wise)

D) Slytherin wasn’t solely responsible for the end of their friendship, since Hat says it cleary our faults and fears. This is pretty interesting that along faults (stubbornness? harmful ideology?), the fears played main role in their downfall. The Hat did not mention that Hogwarts was built in difficult times when magic people were persecuted by Muggle-born ones. Whatever happened to rise the conflict may be related to this persecution.

The Houses that, like pillars four

Had once held up our school

Now turned upon each other and

Divided, sought to rule.

And for a while it seemed the school

Must meet an early end.

What with duelling and with fighting

And the clash of friend on friend.

E) The conflict turned Founders against each other and there was fight how to rule the school; we aren’t told if Slytherin was the only one trying to impose his will/ideology on others making him vs three Houses, or if the conflict was much more complex. We don’t know how those fights affected students albeit song says it clearly that the schism put school in danger of being closed for good.

F) The fight between friends weren’t just verbal arguments; they dueled with each other, so it was pretty bad.

And at last there came a morning

When old Slytherin departed

And though the fighting then died out

He left us quite downhearted.

The way song described Slytherin as old may suggest he was much older than rest Founders. Pictures of the Founders on Pottermore (x)() suggest that too, since Salazar is presented there with white/grey hair. This of course may give him different life experiences when it comes to Muggle-born/no-magic people; the repetitive persecution of mages could influence Salazar’s perception of reality. Mind you, as someone specialized in Legilimency (what allows to enter another person’s mind), Salazar was most likely called shrewd for a good reason. Fear of no-magic community wasn’t totally unfounded and we may only wonder what kind of relationship (life experiences) with Muggles Slytherin could have to form such negative idea out of the standard acceptance.

So, Slytherin departed albeit the song does not say if that was his own idea or if he was given to understand he is no longer welcome there. I tend to think it was solely his decision, not to spite the others nor to make the ostentatious show. The school, the ambitious plan & dream, was in danger of closing for good. Maybe the departure was Slytherin’s hope to save something great he and his friends worked hard to make true? In a way, his decision saved Hogwarts but his departure wasn’t welcomed with relief. It stopped the fight, but seems like no one was truly happy when Salazar left the school.

And never since the founders four

Were whittled down to three

Have the Houses been united

As they once were meant to be.

The departure of Slytherin was a blow to other Founders. Interesting thing is that, the lack of unity isn’t specified for Slytherin & Gryffindor “rivalry” alone. So maybe the fight between Founders wasn’t that one-sided as it’s usually painted. In the end, they all never recovered from that fight & lost of friend and Hogwarts never again have been united as it meant to be.

The rest song is Sorting Hat’s warning that Hogwarts Houses must unite against upcoming dark times. Songs alone gave as a lot things to think about. Of course, Sorting Hat has limited time for its stories and rhymes,that is why I wish to bring one more (in universe) source, namely the history lesson with professor Binns:

‘You all know, of course, that Hogwarts was founded over a thousand years ago – the precise date is uncertain – by the four greatest witches and wizards of the age. The four school houses are named after them: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Salazar Slytherin. They built this castle together, far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when magic was feared by common people, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution.’

Thanks to professor Binns, we have another important pieces about situation of magic people in Middle Ages, omitted by the Sorting Hat. Namely:

Hogwarts was built in secret in times when magic was feared by common (Muggle) people. The ”far from prying Muggle eyes“ may even suggest that Muggles were suspicious about anyone and anything that may be related to magic and hunted down the witches and wizards on their own. Not only evil ones, but anyone who was “weird” (different) and did not fit their idea of society. We know that hunt for witches wasn’t one-time event and happened through the ages; the panic and mass hysteria spread easily and many innocent people were killed in brutal way. The darkest times, the inquisition, happened few centuries after Hogwarts was opened, but we must remember that when Christianity became dominated religion, a lot pagan tribes were forced to accept (and submit to) a new religion. According to wikipedia, in England The laws of King Athelstan (924-40), corresponsive with the early French laws, punished any person casting a spell which resulted in death by extracting the extreme penalty (x). The law was passed some decades prior to beginning of Hogwarts, so Founders may not be witnesses of what happened to all witches and wizards in result (were they even born yet?), but then again, Sorting Hat called “old” only Salazar, so who knows how much older*** he was than rest ? Even if he was born and raised in Ireland, the stories of purge may reach him pretty fast, considering magic means of fast travel & communication via animals.

*** and hey, Dumbledore was 100+ years old and still kicking ass, Professor Bathilda Bagshot died at 124, Newt at 119 and others are good examples that old age is not so big deal between magic people

And not forget that in Ireland, druid (magic) tradition already collapsed due to spreading & dominating Christianity. Did Salazar despite how new, so anti-magic religion was destroying the older, pagan faith that keep magic and no-magic people in somehow symbiosis relationship? Magic always was feared to some degree, but in pagan tribes no less respected, seek more in need than greed, while the sorcerers themselves were respected and had high(er) social status between Muggles. The symbiosis may never be truly perfect, sure, but definitely better than Christian law killing any person casting spell, even the good (healing) ones. Frankly, I wonder if Salazar himself wasn’t somehow connected to old (magic) tradition/faith and how this could add to his refusal of teaching Muggle-born (Christian) children?

Another thing to take into account is the way Hogwarts was built. How many castles with solid walls are really changed into schools for children? Did Founders from the start felt they must fortify their school? Did they build the castle themselves or did they get the building somehow? Did all those charms to protect school (and its students) were put there by them from the start or was it later addition? Because there is so many security stuff, to the point that Hogwarts is now considered the safest place in modern Great Britain.

Did Founders worried that putting all magical children in one place may provoke Muggles to do something nasty? Were they afraid of no-magic people?

Another part of the lesson:

He paused, gazed blearily around the room, and continued, ‘For a few years, the founders worked in harmony together, seeking out youngsters who showed signs of magic and bringing them to the castle to be educated. But then disagreements sprang up between them. A rift began to grow between Slytherin and the others. Slytherin wished to be more selective about the students admitted to Hogwarts. He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy. After a while, there was a serious argument on the subject between Slytherin and Gryffindor, and Slytherin left the school.’

Once again we learn that Founders worked in harmony for a few years, which most likely means Slytherin objection to teaching Muggle-born wasn’t anything strong or even not born yet.

Here is very useful and important part: Founders personally seek out youngsters who showed signs of magic and took them to the castle to be educated. Which means that Salazar and his friends did have contact with Muggles****, seeking between them young (untrained) wizards and witches. Since the law against witchcraft in England (and maybe in other parts of Great Britain too) has been working for years we may only imagine how the meeting with Muggle-born parents went. Did they reacted with fear? Hate? Keep thinking how their children’s magic may be useful for them? That those children are little devils that should be killed? Even in modern times, some families aren’t accepting magic but back in the Middle Ages? When magic was satan’s thing? How many people enjoyed such news or just accepted it without fuss? And hey, even seeking the half-blood children could be dangerous to their magic parents, if out of nowhere their identity of witch/wizard has come to light. Unless their Muggle partner knew about it, the surprise could bring tragedy to family. There are histories about, for example, man killing his wife cause he thought she was witch.

****Since many witches & wizards were living between no-magic people, Salazar and his friends most likely met a lot Muggles, even when they seek children of sorcerers. Professor Binns said, they seek out their students, so I’m guessing they weren’t rely on “searching/tracking spells” alone, if it existed yet at all. Maybe while travelling from one human settlement to another, they heard stories that sounded as someone’s using magic thus finding Muggleborn wizards & witches along the way?

Frankly, I’m surprised that Founders didn’t think / argue to take away those children for good, Jedi-like style. That way school could gain a talented students, while children would be far away from potential abuse. Then again, this is of course only my assumption that Hogwarts worked then in similar fashion to modern times, with the vacations between teaching when childs are sent back to their families for summer & winter (christmas*****) breaks. And even so many years later, the problem of putting back students into abusive families / unpleasant environments was never truly solved. Harry Potter may be seen as a special case, but Severus & Tom (half-bloods) were forced to come back to unhappy family / orphanage that cut them away from magic world. Okay, Severus had witch for a mother, and by some time magical friend (Lily), but being sorcerer between Muggles is pretty hard thing. Especially if Muggles hate the magic (Harry with Dursley, Lily with her own sister hating her).

***** Okay, I’m still not sure why the wizarding world even celebrate Christmas if no one seems to be Christian themselves, nor the religion plays any role or appear in the background at all.

Of course, if the no-magic parents were the trouble, why refuse children an access to education that will keep them safe and between their own folks? Why Salazar wanted cut them off, be more selective? A good question with not clear answer. On one hand, we should ask how many Muggle-born wizards and witches were back in Salazar’s days? In Harry Potter’s times, there weren’t that much Muggle-born sorcerers in his and younger class we are aware of, right? What if in Salazar’s time Muggle-born wizards and witches were even less happening, mainly due to fact

there wasn’t any law forbidding marrying no-magic people, thus

the amount of half- and quarter-blood (from half-blood & Muggle-born no-magic parents) was much bigger than later so

even if magic genes skipped a generation or two, some children still had magic blood in them due to having magic ancestor(s)

and let’s not forget the Squibs (children of wizards who do not have magic), who chose (or were shunned) to live between Muggles could pass the magic gene to next generations******

There is also question how people gained magic in the first place. I mean, magic has been with mankind since the dawn of time. The wizards and witches aren’t different from no-magical people (except for magic, of course), so wouldn’t it make sense if even the purest magical families come from Muggle-born wizards and witches that passed down the magic gene? I wish to see some in-universe research about that.

******Frankly, I wonder if wizards are capable of checking if supposed Muggle-born student was truly a rarity or simply had distant magic ancestor? Especially since Squibs were living between Muggles for a long time and had their own childrens, then shouldn’t magic appear in some at some point? How Hermione (or rather magic teachers / officials) can be so sure she is Muggle-born witch and not some very distant descendant of Squib or wizard/witch? Does magic allow to check someone’s family tree that far in the past to be so sure about it?

On three song, none stated Salazar’s reasoning. We know whom he wanted to teach (Whose ancestry is purest; Took only pure-blood wizards Of great cunning, just like him) and what he seek in his students (Loved those of great ambition; of great cunning) but we’re not told why. Professor Binns, as the only one source, gave short passage: He believed that magical learning should be kept within all-magic families. He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage, believing them to be untrustworthy.

At first, the all-magic families sounds as pure-blood ideology, right? But once again, what counts as all-magic family? What pure-blood meant in Middle-Ages and in time prior to Statute of Secrecy became effective (1692)? How many magic generation after generation family should have to to satisfy Slytherin? And if, let’s say, a Muggle-born wizard/witch married another magical person and they have magic offspring would the child(s) meet Salazar’s requirement? Both parents are wizards thus kid is raised in all-magic family, both understand to some degree magic and how it works, both need to watch out for Muggle prying eyes and keep hidden identity safe due spreading Christianity & anti-magic laws.

And what about children of Muggle-born person married into “pure-blood” family with magic generation after generation? What about half-bloods who are still born and raised in families in 99% full of wizards and witches? Would they count or not?

Would Slytherin refused such childrens, if they showed ambition and cunning nature he so much loved?

Also, the single argument given us by professor Binns is very important. Because Salazar’s choice of students didn’t come from sense of superiority (that I don’t see it in songs & history lesson provided by series) but from the feeling that students of Muggle parentage were untrustworthy.

Not worse than pure-blood students. Not unworthy of magic and learning under the greatest wizards and witches of their time. Not lesser.

Salazar believed he can’t trust them (and rest of Founders shouldn’t either). But trust with what?

The use of magic? Yeah, I can see how children who were picked up for years for being different, if not straight out abused as “spawn of devil” would rely on magic for their own protection or maybe even revenge of some sort. Which is rather connected to the (still unsolved) problem of sending back children to Muggle families / environment that aren’t always the safest or happiest places and well, some people love to have power and control that magic gives. Muggle- and magic-born alike.

The safety of Hogwarts and other wizards? Did the school was already Unplottability from the start? Did Salazar worried that Muggle-born students, willingly or accidently or under pressure(torture?), will betray the location of the magic school putting everyone in danger? Or spread the information that there is place full of still not fully trained wizards and witches, an easy prey to destroy due to their young age and limited knowledge?

Or, if Bloody Baron was Muggle-born (or at least half-blood born into Muggle nobility), would his action changed Salazar’s mind? Lack of control that resulted in death of Baron (Salazar’s own student) and pure-blood/half-blood Helena Ravenclaw (daughter of Salazar’s close friend) and may speed up death of Rowena (Salazar’s close friend)? Since Baron was one of Slytherin’s first student, that for sure could be a real blow to Salazar’s sense of trust (pride).

Salazar did not trust students of Muggle parentage, but in contrast to later pure-blood supremacist, there is not sources in which he would dehumanized those students or Muggles in general. Chamber of Secret is, mind you, covered up with so many myths and legends, so it’s hard to tell what was true and what was added later to the story. I’m gonna cover up this issue next time. For now let me bring passage:

Several works of dubious scholarship, published around the early eighteenth century and drawing partly on the writings of Salazar Slytherin himself, make reference to supposed indicators of pure-blood status, aside from the family tree. The most commonly cited signs were: onset of magical ability before the age of three, early (before aged seven) prowess on a broomstick, dislike or fear of pigs and those who tend them (the pig is often considered a particularly non-magical animal and is notoriously difficult to charm), resistance to common childhood illnesses, outstanding physical attractiveness and an aversion to Muggles observable even in the pure-blood baby, which supposedly shows signs of fear and disgust in their presence.

Successive studies produced by the Department of Mysteries have proven that these supposed hallmarks of pure-blood status have no basis in fact. Nevertheless, many pure-bloods continue to cite them as evidence of their own higher status within the wizarding community. (x)

After International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy (1692) the pure-blood was more political statement than true biological facts, supported by many of wizards and witches who were against voluntary hiding of wizarding community, so stuff published around the early eighteenth century are already connected to political ideology of supremacist and not always were stricte scientific research. Thus Several works of dubious scholarship is already a clear warning that reader should critically evaluate them

So, those dubious “historians” connected their pure-blood ideological theories to Slytherin by drawing partly on the writings of Salazar Slytherin himself. Mind you, they did not quoted directly his work, but only used those partly, which most likely means they took what fitted their theories, quite possible out of original context. What unfortunately happened through the ages in our world too; Nietzsche's philosophy & Nazi’s racism comes to mind.

We don’t have an idea what Salazar wrote nor in what form. Was that his personal journals? His magical research/studies? Did those writings even survive to modern times and are - in universe - available to historians or do we - and wizarding world - know about them only due to dubious, biased reference? Slytherin for sure must be controversial historical figure, but how much of his dark reputation comes from his own doing and how much from over-interpretation, manipulation or straight propagating racist ideas by using his person?

Also, He disliked taking students of Muggle parentage… that kinda sounds that despite his personal disliking, he still took (and taught?) some. So, did Sorting Hat lied with the Took only pure-blood wizards Of great cunning, just like him line? Or was that more about general finding and bringing Muggle-born students to school?

I think my biggest problem with perception of Salazar Slytherin through the story is that he lived around 1000 years before the big conflict of main story happened. People, and thus society, change really fast, ideologies comes and goes, so are wars, political clashes, idea of comfort and inappropriate behavior. Generation after generation the changes happen so it is really hard to me to imagine that what Salazar thought and did and what motivated him 1000 years ago will be the literally the same thing for pure-blood supramcist now. When even the context of dislike for Muggle-born wizards and witches switched from general terror against magic to a sense of superiority or even a desire to enslave or exterminate no-magical people.

What is pretty big switch of reasoning, don’t you think?

I’m not gonna say Salazar did nothing wrong, but I think calling him pure-blood supremacist in the modern (in universe) sense may be quite far from the truth.

I imagine most likely everyone brave enough to read my meta to the end at least few times hissed but the Chamber of Secrets! I did not forget nor omitted it. This and Salazar’s students & family is gonna be topic of the next part, I promise.

#harry potter #salazar slytherin #hogwarts founders #pure blood ideology #my meta #my analysis #that no one asked for #but here i am again #i really feel like slytherin is victim of modern pure blood supramcist to some degree #like professor binns said there is a lot legends and myths that grow around slytherin's departure from hogwarts #and if there is no salazar's writing that survived to modern times #it's easy to write some racist stupid books claiming but hey salazar already said so!#sorry for a long text #16 page in google doc lol

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eddycurrents · 6 years ago

Photo

Darkness Calls: Chapter One

Words: Mike Mignola | Art: Duncan Fegredo | Colours: Dave Stewart | Letters: Clem Robins

Originally published by Dark Horse in Hellboy: Darkness Calls #1 | April 2007

Collected in Hellboy - Volume 8: Darkness Calls | Hellboy Library Edition - Volume 5 | Hellboy Omnibus Volume 3: The Wild Hunt

Plot Summary:

Igor Bromhead returns to bind Hecate to him. A trio of witches fondle Hellboy’s horn sculpted into a miniature. And, in England, while staying with his and Bruttenholm’s old friend, Harry (it’s going to get complicated, but just go with it right now), Hellboy goes for a walk with a company of three weird folk learning a bit of the witchfinder, Henry Hood, and a tomb.

Reading Notes:

(Note: Pagination is solely in reference to the chapter itself and is not indicative of anything within the issue or collections.)

pg. 1 - Here we’ve the return of Mignola’s almost Aleister Crowley analogue (the character is more consistent with Wm. Somerset Maugham’s caricature as Oliver Haddo in The Magician) in Igor Bromhead, last seen in “Box Full of Evil” running afoul of a deal gone bad with a demon’s conjuration and imprisonment.

The old architecture is gorgeous. Really gives a connection to the ritual being performed to “old things”.

pg. 4 - I think it’s interesting that the first form that Hecate appears in is that of the Iron Maiden. You could suppose that this is her “true” present form, being spirit and flesh imbued into that iron coffin.

I’m also impressed that Duncan Fegredo not only included the rivets on the structure, but the hinges.

And it seems like Bromhead hasn’t found a cure for his reptile leg affliction.

pg. 5 - The shift to the more feminine yet monstrous gorgon appearance is interesting as Hecate admonishes and mocks Bromhead, though there’s something to be said for his own shit-eating grin. You can tell he’s got something up his sleeve even before he finishes the conjuration ritual.

The reaction shot of the birds supping on the blood is just gorgeous. That kind of “crap, something’s up” look that animals give when they’re spooked. Nice work from both Fegredo and Dave Stewart.

pg. 6 - Then we get almost a human appearance when Bromhead binds Hecate by her human name. It’s a brief shift as she then goes back to a gorgon and the iron maiden form, but it’s kind of significant in the binding. It’s a nice touch of the art.

Also, booty.

pg. 7 - And dragging another skeleton out of the closet, bringing Giurescu back from Wake the Devil and Hecate’s rebirth story. It’s neat how Mignola is utilizing the little bits and pieces from the past to push forward into something new.

Also, I love the little changes to balloon styles and colouring throughout from Clem Robins, giving each voice a unique touch.

pg. 8-9 - This trio of witches definitely seem to be up to something nefarious with that Hellboy carving. The design of the harpy form is also really neat.

And I’m loving Dave Stewart’s colours. He’s utilizing the colour washes that have been common since Seed of Destruction, but these aren’t nearly as stark. There’s a bit of layering to them that works well with the detail and lines of Fegredo’s artwork. It also makes you wonder if you’re supposed to carry over the old colour themes from the earlier stories, but I’m not sure if it works. There’s much more of a blue-grey wash to everything (previously denoting Rasputin and his influence for the most part) which makes me wonder.

pg. 11 - Gorgeous shot of Harry’s home by the sea. It’s also interesting that the “Stormalong” song begins with what looks like a flashback to Hellboy’s time drinking with ghosts on the island. Maybe that’s a hint?

pg. 12 - Nice replacement service pistol.

pg. 13 - You’ve got the impression that the witches are messing with him through that effigy, you’ve got Harry giving a present tense sentence of Bruttenholm’s pride in Hellboy, the weird song working a parallel narrative about the dead, the blue-grey wash giving a kind of illusory feel against which the red of Hellboy’s skin definitely stands out, and then you’ve got cats. Beautiful cats as rendered by Fegredo. Not quite as ominous as crows, owls, or such, but there’s definitely a connotation of cats being drawn to the supernatural (Mignola and Arcudi used it earlier in Garden of Souls) almost as a psychopomp or perhaps a familiar. It leaves you a little uncertain.

pg. 14 - Just beautiful art from Fegredo and Stewart.

pg. 16 - And then there’s this weird trio, picking up the song that you wonder if it was supposed to be in Hellboy’s head to begin with, or if they’ve been singing it all along and we’ve just been building to this.

pg. 17-18 - The history of Henry Hood and his demise is a nice touch, giving a bit of depth as to what’s coming in this sequence.

pg. 19 - It just gets creepy. The woods seem haunted by Hood’s spirit and it’s definitely troubling to all of them.

pg. 20-21 - The time shifts, between present and past, day and night, have a kind of interesting unsettling affect. Though it’s by no means confusing, it rattles you a bit.

