#powder has an Agenda

[salvieslovenotes]

Blame it on the sun pt.1

summary: you and Vi have been best friends for years, which is fine, only you also happen to be a teensy bit in love with her. You're handling it, except a road-trip and a week at the beach might just prove to be the tipping point... pairing: fem!reader x vi (arcane) contains: modern!au, collage!au, road-trip/beach!au, friends to lovers. 2k a/n: i haven't written before so please be gentle! this is a part one, where i am it's super sunny and i was at the beach and suddenly thought about a vi beach au and wrote this in my notes app. sorry not proofread! might do part two/three soon xox

‘Say it again,’ Caitlyn instructs.

You sigh, exasperated. ‘Cait, this so isn't gonna work.’

‘It is!’ Caitlyn insists. It's hard to take her seriously from where she's seated on her yoga mat, in the lotus position and glaring you with a determined gleam in her eye. ‘This is your mantra. You're pulling in all the strong, independent energy. Go on! Say it!’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘Say it!’

‘I am sexy and fearless,’ you say, giving Caitlyn a flat look.

‘And…’ Caitlyn prompts.

You huff another sigh. ‘And I will not spend the whole week pining after Violet.’

‘You won’t,’ Caitlyn affirms. ‘You're too good for that.’ Her smile turns soft. ‘Just relax and have a brilliant time.’

Caitlyn, your college roommate, really is the most patient woman on the planet, and who's been subjected to more than a few of your Vi-related rants. You and Caitlyn aren’t in any classes together but met at pilates, and she's been the best roommate you've ever had. She’s also the only person who knows how you feel about Vi.

It's just... you needed to tell someone. You and Vi have been best fiends for years, since you were small. You grew up together, went to school together, moved away to college together, have the same group of friends. You played in each other’s paddling pools at three years old for god’s sake.

Right now you're waiting for her and your friends to pick you up, and then you're all going to spend a week of summer break on the coast.

You love Vi, of course you do. Only the tiny, totally insignificant problem is that you're also in love with her.

It's fine. You can totally handle this. You have your mantra and everything.

It's not like you haven't tried to get over the way you feel. At first it was just a little crush. So, when your first high school boyfriend asked you out, you said yes. And you liked him, you really, really did.

But your feelings for Vi didn't go away... they just stayed. They just got stronger. But you're best friends, and she doesn't feel the same. You're friends. So you've become excellent at shoving your feelings down, excellent at dating around here and there, excellent at swallowing your jealousy when Vi has another hookup.

She's never dated seriously, but, as captain of the university’s football team, people know who she is. Unfortunately, being on the cheerleading squad, you get to hear just what the girls think of her. Just how they pine for her after a hook up. It's irritating, them always asking you if she's mentioned them, if she's interested. But you've got this. You accept every few of the dates you get asked on, hoping that maybe this time it'll work. That they'll make you forget Vi.

Only they never do.

You're starting to think maybe no one will.

But you're good—you're excellent at pretending. If you happen to slip up and moan to Caitlyn about it then so what. That's what roommates are for. You always make Caitlyn’s on-again-off-again girlfriend, Maddie, pancakes in the morning when Caitlyn is sleeping in.

‘You'll be fine,’ Caitlyn reminds you, eyes soft. ‘Give me a call if you wanna moan. Or put on that little thing that can barely be called a skirt I know you’ve packed, make the whole club want you and she'll regret her whole life.’

‘Ha ha,’ you snort. Vi won't obviously, but Caitlyn’s gentle teasing makes you smile all the same.

There's a loud beep of a car horn from outside.

‘Oh. Guess that's me.’ You grab your bag, swinging the strap over your shoulder and looking around, trying to think if you've forgotten anything.

‘Suncream?’ asks Caitlyn, moving into downward dog with practiced ease. ‘Second bikini? Book? Rose quartz? Passport?’

‘Passport?’ you echo, distracted, checking your bag for the millionth time. There's another loud honk from outside. ‘But we're not leaving the country…?’

Caitlyn makes a shrugging movement. It looks funny from her current position. ‘You never know. Prepare for anything.’

‘Right,’ you laugh, but grab your passport just in case on your way out, calling, ‘bye love!’