Also love the use of sound effect from Clem Robins rather than seeing the actual end result of the hanging. Leaving it to the imagination is so much more frightening.

pg. 22 - Here’s where we get more of a clue as to what this trio has been up to and where they’ve ultimately been guiding Hellboy.

pg. 23 - Their physical changes are really neat.

pg. 24 - And boom, dead witches. But we’re still kind of wondering, why?

Final Thoughts:

And then things got weird.

If you thought that The Third Wish and The Island got into metaphysical realms, dabbling in esoteric ideas and telling the story through oblique allegories, you’ve not seen anything yet. Darkness Calls begins what could be considered Hellboy’s Arthurian period, where Mike Mignola because to incorporate some more British folklore and mythology into the story. It built upon the Irish and Celtic folklore began back in “The Corpse” and continued through with the angry little pig-goblin, Gruagach, as well as the Dagda being one of Hellboy’s watchers, and well...it just explodes from here.

The funny thing is, right now, it’s still kind of straightforward. You haven’t received the few bombs dropped on you yet as to what’s going on, so everything can be taken, and should be, at face value. Hellboy’s in England talking to some fairies about witches. Even incorporating the traditional ditty “Stormalong” as a parallel narrative, similar to how Mignola used poetry and Shakespeare in “The Ghoul”, isn’t necessarily as distracting (though it should definitely give a hint as to one of the things happening here).

Joining Mignola for the start of this final movement, an extended trilogy of sorts of Darkness Calls, The Wild Hunt, and The Storm and the Fury, is Duncan Fegredo. Fegredo became Mignola’s proxy in the present as much as Richard Corben did for the past. Although like both Mignola and Corben he uses a generous application of inks and shadows, there’s a bit more angular grit and a certain amount of detailed realism in Fegredo’s art. It’s suited perfectly to not only depicting a fantastical British countryside, but also that kind of kind of offbeat Woman in Black meets A Midsummer Night’s Dream type of ghost/faerie tale.

d. emerson eddy is calling the Darkness, but they don’t seem to be picking up.

#Give 'em Hellboy #Hellboy #Darkness Calls #Mike Mignola #Duncan Fegredo #RaisingHellboy #77

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thiswomanshouldbewriting · 7 years ago

Text

A Tale of Magic - Chapter 4 (Sons)

In the past, Belle has to deal with an unexpected development. In Storybrooke, father-son relationships will move things forward.

As always, thanks to my wonderful beta @galactic-pirates.

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Ao3 link.

As the weeks passed, life found a new, pleasant rhythm inside and around the Evil Queen’s castle. Snow and David were doing a great job at organizing things so that everyone’s skills were put to good use; camps were cultivated under Tiny’s expert supervision, Marco coordinated the construction of new houses, and Regina’s magic was turning out to be a real blessing, especially when Blue refused to offer help with some issues. It was Regina who had to turn Archie back into a human when the fairy refused to do so.

“I turned him into a cricket to give him another chance at being free and, most importantly, being good. To turn him back would mean taking away the lesson he learned on that day,” was her only explanation.

Blue also resented the fact that several dwarves, beside Snow’s seven old friends, had decided to help around the castle rather than go back to the mines. The decrease in the production of fairy dust only seemed to irritate her more, making it even harder to obtain help from her, but aside from Blue’s sour mood things were going nicely.

Even Belle had been assigned to her dream occupation. She was now in charge of Regina’s old library, with the added duty of collecting and recording all of the knowledge that they had acquired through their cursed memories. She had been given a list of every person who had come to the castle, and she had noted beside everyone the fields in which they were knowledgeable. It was a pity that Whale had gone back to his old world, and not just because Ruby missed him terribly; medical knowledge had been way more advanced in the Land Without Magic, and it was definitely one of their highest priorities. Thankfully, a bunch of nurses had come over, giving her a place to start.

She went to talk to the first one early one morning, bringing parchment and ink down to the infirmary, so that nurse Lewis, Charlotte, could still be available if there was an emergency. Everything was going nicely, and Belle already had three sheets of parchment full of notes, when the other woman started cleaning something with alcohol. The pungent smell went straight to Belle’s stomach, and a second later she was fighting the need to throw up.

“I’m sorry,” she said as soon as she was able to talk again. “I haven’t been feeling well these past few weeks, and strong smells really don’t help.”

There was a curious look on the nurse’s face.

“For how long exactly? Why didn’t you say something sooner?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I guess since shortly after we came back to the Enchanted Forest. I just didn’t pay much attention at first because, well… my True Love had just died. Feeling sick was basically a constant state for me,” Belle explained. God, it still hurt so much to say it.

“My condolences,” Charlotte said immediately. “Look, I know this might be too blunt and possibly a shock for you, but have you considered the possibility that you might be pregnant?”

It took Belle several seconds to fully grasp the meaning of her words.

“No,” she said instinctively, without even thinking. “No, I can’t be, it’s not possible…”

But it was. Her voice trailed off as the realization hit her. She had been so caught up in her grief that she had missed all the signs: the sickness, her missing period, even her sudden and strange craving for lemon cakes. Her head started spinning, and she sat down heavily on the closest bed.

“I mean, it’s just a thought, you’re not certainly pregnant,” Charlotte said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Belle shook her head. She might not have considered the possibility until then, but now she felt in her heart that it was the truth. She was pregnant. She was going to have Rumplestiltskin’s child, and she didn’t know if that made her feel better or worse. Now a part of Rumplestiltskin would always be with her, and their love would live on in the new life they had created together. Yet their child would never know its father, nor would she ever see Rumplestiltskin’s eyes lit up as he held his child for the first time. Images of the life they could have had flashed before her eyes, and knowing that they’d never become real felt like losing Rumplestiltskin all over again.

Neal was the first person she told about it. He was very surprised, then sympathetic, and eventually he managed to make her laugh by quipping about having always wanted to be a big brother. She had lost Rumple, but his children were still here, and she’d do her damnedest to take care of them as Rumple would have. Even though she had no idea where to start.

**********

By the time Neal and Henry arrived in Storybrooke, they had been attacked two more times. Emma and Regina were waiting for them at the townline, ready to fight off any other monkeys. Zelena’s beasts tried to keep anyone from leaving town, but coming back in was easier, as Emma herself had seen. Better safe than sorry, Emma thought, even though her magic was still quite unreliable. Regina was trying to teach her, but Emma was turning out to be quite a difficult student. She was full of potential, but she had trouble channeling her emotions into her spells. Emma would never admit it, but she suspected that part of her struggle was due to the fact that, deep down, she still hadn’t accepted all this magic craziness. She had started to after Henry ate that poisoned turnover, but he was the believer in the family, not her. After nine months back in the real world, with its normal problems, Storybrooke felt like nonsense. Dangerous nonsense. Back in New York, bills were her major problem. Now that magic was back in her life, the stakes had risen so much; she wasn’t struggling to make ends meet anymore, she was fighting to keep her family alive. Even though she knew this was technically her world, a part of her couldn’t help but long for the calm of her old life.

Henry rushed to hug her as soon as the car was safely across the townline, immediately making her mood lighter. Magic or not, she felt infinitely better with Henry in her arms. Neal came to hug her next, while Henry awkwardly shook hands with Regina. Emma could see the pain in her eyes at not being recognized by her own son, but there was nothing she could do about it. As much as it pained Regina to admit it, even she had agreed that it wasn’t wise to tell Henry that he’d actually been abandoned as a newborn. His world had just been turned upside down, and the last thing he needed was another shock, especially now that he knew he was in danger.

Neal decided to go back to his father’s house, to check on Belle and hopefully get some sleep. To Emma’s surprise, Henry hugged him before saying goodbye, even if he was somewhat awkward.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Neal… I mean dad, I mean… what do you want me to call you?” Henry asked, confused. Every word felt wrong on his tongue.

“It’s alright, you can still call me Neal if you want,” Neal reassured him immediately. “But should you feel like it, then call me ‘Papa’. It’s what I always called my father.”

Henry nodded, clearly more at ease, and Emma burned with curiosity. She wanted to know more about this sudden change in Henry and Neal’s relationship, but she didn’t want to pressure her son. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t keep silent about it for long anyway.

“I hit that monkey in the face, you know? Twice!” Henry said enthusiastically after they had parted from Regina as well.

“I hope the monkey didn’t do the same to you,” Emma replied, torn between pride and worry.

“Nope. It did try, but Neal always stopped it. He saved me, more than once. Not that I wasn’t able to take care of myself, but Neal helped. A lot,” Henry babbled, still high on adrenaline.

“I’m glad that you two are on better terms now. I’m sorry I had to leave you with him, especially when you didn’t trust him, but things have a tendency to go downhill pretty quickly in Storybrooke,” Emma explained.

“Because of magic?” Henry asked, still not quite able to believe it. “It’s all true then? Fairytale characters are real and a curse brought them here?”

“Yes. Crazy, right?” Emma said, smiling as she remembered the time when she had been the skeptical one.

“Neal said there are things from the past that we don’t remember. That our memories were erased and that we had met him before. That’s why you changed your mind about him?” he asked her. He didn’t think Neal could have come out with such an absurd explanation just to trick him, but he needed confirmation that his story and his mother’s matched.

“Yes. When we met him again, in the months you have forgotten, I discovered that there was a reason why he had left me alone. Not a great reason, but still better than him just wanting to run away with the money. He has been trying very hard to make it up to us, and he loves you very much,” Emma confirmed.

“I think he loves you as well. He gets emotional whenever he talks about you,” Henry said, curious at what his mother’s reaction would be.

“Maybe he does, but right now we don’t have time for that,” Emma brushed the matter off. “I’m more focused on getting your memory back and keeping you safe. We still don’t know what exactly that witch wants from all of us.”

Her attempt to change the subject was way too obvious to be missed. Henry wasn’t sure of what he thought of that, but he would surely keep a closer eye on his parents from now on. There was definitely a lot going on there.

**********

Ever since she had told the others that she was pregnant, Belle had hardly been left alone for a moment. There was always someone fussing over her, even more so than when she was ‘just’ grieving. She appreciated it, she truly did, but from time to time she felt the need to be alone with her thoughts, and the night was perfect for that. When she woke up from a nightmare - which was a common occurrence for her - she often saw no point in lying awake in the dark when there was no one to calm her and hold her as she fell back to sleep. So she got dressed and wandered through the castle, oftentimes ending up in the courtyard; she loved the flowers that grew there, and there was something bittersweet and soothing in looking up at the sky and wondering if Rumple was looking down at her from wherever he was.

That night, however, the courtyard wasn’t empty when she reached it. Regina was already sitting on one of the benches, and she turned around with a start when she heard Belle approaching.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Belle apologized immediately, already turning her back on the other woman to walk away. She didn’t feel like talking, especially not with Regina.

“No, wait, I actually wanted to talk to you,” Regina said after a second, as if she had been debating whether to speak or not.

Belle sighed, her back still turned to the queen. She could simply walk away; they weren’t friends by any means, after all, and she was tired. Yet being so rude really went against her nature, and she supposed she could just hear what this was about and leave if the whole thing got uncomfortable. She walked towards the bench, reminding herself that this wasn’t the same woman who had imprisoned her and erased her personality at least twice.

“What do you want, Regina?” she asked, her voice coming out just a tad more annoyed than she had meant it to. If Regina noticed, she didn’t let it show.

“I just want you to know that I’m sorry for all that you’re going through. I didn’t say it before, but I really mean it,” Regina said somewhat awkwardly. “Losing your True Love is terrible, and you didn’t deserve this. Probably nobody does.”

Belle could see the honesty in Regina’s eyes, and she really wished she could simply accept her condolences and walk away, but something about her choice of words really set her off. She had been building up tension, grief and anger for so long, and suddenly something inside of her snapped.

“Then why did you do your damnedest to put me and Rumplestiltskin through that kind of pain over and over again?” she asked, her voice already cracking with tears. “Why should I listen to you when your scheming took away so much of the limited time I had with Rumple? You’ve done nothing but mentally and physically torture me ever since we’ve known each other!”

Regina was taken aback by her outburst, but the quick flash of indignation in her eyes died straight away to be replaced by guilt.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a beat of silence. “I truly am. I know I did horrible things to you, and you didn’t deserve them.”

She was a new person now, or at least she was trying to be, but it was so much harder in the Enchanted Forest, where everything and everyone seemed to remind her of her past.

“Thank you,” Belle deadpanned. “Look, I had to let this out sooner or later, but I really don’t want to fight. You’ve hurt me, and this apology was long overdue, but I’m willing to try and move past that now that you’re changing,” she added, her tone turning more conciliating.

“You know, in a way I actually admire you,” Regina blurted out, surprising even herself for having said it out loud. Belle looked quizzically at her, so she went on.

“I admire you because you have a strength I never had. You are willing to forgive people no matter how much they’ve hurt you, and despite everything that life - or I, for that matter - threw at you, you didn’t let it change you. Darkness is a slippery slope, and you’ve always managed to keep yourself away from it,” Regina explained.

“Is it truly a big deal if I’ve never even been tempted?” Belle asked, a small smile finally forming on her face. Try as she might, she had never truly seen the appeal of darkness. When things went south, she was prone to blaming herself, and that was something that no amount of dark magic could fix. “Maybe it’s people like you and Rumplestiltskin who deserve the most praise,” she went on “Those who were tempted and fell into the pit, and then fought tooth and nail to get out of it.”

Regina looked even more shocked by her understanding than she had been by her accusations, and flashed Belle a bittersweet smile.

“That child is very lucky to have you as its mother. Motherhood is Rumplestiltskin’s last gift to you, and believe me when I say it’s the best gift you’ll ever receive. It surely was for me,” Regina said, then she stood up and teleported away, vanishing into the night before Belle even had the time to wish her goodnight.

Belle sat on that bench for several more minutes, pondering the other woman’s words, one hand on her still flat belly. She hadn’t expected Regina to apologize, let alone to compliment her. If only she felt as strong as the other woman had said; as far as she could tell, Belle had merely been a spectator in her own life recently. From being used and tossed around as a pawn by everyone who wanted to get back at Rumple, to being literally frozen in place as her True Love died, to finally this pregnancy, which was wanted but definitely unplanned; she hadn’t chosen anything. That was the first thing she needed to fix if she wanted to give her child their best chance; she needed to be stronger, to stand up for herself like she had done today with Regina. She needed to do it, no matter how hard it was, because now it wasn’t just herself that she needed to protect.

**********

Neal was exhausted after the long drive from New York to Storybrooke, and he was glad that the situation in town was still calm enough to allow him to get some sleep. The peace, however, was short lived. When he woke up, Belle informed him that there had been strange sightings in the woods during the night.

“A cloaked figure was spotted by several people on patrol duty, and those that tried to get closer to it were either teleported away or thrown to the ground with magic,” she said over breakfast, pushing her food around her plate. “No one was seriously hurt, but everyone thinks that this is a sign that Zelena is moving. They are trying to find out who is under the cloak, but not even Ruby seems able to follow its trail.”

“Do you think it’s my father under the cloak?” Neal asked cautiously.

Belle sighed, setting her plate aside altogether. “I think it’s very likely. This cloaked figure isn’t even attacking us, it’s just going around ominously. I think it’s just a diversion, and what better diversion than to have us chase someone only to discover we can’t and won’t hurt him?”

“Have you told Snow about this?”

“Yes, I have, but she still thinks we ought to track it down, and I agree. If it’s not Rumple, maybe we can learn something more about the witch’s plan. If it’s him… at least we can know how he’s doing,” she said, twisting her napkin in her hands.

Under any other circumstances, she would have been out there looking for him herself. Zelena was controlling him through the dagger, but she already knew that her and Rumple’s love was stronger than his curse; if there was someone who could help him break free of the dagger’s hold, it was her. Maybe Neal could as well, but while she was sure that there was True Love between Rumple and his son, she also thought that their relationship was still too tentative to fight such powerful dark magic. Yet she couldn’t go trek in the woods this far along in her pregnancy, especially not when she knew that Zelena was coming after her baby.

“What really worries me isn’t that Snow and the others are tracking him down,” Belle added after a moment. “It’s that I don’t know what kind of orders that witch is giving him. What if she forces him to do something horrible, something he’ll have trouble forgiving himself for?”

Rumplestiltskin had been her prisoner for months now, and Belle only had the faintest idea of what she had been forcing him to do in that time. Every extra minute he spent under her control could be the one in which she made him cross the line, assuming she hadn’t already.

“Hey, he hasn’t had to cause any real harm so far, let’s focus on that. We will free him, I promise,” Neal reassured her.

“If only we had more time…” Belle murmured, caressing her large belly. Her son could be born any moment now, and Zelena would come for him. She had no idea of what would happen next, and she hoped she’d never find out.

“I know, and that’s why I’m going out to help Emma search the woods. I promise I’ll do anything to protect you and my little brother,” he said, smiling reassuringly at her.

He hugged her, then he left the pink mansion, stopping by his father’s shop to retrieve his old saber. Then he called Emma and they agreed to meet at the townline.

“Henry gave me hell this morning. He realized that something was wrong and kept insisting on coming with me. I left him with Granny, at least I know that someone is keeping an eye on him and he isn’t sneaking around and putting himself in harm’s way,” Emma told him as they started trekking through the woods.

“Yes, he definitely has a talent for that. I guess he takes after both of us,” Neal said, preferring to focus on the comical aspect of the whole thing rather than dwell on how much danger their son was in.

“It must run in your family. After all, your father is the one who decided to break into your apartment when we came looking for you in New York,” Emma observed.

“Are you telling me I should get my baby brother some lock-picking tools already?” Neal asked, chuckling.

Emma laughed with him, but their hilarity was short-lived. A shadow moved amidst the trees to their right, and they immediately ran after it. The cloaked figure waved a hand; Emma was engulfed by purple smoke and disappeared. Neal looked at the spot where she had been until a moment before, paralyzed by fear.

She has just been poofed away, he told himself. She’s fine, probably on the other side of town, but unharmed. He turned back, anger making him bold.

“What did you do to her?” he screamed, then launched himself at the cloaked figure, determined to find out who it really was, and possibly get some answers.

He shouldn’t have bothered; his opponent, instead of trying to run away as he’d expected, slowly raised his arms to lower his hood. When Neal saw who he was fighting against, Neal stopped dead in his tracks, his stomach in knots.

Belle had been right. The mysterious figure was indeed Rumplestiltskin, but only in part. There was very little of his papa in the deranged eyes of the imp in front of him. There was no fondness in his gaze, no torment over being controlled, no sign that he even realized who he was fighting against. His skin was once again covered in scales, his eyes reptilian and inhuman, and Neal felt as though one of his nightmares had just come to life.

The imp giggled maniacally as a sword materialized in its hands, and Neal wiped his clammy hands on his trousers as he realized that he’d have to fight the worst incarnation of his father. He didn’t know what had happened to him; his hope was that Zelena was simply forcing him to be like this to upset her enemies, but a part of Neal couldn’t help but fear that, after being imprisoned for so long, his father had simply succumbed to the curse.

He was so lost in his own fear that he almost failed to block Rumplestiltskin’s first attack. His instinct kicked in at the last moment, and the fight began. Even without using magic, Rumplestiltskin proved himself a great swordsman, and Neal soon found himself struggling against him, fatigue starting to slow down his movements while his father seemed unaffected, the curse providing him an unfair advantage. The situation was made even more difficult by the fact that Neal just wasn’t thinking clearly. Seeing his father like this had brought him back to his fourteenth birthday, awakening a fear he had thought long gone, and that was making it hard to concentrate on the fight. He felt despair starting to creep in; he couldn’t win this fight, he couldn’t stop Rumplestiltskin, he couldn’t run away. He was alone and alone he’d die. He thought of Henry, who was just starting to let him in again, and who didn’t deserve to grow up without a father. He thought of Rumplestiltskin, who would never forgive himself for harming his son while he was under the dagger’s influence. He thought of Belle, who had already gone through so much, and who would be devastated at losing him. Lastly, he thought of Emma, and of how he would leave her alone again.

Rumplestiltskin attacked him, and the sheer force of his blow was enough to make the saber fly out of Neal’s hands. Disarmed and defeated, Neal took a step back, his back colliding with a tree. That was it then. He would be killed by his own father, by the man he had loved and feared the most. Rumplestiltskin roughly grabbed him by the neck, and Neal closed his eyes, bracing himself for the worst.