‘Remember your mantra!’ Caitlyn yells just as you slam the door of your little flat.

Hurrying down the steps, you find Vi's beaten-up red jeep idling in the middle of the street.

She's twisted around in her seat as you pull open the door, arguing over music with Ekko, Claggor and Mylo, your friends you met at uni. Powder got a scholarship to Oxford for chemical engineering, and so you only see her over the long Christmas break, but you all call often.

‘What's wrong with Sabrina?’ Claggor asks defensively. He's going through a current obsession - his music tastes change weekly based on the girl he's sweet on at the time. Right now, it's Sabrina Carpenter. Juno has been on repeat.

‘Not again,’ groans Ekko. ‘Hey,’ he adds, nodding at you as you drop your bag on the floor of the front seat and swing in next to Violet. ‘Tell him, would you?’

‘I like Juno,’ you shrug, grinning

Ekko groans again, tossing his hands up as Claggor lets out a triumphant ha!

‘It’s good!’ you laugh as Vi makes a loud scoffing noise. It makes you smile; you happen to know Sabrina occupies a significant portion of her workout playlist.  

Something clenches in your chest at the sight of her. She looks unfairly good, wearing a singlet that shows off her tattoos and arms. Around her neck she's wearing a necklace you brought back for her from holiday one time; it's got a mother-of-pearl pendant, and the slightly crazy lady who sold it to you said it carried protective power from giver to receiver.

‘So I’ll be protecting you always,’ you'd said as you gave it to Vi, laughing. It had been a joke, obviously, but her voice was soft as she thanked you. And she hasn't taken it off since. Not once.

Apparently, one time she had a fit before a game when the clasp broke and it fell without her noticing. Ekko, who's also on the team, told you with a funny expression you couldn't decipher that Vi refused to play until she found it.

‘I suppose everyone has funny pregame rituals,’ you shrugged it off. Tying left shoelaces before right, tapping their locker three times.

Still, it makes your heart kick a little faster every time you see the necklace on her.

‘Damn Princess, way to make us all suffer,’ she says, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. It’s an old nickname, left over from the Princess-themed sixth birthday party you had. Vi turns back to the front, glancing at you quickly then whipping back so fast she’s in danger of damaging something, and she stares at your top for a second, eyes wide.

‘Uh...?’ you say, cautious and more than a little confused.

Vi sort of coughs, heat flooding her cheeks. ‘Nothing.’ Turning to face the road, she clears her throat a good three times. ‘Right, everyone ready? Let’s go then.’ She puts the car into gear as you buckle in.

From the backseat you hear Ekko snort. ‘Nice top,’ he says dryly.

You look down at your halterneck. The pattern has small holes everywhere, like a lacy curtain, and maybe it's a bit much normally, particularly as you can’t wear a bra with it, but you figured as you're going to the beach, it’s fine. Powder crocheted it herself and sent it as a gift for your birthday, along with a vaguely threatening and capitalised instruction to MAKE SURE YOU WEAR IT ON YOUR BEACH TRIP. So... here you are, following instructions.

‘Thanks,’ you say to Ekko. ‘Powder made it.’

Vi mutters something you can't quite catch but sounds vaguely like I'm gonna kill her.

‘I love that girl,’ sighs Mylo with a snigger.

As Vi turns off onto the next street, you connect Claggor’s phone, and as Sabrina starts playing you roll down your window and settle back.

Some time later, everyone’s playing fuck-marry-kill to pass the time on the long drive, and Vi’s laughing at something Mylo says. It's almost perfect. If you ignore Vi beside you, the way her hand rests on the gear stick, one elbow on the windowsill as she loosely grips the steering wheel. It's warm; sun pouring through the windows and you’re trying really hard not to stare at veins on her arms, when suddenly she brushes a hand over your thigh.

The gasp that escapes your mouth is frankly mortifying.

Alarmed, you glance around at her to find Vi frowning at you, confused.

‘D’you mind?’

‘Huh?’

‘Uh...’ she makes a face, a small amused smile tugging at her lips, crooked and slipping to one side. ‘I asked if you could get my sunglasses. They're in the front pocket.’

‘Oh. Yep. Sure can do,’ you say hurriedly, fetching them for her and mentally kicking yourself.

You need to get it together.

It's fine.

I’m not gonna pine, I’m not gonna pine, I’m not gonna pine, you repeat in your head. You're distracted enough that you're starting to think Caitlyn has a point with the whole mantra thing, but then...

Then Vi does something completely inane and absolutely devastating (literally just runs her hand through her hair), her bicep bunching as she raises her arm in a way that's unholy, a sight that belongs in a strip club not a sun-filled front seat on a random Tuesday morning. You turn hastily to the window, heart hammering and mouth suddenly very dry.

Oh this is so not fine.

_______________

Damn Little Mix. Damn them to hell.

No one should be dancing like that, to fucking Little Mix of all groups. Like, really. The way your hips are swaying should be studied by hypnotists, because Vi cannot drag her eyes away.

It's magnetic, sensual and playful all in one heady rush. Every time she thinks she’s used to you, thinks she’s got this... yearning for you under control, you go and do something inane, you smile, roll your eyes, nudge her shoulder, and she’s falling all over again.

It feels like she’s fallen so many times. It can’t get any stronger, she can’t feel any more than this—and then somehow she does.

But you’re friends. Friends don’t think about each other like that. Friends don’t have to bite back the other’s name while sleeping with someone else. Friends don’t fall asleep dreaming about each other.

You’re friends, so she shouldn’t go insane when you simply lay a hand on her shoulder, or nudge her hip. Shouldn’t catch herself staring at your mouth and thinking about it against hers—

Nope. Nope, she’s not doing this. Right now, she's busy being mad at fucking Little Mix, who clearly have got it out for her.

What makes it worse is that you two have always been exceptionally close. People often mistake you for being together as a couple, and Vi always tries to laugh it off, make a joke out of it, when in reality it burrows through her like a blade.

Because that's what she wants, it's all she’s ever wanted.

But because of that, how there's always been an easy casualness between you, how your relationship has always been a little touchy-feely, Vi doesn't need to imagine what it would feel like to have you close, she knows.

It’s worse. It’s so much worse. She knows how well her hands fit into the curve of your waist. She knows what the swell of your hips feels like.

Sometimes she can’t help herself, imagining sinking her teeth into the soft flesh, the sounds you'd make. The way you'd moan her name.

Sometimes she feels she's going mad, wanting you. Wanting you when you're right there. Sometimes she feels she is mad already. She'd accidentally broken a mirror last time you introduced her to your latest fling, a boy from another uni you’d met a match. The way he wrapped his arms around you made Vi want to rip his hands off. They touched you. They shouldn't get to do that.

Fuck.

She downs the rest of her drink, swallowing painfully. You’re camping at a beach for a night, mid-way along the coast to your destination. Everyone’s around a fire, stars twinkling in the velvet sky. Mylo has his speaker turned down low, not to disturb the other people on the beach. Firelight flickers across your skin, giving you an otherworldly glow.

Desire and yearning twist inside Vi into something painful, something tinged with ragged desperation. Her hands are shaking slightly where she’s gripping onto her cider can so tightly she accidently crushes it. She's not really sure what's wrong with her.

You're just... dancing. That’s all. Just dancing.

Laughing, swaying in the firelight, twirling as Ekko raises your arm to spin you by the hand.

It feels like Vi’s heart is sitting on her tongue, she has to keep swallowing it back down. Try as she might, she can't look away.

‘Pretty isn't she,’ says Claggor. He sounds slightly amused. Everyone but you seems to know she's got a thing for you. That she's always had a thing for you.

‘She's beautiful,’ Vi hears herself say–confess. She can’t help it; it’s true.

[cl-0v3r]

Mel is alive, but at what cost

Mel was nearly killed TWICE, her mother began being a struggle, she'd been thrown aside and trying her best to stop her, her boyfriend is not doing well, neither is anyone else (can't blame them) and the fact that she hadn't cried or spoke much about this situation to anyone a single time?? She IS upset about every single thing, yet she stays strong and enduring every bit of torture. The most she did was tell Jayce that Ambessa put her palm on the table, and let him know that she is going to push for hextech. That's it, nothing remotely related to her feelings.