It was in that moment that an anguished scream echoed through the forest.

“Papa NO!” Henry yelled, bursting out from behind the trees, Emma, Regina and Granny trailing right behind him.

Papa. Papa. Papa. The word kept bouncing around Rumplestiltskin’s brain, becoming louder and louder, drowning out the voices in his head. He doubled over, cradling his head in his own hands and letting Neal go.

Neal rushed to hug his son, both terrified and relieved to have him here.

“Rumplestiltskin teleported me back to the loft,” Emma explained. “Henry refused to let me come back alone, and I didn’t have time to argue. I called Regina and she poofed us back here.”

Neal nodded in understanding, then he turned around to look at his father again. Rumplestiltskin looked confused, even more deranged than before, but there was something human in his distress, something that hadn’t been there before. He had dropped his sword to the ground, and was eyeing them curiously. After a beat of silence, a single word escaped his lips.

“Bae.”

Neal stood paralyzed for a moment, almost not daring to believe it.

“Papa? You remember me?” Neal asked, taking a few tentative steps in his father’s direction.

That word again. Papa. Images flashed before Rumplestiltskin’s eyes, making the present more confusing but the past more clear. The tiny hand of a newborn touching his nose. A thin, fragile kid asking him why his mother wasn’t coming home. A boy screaming at him that he was a coward. A grown man hugging him and telling him he was nothing like Peter Pan. And above all, that word repeated over and over again: Papa. Rumplestiltskin staggered forward, towards the man he had been fighting until a few moments ago. He didn’t want to hurt him anymore. He couldn’t. He shouldn’t.

But you have to, another voice resonated in his head, a vicious whisper that made his skin crawl. Fight him, scare him, be his nightmare, the voice went on, and Rumplestiltskin watched in horror as his hands moved against his own volition, working magic he didn’t want to perform. Everyone but Neal was paralyzed, and Rumplestiltskin grabbed his sword again, as Neal hurried to retrieve his saber. This time, however, there was no fear in Neal’s eyes.

“I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. I don’t want to hurt you,” Neal said as his father attacked him again. Rumplestiltskin’s movements were slower now, his hands trembling; Neal hoped it was a sign that he was trying to stop himself.

“I know you’re being forced to do this. I know you’d never try to hurt me, as I know you’re not the monster I once feared you were turning into. I’m not scared of you anymore, I’m not scared of the darkness anymore,” Neal insisted, as his father walked backwards, blocking his attacks with increasing difficulty.

Rumplestiltskin looked relieved when his sword finally slipped from his grip, falling to the ground. He looked at his son, struggling to quiet all the voices in his mind, to clear the fog just long enough to say something. He knew there was something important he needed to tell him, many important things actually, but he couldn’t for his life make out what those were.

“I’m sorry,” was all he managed to murmur in the end. Then he vanished in a puff of smoke, Neal’s saber disappearing with him. Emma and the others were freed from his spell, and Neal rushed to their side.

“I was so scared for you,” Henry screamed, all but jumping in his arms.

“It’s okay, I’m alright,” Neal reassured him. “I don’t like the idea of you running around and putting yourself in harm’s way, but I have to admit that I probably wouldn’t have made it without you. Hearing you call me ‘Papa’ gave me strength.”

“Hey, I think I showed you on our way here that we work better as a team; plus I just found you, I’m not going to let some crazy monster take you away right now,” Henry said, almost embarrassed by his own display of affection. Just yesterday he had barely tolerated Neal’s presence, and now here he was, already calling him Papa. True, they had spent several hours just saving each other over and over again, but there was more to it. He knew that they had met during the months that he couldn’t remember, and he was sure that some part of those memories had been preserved; nothing else could explain the deep, visceral trust that he now felt towards his father, together with a great sense of belonging. He might not remember the time they’d spent together, but that didn’t make it any less real, and some part of him knew it.

Neal’s emotional rollercoaster wasn’t over yet. He had been utterly terrified, then conquered one of his greatest fears, and now his son was beaming up at him in pride, and he felt almost giddy with happiness. He leaned down to press a kiss on Henry’s forehead, hoping that he wasn’t overstepping, just desperate to let his son know how much he meant to him.

That’s when a burst of magic rippled from his lips, sweeping over the town in the form of a rainbow. The curse was broken, and Neal looked flabbergasted at his son while Henry staggered under the flood of memories.

“Papa!” he screamed again, wrapping his arms tighter around Neal. “I remember everything!”

Then he spotted Regina looking almost disbelievingly at him.

“Mom!” he said, running over to her.

Regina felt as though her heart had finally started beating again. She wrapped Henry in her arms, immediately noticing how much taller he had grown during the past nine months. Tears welled up in her eyes, but for once she didn’t mind; she had her son back, and for a moment Zelena didn’t look like much of a threat. So long as Henry was by her side, she felt she could do anything.

**********

Rumplestiltskin poofed back into the cabin, his head still swirling in confusion as his aspect turned human again.

“You did a great job,” Zelena complimented him as he staggered back into his cage, shying away from the dagger that she held against him. “I got everything I wanted, and even more.”

She had sent Rumplestiltskin out to collect a token of Neal’s courage, and the saber with which he defeated his greatest fear fit the description perfectly. What she hadn’t expected was a clue on how to get Rumplestiltskin out of his madness.

“Soon enough you’ll be fully sane again, and then you’ll see how wrong you were all those years ago. I want to see the despair in your face when you realize you should have chosen me,” she hissed at him, watching with satisfaction as fear glimmered in his eyes.

Zelena cackled as she walked away: like everyone else, Rumplestiltskin had just no idea of how much worse things were going to get.

#Rumbelle #Swanfire #Rumbelle fic #Ouat AU #Rumbelle AU #A Tale of Magic #Sara writes #Sara talks

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mojoflower · 7 years ago

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Underappreciated Sterek Fics Rec List

These are fics that all have less than 200 bookmarks, and I feel that they need more.

♥ The Demon Barber of Maple Avenue by heyshalina, marshmallowfluff M. 14k. When Stiles woke up on a Friday with his hair far too long for his own comfort, he decided he needed a haircut. He was not expecting the whole situation to end with Derek finally succumbing to their mutual sexual tension.Or the ghouls. He especially wasn't expecting to be eaten by ghouls.Basically, Stiles doesn't know anything super useful that's not supernatural-related. He has excellent butt-dialing skills, though, so that's a plus.

So funny. "Yeah, I know," he said decisively, trying to look like he'd been perfectly aware that sitting down at the barber shop was a thing you could do. He took a step sideways towards the nearest chair. Natalie looked back down at her computer. He took another step. Then another. Then he turned and walked confidently towards the chair. He had just started lowering himself into it when Natalie called to him. "Stiles, we're ready for you now!" He jumped up from his half-crouched over position and his bangs fell back into his eyes. He flicked his hair out of his face with a jerk of his head, and felt sort of like Justin Bieber, before the guy cut off his hair because people said he looked like a lesbian. In a moment of fear, Stiles glanced across the room at his reflection in one of the mirrors. Did he look like a lesbian? He didn't want to look like a lesbian. Not that lesbians were bad or anything. But lesbians were only attracted to women, technically. He didn't want that kind of label applied to him.

Control by Badwolf36 M. 12k. After (and their lives are always defined by “after.” “After” Derek’s family burned. “After” Scott got bit. “After” Gerard and the Kanima and the Alpha Pack and the Darach) the Nogitsune is pulled from him, Stiles becomes obsessed with control.

Sweeter, more heart-wrenching and innocent than you'd think. So good.

The Time Stiles Totally Knew What He Was Doing by otatop G. 1k. Stiles aggressively woos himself. // Derek is there too.

This is so. FUNNY.

♥ Eagle Lake by saltandbyrne E. 29k. It was supposed to be an easy summer job. But everything at this camp is a little odd, and that Hale boy from the hardware store? Definitely too good to be true. Everyone seems to have secrets, and sometimes the truth is stranger than anything Stiles can imagine.

Lovingly earns every hot, throbbing inch of its E rating, seamlessly and hilariously interspersed with bits like this:

Or maybe he's actually going to eat Stiles, because seriously, since when do handsome strangers just show up at boys' camps in the middle of nowhere with any plans other than serial killing? Stiles is going to get serial-killed, and all he can do is look up at his future cannibal axe-murderer and gape.

A fear-boner is definitely a real thing, because Stiles is sporting one so big that the awkward police can probably see it from space. In a lifetime of inexplicable boners, Stiles is pretty sure that his “I'm about to get cut into little pieces by a gorgeous psycho” woody is the least 'plicable.

Good Touch by ksalterego M. 6k. Derek notices that Stiles doesn't have a pack, so Stiles doesn't get pack hugs. Stiles clearly wants pack hugs. Also, Stiles smells far too much like Scott, far too often. // Derek decides to do something about it all.

So, I have a THING for fics featuring a touch-starved Stiles. Really sweet... Stiles needs hugs so badly.

Keep The Earth Below My Feet by plume_bob M. 12k. There's history to be found in the box of his mom's old memories, but history is problematic when Stiles thinks Derek might be the only one who knows the story. And, as usual, relying on Derek is an exercise in emotional juggling that Stiles is just not equipped to handle.

So fucking gorgeous, I can't even. The author's turn of phrase is beautiful:

“Are you fishing for me to tell you you're funny?” Derek asks slyly, like Stiles is a book he can open at any page and immediately follow.

and

“I'm not made of wet paper towels, Derek,” Stiles tells him, harder than he'd imagined it'd come out with him feeling like—well, wet paper towels. Sorta. Wet paper towels laying on an exposed electrical wire. “You're not gonna break me.”

Omg, Derek is doing his tattoo, and they're practically having sex AS HE INKS HIM, and it's really unbearably hot.

The Owl by 8611 M. 8k. The owl keeps his forest, and everything inside of it, safe. Even a pack of wolves.

Oh my god, such a gorgeous and vivid fairy tale. Stiles is perfect as Owl, just watching. The end is a little sad, in the way that fairy tales can be, but don't let that stop you, because the beauty... is lovely.

Into the Woods by KrisEleven T. 10k. “Well, yeah, I’m following someone," Stiles explained. Eyebrows raised as Derek's judging increased. “Not in a creepy way! It’s my best friend and his girlfriend.” One side of his stupid mouth rose in a wry smile. “Not like – they’re lost!” // Now Derek didn’t look amused at all. He looked back at the paper, no doubt noting that they had planned to have returned almost 48 hours ago. “You have to report that.” // “Oh, yeah, I didn’t think of that,” Stiles snarked. “Of course I reported it. I called the ranger station yesterday.” // “And they told you to stay out of the forest while they conducted a search.” It wasn’t a question. // “Well, okay, maybe that was said, but –” // “You’re an idiot,” he told Stiles, rolling his eyes.

Or, When Scott and Kira get lost on a romantic hike in The Siskiyou Wilderness, Stiles enlists the help of Mountain Man Derek Hale to find them and ends up on a completely unexpected romantic hike of his own.

He pulled items at random as he recognized them and thought of situations in which they could possibly be necessary. He put back the second can of bear mace after some deliberation. If that many bears attacked him, he would be dealing with some deeper issues. Lol.

How to please your house spirit by Lesatha M. 14k. Derek startled awake in the middle of the night. For a split second he didn’t know why, then as he felt a strange weight on his chest, he raised his head and looked down. And stayed speechless. // There was a tiny creature, barely the size of Derek’s whole hand, sitting on him. It had a human shape, from what Derek could see. // It looked furious.

ohmygod this is infinitely adorable, Stiles is a (murderous, multitasking, shapeshifting) little shit (so is Peter) and Derek is utterly wrapped around his (occasionally) tiny finger.

♥ In Which Stiles Finds He Much Prefers When Interesting Things Happen to Somebody Else by Zoom Zoom (PaperLillyWebs) T. 21k. “Finish what you start,” the skull rasps at him, making him jump. When he looks up, the skull is just as still as before.Loosely based on Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wayne Jones.

What a fun story! Stiles the apprentice is every bit of adorable, his Master Hale is a shadowy, mean kind of figure, and something's going on where none of the ends match up. The story borrows the Howl's Moving Castle world, but that's all, none of the plot or characters. I love it.

Attach me to your world by artisan447 E. 27k. Turns out Stiles is magic. He's as surprised about that as anyone.

Sweet, sexy and intense: everything you want a surprise bonding fledgling magic fic to be.

♥ Fasten You to Me by nubianamy E. 21k. The day gravity stopped working, Stiles was jogging through the park.

This story is so awesome, and surreal and frightening and sweet. Stiles is jogging in the park when suddenly reality departs... and all the people go falling into the sky. He straps himself to a root, manages to catch Derek, and then they spend the next three days together as the world disappears into a dense fog. They get to talk a lot, of course, and more than talk (and wow, Stiles has had a crush on him since he was a little kid!). But every once in a while, Stiles goes cold, and there are no words in his mouth, only a song, and everything recedes, and that's when Derek gets really scared and starts singing Beatles songs in his dreadful off-tune voice, trying to combat Stiles' song, trying to bring him back.

I fucking love this story.

A Hundred Echoes by hunters_retreat E. 28k. In the wake of life altering events, the Beacon Hills pack is trying to settle into some semblance of normal. After the nogitsune, all Stiles wants is to be able to breathe easy and know that his friends are safe. When Stiles begins to dream of his friends though, they turn out to be something extraordinary. Stiles is a spirit walker. The dreams leave him empathic and unable to control himself, but salvation comes in the unlikely form of Derek Hale. Stiles just needs to know two things. What is stirring in the woods of Beacon Hills to cause the entire pack to dream of horrific things? And can Derek help him learn to center himself and control his empathy before it’s too late?

In which Stiles is an empath and a dreamwalker, unbeknownst to himself. He can be hurt in dreams, but his empathy is so out of control that no one can touch him but Derek.

"I'm not leaving without you, Derek," Stiles told him. He held his hand out for Derek to take but it wasn't like Scott's dreams, or Isaac's. This was Derek and even in his dreams there was a circle of mountain ash between him and the people he could ask for help.

"Stiles, please go," Derek's voice lost its command as he pleaded with Stiles. "I'll survive. I'll heal as soon as I wake up. You won't."

♥ Prickly Thorn, but Sweetly Worn by khasael T. 15k. An unhelpful witch gives Stiles a gift he doesn't want. It's hard to say whether Derek is pleased by this or not... although not for the usual reasons.

Oh, joy. Derek-the-hedgehog is utterly cute, and Stiles basically monologues for most of the chapters, and it's precious.

Massage Therapy by reillyblack M. 11k. Stiles wins the big lottery prize at the police departments annual fundraiser -- five at-home massages with the best masseuse in town. Which, ok, awesome, except... one problem: "the best masseuse in town" turns out to be the ridiculously hot, grumpy, man of his dreams and Stiles can NOT figure out how to hit on him during their sessions together without making him feel like a prostitute.

Very quick, and awkward and sweet. I'd love for it to be twice as long and twice as explicit, but I'll take what I can get ;-)

#rec list #sterek rec list #sterek fic recs #teen wolf fic recs #underappreciated fics

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faithfulcat111 · 7 years ago

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Just Shapes - Chapter 11

Day 11 (Saturday)

RomanoTaco: hey pat, you ok? PattyCake: ya lo wsnt to mad RomanoTaco: did you tell him? PattyCake: most of it RomanoTaco: im gonna go w verg 2day PattyCake: ok

LBerry: Planets are to be pitied as they cannot know how big and cool they are.

Roman managed to slip out of the house with minimal berating from his mom about getting in so late, which he chalked up to a miracle in and of itself. He couldn’t find Elliott or Dr Picani during his late afternoon wanderings, but he did find Talyn back up on the roofs and the two quickly started making there way to the tracks with some more tin soldiers for Talyn to destroy. As they arrived and got into position, Talyn looked over at him and said, “You look horrible. Like you have been through way too many wash cycles, Killer.” Roman rolled his eyes, pulling up his legs and waiting for the train to pass before responding, “Look, it’s been a long week.” “Yeah, how much sleep did ya get last night?” Talyn challenged. Roman furrowed his brow as he tried to remember when exactly he went to bed, “I think it was 14 hours. So, less than usual.” Talyn gave some sort of indistinguishable sound of surprise and Roman looked over at them in confusion. “14 hours is less than usual?” Talyn gasped. “Dude, I’m lucky if I hit five.” Roman turned his head away before answering, “Look, I don’t rest well when I sleep. I feel more rested the more I get because of my nightmares.” Talyn hummed in agreement, “Now, nightmares I can understand. But you really shouldn’t be sleeping for 14 or however many hours you do sleep.” Roman didn’t answer, choosing to just lay there as the train passed by. Once it did, he chose to change the subject, “You know what Possum Springs is lacking?” “Wifi? Cell service? Any technology post-1980’s? A public pool?” “All of those, yes. But I was thinking that what Possum Springs is really lacking is-” Roman paused for dramatic effect, “-a serial killer!” Talyn raised a carefully coloured eyebrow at him, “Dude, don’t you count?” Roman huffed, “No, not me! A real bonafide killer who, you know, wants to kill people.” “Well, you did try to kill someone,” Talyn tried to point out. “No, I didn’t,” Roman turned his head away. “People think you did.” “I wasn’t trying to kill him. It was just a thing that happened,” Roman snapped, his voice trailing off as another train came by. Once it passed, Roman stood up and started to walk away. “Wait, where are you going?” Talyn called after him. “Don’t you want to see the monsters?” Roman turned back to them with a sad smile, “No thanks. I’m gonna go find my own.” Talyn’s whole face melted into one of confusion and horror. “Be safe, Talyn. Please,” Roman turned and walked away, not entirely surprised when Talyn didn’t come running after him. After all, he had given them no reason to.