The fact that she was constantly looking at Caitlyn, being able to understand her grief and knew she was in pain?? Mel knows this feeling. She'd went through it.

And in the end SHE has to pay the price of her mothers incompetence.

The intro is very much foreshadowing, we know the hands represent black rose/LeBlanc.

This is what happens in act one, she gets kidnapped by them. The lyrics do correspond to the characters as well (not just Mel, everyone.)

"Tell you you're the greatest" plays as a petal of the black rose floats down the screen, I think it adds significance to the power this organization holds, possibly the Medardas greatest foe.

"But once you turn, they hate us" both Ambessa and Mel were present in this line, I think its foreshadowing for when Ambessa switches up for whatever reason and goes against both Piltover AND Zaun. And Mel WILL go through change as well, a change that could hurt her relationship with others, and receive interest from others too.

"They hate us" could be read individually too, I feel like its a sort of "realization" ?? Perhaps Ambessa WASN'T the one that switched up, maybe Piltover switched up on them, and maybe Mel JUST got out of wherever she's taken to, and saw the mess Ambessa had done to her city??

I think this represents ACT TWO.

The hands pull away and it sort of looks like Mel is fighting back, a "get away from me" type of scream. you know what this reminds me of??

Don't mind me just pushing my Jinx/powder-Mel parallel agenda

Here is when i think Mel truly learns about LeBlanc/BR, she curiously and slowly goes to grab the rose, she learns about the history between her Mother and them, Kinos death, and most of all, learns about HERSELF. The lyrics speak otherwise.

"Pray away, I swear

I'll never be a saint, no way"

This feels like a parallel to caitlyn of sorts if that makes sense. Caitlyn had done everything to try and stop the council from attacking the Undercity, she kept her mouth shut when Jayce asked about Jinxs grenade, she was willing to protect Vi and the undercity, but how many times has she been tossed around? She'd been burned, exploded, kidnapped (god knows what happened during that time) and hit in the face by the same person, her MOTHER died because of the same person. She has every right to go insane. And she is hunting ONE person, which is Jinx. Although she is harming the people around her along the way.

What if Mel goes through a similar situation? Her mother pushed for war in her city, she dragged the enemy along with her even if she didn't mean to, she manipulated everyone around her INCLUDING Jayce, she LITERALLY got Mel hurt from the chembarons attack and killed so many people during a MEMORIAL to get her hextech weapons, Elora is most likely DEAD, not to mention whatever happened in the past between them. And the thing is, this will NEVER end throughout the entire season.

And what if she learns what she is? That she's 'blessed' by Kindred? The fact that the wolf is quite literally in her blood?

I feel like the "ill never be a saint, no way" also sort of indicates Mel will realize she'll never be able to push for peace and mercy like she always hoped for no matter what, and she comes to accept that as much as it hurts. But not like how ambessa accepted the wolf, but she sort of realizes she needs to push a little violence, towards nobody but the one and only, Ambessa "fine, if you want me to be like you, I guess I'll be like you towards YOU." Type of acceptance.

I think its also related to Mels new outfit too, she's dressed like her mother, in red and all of that. I will still stand by the idea that she has plans to decieve, but she will do something she doesn't want to do.

Mel was left with no choice, that lyric sounds like realization, acceptance, but also like a plea at the same time, an "I'll never be who I wanted to be" because in the end, she's still a Medarda, she's still her mothers daughter, she still has violence in her veins, she will never not suffer from the weight her name holds, and she will never escape it either, its like a shadow.

The Characters won't be themselves at their core this season. And those vital parts of their characters that represent them are no longer there in the intro, they all have given up what makes them, THEM design wise. (e.g.) Vi without her tattoo, Viktor hiding his identity with the mask. And the thing is, they did that to themselves because they do self-harm, they're changing themselves because THEY want to, they're forcing themselves to do that, they think they're undeserving and they're erasing their past selves.

But Mel? Mel doesn't have her gold accessories, Jewelry, or her Armor, she'd been stripped bare and hidden away because of the brutality of her name. She pays the price her mother brought to HER city. She's forced to change herself against her will, because nobody is giving her a chance to push for her ideals.