Roman found Virgil at the Ole’ Pickaxe, giving about a hundred different warnings to his employee, Corbin, about what he would do if he came back and found even one part of the store out of place. Roman was impressed that Corbin’s face managed to stay fairly impassive through the whole exchange, only the slightest inkling of worry etching on his brow. As soon as Roman and Virgil finally left, Virgil lit up a cigarette and said, blowing the smoke into the air, “I hope I didn’t terrify him too bad. He’s a good employee.” Roman frowned, “He didn’t look hardly scared to me.” Virgil smirked as he unlocked the car, “Oh, he was freaking terrified. Corbin’s just really good at hiding it. Now buckle up, it’s a long drive.” “How long?” Roman asked as he shut his door. “90 minutes give or take, depending on how many people are out on the road,” Virgil said, snuffing out his cigarette before climbing in himself. Virgil was right, it was a long drive. Roman was extremely tired still, so he dozed on and off while Virgil blared loud music from the stereo. It was only when they pulled into a small town that Virgil turned the music down and Roman started to pay attention to the town. “I’ve never been to Gainesville before?” Virgil took another puff of the cigarette he was smoking, “Yeah, it is kinda small compared to wherever you went to school, but it has a university. Nice college town. Maybe you should have come here, then you wouldn’t have been so far away.” Roman grunted, “Yeah, maybe. Who do you even know here though?” “Old friend from high school, you probably don’t know her,” Virgil said as he started to pull into an open spot on the side of the street. “Really?” Roman questioned. When Virgil didn’t respond, Roman huffed and turned to look back out the window. He noticed the sign of one of the storefronts, “Hey, look! They have a scouts program here! Remember when we were in that.” Virgil hummed as he stepped out of the car, “Yeah, that’s where we met.” “Why did you even pick me out of all people to hang out with there?” Roman asked, closing his door behind him. “I started hanging with you cause I was new and you seemed smart and fun,” Virgil explained. Roman turned to him, “Well, what am I now?” “Fun,” Virgil deadpanned. “I hate how you keep saying I’m not smart,” Roman huffed, following Virgil who had started walking down the street. “Sorry,” Virgil said with a smirk. “I’m mostly kidding.” “Mostly?” Roman questioned but didn’t get a chance to continue as Virgil quickly snuffed out his cigarette, returned the other half to his case, and started down a set of stairs. Roman quickly scrambled after him, following him into what seemed to be a basement bar. A girl with short brown hair was standing at the bottom of the stairs, peering up with a glass bottle in her hands. As soon as she recognized Virgil, she exclaimed, “Verge! Where have you been? I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it!” Roman peered around Virgil as he said, “Yeah, sorry about that.” The girl laughed, “Dude, it’s no issue. But I have a few possible prospects and I didn’t want to let that go to waste. Boy, you reek of cigarette smoke!” “This whole place does,” Virgil snarked, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Yeah, but it is wafting off of you. I thought you said you were gonna cut back and try to- who is this?” the girl had finally noticed Roman and was now glaring at him. Roman tried for a nice smile, holding out a hand, “Hi, I’m Ro-” “Everyone knows who you are, Roman Sanders,” the girl crossed her arms, one long fingernail against her bottle. “Oh, um,” Roman pulled his hand back as he struggled to find some way to respond to that. “Valerie,” Virgil cautioned. “I brought him. Now, what is the plan?” Valerie narrowed her eyes before turning to Virgil, “Dancing first. When the guys I have my eye on come back, then we move in.” “Are you sure?” Virgil asked, his voice dropping more and more into his deadpan. “Now, Verge, have I ever let you down before?” “Well, there was that one debacle with the-” “Other than that incident we never speak of,” Valerie cut him off. Virgil sighed then shook his head. “Good, let’s go.” “Man, she is intense,” Roman whispered to Virgil as they followed her out to the dance floor. “Yeah, well, she is just looking out for me. She was my only friend in high school,” Virgil said. Roman stopped as the reminder hit him, letting Virgil go slightly out in front of him before following once again. They weren’t out on the dance floor for very long before Valerie stopped them and pointed back towards the entrance. “I see them. Let’s go,” she grabbed Virgil’s hand and made to pull him towards whomever she had her targets set on, but Virgil dug in his heels quickly. He looked back at Roman, “You’ll be okay, right?” “Yeah, I’ll come find you when I’m done dancing,” Roman nodded. “Okay, no alcohol, remember.” And with that, Virgil was gone, following Valerie through the crowd. Roman continued to dance for a while but was beginning to think that he should get a drink when he spotted someone leaning against the wall. He slowly walked over greeting them with a loud hi. The mysterious person looked over at him, their piercing blue eyes staring directly at him from under their fluffy blue bangs, “Hey.” “Um, do I know you?” Roman asked, vaguely noticing a hint of black ink peeking out from under the person’s scarf. “Nope,” the person said, a smile on their face. “What’s your name?” “Roman. Roman Sanders,” he introduced himself with a slight bow. “Roman,” they repeated. “I like it. Sounds like it could be royalty if your last name was King or Prince.” Roman laughed, “Nope. But I could be a witch for all you know. Maybe I have hexed you with my name.” The undeniably cute person laughed in response, a dimple appearing in their right cheek, “Well, Roman Sanders. What’s your story?” Roman thought for a long moment. He could lie, but this cute girl, boy? Whatever they were, he just didn’t feel like lying to them. “I’m a recent college dropout,” he explained. “I am chasing a ghost or it is chasing me, I’m not really sure. I’ve had these dreams that I’m not sure were dreams, more like jumbled bits of history. I think I met god, but who’s to say. But I’m pretty sure the ghost kidnapped someone. I’m like 90% sure I didn’t imagine that, but my friends aren’t buying it. I came home in order to feel normal again, but that isn’t really working out. But then I came here and I saw you and…” Roman trailed off, looking up at those gorgeous eyes again. Upon realizing they looked extremely worried, he laughed nervously, scratching at the back of his neck, “I just realized I’ve never listed that all out at once before.” “Wow,” they breathed out. “I stole your life story.” Roman chuckled, ‘Yeah, I guess.” “Hey,” the person reached out to grab Roman’s hand. “Watch this,” they placed their own hand on top of Roman’s and then traced a pattern over top with a blue-painted finger. Roman instantly felt about ten times calmer. “Wow,” he breathed. “Pretty cool, huh?” they smiled, still holding onto Roman’s hand. Roman looked back up at those eyes, “Wow.” They chuckled and then they both just stood there for a long moment. Roman finally said, “Um, I’m gonna go let my friend know I’m over here. I told him I would let him know when I was done dancing.” “Okay,” they leaned in a little closer. “You do that.” They dropped Roman’s hand, leaning back against the wall. Roman took a step back, finding moving very difficult. “I-I’ll be right back,” he managed. “I’ll be here.” Roman took another two steps back before finally turning and ducking through the crowd, trying to find Virgil and/or Valerie and let them know he was going to be over there talking to that bombshell of a person. He found both of them talking to a couple of more guys. “Hey Verge!” he called out as he walked over to stand next to his friend, eyeing the glass bottle of bright green liquid in his hands. “Hey Roman. This is Nate,” Virgil said, waving at one of the guys who merely hummed, scratching at the stubble on his chin. “And I’m Sloane,” the other guy said, a smile on his face. “Your friend is pretty cool.” “Yeah,” Roman looked up at Virgil, noting how rigid he was standing. “Yeah, he’s pretty alright. Did he tell you I saw a ghost the other day?” Roman raised an eyebrow in confusion as Virgil giggled, but Sloane just asked, “Like Memento Mori?” “Yeah, yeah, sick transit glorya nerd,” Roman scoffed. When Virgil giggled again, he turned more towards him, “You’re laughing a lot.” “So,” Nate spoke up, apparently not having heard Roman’s comment. “Virgil, that’s an old name. Like something you hear in a book.” “A book you like?” Virgil suggested. Roman looked up at his friend in confusion. This was very weird. Did Virgil always act this way around others when Roman wasn’t around? That couldn’t be right. “I used to read a lot,” he spoke up, trying to redirect the conversation with the first thing that popped into his mind. “My grandad read to me when I was younger. Before he got dementia and died.” There was silence for a moment before Nate spoke again, “Sorry about your grandad, dude.” “It’s okay, it was years ago,” Roman shrugged. “Virgil’s mom is dead too.” Virgil let out another nervous giggle, hissing between his teeth, “Roman, stop.” “It’s okay,” Roman turned back towards the boys, purposely avoiding Valerie’s darkening glare. “I’m sure everyone here knows someone who has died.” There was silence for a long moment and Roman was starting to worry when Sloane spoke up, “My dog died last spring when my house exploded. There was a gas leak from when my dad hit the line trying to dig up the dog we had before that because we were going to move and my dad said he had to come with us.” There was silence for another long moment as everyone stared this time at Sloane. “Wow,” Valerie finally said, breaking everyone’s stares. “So, Nate, what are you majoring in?” Virgil asked, trying to get the conversation back to where it was before. “Political science,” Nate said, taking a sip from his own bottle, the liquid a murky brown. “Oh, that’s cool. Are there a lot of jobs in that?” Virgil asked. “Oh, I don’t know,” Nate shrugged. “I just find it really interesting. I think you have to be pretty materialistic to go to college just to get a job afterwards.” “That’s interesting because-” “Whoa, stop!” Roman cut off Virgil, his voice low. “Check out rich kid over here. Gonna pay zillions of dollars to go to school just cause something ‘is interesting.’ Verge, check this guy out. You ever worked a day in your life, prep?” Nate took a step back, frowning, “I interned at my uncle’s law firm, yes.” “Well, I bagged groceries,” Roman growled back. Virgil laughed lowly before saying, “That is so interesting. Roman, do you want to go dance some more?” Roman looked up at him, but before he could answer, Virgil gave him a subtle push, “You should go dance.” “Yeah, my parents own their own business, so,” Nate spoke again and Roman chose to stick around while Virgil was distracted again. “Oh, tell me about it,” Virgil asked with genuine interest. “I know a thing or two about running a small business.” Nate smiled, “Wanna go across the street and get a pizza?” “I could eat,” Virgil said. “And it’s a small business!” “You speak their language,” Nate laughed. “You can get us free slices.” Roman growled. He was sick and tired of this guy. “Verge doesn’t like spoiled rich kids, Maggie.” Valerie cut in, “I would like to go with you guys if you don’t mind.” “Sure,” Virgil said with a smile. “The more the merrier.” Roman was done with this whole situation. Why was Virgil acting so weird? He was obviously still super tense, but wanting to hang with these spoiled brats more. The lights of the bar were starting to blend together in Roman’s peripheral vision, but he had his sights set in on a certain guy who still stood out clearly from the crowd. “Hey Michael, let me tell you something about Virgil Alighieri. He is super on top of things, super smart, and super responsible. He runs like the biggest store in Possum Springs.” “Roman, no,” Virgil whispered. Sloane spoke louder, confusion on his face, “What the heck is Possum Springs?” “It’s west, in the mountains,” Nate explained. Roman just kept going, his eyes flashing, making the red more obvious, “While rich kid over here is studying politicians or whatever, Virgil’s out in the real world. Not like you college kids.” “Roman!” Valerie gasped, her hand clenched so tight that if her bottle was plastic, she surely would have crushed it. “What?” Nate looked over at Virgil in confusion, while Virgil just stared down at the ground, nervously giggling to himself. “I’m kinda over the whole college thing myself. Virgil and I basically run Possum Springs except there’s like a ghost or something,” Roman continued. “You two live in Possum Springs?” Sloane questioned. “Yeah, got a problem with that?” Roman snapped back. “Wow,” Nate whistled. “You drove all the way here from Deep Hollow County? Isn’t that like two hours away?” “No, I…” Virgil trailed off, trying to hide the shaking of his hands. Nate barked out a laugh, elbowing a confused-looking Sloane, “These two drove all the way from Deep Hollow! That’s rich!” “But, aren’t you like a student?” Sloane asked, confused. “Yeah, well, you see, I’m,” Virgil stammered. Suddenly his bottle fell out of his hand, crashing to the floor, spreading sticky soda everywhere. He put one hand up to his mouth and turned and ran, disappearing up the nearby stairs. “Wait! Virgil!” Valerie quickly took off after him. “What was that about?” Roman heard Sloane ask behind him. “I don’t think he’s a student here,” Nate sighed and a sloosh followed. “So?” Sloane still sounded utterly lost. Roman turned to give them a warning growl before running after Virgil. At the top of the stairs, he found Valerie across the street, calling for Virgil. Valerie spotted Roman running across the street and ran to meet him, her eyes dangerously dark. “What the hell was that?” she screamed. “I was going to ask the same thing!” Roman yelled back. “How in the world did you mess that up! He needs this! And now he’s who knows where! I swear, if anything has happened to him, I will personally end you,” she snapped. “Okay, geez!” Roman held up his hands in surrender. “Okay,” Valerie took a deep breath. “I’m going to go up the street, you go down to the docks. We find him, make sure he is safe, and meet back here. Got it?” “Got it,” Roman agreed and the two split, intent on finding their mutual friend. Roman ran down the side of the street, scanning everyone around him through the mist, trying to just spot his friend. Finally, he spies the docks up ahead with a silhouetted figure sitting at the end of one. He makes almost completely there before finally collapsing a few feet away. The figure turned around, Virgil’s dark brown eyes looking at him with contempt. Roman just gasped for air, “Sorry, I just ran all the way here. And it wasn’t even that far. I’m just really out of shape.” Virgil huffed and turned back to the river. He didn’t speak until Roman finally could breathe again and asked, “What happened back there?” “What happened?” Virgil snapped. “You ruined that chance I had! A chance at feeling normal for once in my shitty life! I don’t know if you could even realize how bad it is. My entire life ended the day my mom died. Now I have to take care of what is left of my family and every single day what little chance of a future outside of Possum Springs I have left slips away. You gave up the very thing I want so bad and I can’t help but hate you for it!” Virgil’s voice cracked finally as he lowered his head into his shaking hands. Roman pushed himself back up into a sitting position staring down at his own hands, eyes on a scar running along his left thumb. He muttered, “You don’t know anything about it.” Virgil’s head snapped back towards him, his face faintly flushed red under his foundation, “What is there to know?” Roman growled back, “You judge me, but did you ever ask why I left?” “Yeah. Your first day back.” “Oh,” Roman deflated, the little bit of righteous anger left leaving as his whole body sagged. “Right.” There was silence for a moment, as Virgil looked back out at the river. “So,” Virgil finally asked. “Why did you leave?” Roman blinked, staring at the strangely shaped boats across the river, “I… I don’t know. My head is in pieces right now. Any answer would sound nuts.” “Oh, well that’s illuminating,” Virgil deadpanned with a roll of his eyes. At this point, only his hands still shaking betrayed that he wasn’t totally emotionless. “Shut up,” Roman growled. “All this stuff going on all week? Ghosts and shit? I met this god thing for crying out loud. And look, we’re both trapped. But we’re trapped together. And I’m sorry.” Virgil looked back at him in surprise, “I don’t think you’ve ever apologized to me for anything.” “Well,” Roman shrugged. “I guess I’m full of surprises.” After another long moment, he asked, “Would we be friends if he weren’t stuck together?” Virgil sighed before admitting, “I don’t know.” After another long moment, Virgil groaned again before lowering his head back into his hands, “My life is so embarrassing. Why did I even come here? I almost didn’t. If you hadn’t said yes, I would have cancelled on Valerie.” “Hey,” Roman scooted closer so he was sitting next to his friend. “You are genuinely one of the strongest people I know. It takes a lot of bravery to try and change the entire course of one’s life.” Virgil snorted, his smile more genuine then any other he had given that night, “And I guess you aren’t as big of an idiot as I say. And you’re a genuinely good person.” Roman smiled, turning to look back over at the misty river, “I’ll take it. And tonight was a complete loss. I met a cute… someone.” “Really?” Virgil looked over at Roman with a cocked eyebrow. “What’s their name?” Roman opened his mouth to answer, but stopped, his eyes wide, “I-I don’t know. I didn’t even get their contact information. Virgil, we have to come back sometime!” He reached over, grabbing Virgil’s sleeve and shaking it with wide eyes while Virgil just laughed. “Okay, okay, we’ll come back,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet, holding out one still-shaking hand to help Roman to his feet as well. “We should make good time going home, it is such a clear night.” Roman looked back at the misty night behind them in confusion, before turning and chasing after Virgil.

#sanders sides #roman sandrs #virgil sanders #my writing #faith writes

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alchemine · 7 years ago

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Okay, here are two of those really old (like, c. 2003) Harry Potter fics. Remember that in the books, McGonagall has black hair and does not look like Maggie Smith (love Maggie, but I always missed black-haired Minerva in the films).

Crowning Glory (or, Magic Hair McGonagall)

Remus Lupin had been reading essays for so long that his eyes were beginning to burn. He let the piece of parchment he was holding fall onto the heap in front of him and rubbed both hands over his face, groaning.

"Tired?" asked Minerva McGonagall, who was sitting on the other side of the staffroom table, tackling her own heap of essays. She seemed to be getting through three to every one of Remus's. He supposed experience made you work faster, perhaps because you'd seen everything before.

"Exhausted," he said. "The third years have good ideas, but their handwriting is terrible. I hope mine wasn't that bad when I was at school."

"As I recall, you usually started out quite neatly, then collapsed into a degenerate scrawl for the last six inches," Minerva said. As she was bent over her work, he could only see the top of her head, but he suspected she was smirking.

His eyes still felt full of sand, and the idea of forcing them to focus on written words again was agonising, so to postpone the inevitable, he sat and watched Minerva at work for a moment longer. She had forsaken her usual emerald-green robes that day for a set in Gryffindor crimson; they had gold embroidery around the neck and wrists, and looked very rich with her dark hair. What had she done to keep that hair so perfectly black during the years he'd been away from Hogwarts? Heaven knew his own had greyed enough.

It wasn't fair, he thought. Minerva had to be close to seventy, and though that was only middle-aged for a witch, surely she was due a few silver strands by now. But there she was, looking almost exactly the same as when she'd taught him, right down to the bun.

A grin spread across his face as he thought of all the jokes he, Sirius, James and Peter had made about that bun over the years. Rain or shine, morning, noon or evening, it was firmly in place, wound up as intricately as the Gordian knot. He'd wondered often enough why she insisted on wearing it that way.

Well, there was no reason not to ask her about it now, was there? They had developed a comfortable friendship during the course of this year, and anyway, she wasn’t his teacher anymore.

"You know, I've always wondered why you never leave your hair down," he said. "It looks like it would be lovely."

Minerva sighed, straightened up, and set her quill to one side. "It is, if I do say so myself," she said. "But letting it down in public has certain...consequences that I prefer not to deal with."

"Consequences?” Remus laughed a little. “What sort of consequences could there possibly be?"

A strange glint came into Minerva's eye.

"Would you like me to show you?" she asked.

Yes," said Remus, pleased that she was responding so readily to his enquiry.

"All right," Minerva said, "but remember, you asked for it."

She got up and, to his surprise, closed and locked the staffroom door. Then she crossed the room to stand in front of him, silhouetted by the light from the window.

"Brace yourself," she said, and reaching up, plucked a strategically placed pin out of her bun. Her hair came down in a rush--long, then longer, reaching almost to her waist--and she shook out the black locks so they hung straight and glossy. As she did, a warm, faintly floral perfume drifted out and caressed Remus's nostrils, and to his horror, he found himself instantly, embarrassingly, and rather painfully aroused.

He cleared his throat and discreetly tried to adjust himself through his robes, hoping the sensation would go away, but it didn't. If anything, it grew stronger, until his entire consciousness seemed to have taken up residence in his groin. He felt giddy and overheated and not a little desperate.

"Please ..." he croaked, though he wasn't even sure what he was begging for. He pushed back his chair, rose, and took a stumbling step toward Minerva--and then she gathered her hair up in both hands and twisted it into its knot again, and his mind cleared.

She smiled at him a bit apologetically.

"I did warn you, you know," she said.

"What the hell was that about?" Remus demanded. Wiping sweat from his forehead with his sleeve --if there was one benefit to wearing threadbare robes, it was never having to worry about ruining them--he collapsed, trembling, back into his seat. "Are you a veela in disguise?"

"No, just someone who once worked a charm that went wrong," Minerva said. "I was only trying to stop myself getting split ends."

"And that was the result?"

"It was," she said, smoothing a few loose tendrils of hair into place. "Mind you, I won't say it's never come in handy, but could you imagine trying to have a normal life with everyone you passed clutching their crotches and drooling at you? Not to mention the havoc it could wreak on my career. Such a lack of professional dignity. No, it's much safer to avoid the issue altogether. Keep the hair up, keep the spell under control."

Remus had a sudden vision of Minerva using this unexpected power to lure attractive wizards, and possibly a few witches as well, into the alley behind the Three Broomsticks. He shook his head to get rid of it.

"When I was a pupil here, we always used to say that if you ever let your hair down, the walls of Hogwarts would come down with it," he said. "I can tell you we never imagined anything like this, though."

"And that's just the way I would have wanted it," Minerva replied primly. She sat down at the table again, picking up her quill and preparing to go back to work. Clearly, she thought the subject was closed, but now Remus was as inflamed with professional curiosity as he had been with misplaced passion a few minutes before.

"Wait, you can't just leave it there. Tell me more. Does it only work on men? Does it have to be in a knot like that, or would just tying it back have the same effect? Haven't you ever tried to find a countercharm?"

Minerva looked up from the new essay she was marking.

"No, yes, no, and yes," she said. "Now let's not talk about it any longer. I don't tell many people my little secret. Don't make me sorry I told you." He opened his mouth as if to ask another question, and she added, "Because if you do, I'll come to your room tonight. I'll immobilise you so you can't touch me, or yourself. And then I'll let my hair down and sit on the edge of your bed until morning."

"That would be torture," said Remus, imagining it.

"Yes," Minerva said with a faint smile.

He thought for a minute while she regarded him over the tops of her spectacles.

"Please pass the ink," he said.

"Good boy, Remus."

After that, the only sound in the staffroom was the thin scratch-scratch of quills on parchment.

Four and Twenty Blackbirds (or, Hagrid eats children) (he really does) (this is your last warning)

He'd mixed the crust himself, dropping in lumps of butter from his worn old wooden spoon. Lots of butter made it bake up light and flaky; it'd melt in your mouth almost. He'd put new peas in, too, and carrots he'd pulled up in the garden, and last of all the meat, nice big chunks of it. A pie fit for a king, it was.

Guilty pleasure swelled in his chest as he thought of that meat, and where he'd got it. He hadn't even meant to go hunting when he he'd woken up that morning. But Dumbledore had sent him on an errand, and on his way back, he'd spied a perfect bit of quarry--young and tender as they came, but so dirty and neglected that he knew no one would miss it. It hadn't even whimpered as he scooped it up and hid it under his long leather coat.

I trust Hagrid implicitly, was what Dumbledore always said when people asked how he felt about having a half-giant at his school. The man had a lovely way of speaking, with long words that made even nasty things sound nice somehow. He would never harm a Hogwarts pupil, Dumbledore said, and of course Hagrid wouldn't, would never even dream of it.

But sometimes a giant had special needs, no matter how kind and gentle he was as a rule. Sometimes a giant got a certain sort of hunger--a giantish sort of hunger.

And at times like that, well, only one food would do.

People would blame him if they found out, Hagrid knew. Dumbledore had warned him a long time ago to be careful, very careful, and do his poaching far away from the school and village. Hagrid had always obeyed, but he thought it was a bit unfair, really. No one blamed a hippogriff for eating dead ferrets, or a Niffler for digging up treasure. That was the way they were made. Why should it be any different because Hagrid happened to be made with an occasional need to eat a human child?

It was a giant's nature. All the fairy tales said so.

Hagrid opened the oven door and slid the pie-plate out with a long paddle. The crust split a bit at the top when the cooler air touched it, releasing a cloud of steam and mouthwatering aromas.

Dinner was served.

( @queenology @theuncertainhour @randomreindeer)

#really old fanfic #harry potter #minerva mcgonagall #remus lupin #hagrid

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skepticalpower · 7 years ago

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An act of passion

Hi witchblr, this is probably a really bad thing that I did but I need to share it and get some feedback.

So, I’m not a witch, a seer, a psychic, or anything like that but the mystical people in my past have always noted me to be eerily intuitive, empathic, and a curiosity. I’m a scientist and a skeptic but I’m not inclined to go around disproving people or calling their beliefs wrong. I have had some peculiar experiences that I’ve always logicked away: dreams, apparitions, gut feelings, that sort of thing.

I broke up with a guy last June and the whole experience has left me traumatized. This guy is quite…mystical. Does tarot readings, rune castings, used to participate in a group that practiced magick in the Boston area, radical faerie, etc. He defrosted my spiritual apathy somewhat but he was also a piece of shit towards me emotionally and sexually. He has acknowledged this but only superficially and essentially discarded me once my novelty to him wore out (about a year and a half).

Cut to now, months later and I’ve moved back to the area he lives. Since getting here I’ve been sick with the flu but also with anxiety. I’ve been having nightmares everytime I go to sleep. I see a therapist and a Psychiatrist right now and I appreciate them very much because they have helped me stabilize my mental health but these issues are ones that I can’t talk to them about out of fear of them reading these feelings as symptoms. This guy used to remark about my energy being very strong and today I acting on that. I’ve started the groundwork for a curse.

I wrote as many of the shitty things that he did to me that I could remember onto paper in red ink and tore those into strips that I folded up.

I placed a drop of patchouli oil onto each piece (he was a frequent user of patchouli)

I wrote on another piece of paper my intent. Essentially, I wrote about wanting him to have to confront the pain he inflicted on me and for his sexual and romantic endeavors to be unfulfilling and empty until he makes amends for his wrongs.

I drew a sigil in my blood on this paper and folded it up. I didn’t copy it, I sort of just free drew one. It sort of looks like an eye.

I placed a blood stone that he gave me into an ornate tea mug that he also gifted me.

I plan to burn each of the pieces of paper and let the ashes fall into the mug. Once they’re all burned, I plan on smashing the mug with a hammer. I think I plan on doing this part outside my home over a river that’s nearby.

So, at this point, you’re probably wondering, wow, some skeptic. I don’t know how this plan came over me, but it all just started happening and I truly feel like these past days I’ve been facing a mental block. I don’t really feel like I have powers or anything like that, but I view ritual as a powerful, ancient tool for the mind, and that is where magick happens, if at all. I mainly view this as a cathartic experience to help me move on.

Are there any thoughts from witches or pagans on here about what I’m doing? I’m curious about how this is viewed.

#witchblr #ask a witch #Curse #Blood magick #Witch #Spell

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hale-of-stiles-heart · 7 years ago

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i adoor you

Inspired by this gifset (also on ao3)

Cas had never liked doors.

More often than not, he didn't even deign to open them himself. He simply used a sliver of his grace to bust open doors or gently close them behind him.

A tiny flap of his wings could send the heavy steel door of a bank vault flying off its hinges, the pitiful obstacles nothing to him. It took some restraint to avoid splintering wood doors into bits but it was an art he had quickly perfected.

He always wondered why humans had abandoned more traditional room separators. Hanging cloth and folding screens had worked perfectly for hundreds of years. Besides, they were much simpler to both make and maneuver.

Of course, he understood why humans liked them as much as they did. Doors provided more shelter, protection from the elements and invading enemies. And, perhaps most importantly, they provided privacy.

There were no doors in Heaven. Not originally.

There had been no reason to have doors. Angels did not have any privacy nor did they particularly want it.

They were siblings, brothers and sisters and fellow soldiers living together side by side all the time. What did an angel need privacy for?

They did not sleep. Or eat. Or defecate. Or change clothing. They did not copulate in the same manner as humans.

Simply put, angels did not do anything that they required privacy for. At least, not in the beginning.

Things had changed after Lucifer fell, after humans became their Father's favorite creation. After the angels began killing each other for power and prestige.

When the torture started, angels subjecting their own brethren to unspeakable horrors more suited to the conduct of demons than faithful servants of the Lord, doors made their first appearance in Heaven. More were added when some of the seraphim, namely Naomi, had taken up the practice of wiping angels' minds clean of memories.

The only other doors in Heaven led to the personal heavens of deceased humans. Even in death, humans seemed to be rather fond of their privacy.

Cas had always been envious of them in that respect. As shameful and irreverent as it may have been, Cas had often longed for solitude, for independence, for privacy and freedom. He had wanted to spread his wings and be truly free.

Rebelling against Heaven, against his brothers and sisters, against his own Father who had given him life billions of years ago had given him that chance. But he had ruined it.

In his bid to be free he had essentially clipped his own wings. He believed humans called that ironic. Or was it poetic justice?

He couldn't be sure. There had been no poetry in Heaven, either.

After falling, in every way possible for an angel, he found that he rather enjoyed poetry. But he still disliked doors.

He had never despised a door as much as the one that he was currently staring at. The loud slam still echoed in the hallway like a taunting laugh.

He had gotten into an argument with Dean. Again.

They seemed to be a more and more frequent occurrence since Cas had moved into the Bunker. He had renounced Heaven after the Darkness had made peace with God who decided to make amends with His firstborn children by returning their wings and unsealing the gates to their home.

But Heaven had never been Cas' home. Not really. No matter how many times he sacrificed and slaughtered and died for Heaven, he knew he would never be truly accepted by the flock.

He belonged with Dean and Sam. For however long as they would tolerate him. Which, apparently, was not very long.

Only a few short weeks after he had moved into the Bunker, still adjusting to the mostly sedentary lifestyle of humans, to having his own room and his own possessions few in number though they may have been, he and Dean argued for the first time.

It had been a rather trivial squabble. Cas had failed to put his dirty dishes in the dishwasher after having a midnight snack on one of the nights that sleep evaded him. He had left them in the sink instead.

He had not wanted to wake Dean or Sam by rinsing his dishes and loading the dishwasher at one a.m. He explained that to Dean, effectively ending the argument when he offered to make it right by hand washing his dishes.

His act of contrition had seemed to work. Dean dropped the issue.

Their next argument occurred only a few days later. Cas had messed up again.

He had added too much detergent to the washing machine while doing laundry. Soap suds had overflowed out of the machine and into the floor of the laundry room.

Several of Dean's shirts had been ruined. And the washer had been damaged itself.

Cas had been wracked with guilt about both. He procured the new part for the washing machine but he could replace the damaged shirts without using his grace.

It only took an ounce, metaphorically speaking, of his grace to return the shirts to their former glory but Dean had remained upset. Cas had spent two days scrubbing the laundry room clean in order to make amends.

But as hard as Cas tried to acclimate to life at the Bunker, he always seemed to do something wrong, always seemed to do something that upset Dean. He hated himself for it with a fiery passion he had once reserved for only the most vile and vicious of Heaven's enemies.

He was supposed to be Dean's friend, his protector, and yet all he did was disappoint and upset him. All he did was fail him, over and over and over again.

After the washing machine incident, Cas just seemed to do everything wrong.

He was given cooking duty one night and burned dinner because he didn't realize how fast grilled cheese sandwiches cooked. Another night, he accidentally spilled some ink on one of Dean's copies of Busty Asian Beauties.

A week later, he somehow mucked a spell by adding just a hint too much of belladonna nectar. Dean ended up with bright purple hair for a week, instead of being immune to the thrall of the witch casting love spells in Florida.

On a hunt in Ohio, Cas got distracted while he was supposed to be playing bait for a shapeshifter and almost let the monster get away. He had been rather distracted when the bartender of the establishment he was staking out started flirting with him, complimenting his blue eyes and informing him that he had a pretty smile.

While Sam had been rather frustrated as well, though he was also quite amused by the situation, Dean had been furious. He had given Cas a harshly worded lecture on the ride back to their hotel room where Cas was stuck sleeping on the lumpy futon, the sound of the drug-fueled marathon of sex happening in the next room ringing in his ears all night.

No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried to improve himself, he always managed to screw up somehow.

He watched hours upon hours of various cooking shows, devoured every cookbook that he could find, yet his cooking skills remained 'piss poor' according to Dean. He assisted Sam with his household chores, listening attentively to all of the man's instructions so as not to make any more mistakes — he even took notes — but Dean still found fault in the way he folded clothes and cleaned the bathroom.

But Cas could look past of all that. Because their arguments only accounted for a mere fraction of their interaction.

Most of the time, his life in the Bunker was a dream. More of a heaven than the place where he had lived for billions of years of his life.

When they weren't driving across the country and staying in cheap motels that reeked of stale beer and cigarettes, they basked in their own type of domestic bliss.

Dean cooked dinner almost every night and breakfast every morning, swaying side to side in his comfy bathrobe as he blasted Led Zeppelin and Bob Seger on his pink iPod. After eating just a few of Dean's home cooked meals, suppressing his grace enough so that he could taste the food rather than the molecules in it, Cas understood why humans were such fans of eating.

The first time he tried pie, a decadent slice of chocolate pecan pie in a Boise diner, his eyes had rolled back into his head and he had let out a moan so loud the elderly couple at the next table had gawked at him, scandalized. Sam and Dean had dissolved into hysterical laughter, though Dean had looked more flushed than when he usually laughed.

Most nights, he ended up sandwiched between Sam and Dean on the couch they had moved into one of the empty rooms to create a den. They had found a decent sized television at a local yard sale along with a DVD player and had started building up quite the collection of DVDs.

Dean would make popcorn drenched in melted butter and salt while Sam would roll his eyes and grab a few beers while Cas finished getting comfortable on the couch. It was much nicer than the ones he usually slept on when they were on the road.

Other nights, they found different ways to entertain themselves. From another yard sale, one in Columbus, Sam had purchased a handful of board games. Dean had bought a game himself, something called Cards Against Humanity.

It was a crude game, full of sexual innuendos and crass toilet humor, but Dean seemed to enjoy it, inviting Charlie to play with them a few times. He appeared to enjoy it even more when Cas joined in, always laughing raucously whenever the angel won a round.

Sam preferred more family friendly games, straightforward board games with simple goals and easily understandable premises. Cas had similar feelings on the matter but every once in awhile he would be the one to suggest a round of Cards Against Humanity, if only to see the way Dean's face lit up.

They ventured into town every now and then for more than just groceries and rolls of toilet paper, for weekend farmer's markets and local craft shows. And Dean hadn't been able to say no to a trip to a local music store that had vinyl records in stock.

Cas' favorite outing had been to the quaint, independently owned bookstore that was nestled between a pet store and a local diner. The feeling of being surrounded by books, works of fiction and fantasy far removed from the purely informational tomes in the Bunker, had been humbling.

He had lingered among the stacks for hours, running his fingers over the spines of books, mumbling their titles under his breath. Sam and Dean had just let him browse for as long as he liked, looking on with soft smiles.

It had been one of the most wonderful days of his life.

But the memory of that day was faded and far away, buried under the mountain of guilt and despondency that threatened to crush him completely as he stared at Dean's bedroom door. The door that had been slammed in his face. The door that stood between him and the man he had given up everything for.

He and Dean had been working on reorganizing some of the shelves in the library. They had been separating the books by subject, by the supernatural creatures they primarily dealt with, so they could alphabetize them later.

Cas had mistakenly set down a book detailing the different types of Greek nymphs and the methods most efficient for killing them in the pile of books about Celtic spirits. Dean had immediately snapped at him, launching into a lecture. Their argument had burgeoned from there.

It ended with Dean throwing the book in his hand onto the table and stomping down the hall to his bedroom. Hoping to somehow placate Dean, Cas had followed him, rushing after him in desperation.

But his bid to end their argument early was almost cruelly dashed when Dean finally made it to his bedroom doorway. He whirled around to face Cas, all but screaming, "Y'know what, Cas? Why don't you go fuck off somewhere like you always do?! Go hang out with your little angel pals and leave me the hell alone!"

The door had been rudely slammed shut in Cas' face not a second later, leaving the angel to stare at the numbers designating Dean's bedroom as Room 11. The sound of the door slamming and Dean's words echoed in his head.

Both were loud and jarring, conveying the same message: leave. Get out. Dean doesn't want you here. Cas could feel it reverberating throughout his entire body, coursing through his very grace until he could feel in the tips of his hidden, newly restored wings — the dejection that threatened to swallow him whole.

Breathing suddenly became more difficult as though something had a vice grip on his throat and was squeezing tightly, trying to crush his windpipe. It was almost like drowning, the burning in his lungs and the feeling of sinker lower and lower beneath the waves of his despair.

The dark wood of the door seemed to stare back at him with an angry glare, cruelly reminding him that he was being barred from the man he cared about more than anything. He wanted nothing more than to break down the door, to explode it into a million splinters with a burst of his grace, but he couldn't.

It would be a violation of Dean's privacy. It would only make Dean hate him more. If that was even possible.

He hated the door. He hated the fact that he was so terrible at everything. Hated himself.

He had done it again. He had upset Dean, had driven him away for what seemed like the millionth time.

And he didn't know how to make it right. Ideas pinged through his head, half-baked and full of room for error, but they were all he had. So, he went through with them.

He walked back to the library, feeling oddly numb. The quiet of the Bunker was almost suffocating, both Sam and Dean in their respective bedrooms, as Cas finished sorting the books.

He was meticulous, careful not to make another mistake. After separating the books by subject, he set to work alphabetizing them on the bookshelves.

It was quick work, tedious and routine like the process of cleaning a gun. But he had messed that up too when Dean had shown him. He had used too much solvent.

Shaking his head to clear away the nagging reminder of all the times that he had failed to do the most simple of tasks, Cas had finished restocking the shelves. He decided to dust afterwards.

Then, he cleaned the kitchen. And the bathroom. He rearranged one of the supply closets so the extra towels, cleaning supplies, and various other supplies were easier to find.

Hours later, when the afternoon had turned to night and Cas found himself exhausted despite the fact that he did not require actual rest. But returning to his own room only made him feel more abject.

He only remained in his room long enough to kick off his shoes and grab the blanket from off his bed, the same one that Dean had wrapped around him while he was still suffering from the effects of Rowena's spell.

He returned to Dean's room afterward to find the door still closed, still locking out Cas more effectively than any sigil ever could. For lack of anything better to do, he plopped down beside Dean's door, the floor cold beneath him.

He draped the blanket over himself, breathing in the faint scent of Dean that still clung to it. He tipped his head back, leaning against the wall of the hallway as he stared up at the ceiling.

In the morning, he told himself as he closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. Things will be better in the morning.

In the morning, Cas woke to the sound of a door opening, the hinges squeaking. He snuffled, keeping his eyes closed as he tugged the blanket higher up his back.

He didn't want to wake up yet, he wanted to stay in that peaceful unconsciousness. He couldn't screw anything up in his dreams.

But the universe seemed determined to rouse him from his slumber. The creak of the door hinges seemed to grow louder as a gruff voice demanded, "What the hell?"

Cas finally opened his eyes, squinting to shield his eyes from the bright lights of the hallway. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, blinking to clear his vision as he peered upward towards where he had heard the sleep-rough voice.

Dean was standing above him, pillow creases on his right cheek and five o'clock shadow darkening the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was messy, flattened against his skull in some places while it stuck up wildly in others.

He was wearing the same shirt as the day before, a dark gray Henley with two of the buttons undone. It was wrinkled, like Dean had slept in it along with his faded jeans.

He looked extremely tired, dark shadows under his eyes that seemed less bright than usual. There was tension in his shoulders, like any sleep he may have gotten was not restful.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas rasped, straightening up as he drew his knees to his chest. "I—"

"You're still here," Dean said incredulously, cutting Cas off before he could apologize. His eyes were wide as he said it, full of disbelief and confusion.

"Of course, I'm still here," Cas replied, his brows furrowing as he returned Dean's look of incredulity. Why would Dean think he would leave? Because he had snapped at Cas? Where else was the angel supposed to go? But more importantly, Cas pointed out, "This is my home."

Dean blinked. And opened his mouth to gape at Cas.

Cas was just about to ask Dean if he was alright when he was cut off again, this time by a pair of lips being pressed against his own.

Warm hands cupped his face, rough thumbs tracing over his cheekbones. The faint scent of whiskey and the fancy name brand soap that Dean preferred filled his nose.

And while he was completely taken aback, he was also overwhelmed with a feeling of rightness as Dean kissed him.

A moment later, before Cas could even attempt to kiss Dean back, the hunter ended the kiss in favor of wrapping his arms around Cas' shoulders and tugging him into a tight hug. He pressed his lips to Cas' temple as he breathed, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Cas. I've been treating you like shit."

Before Cas could open his mouth to dismiss Dean's apology, to ensure him that he wasn't, Dean rushed on, "I was scared. And I know that's not an excuse but I was, man. I was so scared."

"I was just waiting for you to get tired of slumming it with a couple of hunters and run back to Heaven," Dean explained, running his hand up and down Cas' back as he cradled the angel to his chest. "I figured you'd do it eventually so I just gave you a little nudge. I'm so sorry, Cas. I always fuck everything up."

"Shh..." Cas hushed, curling his arms around Dean, slipping a hand into Dean's hair to run his fingers over the hunter's scalp. Voice quiet and calm, he murmured, "It's alright, Dean. You haven't fucked anything up. This is my home, you're my home, I'll never run back to Heaven."

Dean let out a watery laugh, tightening his arms around Cas who buried his face in the crook of Dean's neck. That was how Sam found them half an hour later, smiling to himself as he stepped back into his room, closing the door behind himself.

#i don't know what this is #destiel #cas hates doors #angst #with a happy ending #fluff #getting together #dean has abandonment issues #cas is understanding #kissing #hugs

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limejuicer1862 · 5 years ago

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My goal in life is the destruction of 5G masts. I cut my sandwich into triangles as a lower-middle class pretension. Back outside, my window, one time, a cream room, a view of the street’s antenna. The problem with David Lynch is how he makes too much sense. Back in the simulacrum, a boy, my age, rangers in North America, first as tragedy, then as… ironing out our balaclavas, filling out our milk bottles; backpacks unattended on park benches, on the bus.

A page of Baudrillard, hides the truth to view witnesses fraying little by little into ruins, discernible ruined empire, rotting carcass of the soil double ends simulation, this fabled second-order no longer that of a territory, no longer saturated, a hyperreal map one must

return without origin, shreds unusable a questionable sovereign difference – the charm abstraction, the coextensivity of poetry, the representation produced no imaginary. Operational, in fact, no longer memory radiating synthesis, no space without atmosphere, no worse

curvature. Imitation, nor duplication; leaving room for simulated liquidation.

-Alex Mazey

.the title changes.

there is too much interference things could be left alone things were alright anyway

the battery is low yet plugged in the radio buzzes.

things are distorted

so i did what he says, whilst running up and down the stairs.

source to av, only there aint no av, not on that one anyhow.

press my scart lead, that is probably it.

press the sky button, the sky does not respond.

we still has television snow.

mine are bifocal and can distort gently if i concentrate poorly on the centre i have had help a while grateful at least that i can see unlike some of my family

yesterday I watched a documentary about monkeys

-sonja benskin mesher

The new starboard

Our larvae split their skin in the signal-fry, warmed over by the wire-witched currents of one filigree moon in a hundredweight sky

and if we no longer see the stars how do they counsel a chart for a new grub, or pull a blood’s spirit-iron toward the dissolving north

and if we no longer feel these waves how may we know our own water, what deeps us for the giddy bubble of this sailing. And I know

there are rocks here still, they make chimneys of it to vent everything we can’t burn railing sparks against the sky- silver that meshes none of our tides true

and it will rain hot tonight, the sizzle pelting the new hatchlings

-Ankh Spice

Of Forest And Stick

Foe forest, faux forest fee-fi-fo forest. Where giants hurl their broken stories from broadcast heaven to stone cast ground. Real, this least of things.

Inarticulate metal arms pluck down your dreams, to place within the flakes of soul slow dying desiccation.

Sick insects wave. These metal poles sway clamped to roof and breast.

All point as one, their martyr fingers show. As minds walk psychotic in their circular days.

To stars and planets that orbit our night sleep late night drunk deep on their celestial milky ways.

Antennae wave hello. Behind smudged glass walls as we sit and stare into this aquarium hell of our own making.