This entire theory never ends, and with all of this? I kinda do see Mel actually committing Matricide, it lifts the "Ambessa will die" theory further.

[wilwheaton]

President-elect Donald Trump will come into office next year with four extra slots to fill on the federal bench, thanks to a deal Senate Republicans struck with Democrats. Republicans agreed to relent on their procedural warfare waged in recent days in an attempt to thwart the confirmation of President Joe Biden’s judicial nominees to lifetime appointments in his final weeks in office. In exchange for the GOP allowing lower-level district court nominees to receive quicker votes, Senate Democrats will not move forward with confirming four higher-level circuit court picks and saving the positions for Trump to fill. Both sides spun the arrangement as a win-win: Republicans will guarantee slots for Trump judges, and Democrats will save valuable floor time on fighting for nominees they were unsure could be confirmed.

Trump scores win on judges from Senate GOP despite attendance problems

I’m old enough to remember Democrats “keeping our powder dry” during the entirety of the GW Bush years, while the entire — literally the entire — Democratic base was screaming for them to do anything to reign him in.

So when I see Durbin pull this shit, I am both entirely unsurprised, and also furious. They all told us, again and again, that if Trump wins, our entire country and everything it means will be destroyed. I happen to believe that is true, but I don’t know that they did (or care that they will be affected, too).

Because if they did believe that the entire American Experiment was on the line, they would be doing what the GOP in North Carolina is doing, and what Republicans do every single time they lose their majority: exploit every loophole, push every boundary, use every single tool, no matter how cynically, to push through as much of their agenda as they can, and make it as hard as possible for the incoming majority to enact their agenda. Use the tools you have to protect and expand your policies, and let the winners complain about it, because policy is what matters.

Instead, we get a bunch of Model UN dorks who want to write stern letters and wring their hands at the lack of comity, while the Republicans are walking around setting the entire building on fire.

Durban, Schumer, and all the elder Democrats have got to go. We’ve tried it their way since the 90s, and look where it has gotten us. Get out of the way and let younger Democrats who aren't afraid of being disinvited from country club parties and fancy DC dinners do the work we sent you all to Washington to do.

[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tomes and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “You seen the shite the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a bloody Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? How about you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He brings you to his bed after and you let him, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[amorphousbl0b]

Arcane does a fun thing with its narrative Darkest Hour.

Or: yet another post about how insanely smart this show is and how absolutely genius its writers are (and how jealous of them I am).

For the uninitiated, the Darkest Hour is the moment just before the climax in which the heroes are at their lowest point. When the Avengers are scattered and Loki opens the portal in NYC, when the Falcon has escaped the Death Star but lost Obi-Wan, when the Fire Nation is set to annihilate the Earth Kingdom, when Frodo fails to destroy the Ring at the Crack of Doom. The heroes must confront their flaws and change for the better for a happy ending.

Arcane’s darkest hour is, of course, in Act 3. One might place it at the very end of episode 9, and that’s certainly where the story is at its most hopeless. But I’d contend it starts as early as the end of episode 8 and carries on through the entirety of episode 9.

After all, that’s when Caitlyn and Vi have separated, lost all hope, and Cait is kidnapped by Jinx. Jinx’s mind is fully gone and throughout the episode everything falls apart around her. Silco is losing control of his chembarons and may well have lost his daughter, the thing most precious to him, and is only barely keeping his powerful façade in line. Zaun has realized how ridiculously outmatched they are in a war with Piltover and the revolutionary cause has become almost impossible. Viktor has manslaughtered his assistant and may never be cured. Jayce has manslaughtered a child and finally realizes how quickly he’s losing his morals. Mel and her mother are fully separating and she is struggling with her warlike destiny. Sevika gets the absolute snot beat out of her and limps to an empty office without a boss.

So yeah. Lot of personal Darkest Hours going on.

“But what’s the interesting thing?” I hear you ask in my ear. I don’t know why I hear you. Shut up. I’m writing. Are you even real?

Excuse me.

Arcane’s interesting twist on the Darkest Hour lies in part of the trope that I didn’t mention. That’s in the villain.