As we spread across our furniture of forked cartons, plastic and messy despair We start to take on our corrupt story.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/of-forest-and-stick.m4a

Reception

Quiet the cluttered airways. Listen. Too many voices reaching skyward, Clamoring for reception, Propelling selfhood upward,

Destroys collaborative Synergy. And interference causes failure. After all, Man-made towers were only Ever meant to fall.

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/reception.m4a

-st

Every Stem Is

an aerial, antennae whose signal carries an image and a sound of growth and bloom.

Leaves are directors, flagellum, reach out, test the air and vibrations.

Listen can your hear the messages, or is it distorted,

image overlaid on image, sound overlaid on sound?

It processes fake news, phishing and cyber attacks. discerns real from false. scents and trails.

A filter bubble, an information sceptic decides what diminishes it, what makes it grow.

what makes it turn towards warmth, towards brightness.

More than a conduit.

-Paul Brookes

effluorescence

concrete flowerbed: aluminium amaranths dream of fecund earth

-Rich Follett

These gray structures loom Like a dead alloy forest A mill’s epitaph

-Carrie Ann Golden

The Arrival (EEN)

Blue eclipse sudden shudder silver vibrations strange sensations mauve hues silent screams shattered dreams rainbow screams black void bleak skies pink cries identity hides no way out seek beware who goes there wait stop where no here why there marble hush turquoise crush hide smile cry illusion confusion static wailing connections failing conscience melting blood moon a light alight powder dawn seek destroy rebuild regenerate no rescue failed sight emerald night pyramid flight incoming yellow tongue purple feast horrible sightings a drone atone leave us alone lavender glass chards charge cut chaos comet rush – Reverse

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-arrival-een-mp3.mp3

The Arrival (TWEE)

Falling earth new birth cosmic boom blast break away descend evacuate take position brace brave pathetic beast eject object reject investigate attack no way back hold blinding strobe light up get up move no room fire storm go swerve dive testing resting make haste chase erase record a face strange days delete reboot reverse rethink incoming homecoming survive surrender sharp solar bursts the thirst implosion ration succession orchestration new nation sinking earth toxic rebirth black hole tar soul screeching silence severed signals strange sour suns

https://thewombwellrainbow.files.wordpress.com/2020/05/the-arrival-twee-mp3.mp3

-Don Beukes

Bios and Links

-Alex Mazey

(b.1991) received his MA (distinction) from Keele University in 2017. He later won The Roy Fisher Prize for Poetry with his debut pamphlet, ‘Bread and Salt’ (Flarestack, TBA). He was also the recipient of a Creative Future Writers’ Award in 2019. His poetry has featured regularly in anthologies and literary press magazines, most notably in The London Magazine. His collection of essays, ‘Living in Disneyland’, will be available from Broken Sleep Books in October 2020. Alex spent 2018 as a resident of The People’s Republic of China, where he taught the English Language in a school run by the Ministry of Education. His writing has been described as ‘wry and knowing,’ with ‘an edge that tears rather than cuts or deals blows.’

Twitter: @AlexzanderMazey

Instagram: alexmazey

Here is my interview of Alex:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/12/18/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-alex-mazey/

-Rich Follett

is a High School English and Creative Writing teacher who has been writing poems and songs for more than forty years. His poems have been featured in numerous online and print journals, including BlazeVox, The Montucky Review, Paraphilia, Leaf Garden Press and the late Felino Soriano’s CounterExample Poetics, for which he was a featured artist. Three volumes of poetry, Responsorials (with Constance Stadler), Silence, Inhabited, and Human &c. are available through NeoPoiesis Press (www.neopoiesispress.com.)

As a singer-songwriter, Rich has released five albums of independent contemporary folk music. His latest. Somewhere in the Stars, is available at http://www.richfollett.com. He lives with his wife Mary Ruth Alred Follett in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, where he also pursues his interests as a professional actor, playwright, and director.

-Ankh Spice

is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa (NZ). His poetry has appeared in a wide range of international publications and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He truly believes that words have the power to change the place we’re in, and you’ll find him doing his best to prove it on

Twitter: @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook: @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry

-Carrie Ann Golden

is a deafblind writer from the mystical Adirondack Mountains now living on a farmstead in northeastern North Dakota. She writes dark fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in places like Piker Press, Edify Fiction, Doll Hospital Journal, The Hungry Chimera, GFT Press, Asylum Ink, and Visual Verse.

-sonja benskin mesher

born , Bournemouth.

now

lives and works in North Wales as an independent artist

‘i am a multidisciplinary artist, crafting paint, charcoal, words and whatever comes to hand, to explain ideas and issues

words have not come easily. I draw on experience, remember and write. speak of a small life’.

Elected as a member of the Royal Cambrian Academy and the United Artists Society The work has been in solo exhibitions through Wales and England, and in selected and solo worldwide. Much of the work is now in both private, and public collections, and has been featured in several television documentaries, radio programmes and magazines.

Here is my interview of sonja benskin mesher:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2018/10/16/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-sonja-benskin-mesher/

-Samantha Terrell

is an American poet whose work emphasizes emotional integrity and social justice. She is the author of several eBooks including, Learning from Pompeii, Coffee for Neanderthals, Disgracing Lady Justice and others, available on smashwords.com and its affiliates.Chapbook: Ebola (West Chester University Poetry Center, 2014)

Website: poetrybysamantha.weebly.com Twitter: @honestypoetry

Here is my 2020 interview of her:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2020/04/08/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-samantha-terrell/

-Don Beukes

is a South African and British writer. He is the author of ‘The Salamander Chronicles’ (CTU) and ‘Icarus Rising-Volume 1’ (ABP), an ekphrastic collection. He taught English and Geography in both South Africa and the UK. His poetry has been anthologized in numerous collections and translated into Afrikaans, Persian, French and Albanian. He was nominated by Roxana Nastase, editor of Scarlet Leaf Review for the ‘Best of the Net’ in 2017 as well as the Pushcart Poetry Prize (USA) in 2016. He was published in his first SA Anthology ‘In Pursuit of Poetic Perfection’ in 2018 (Libbo Publishers) and his second ‘Cape Sounds’ in 2019 (Gavin Joachims Publishing). He is also an amateur photographer and his debut Photographic publication appeared in Spirit Fire Review in June 2019. His new book, ‘Sic Transit Gloria Mundi’/Thus Passes the Glory of this World’ is due to be published by Concrete Mist Press.

Here is my interview of Don Beukes:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/11/02/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-don-beukes/

-Dai Fry

is an old new poet. He worked in social care but now has no day job. A keen photographer and eater of literature and lurid covers. Fascinated by nature, physics, pagans, sea and storm. His poetry seeks to capture image and tell philosophical tales. Published in Black Bough Poetry, Re-Side, The Hellebore Press and the Pangolin Review. He can be seen reading on #InternationalPoetryCircle and regularly appears on #TopTweetTuesday. Twitter. @thnargg Web seekingthedarklight.co.uk

Audio/Visual. @IntPoetryCircle #InternationalPoetryCircle Twitter #TopTweetTuesday

-Paul Brookes

is a shop asst. Lives in a cat house full of teddy bears. His chapbooks include The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley, (Dearne Community Arts, 1993). The Headpoke and Firewedding (Alien Buddha Press, 2017), A World Where and She Needs That Edge (Nixes Mate Press, 2017, 2018) The Spermbot Blues (OpPRESS, 2017), Port Of Souls (Alien Buddha Press, 2018), Please Take Change (Cyberwit.net, 2018), Stubborn Sod, with Marcel Herms (artist) (Alien Buddha Press, 2019), As Folk Over Yonder ( Afterworld Books, 2019). Forthcoming Khoshhali with Hiva Moazed (artist), Our Ghost’s Holiday (Final book of threesome “A Pagan’s Year”) . He is a contributing writer of Literati Magazine and Editor of Wombwell Rainbow Interviews.

-Mary Frances

is an artist and writer based in the UK. She takes a few photos every day, for inspiration and to use in her work. The images for this project were all taken in the last two years on walks during in the month of May. Her words and images have been published by Penteract Press, Metambesen, Ice Floe Press, Burning House Press, Inside the Outside, Luvina Rivista Literaria, and Lone Women in Flashes of Wilderness. Twitter: @maryfrancesness

-James Knight

is an experimental poet and digital artist. His books include Void Voices (Hesterglock Press) and Self Portrait by Night (Sampson Low). His visual poems have been published in several places, including the Penteract Press anthology Reflections and Temporary Spaces (Pamenar Press). Chimera, a book of visual poems, is due from Penteract Press in July 2020.

Website: thebirdking.com.

Twitter: @badbadpoet

Here is my interview of James Knight:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/06/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-james-knight/

-Sue Harpham

is an admin worker, currently not in work Married, 2 sons. Loves poetry and words. She considers herself a writer of scribble rather than a poet. She has written a novel and is using her spare time to finally get it published (self-publishing) which has been an ambition of her for the last 10 years.

Welcome to a special ekphrastic challenge for May. Artworks from Mary Frances, James Knight and Sue Harpham will be the inspiration for writers, Alex Mazey, Ankh Spice, Samantha Terrell, Dai Fry, Carrie Ann Golden, sonja benskin mesher, Rich Follett, Don Beukes and myself. May 5th. * My goal in life is the destruction of 5G masts. I cut my sandwich into triangles as a lower-middle class pretension.

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phoenixtakaramono · 7 years ago

Text

G&G ch15 (Sneak Peek)

Here’s an exclusive sneak peek, courtesy of @suis0u! You may thank her for this occasion. :) See you all again on AO3/ fanfiction(dot)net when the whole chapter is ready to be posted!

Eyes still shut, Harry brought his forehead down to his hands. His fingers were clasped, and his thumbs were hard-pressed against the bridge of his nose. He took a long intake of breath—holding it in his lungs—and then he exhaled through his mouth. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm.

For the next few minutes, he repeated the cathartic exercise, collecting his thoughts. His mouth still tasted of bitter herbs, from his morning ritual. Trying to mask the taste with toothpaste and food hadn’t any effect.

Aside from bits and pieces, while Harry couldn’t exactly recall all the specifics from his reoccurring dream, he supposed that his Animagus transformation was progressing as intended. It seemed to follow what Hermione had informed him about what Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had given a lecture about—regarding the symbolisms behind significant dreams and nightmares.

It was what McGonagall herself had gone through, as well as Harry’s mum, his dad and his dad’s friends—including Harry’s godfather and Remus.

Harry would not know his animal form prior to the transformation—and it was a tedious process of necessitating the leaf of a mandrake in his mouth for an entire month for the purposes of a required potion recipe, with him reciting an incantation over it regularly—but the answer was supposed to be hinted at in a dream state while one underwent the process. Harry had the expectation that he was a stag—maybe a buck—following in the footsteps of his parents.

He worried his lower lip.

Currently Harry was seated inside his office—silent, save for the own noises he emitted. The tip of his foot was tapping restlessly against the laminated floorboards.

The weight in his pocket rested heavy against his thigh. The temptation was there to check his pocket watch again for the hundredth time.

His eyes opened to tall stacks—a rainbow spectrum—laid out on his desk. The folders and parchments been organized according to a color-coded system. Manila files concerned cases belonging to the Law Enforcement department, green were psychological assessments, blue always contained reports from Forensics, so on and so forth.

There was one exception to the organization. Placed atop a folder was a golden snitch, serving as paperweight. Disguised as another case file, the contents of a manila folder underneath contained updates from the Department of Mysteries and any information pertaining to the time traveler. Copies of specific passages from historic works were also included. To anyone else not privy to the secret, the majority of the content appeared redacted—ink concealing classified and confidential information.

Adjacent to his view was a green file notably thicker than the rest. Scrawled on its tab was a personnel’s name. In it contained the newest documents from their recent evaluation. Staring at the name, Harry’s foot tapping becoming louder. Finally, he averted his gaze sideways.

His sight skittered past the toxicology and autopsy reports, a rotary dial telephone that gleamed bronze, today’s Daily Prophet tabloid, an ink pot and quill, opened letters from Kohaku Takeda-Mushin and from the President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, and down the length of his arm. Official-looking documents passed his vision, spilling over his desk and down out of sight. Instead of parchment for stationery and bills, upholding tradition the Wizengamot used sheets from a roll of handcrafted cotton fibers. Embossed into the laid pattern was the enormous Ministry of Magic seal. And all the way down the lengthy text were the angular strokes and slashes that made up Harry’s handwriting.

Silver candy wrappers were by an elbow he’d propped on his desk. By his other elbow was red cup on a red saucer, filled halfway with milk tea. Preserved by a heating charm, tendrils of steam could still be seen wafting from the cup. Across the table was a silver serving tray. Balanced on it were a tea pot, napkins, a cup of sugar cubes, a small milk saucer, extra cups, saucers, and tea bags.

Framed on the alcove behind him hung ornamental framed portraits—the subjects depicting men and one woman wearing uniforms which reflected the time period of their tenure. All of the Head Aurors from English history were either sleeping or, having grown bored of watching Harry do nothing but peruse the paperwork, their painting was left vacant while the subject traveled across enchanted paintings in the Ministry to socialize.

In the center of the framed artworks was a large black-and-white map of the United Kingdom—including England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. White dots pulsated on the map wherever illegal magical activities were detected. The map spanned the length of the rosewood desk that Harry had inherited from the Head Auror who’d preceded him.

The activity had long since calmed down when it notified the proper divisions—reaching the Auror Office in extreme cases or alerting the Ministry of Magic Witch Watchers division to send out their Witch Watcher Special Forces—while the Ministry representatives stationed in the Improper Use of Magic Office conducted further investigations. It fell on Harry to disperse the proper assignments whenever Hermione was overwhelmed with responsibilities.

Or whenever she was suffering from her pregnancy symptoms.

Harry exhaled through his mouth, his brows furrowing. Reaching for an unwrapped treat, he broke the foil apart.

The sound of chattering and tinny squeaks broke the silence. Immediately he pinched the wiggling, enchanted mouse firmly by the body, popping it into his mouth. His teeth sliced the sweet into pieces, breaking the enchantment.

The intense medicinal taste of mint coated his tongue, instantly waking his brain up and clearing his sinuses. All he could smell now was the peppermint oil, purifying the memory of the odor which’d emerged from his recollection.

Both he and Hermione had been in the forensics science laboratory of their chief medical examiner in the morning, listening to the summarization of the coroner’s report of the post-mortem examinations that had been ordered by the Committee. The corpses brought out onto the wooden tables for autopsy had appeared in the same condition that they’d been magically preserved at the site of the investigation.

Although the interior was a controlled environment, the odor had stung the nose. Like being in a meat locker, the stench of death had hung in the mortuary. It had intermingled with the scent of beeswax.

Floating above the bleached skin of each cadaver had been lit candlesticks. Several candles had already melted down into pale stumps. Clean sheets had been placed over the trolls to respectfully concealing them below the clavicle. Their appearance was arguably as repulsive as when they’d been alive, although it was easier to imagine gargoyle in their place now with the muscles having fallen lax in their gigantic faces.

Both he and Hermione had similar miserable expressions. His was having had little to no sleep, whereas Hermione had been acting off ever since Ron had been stationed overseas. (Harry had assumed Ron would’ve taken the opportunity to return occasionally, having been given one of the International Portkeys that the rest of the Aurors had been assigned. Yet with the way she’d been acting, Harry couldn’t help but worry.)

It’d only been a few weeks; by the end of the month, they were expected to give the Head Auror a report.

He remembered observing the features of his deputy’s face beside him, reevaluating this dependency that existed between him and Hermione. Rather predictably, when Harry had recounted the events of that night to quite possibly one of the only two confidantes he had for this sensitive issue, he’d received a lecture. He remembered Hermione’s palms had been pressed together, fingertips tapping together erratically.

Throughout his debriefing, it was in her body language that he could read that the witch was, many times, on the verge of blurting whatever was on her mind. In moments like these, he could still see the same eleven year old schoolgirl interspersed over the adult she’d grown into.

He’d always relied on her researching skills; out of habit, he came to her this time for counsel on the nenja and wakashū matter. It’d made him feel conflicted—and no small amounts of guilt—when Hermione gave him a look of concern. After hearing him out, she’d declared, “I don’t suppose you’ll like hearing this, but he is a demon. Eastern origins or not. I’ll see what I can gather but…,” here she hesitated, before finishing, “…isn’t he taking advantage of your kindness?”

That hadn’t made him feel any better.

Harry exhaled once more. It wasn’t as easy to pretend optimism for the tension that bled into his workplace and into his excursions with the time traveler. With each day that passed, he could feel the inevitability that he’d soon be dragged into the marital conflict between Ron and Hermione. The memory was still fresh in his mind, the night Hermione confessed to him her doubts.

It also made Harry realize, that just like her, what he’d been seeking was reassurance—to hear from another human being that he was overanalyzing and worrying over nothing.

He’d found his thoughts orbiting around Sesshomaru these days. Try as he might otherwise, there was always a gravitational pull bringing him back. The time traveler was all Harry could think of. After all, in his effort to be as broadminded as possible, Harry had misjudged.

These days he looked forward to the scheduled arrangements with Sesshomaru, with each trip traveling further and further into the Forbidden Forest. In a way, he couldn’t help but feel optimistic that they were making some progress toward pinpointing the location of the Resurrection Stone.

As long as they covered ground with each excursion, Harry counted it as a success.

Harry had underestimated the nature of the person he was minding. Because of that emerged a complication; Sesshomaru’s attraction to him was an anomaly. And Harry was in a moral situation where he couldn’t reciprocate, interested or not. It was not a situation where they could have a one-night stand to get it out of their system. Harry didn’t have to be a magizoologist or a practitioner of demonology to understand that this development between him and Sesshomaru didn’t bode well.

Although Harry liked to think he was above bigotry, demons had been a topic covered in his Defense against the Dark Arts curriculum. Even Gilderoy Lockhart, the con-artist that taught in Harry’s second year at Hogwarts, had been aware of their infamy, fabricating a demonic encounter in his books. Much as Harry lobbied to push the betterment of magical creature rights agenda in the ICW, even he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the reality that demons carried a fearsome reputation for a reason.

An Englishman with his education, Harry was more familiar with mythos on the Western hemisphere than on the Eastern front. The suffering that ensued after falling under dark influence or demonic possession were cautionary tales. Although different mythologies existed, and however overtly exaggerated eyewitness accounts may scatter around the globe, they all generally pointed to demons as malevolent entities that tempted and corrupted all those that made a deal with them.

Harry had simply never thought that he’d himself land in this predicament.

Gloved hands slamming down against the armrests, Harry shoved himself from his seat. The wheels of the chair skittered behind him as he went to pace his office. The carpet muffled his footsteps as his hands went to rake through his hair. His fingertips were digging against the scalp.

Sesshomaru did not belong in their twenty-first century.

Sesshomaru was from ancient Japan—from a brutal war period.

Sesshomaru was an archaic, historical figure of some sort of high upbringing.

Sesshomaru was a Dark magical creature—a demon, no less.

Sesshomaru was a warlord, with not only culturally different but outdated values and traditions.

Sesshomaru, by demon society’s standards, could be considered younger than Harry.

Sesshomaru wanted Harry to pledge vassalage to him.

Sesshomaru liked Harry—all the signs were there, strange was some of them were.

Sesshomaru only had Harry to rely on; he had been purposely isolated to depend on Harry.

While Harry would like to think it was because Sesshomaru grew to be attached to him naturally, it would be naïve to think that it was because they were both nobility—presumably; Harry still wasn’t certain about the demon’s confusing titles—or that he was charmed by him. Sesshomaru was somehow attracted to him.

He was attracted to a contemporary warlock that could stand to lose everything should Harry reciprocate that bit of attraction.

On one hand, Harry could be being played. Sesshomaru had over five hundred years of wisdom; there is little that he wouldn’t have seen by now.

On the other hand, a five-hundred year old demon might authentically be intrigued by Harry—apparently the first overseas wizard he’d met. If it were the latter, Harry could see how Sesshomaru had determined Harry to have value. There were many wild theories he could think of regarding how he’d captured the demon’s attention in the first place.

Japan did have a period of isolation. If Sesshomaru was a clever opportunist, then he was sowing the seeds for a secure future, whether if it was for himself or for his country’s subjects. Were Harry to think of Sesshomaru as a Slytherin, the demon most likely discerned the benefits of allying with a foreign bureaucrat who so happened to not only command the entirety of a country’s law enforcement force but also have certain diplomatic influence overseas. Although Sesshomaru’s method was unorthodox—wanting to establish himself as Harry’s mentor—that excuse could serve a dual purpose of deepening their camaraderie. If Harry thought well of him, then he would be more willing to accommodate him. In a way, Harry could understand how, in the feudal warlord’s eyes, it was parsed that the wizard minding him held significant influence that could be exploitable.