Most stories with a clear-cut villain have a plot structure something like this:

Whether things are going well for one side is inversely proportional to the other. During the Darkest Hour, when the hero is at their weakest, the villain is at their most dominant.

Wait… isn’t Silco the villain of Arcane? Not to be too blunt, but he’s having a shit time. Things are falling apart for him just as badly as for everyone else.

That's the trick. Caitlyn and Vi are suffering. Jinx is suffering. Silco is suffering. Jayce is suffering. Viktor is suffering. Zaun as a whole is suffering. There is only one party in the whole story that isn't suffering, that actually is benefitting from this horrid state of affairs...

EKKO AND HEIMERDINGER

Kidding. They're not really a part of this dance. A big part of Arcane's theming is that acting to help people without an agenda is simply more virtuous than fighting for any invariably-flawed nation that innately perpetuates the cycle of violence.

No, the side that is doing fine is the other that is conspicuously absent from my two prior lists. While the characters that make up its leadership are experiencing personal Darkest Hours, the organization itself is essentially on top of the world, having just scored a huge victory and getting set to bring the war to an end before it even begins. I mentioned how poor the situation for the Undercity looks, but not its counterpart.

Piltover.

Wasn't it so that Piltover started this whole mess? Didn't their oppression cause the revolt that orphaned Vi and Powder's parents? Isn't it their actions that drive Silco to ever greater extremes? Isn't it their normalized political backstabbing that causes Jayce to sacrifice his principles because that's the only way to get ahead? Isn't it their corrupt police force that lets Silco operate his drug empire with impunity?

Silco might look the part. He might be the most personally evil character, might be the one who causes the most misery for our main protagonists Vi and Powder.

But structurally, the shining city of Piltover, its political machine, and its Enforcers are the actual villains of Arcane.

[callmejod]

Yey! I love him so much but there is so little for him! Could you do a headcanon for him falling in love again (reciprocated) post potc please- if we pretend he didn't die. Pretty please.

Hohohohohohohoho this was also on my mind for a few weeks

Had to mill it over the last few days, sorry for not responding. I also wrote this for an entire day so I hope you like it.

Kinda oc reader, foreign!reader, James being down bad for the reader , reader being too good to be true

This got really long so bare with me

I don't know if I'm even able to write short fics

So the jist is :

If he didn't die and came back to Port Royal as Admiral Norrgington - he would be happy he got his career, his honor and his purpose back.

Living on the sea has changed him. He no longer could stand this uptight, fake world that Port Royal thrives in. The cravats, the paperwork, the wigs. Fuck, he couldn't breathe most of the time, always sweaty in the thousand-layer suits, head itching from both the powder and the weigt of his hats. Having to sit through those god awful formal dinners, balls that bring nothing but superficial gossip was nothing but pure torture. Don't get me wrong - he's grateful for being able to even attend them, but the honest, freeing way of pirate life has broken him out of the cage of chaperoned conversations with ladies and standoffish men making fools out of themselves. He remembers the joyous dancing, full of fluidity and life, now having to endure stiff, distant and "civilised" english dancing.

One day, while having a conversation with one of the Ports ministers he hears about a merchant who's come from afar. He knows of your stay at Jamaica. He had a few documents regarding your long stay brought to his office to sign. Your ship suffered damage in a run-in with pirates and had a lot of repairs to do. A gorgeous vessel. He wonders if the captain is as handsome as their ship. Hopes he gets to meet you before you leave. You only arrived four days ago, and already the talk of the ton. Impressive.

The men described you as lively, wild as a tropical storm. The ministers complained about your accent, your way of dressing, your carefreeness, anything they can put a pin in, they do. James feels quite uncomfortable listening to the convesation not being able to put in anything. He then sets his mind to finding out who you are - he has grown out of judging a person by word from another mouth.

That encounter came earlier than he expected. And to be frank - saved him from a horrible stack of particularily boring paperwork. Having you barge in full-force into his office steaming mad, followed by two petrified soldiers was not something on his agenda. He noticed the few things the ministers mentioned - clothes of unusual cut and style, quite tasteful if his opinion was concerned, hair and hairstyle so different from locals that there was no mistaking you. You were the eccentric foreigner. But fawning over your beauty was for another time - now he had an angry merchant going off about something he both didn't listen to for a while and frankly, couldn't really understand due to your speed of speech.