Sesshomaru could have ascertained that it could only be an advantageous asset to him.

Harry’s hands lowered, until one was rubbing the back of his neck while the other hand braced his forearm. He could feel the solid length of his wand holster as his imagination ran rampant.

Harry was only grateful that he seemed to be the target of Sesshomaru’s focus, and not his deputy or—worse—the Acting Minister. While Harry did not think a sole magical creature could bring instability to Shacklebolt’s tenure, at the same time, Harry didn’t ask to be in this dilemma.

Approaching the coffee desk, Harry whirled around in another circle.

But what’s done is done. Running away from reality would change nothing. He had to minimize the damage. He had to confront the issue. The quickest solution would be rejecting Sesshomaru directly.

Yet there were somethings particular about Sesshomaru that made Harry hesitate.

Harry was actually fond of the dog demon, quirks and all. Sesshomaru did not seem like a duplicitous individual, demonic nature or no demonic nature. It did not seem like he was acting. If anything, Sesshomaru was not hiding his condescending attitude or downplaying the cruelty of his past exploits when those deeds came to be questioned. If the five-hundred year old magical creature did not like someone, the difference in regard was palpable.

Sesshomaru certainly did not act like his Japanese contemporaries who hid their disagreements behind smiles and a seemingly agreeable nature. He was astonishingly genuine. Sometimes instances of forward behavior broke through aloof formalities.

Sesshomaru reminded Harry of Severus Snape and—to an extent—Lucius Malfoy, if they were Gryffindorish and attractive. That behavior of Sesshomaru’s did not fit the objective of someone covering their tracks in order to make a good impression. And Harry did not think someone of that peculiar military background was that careless of an individual—nobility or royalty or not. Sesshomaru even had his thoughtful moments—being kind to Teddy and Astoria, and having the mercy to give Harry space to consider his offer of mentorship.

Besides, if it were an act, then Sesshomaru would make for a frighteningly convincing liar. At that thought, Harry’s mouth moved into a self-deprecating smirk. However, as cautious as Harry wanted to be, there was little evidence to suggest he was being played as a fool.

Speculation was all Harry had.

The only noteworthy amendment to Harry’s initial profiling, besides the development of a romantic and possibly sexual attraction, was that Lord Sesshomaru was a remarkably impulsive man.

Should Sesshomaru prove to be too reckless, Harry might one day find himself in the position being forced to choose. The wizarding world was as unkind as the nonmagical one. If this was a ruse, not only would Harry have to follow up with countermeasures, but it could potentially complicate things. He would have to decide between pardoning those infractions with the highest authority and taking responsibility as the Head Auror.

Harry released a sigh so loud that he felt it down to his toes. If this was as simple as a ploy to get on Harry’s good side, Harry could only hope he had the mental fortitude to see through any ulterior motives. If it was as simple as a crush, he could ignore it or gently let the other party down. Those alone were manageable.

At the level their flirting was, it was chaste.

Harmless.

Tolerable.

Within acceptable parameters.

If this operation had a short duration, Harry could imagine distancing himself, emphasizing on a platonic relationship—a friendship or alliance, ideally—hinting that he was not seeking a relationship. The other party had to have common sense and be emotionally sensitive enough to sense a lost cause.

He was not as confident if the time traveler’s fancy surged into intense feeling for him. The development of feelings was often irrational and uncontrollable. A flickering ember could turn into a blazing fire. If it came down to that….

Harry faltered, frowning at the surrealism of such a scenario.

Regardless, a Dark magical creature that this Japanese figurehead may be, a person was not defined by their race. Sesshomaru will get the benefit of the doubt. The hand that supported his elbow in a thinking position squeezed.

No matter which suspicions cycled through his head, Harry would not be bigoted. Unless proven otherwise, Sesshomaru was deserving of the same measure of courtesy and kindness. Harry was not going to repeat the close-minded or disgraceful behavior that’d personally made Harry suffer, and others he’d cared about, from their ignorance.

At this point, Sesshomaru was docile and would continue to make life easier for Harry in order to impress him. It was better than were Harry to reject him, thereby facing the consequences of an unpredictable, spurned demon.

It was not so much denial as it was an accepting tolerance for his situation. Or a stroke of insanity.

He groaned to himself, “This is getting yourself nowhere, Chosen One. Why does this have to be so complicated?” He flung his arms up. “Just tell him. Save yourself the hassle.”

It was easier said than done. Despite saying it aloud, common sense wasn’t enough to spur him into action.

It only made the incentive to stay quiet—stronger.

An expletive rushed out of his mouth. Scowling, Harry marched back to his desk. Angling a hip over his desk, he hoisted himself up until he was sitting on a corner of his desk. He stared once more at the green folder, before he picked up the rolled newsprint.

Two letters fell out when he unraveled the twine. Dread pooled in his gut when he saw Doge’s letterhead to him.

Harry knew this was all in his mind, but he could swear, upon seeing Umbridge’s name, that the back of his hand burned. Involuntarily, his fingers curled. Already opened, it was an official claim form to a court hearing, with the trial date declared to be soon. The subpoena attached behind the first document specified the exact location, scheduled date and time of Harry’s appearance for his testimony.

Hermione’s words were clanging in his head like a bell the longer he stared at Doge’s letter.

The remaining letter was unopened. His mood instantly lightened upon reading the immaculate cursive. The letter had been dropped off at the Ministry earlier this morning by owl. Written by a female hand, it was addressed to him from Andromeda and Teddy.

He could feel his fist unclenching. Under the gentlest of smiles, he folded that letter into his trouser pocket—to be read later. The claim form was deposited uncaringly into his pocket. To set his mind on other subjects, he unrolled the newspaper. Scanning the adverts and columns on the front page, the main article caught his eye.

ORGAN-GRO – THE FUTURE OF RUBENS WINIKUS AND COMPANY INC?

Grinning up at Harry was a wizard around his age, but with impressive facial hair. He was waving about his tobacco pipe as he was being photographed by the small crowd gathered in his potions lab. Arranged on the table were Petri dishes, containing what appeared, to Harry, to be tissue samples.

Son of the exclusive manufacturer and developer of the Skele-Gro potion, young Potions prodigy Rubens Winikus III unveils the progress of the miraculous Organ-Gro healing potion in a special public appearance, wrote A. Fenetre, Special Correspondent. Having graduated Hogwarts of Witchcraft and Wizardry with high marks in N.E.W.T level subjects, Winikus III had the brilliant idea of combining the Oculus potion and Skele-Gro one day when his girlfriend punctured her eyes after an unfortunate fall on her knitting needles.

The article detailed the son’s education and accomplishments, before generously divulging a portion of the ingredients needed for Organ-Gro: a Chinese chomping cabbage, three puffer fish, a small sprinkling of chopped Dittany, and stewed Mandrake—

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Scchk.

Harry stopped reading when he heard the harsh, telltale sound of the cherrywood wall panels and wainscots collapsing in on itself like origami. Someone had to be approaching his office. The walls folding into nonexistence, light flooded past the tall two-way mirrors.

Harry winced.

Once the rattling faded, human and mechanical clamoring immediately followed. Through the ten walls he could hear the risings and fallings of discussions, heated exchanges, the ding of the lift doors, and braying laughter. (He didn’t have to look to know the adjoined office outside was empty; his deputy had been sent to the Department of Mysteries earlier to check in on Sesshomaru.)

Bringing a hand over his eyes, Harry squinted against the sudden brightness.

With each side of the decagon, Harry had a line of sight to all the different divisions that made up his department. This transparency was a privilege afforded to every Head Auror. With this, Harry could monitor everyone, but no one could see into his office. Doors lined each side, granting him passage to whichever sector he pleased.

Being the largest department in the Ministry of Magic, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were fragmented into the main branch—where he, as Head Auror, held the largest sway—and the administrative branch.

It could be said that every division had its unique interior.

The Auror Office had their iconic cubicles that Aurors were passing in and out of. The division of Hit Wizards from the Magical Law Enforcement Squad nearby had various wizards studying the Wanted posters lining the walls and bulletins. Next to that, the Department of Intoxicating Substances, the Investigation Department, and the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol division were similar only in their vaulted barrel ceilings—arched trusses made of bricks.

The Wizengamot and Wizengamot Administration Services division had a corridor that led to a circular chamber within, with fifty individuals gathered around a bench seemingly in danger of collapsing under the weight of the piles of parchments. Large tomes submerged the desks and shelves of the Administrative Registration Department. The Improper Use of Magic Office—a room with a pair of file cabinets flanking the massive desk in the center—and the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office—another cramped room filled to the brink with knickknacks and curiosities—were situated nearby. The Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects had a tiny but drab office space filled with files and charmed Muggle objects.

It was from this last division that Harry saw a gangly wizard marching toward him, fists clenched and with a determined look. His face was red, his freckles were invisible. He was wearing a trench coat, as if he’d recently returned from his trip overseas.

A stream of profanities flew from Harry’s mouth. He sprinted back around his desk. He’d thrown himself into his chair when Ron pounded on the door, rattling the glass.

“Harry!” Ron barked, his breath fogging up the mirror’s surface briefly. He hammered the surface twice more. “I know you’re in there! We need to talk!”

“Sod this,” Harry growled. He could already see various wizards and witches poking their heads out, curious about the commotion. Flicking his gaze over his desk, he shoved all opened wrappers into the waste bin under his desk. Opening his drawer, he threw Sesshomaru’s file into it, too preoccupied to notice the tiny metal ball that’d careened off. He slammed the drawer closed.

Harry scanned the perimeter of his office once more. Nothing would seem unusual to the untrained eye. He squared his shoulders.

Past his racing heart, Harry finally bade, “You—” He cleared his throat. “You can come in, Ron.”

The door opened with a click, and the glass shuddered when it was closed again. Harry had risen to his feet when Ron maneuvered around the furniture. His footsteps thundered as he charted his way to Harry’s desk.

Harry took a deep breath. “Isn’t it a bit early to see me—?”

A fist collided against Harry’s cheek.

Harry had to throw an arm out to catch himself. Clinging to the edge of the desk, he dragged himself back onto his feet. His wand was already in his hand. Cupping the side of his face, he demanded, “What the hell, Ron?”

“You’re a complete wanker, Harry!”

“It doesn’t mean you can assault me!”

A tense silence enveloped them. Both men were glaring at each other. Tension was palpable in the air. Yet, Ron was still unarmed; only Harry had drawn his wand.

After a while, Ron drew back. He’d crossed his arms around his chest. He grunted. “Did it hurt?”

Harry said, “Shite, Ron.” He gingerly prodded his cheek, and then his jaw. The entire left side of his face was burning. Past the blood rushing in his ears, he heard himself growling, “What do you think?”

“You deserve it, you plonker.” Ron inhaled deeply, his voice growing softer as if he had been satisfied with Harry’s answer. He seemed to sag into himself now. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not okay. I’m pissed off, that’s what I am.”

“Good.”

To Harry’s surprise, Ron collapsed into one of the two armchairs across Harry’s desk.

Ron was sprawled in an undignified slouch. Limbs spread like a ragdoll, he was glowering at the engraved nameplate on Harry’s desk. Under Harry’s watchful gaze, in the most unapologetic tone Ron muttered, “Sorry.”

Harry was about to unleash more obscenities, with the freeness that their American counterparts utilized, when he realized the racket they must have made.

His eyes lurched to the windows.

The tension in his shoulders dissipated as relief engulfed him. No one seemed to have noticed. The visual reminder, that no one could see or hear them outside of the office’s enchantment, was reassuring. He glanced again in Ron’s direction.

The tip of his wand lowered.

In the moment it took Harry to scan his surroundings, Ron had begun helping himself to the tea set on the tray. All of his movements—pouring tea, scooping sugar cubes with a spoon, and so forth—no matter how small, were abrupt and jittery. His gaze had remained trained on Harry’s title and name etched a shiny gold in the black brass.

“You don’t have anything to report?”

“No. I’m not here for that.”

Pointing the Holly wand at his own unfinished cup, Harry watched as a jet of blue wisps formed at the end. Condensation soon formed on the ceramic surface, its liquid contents now having frozen over. His eyes pinned to Ron’s form, Harry slowly sank back down. He’d brought the chilled cup to his cheek, dulling the ache as he waited for Ron to explain himself.

Harry already had an idea of what this could be.

“Hermione…,” he heard Ron begin. Ron had brought his cup to his mouth. He mumbled to the rim, “My wife listens to my best mate. And my best mate listens to her, instead of me. I don’t even feel like her husband. Isn’t this just brilliant?”

So you have gone back to see her, Harry wanted to say aloud. Instead he stayed silent, frowning pensively.

Harry had conversed with enough people to gather that social convention dictated marital problems were generally settled privately between a husband and wife. Harry had wanted the pair to work things out themselves. But as much as he wished to respect their privacy, he found himself slowly losing patience with how juvenile his friends were behaving, avoiding each other and not communicating with each other.

If their job performance was affected by personal issues, Harry had no choice. If they had to rely on a neutral third party, then Harry was willing to offer his opinion to his best mates.

He did, however, realize he’d lent his ear to Hermione more often than Ron. He wasn’t certain whether it was the result of a bias. There would be numerous factors that could contribute to his partiality. Hermione was, after all, one of his closest friends. Unlike Ron, there hadn’t been any moments that Harry could remember in their childhood where Hermione had thrown a jealous fit.

Nonetheless, because of that meeting, Harry realized he’d erred his other best mate in some way. It also didn’t help that Counselor Thicknesse was keeping a close eye on the Head Auror, ready to chastise Harry for showing obvious favoritism again. The friendship between Harry and Ron reminded Harry of how it’d been during the Triwizard Tournament.

Knowing both their personalities, it had only been a matter of time before they had their confrontation.

There was also a part of Harry, the lonely little man who craved companionship that wanted to repair the friendship and make things to how it was before. Harry grimaced, shifting his attention back from his thoughts.

Studying Ron’s slouched form, Harry felt the guilt ebb as he took in the sight of his Auror in his office. This was his command center. This was Harry’s domain that Ron had forced his way into. Straightening his back, Harry asked coolly, “What do you want me to say?” He kept his tone inquisitive, but not intruding. Despite that, his knuckles were pale underneath his gloves.

“Don’t.” Ron grimaced. Scrutinizing his tea, he said, “Please don’t do that. I want my best mate; not my boss.”

The corners of Harry’s mouth tugged down further, but he didn’t say anything. Another silence descended upon them.

Sensing that this wasn’t going to be a quick conversation, Harry traced three sides of a rectangle in the air. Then, he slashed the wand down.

The door sealed itself with an audible click. With another wave of his wand, the wooden walls unfolded with sharp rattling noises until the office was once again submerged in the illusion of privacy. Ron might be able to relax now without the psychological pressure of feeling a hundred eyes on him.

Only the green banker’s lamp on his desk and the wall sconces provided the office a cozy glow.

“I am your boss,” Harry scolded. As emphasis, he gestured down at his nameplate.

Both Counselor Thicknesse and Acting Minister Shacklebolt had counseled Harry that he had to make the distinction between work and his personal life. While it frightened Harry sometimes when he reflected back on the degree of apathy affecting his judgement, it became a source of comfort to default to that. As a Head Auror, it made the decision-making less emotionally draining. He got outcomes based on productivity. He also appeared more qualified. Less people were willing to take advantage of him.

As Harry had learned, acting professionally was often a failsafe method, versatile for many situations.

Harry lowered his own cup, the side of his face feeling cold and numb to the air. He steeled himself. Echoing what he’d been told, he recited verbatim: “Policies and procedures exist so that complacency isn’t an issue.”

“I know.” Ron also set his teacup down, clinking on the saucer. “But I want Harry. Not Harry Potter.”

“…Alright, we’ll do it your way. You have my full attention.” Spreading his arms out wide invitingly, Harry declared, “Don’t hold back. Talk. No worries about hurting my feelings.”

Ron averted his gaze. His sight remained trained on the folders, a dark cloud brewing on his face. With the illumination of the table lamp, the shadows underneath Ron’s eyes became more pronounced. The scruff along his jaw was fuller than the grey five o’clock shadow along Harry’s, as if Ron hadn’t shaved for days. Harry also didn’t know if it was his imagination, but the infamous fiery red hair seemed to be thinning. And to Harry’s wonderment, while it had been subtle before, it was evident that Ron had gained a bit of weight.

Ron squirmed, feeling the weight of the gaze leveled on him. At last, he mumbled gruffly, “How do you do it?”

Despite himself, Harry’s heart sunk. He cleared his throat. “Elaborate. How do I do what?”

“Alright, full disclosure?” He breathed out. “Why does she trust you, and not me?” His head rose. His eyes were a piercing blue. In a louder volume, he demanded, “What am I doing wrong?”

Harry stifled a sigh. “I cannot imagine,” he replied dryly.

“And calling me out in front of everyone? Have I done something to you?” Ron’s volume climbed with every accusation. His fists clenched and unclenched down by his thighs. “Why are you always taking each other’s side? I thought I was your best mate!”

“The things you say.” This was not good. He had to diffuse the tension. “This is getting ridiculous. Ron, look at me.”

Harry waited for him to heed the command. When Ron’s eyes reluctantly beheld his, Harry tapped at his own cheekbone, ignoring the twinge of pain. He said, “Firstly, I won’t say I don’t deserve this, maybe. But I can’t have this becoming a regular occurrence. I’m going to do things you happen to disagree with.”

“You got what was coming.”

“Ron, people are already accusing me of showing you favoritism.” Seeing the defensive retort about to leap up, Harry gave him a stern look. “You’d just assaulted me in my office. You hit your superintendent in the face. It is well within my rights to have you written up. Fill in the blanks.”

Ron’s lips thinned into a long white line.

Channeling Dumbledore’s unnerving calmness from his memories, Harry said, “Any other Head Auror would’ve pressed charges. Or sacked you. Yet we’re still here. Why do you think that is?”

Ron’s mouth opened and closed, incapable of finding the words. Unable to revive his fighting spirit, his body sagged. His eyes had fallen again from Harry’s gaze. To keep himself busy, he fiddled with his thumbs, crossing and recrossing his legs.

His patience was diminishing. Under a placating tone, he coaxed, “Work with me here, Ron. I’m not the enemy.” As visual emphasis, Harry rested his wand down on the desk, making certain Ron heard the thunk. Clasping gloved fingers together tightly, Harry said, “What do you think’s happening between me and Hermione? If it’s what I reckon you’re going to say, I call bollocks. Hermione is my Deputy Head Auror. And she is your wife. That’s it.”

“Funny how you leapt to that conclusion, before I said anything—”

His palm slammed down on the desk. “Ron, shut up!” Harry snapped, hearing the inception of that surly pigheadedness in Ron’s petulant tone. He could recall the knife edge of Ron’s jealous accusations from their school years. Incensed, he shouted, “We all know what you’re thinking. I promise you. Nothing’s happened! Nothing has been crossed! I swear on my parents’ graves….”

The defiance on Ron’s face dimmed exponentially. He reared back, looking uncomfortable.

“…there is no affair! Hermione has been a faithful wife. I did not die for you to accuse me of—!”

“—Harry, I didn’t mean it,” Ron interrupted.

It was like a splash of cold water. Harry’s rant died on his lips as he stared at his mate’s bowed head, befuddled, doubting what he’d just heard. It couldn’t be this easy, was the thought running through his mind. He’d been expecting a fight. He’d been expecting for it to come to blows and explosions.

Although Ron’s head was downcast, he could see blue butcher eyes—partially hidden behind that fringe—zipping to the wand on the desk, as if its presence could console his apprehension.

“I…fuck, I’m—” Ron exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m just paranoid, alright?”

The room wasn’t shaking. Nothing had fallen. Only the sounds of their breathing rushed to fill in the silence.

The tension in Ron’s shoulder seemed to have ebbed a bit, once he realized he hadn’t landed himself at the end of Harry’s infamous temper.

Ron shifted in his seat. The hush seemed to be getting to him. He was collecting his thoughts, his leg jittery, bouncing on his other knee to the speed his mind ran. “I didn’t imagine you’d be this—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, not upon spotting the sharp twist of Harry’s mouth. Hoarsely, he asked, “Nothing’s going on really?”

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Harry retorted crossly. He folded his arms, his fists digging into the crook of his elbows. “If I were a lesser man, I’d be offended. Walk a bit in my shoes. Do I look like the homewrecking sort?”

“You don’t…you’re not a homewrecker,” Ron admitted. He worried his lower lip, darting his tongue over chapped lips. “Has she said anything to you? I don’t want to be a jealous prat but sometimes a man…wonders, y’know? You’re her superintendent. She’s not been…making eyes at anyone else, has she? Or have you seen any bloke showing inappropriate interest in my wife?”

A throbbing sensation made itself known between Harry’s eyebrows. Pinching the patch of skin, he asked, “Sorry, have you talked with Hermione?” His hand shot up, halting whatever Ron had been about to say. His tone was grim. “No, have you two actually talked to each other like a civil couple?”

“I’m not certain what you—”

“For example,” Harry interjected, “did you know she started crying? In front of me? Guess the subject. It involves you.”

It was as physical of a blow as getting punched in the gut.

“…No. I can’t believe—really, Hermione was upset?” Ron’s voice was brittle, barely above a rasp.

“She certainly wasn’t happy.”

Ron’s expression was heartrending. “Mate… for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. She never said anything about…why do you…why did she come to you? Blimey, when was this? She never told me.”

“She was helping me with the ambassador’s situation. It was the same day Dumbledore’s Tomb was ransacked.” Exhaling a gust of breath, Harry leaned back in his seat. He explained, “She was distraught you would accuse her of cheating. She’s pregnant with your child, you wanker.”

“Blimey.”

Harry inclined his head, not agreeing vocally. The implication was nonetheless in his silence.

“And you’re telling me this? Now?” Ron’s tone was incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Would you have listened to me?” he asked. Then his expression became inscrutable. “Never mind that. It’s only…I didn’t want to meddle, y’know? This is your marriage. But this…marital spat of yours, it’s been going on for far too long. Even Goldstein’s picked up on it.”

Hearing their shrink’s name, Ron flinched.

Anthony Goldstein had been assigned to their department as the head psychiatrist, after having undergone intensive training at St Mungo’s. After the previous one retired, there had been an opening. Harry, Hermione, and Thicknesse had been impressed by the credentials the former Ravenclaw graduate presented them during their interview. Goldstein had been just as approachable as Harry remembered him in Dumbledore’s Army, his personality just as sunny as the color of his hair. He was still shorter than Harry—and he was still adamant in his resolve as a practicing Jew—but the boy Harry remembered him as was now a man applied to his duties.

Making up his mind, Harry tugged the green folder from underneath the papers. Then he asked, “Are you two getting a divorce?”

“What the—?” Ron’s eyes bulged. “No, I’m not getting a bloody divorce!”

Harry’s brows skyrocketed beneath his fringe. With much deliberateness, he slid the folder over so that the neat handwriting was illuminated by the table lamp. Ron’s eyes widened even further, spotting his name on the tab.

“I- I thought this was supposed to be confidential? Patient-therapist confidentiality?” Ron swallowed, his complexion paling. His freckles were brown constellations on his face. He reached for the file, demanding, “Why is it this big?”

“Goldstein’s notes are extraordinarily thorough,” Harry answered dryly, watching Ron flip through the documents at a feverish pace. “Which is why I’m inclined to ask what you’re doing to do about this. With what Goldstein wrote down, I’m worried for both of you. Especially you, Ron. You always look like you’ve slept over at George’s shop. For days.”

“Is that why you asked if we were getting divorced?” Ron demanded, his brows crumpling into a troubled frown as he skimmed Goldstein’s observations.

He read the scribbles—Disciplinary Charges. Problem-maker. Intelligent, aggressive, temperamental, and defensive. Loose cannon. PTSD symptoms: exhibits signs of paranoia and struggles reintegrating back into civilized society. Might need to arrange for reassignment from fieldwork to administrative duties.

Ron declared, “This is a load of hogwash.”

He didn’t look up even as Harry leaned across the desk, casting a long shadow over the wood.

“I’ll save you the legwork. You’re not even supposed to see this.” Covering the parchments with his palm, Harry leafed through the pages until he reached the more recent entries. As if by rote, Harry said, “You have been turning to food for comfort, overeating; he’s noted significant weight gain in an abnormal amount of time. There is an escalation of aggressive behavior in your remarks and actions on the field. He suggests PTSD—that’s post-traumatic stress disorder—and depression. You have repeatedly mentioned your dissatisfaction at work and at home. Tell me, what am I supposed to think when Goldstein reports to me about such? What’s going on, Ron?”

“You’ve read my file,” Ron retorted, his ears burning crimson. His knuckles were white against the green folder. “You already have your answer. So stop pretending that you care.”

Harry’s stare could bore holes. There was the small part of him that was rankled by the obstinacy. It was the same small beast that snarled and wanted to break free whenever others had spread falsehoods about him or pushed him beyond his capability for kindness. Miniscule as it was, it was an insidious monster with an explosive temper lying in wait. He took a deep, shaky breath.

Hermione’s shiny, pink face, wet with tears when she confessed her mixed feelings. Teddy’s despairing face, when he nearly broke Harry’s pocket watch. Malfoy bleeding, limbs eagle-spread in the water. Sirius being blasted with the Killing Curse, falling through the Veil.

He exhaled slowly. In and out. Meditative. He had to rein it in. He reminded himself of what was necessary for Occlumency. He was a functioning adult. He was better than this. Only individuals like Voldemort and Vernon let their anger cloud their judgement. Dumbledore wouldn’t have allowed himself to be furious.

“Ron,” he said through gritted teeth. He was displeased by how tight his voice sounded. Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Ron…you’re not wrong.”

Ron’s head snapped up.

“It’s difficult for me to care,” Harry confessed, “because this has been something I’ve known about for a while, and I haven’t had a proper upbringing. But you’re my best mate. And I’m selfish. I don’t want to let you go. Not without reason. So let me ask this: are you unsatisfied at work? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Mate….” Ron sat up. His expression was perturbed. “Are you—are you firing me?”

“No!” Harry blurted, nearly gawking at him. “Merlin, no. I was—I-I’m not great at comforting others.” His breath whooshed out. “I’m asking…do you and Hermione need time? I can pull you off assignment—”

“Harry—”

“—I want you with your wife and child, not out risking your life in the field. I can rescind my orders. Assign you a different case—”

“HARRY!” Ron shouted, snatching his attention and startling him into muteness. His eyes were a piercing blue as he stared him down. In a slow drawl, as if explaining to a child, he said gruffly, “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you realize how that’ll look? To others? After you’d publically approved stationing me overseas? On a special assignment.”

Harry winced. His mind was whirling. He honestly hadn’t thought about that. He’d been more concerned about how to make this right again, to Ron. Once again, Ron was demonstrating social insight. Sometimes Harry forgot….

His gaze fell on the coroner’s reports on his desk. A frown tugged on Harry’s face. Written down was exactly the same toxicology details he’d shared with Harry and Hermione, after having demonstrated the entomology spell results detected no evidence of blowfly larvae anywhere on the bodies. However, unlike the medical examiner, Hermione held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose.

He remembered the resentment dying on his lips once he realized why she could be feeling inadequate. He could tell she was pushing herself for some invisible goal, like she had something to prove.

Many times Harry appreciated how his and Hermione’s work principles conveniently seemed to match. Young that they may be compared—to the workforce they oversaw—the pair presented a united front. Wherever the Head Auror went, his Deputy Head was sure to follow. She backed him up, so the favor had to be returned. But the side of him that was psychologically attuned now recognized it to be because of the emotional dependency after having permanently Obliviated all her parents’ memories of her existence herself.

Ron was in a different category since he was her husband. At least Ron had parents and siblings to turn to. Hermione only had Harry. So loathe as Harry was to concede to the psychoanalysis, Goldstein had been correct. Their Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder only worsened the reliance.

Yet, habit or not it was for them to turn to each other for advice, Harry should’ve known better than to consult with Hermione on matters outside of work. While she’d matured since their school days and have filled in remarkable gaps missing in her knowledge of the wizarding world customs, his Deputy Head was sometimes as socially awkward as Harry was. She could jump to conclusions as Ron could, in lieu of context and research material. Clever as she was, she was not infallible.

He relied on her superior intellect and intelligence-gathering skills. They were the witch’s strengths, just as tactical thinking and voice impersonations were Ron’s. However, out of the three of them, only Ron had the semblance of a normal childhood and therefore could make a more astute assessment of magical social conventions….

He peeked down at a certain drawer. There was an idea brewing in his head. He knew this was something Ron and Hermione would not do unless they had someone to push them.

Harry gnawed on his lower lip thoughtfully. He could change the subject to make Ron feel better, before Harry delivered his ultimatum. He had to establish solidarity. There was only one subject he could think of that’d distract him. He also knew the trigger words, framing the request like letting Ron in on a secret that Harry couldn’t even trust Hermione with. Even if it meant putting himself in a position of embarrassment….

“Ron,” Harry said, steel interlaced in his voice. He had to ask before his nerves got the better of him. He made himself lean several inches forward in his seat. “Before that, may I ask for advice? It’s for something unrelated. Hermione is useless on this.”

At that, Ron’s brows rose to his hairline.

He considered Harry for a bit.

When he found nothing suggesting a prank, then leaning in until his chest was pressed against the edge of the desk, Ron whispered, “What’s on your mind?”

He’d taken the bait.

Harry drew in a deep breath. He held it in his lungs. Then he exhaled. He began simply, “The ambassador. The Asian one.”

Ron blinked rapidly, his mind no doubt working to put a face to all the dignitaries he knew of. Finally he suggested, “That stuck-up—” he paused, then corrected, “that Lucius Malfoy lookalike of yours? The diplomat?”

He was awaiting Harry’s acknowledgement. When he saw Harry nod, he reclined back. His expression was thoughtful, like he was contemplating his next chess move.

Ron remarked, “What about him? Actually, you’ve never mentioned anything about volunteering your services to anyone in Witness Protection…before you left. He looks like he’s got magical creature blood in him. Where’d you meet him?”

Harry grimaced. “Japan.”

Ron’s brows furrowed. “But how did you—?” Breaking off, his mouth formed into a small ‘o.’ The shine of curiosity made his expression livelier. “Hermione’s keeping a tight lid on this too. I get you; you were given the assignment. But how is my wife involved? I mean, I understand she’s your deputy—”

“I reckon he fancies me!” Harry exclaimed hastily, his ears turning hot. Unable to meet Ron’s gaze, he explained, “I don’t believe I’m imagining it. I know the signs. He’s not exactly subtle.”

“Oh.” When Harry snuck a peek, Ron didn’t appear stunned or sickened. Matching his tone, there was wonder in his face. Most of all, it was his ready acceptance of the revelation that made it surreal. Ron demanded, “And he fancies you? He’s been giving you the eyes?”

“Gee, Ron, way to make a bloke feel confident,” Harry said sarcastically, bristling automatically. “I’ll have you know I’m quite the catch.”

“But do you fancy him back?” he insisted. His face was fixed into a serious expression. “Do I need to hex the git for you? If he’s been bothering you, you should tell him—”

“Trust me. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for months,” Harry interjected, although hearing Ron offer such a thing made his heart swell. He forced himself to confess, “I’m not bothered by it. I—it’s actually…nice, for a change. Is that deplorable of me to think so?” His shirt collar was choking him. He’d never thought he’d be flattered to be on the receiving end. He’d thought it would impossible, but his ears burned hotter.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Ron had held his hands up in surrender. “But…I mean…no offense, mate, but I thought you were attracted to women.” He began ticking off his fingers. “There was Cho Chang, Parvati Patil…then there was my sister….”

He caught Harry’s instinctive cringe. He gave Harry an inscrutable look, before mercifully continuing, “And I’ve never seen you batting for the other team. You’d certainly never made googly eyes at Gilderoy Lockhart, Cedric Diggory, or Bulgarian heartthrob Viktor Krum —”

Now Ron’s complexion became ghastly. “Harry, in the Quidditch changing rooms, have you ever—?”

“No!” Harry answered, glowering, his tone curt. Clasping his hands tightly in his lap, Harry forced himself to say, “I never had inappropriate thoughts about you or any of the blokes on the team.”

“Oh, thank Merlin.” Ron’s shoulders sagged, his face upturned dramatically to the ceiling in relief. “That would’ve been—since when did you start fancying wizards? You’ve never been…,” here he paused, ashamed, before finishing, “particularly lacy.”

“There was no ‘starting,’” Harry retorted. “I considered it one day, and the thought of it didn’t turn me off. I’ve accepted both ladies and blokes. That’s it. My sexuality doesn’t have to be that complicated.”

“So…you bat for bot… teams. I can’t believe you’ve never told me—” Ron’s mouth moved into an upside-down ‘V.’

To his credit, Ron hadn’t stormed out of the room like Harry had imagined countless of times. It also wasn’t as natural as Harry had wished it was, but it was better than he’d been expecting. He should be thankful Ron was accepting of it as he was.

As if it physically pained him to admit it, Ron spoke slowly to the ceiling, “I suppose he is handsome…”

Harry’s mouth involuntarily moved into a frown.

“…I personally don’t see it, but if you think he’s attractive—”

“I know he’s attractive. But I cannot return his feelings.”

Ron’s head slammed back down to gawk at him.

“Hear me out first. I know it sounds awful—!” Mid-sentence, he watched as Ron brought a hand to his face.

“You’re throwing him a wand.”

“There’s no ‘wand’ being thrown,” Harry objected. He breathed in harshly, reminding himself to be patient. “I’m telling you this because I want your opinion. I mean, blast it, I don’t see why not. It’s only a crush. It’s…tolerable. I reckon you understand why I can’t return his feelings though.”

“Does Hermione know about this? You tell her everything. Since she’s your deputy and all.”

Harry hesitated. Then, dropping his gaze, he said, “In hindsight…I realize, it may’ve been a big oversight.”

Ron laughed hollowly, ringing in Harry’s ears like a demented chortle. It was gone as fast as it came. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.” He’d folded his arms across his chest. “She chewed you out, didn’t she? She’d be the sort to have a wobbly about this.”

“Hermione…didn’t give me the answer I wanted,” Harry forced himself to admit, although dragging the words out was difficult. The effort was akin to swallowing apple pips. Taking a deep breath, he said to his desk, “I should’ve went to you instead.”

Ron was mumbling a few choice words beneath his breath that Harry couldn’t catch. Then he said, “I honestly don’t know what you see in…oh, right. I forgot. Your first crush was Chang. Of course.” Rolling his eyes at Harry’s bowed head, he said, “Look, Harry, I hate to admit it but whatever Hermione’s said to you, she’s likely correct. Blokes don’t work that way. Women don’t work that way. It’s the same whatever gender it is. If you don’t refuse him upfront, he’s going to fall in love with you. You should tell him now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous….” Harry paused. Then his scowl turned severe. “I’m hoping it won’t happen. If it does, well….”

Ron groaned again. “Another understatement,” he mumbled. Louder, he asked, “He’s an ambassador, isn’t he? A top-secret confidential, high-risk magical creature from a secret society that neither you nor Hermione are authorized to reveal?”

“‘Secret society?’” Harry parroted blandly.

“Blimey, Harry. Have you not read the subscriptions? It’s been all the Daily Prophet’s been talking about since you’d brought him here. He looks and talks odd. And he’s always with you. Obviously people are going to speculate.”

“Remember, I told Kreacher to comb through my letters. I only read what he’s approved.” Dread pooled in his stomach like acid. There was one topic that the press loved to publish about him, and it all revolved around his bachelor status. Dismay melted into Harry’s expression. “No, you’re saying—?”

It was as if Ron read his mind. “No, no! Most of them’s all harmless speculation. The most Skeeter’s done is hint that you two have been attached to the hip a lot more than…actually, you might not want to look into it. I know how you get….” Ron trailed off, bringing his face away from his hand. Instead, he cradled his jaw, his eyes rooting Harry to his place. Then out of the blue, he declared, “You have gravitas.”

Harry’s head whirled. He spluttered, “I beg your pardon?”

“If what you’re saying is true, that’s why he’s attracted to you,” Ron declared, gesturing at Harry. “You’re both diplomats. He’s prim and grim. You’re rich, gloomy, and distinguished. If he fancies blokes, of course he’s going to want to shag the Chosen One. You are a walking success story. Death has lent you gravitas. I can’t say I envy you.”

“…Honestly, I’m astonished that you even know the word.”

“Hilarious, you are. But I heard Hermione say it once. I liked how it sounded. Gra-vi-tas.” Ron spoke carefully around the pronunciation of the syllables. “Makes you sound posh.”

“If you have the ability to joke, then you must be in an improved mood.”

“You’re also mul-ti-fa-ce-ted.”

“Incredible. Keep that up, Ron, and everyone will comment on how Hermione’s been a good influence on you.”

They shared a private smile. For a moment, it was as if they were two mates having a pint in a pub after work hours, back when they were both trainees bonding over who had the worst work anecdote of the day. It was only minutes later when the illusion shattered, once both wizards realized they’d gotten off-topic. Their demeanors immediately shifted back into that of sobriety.

“It’s up to you,” Ron begun, “what you want to do. You’re a functioning adult.”

“I know I’m an adult.”

“If you want to ignore it, fine. Y’know what my wife and I think about it. But I’ll support you every step of the way.”

Harry was silent for a moment. Then he whispered, “Even if it turns out to be a bad decision?”

The grin he received was bleak but lopsided.

“Well, maybe not always,” Ron conceded, making it a point to gaze directly into his eyes, “but unlike Hermione, I’ll back my best mate up—even when it’s stupid and mad. I’m familiar with that Potter stubbornness.”

“It’s tough changing my mind,” Harry joked, feeling the muscles in his face loosening. He must’ve been smiling back for Ron’s own to have grown looser. “In all seriousness, Ron, don’t tell Hermione this. She knows but….”

“Mum’s the word.” He mimed zipping his lips shut, twisting an invisible key and throwing it over his shoulder.

Time to take the plunge, Harry thought to himself, opening a drawer and seizing a stack of business cards tied together by a rubber band. Thumbing through them, he said, “I also don’t want to separate you from your wife.”

Ron blinked.

Finding the one he wanted, Harry leaned forward in his seat. “I’m doing this for your own good. Consider this an order.”

Harry slid a card over. Embossed on the black card was the name “IRENE TREMLETT,” with “Post-Marriage Counselling” printed underneath. Underneath, white ink bisected the center of the card like a jagged tear, fading in and out of existence. Harry had thought it to be clever symbolism.

“Tremlett?” Ron muttered, reading the card. His mouth was slashed downwards. “As in, the bass player from The Weird Sisters? The famous one?”

“She’s his wife,” Harry supplied helpfully. “Goldstein’s a fan of the band. You remember Donaghan Tremlett. From the band that was there for our Yule Ball?” Harry stole a glance at his pocket watch. He frowned.

“Why do you have—?”

His eyes shot back up. “Ron, your parents have noticed. Your brothers and sister have noticed. Everyone at work has. You don’t think I wouldn’t ask Goldstein one day if he had any professional referrals?” He tapped the card. “I know you and Hermione won’t do it. So I’m booking her for you two.”

Ron immediately launched into a string of protests.

“You don’t have a choice. If not me, then sooner or later, your mum and dad might.” Watching Ron wilt in his seat, Harry demanded, “Don’t you want to fix your marriage? Is this an issue of pride?”

“No! I mean, we’ve thought about it. But—”

“But nothing. There’s no shame in seeking professional help. No one is going to think any less of you.” Harry stood up. He took a deep breath. Then he rattled off: “Send me your timetable please, soon, so I know when the next available day is for you. I’ll take a look at Hermione’s too. I don’t want to get your knickers into a twist about it, so I’ll do you a favor and tell Hermione that you were the one to take initiative. It’s the effort that counts, alright? That you’re trying? She’ll like that.”

Scrambling to his feet, Ron mirrored his stance. He folded his arms. “Where are we going—?”

“I’m going to pick up Sesshomaru. I don’t mean to be rude, but I promised him. It’s our nightly thing. You…I don’t know what you want to do, but I assume you’d want to spend time with Hermione before you head back to the States again. You should.” His eyes rooted Ron to the spot. “How goes the investigation in America anyway?”

“It’s only been a few days, Harry,” Ron retorted, although his expression had become queer when Harry mentioned Sesshomaru’s name. He was looking at Harry strangely. “Do you two go on walks? Is that a thing?”

Harry ignored that. He insisted, “An update on its current status, Ron.”

“…We’re still settling in. Rubbing elbows. All that sod. It’s not that fast.”

“I said I wanted a report by the end of the month.”

“And you’ll get one.” Ron shifted on his feet. His shoulders were hunched, with one hand gripping his arm awkwardly. Although he towered over Harry, the way he now held himself made Harry feel like a giant in comparison. Ron added, “The Director still loathes you.”

Harry smirked. “Well, I can’t win them all.”

#phoenixtakaramono #long post #sneak peek #fanfiction #fanfic #green and gold #ch15 #this was already long enough #so you'll have to read #the dream scene that comes before #when the chapter is ready to be posted!#it's going to be a loooooong chapter egads #what you see now is subject to change #there is redundancy that I could edit out #anyway here is the first scene in all its glory #before it gets trimmed down!

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