'S-sorry could you slow down a second. I'm afraid I'm loosing some of what you're saying."

'Sir they need to make an appoin-'

'It's fine gentlemen, this must be urgent if I am needed. Please, let us speak in private.'

After the guards step out, he offers you to sit and something to drink.

'I have no need for no courtesy Admiral. I need a problem fixed. You can skip this stupid charade.'

'Oh, then it is more serious than I've thought. What is the problem?'

'Those - those'

You wave your hand in the air to make him help you find a word.

'Minosters of yours'

'Ministers?'

'Yes! Those idiots. They won't let me handle my own ship the way it needs to be. It needs to be seen by - argh!'

Your frustration runs high. He smiles.

'There's no need to stress. You mean carpenters? Is there a problem with the wood of your ship?'

'Are those who work with wood?'

'Yes, so you need to hire carpenters and the dock officials won't let you? That is strange. You have registered your stay and gave us all the documents we need.'

'But they don't!!'

You grab his forearm and try dragging him out of the office. He slows you down and explains that he will talk to them, just let him take a few things. You scoff and cross your arms.

'You English and your weird rules. Wasting time and not helping.'

He couldn't agree with you more. He smiles and starts walking out. When you two make your way to the port, he has difficulty keeping his pace with you - passersby stare at you storming off to port with their Admiral desperately trying to keep up with you. You sometimes mumble curses in languages he does not ever try to understand, but you two make your way faster than he realised was possible.

There you stomp to an official, who not seeing James trailing behond you shouts:

'Ow piss of ya cunt! I won't let you disgrace our carpenters by working on a ship that carries your kind!'

James is stunned you don't rip his head off when he sees your fists clench by your sides. Anger nips at his mind, how dare he treat you like this?! When slows his pace and asks in a flat voice:

'What do you mean "their kind"? Is that how my officials treat esteemed, foreign guests? And how dare you use such language to a person that was only looking for your help.'

The man's face whites and he starts to stutter an apology, but James stops it and sends him to get carpenters. Admiral's orders. When the official slips away to fill his duty, James turns to you and starts profusely apologising for the incompetence of his subordinates.

He's horrified when you inform him, that this is not the first - ha!, only time of being mistreated because of your looks or manner of speech. Anger boils in him when he hears that not only you, but majority of your crew had to endure this for a while now, accomodation denied not by matter of the lack of, but prejudice. Before he even thinks, he immedeately offers you a place in his home - something that brings surprise to you both. He cannot stand the thought you had to sleep on your ship when there was far grater comforts available.

He flushes red and again apologises for being inappropraite, but gets cut off by your boisterous laughter. The sound hypnotises him, seeing you smile for the first time makes his heart bang on his ribs. You laugh so hard tears come to you eyes and a shortness of breath. He cares not that many are looking at you two or the impropriatey of the situation. Time freezes for him. There's only you and him.

'Oh admiral, you are funny. I cannot leave my men to sleep on the ship when I am given all comforts of life.'

James flushes again and meekly asks:

'Then would you accept a simple dinner as an apology for your mistreatement?'

He almost doubles over when you beam at him and accept. The way you look at him so amused - he would make the biggest fool out of himself just to keep that look in your eyes. You set a date for a few weeks later and James makes sure that your your crew is not being mistreated anymore than they already have. Of course, Gilette and Groves relentlessly teased him for his obvious affection towards you. They weren't surprised though, it was hard not to even tolerate you.

Over those few weeks he started to watch you closely. Both of you were invited for a few balls, and the conversations you two had were the most fulfilling he had in a long long time. Your knowledge of the sea, of literature, politics and history had impressed him and added a new dimention to your person - not only beautiful, but wise.

He saw you many times playing with children on the street, helping people in need, play-fighting with young boys, showing them your battle scars and sometimes even your handpistol or sword.

You brought an air of freshness to the stuffy, ever "proper" society of Port Royal. You smiled often, you were polite to those who deserved it, made an effort to not be a bother. Yet, you never hesitated to get you crew in line when they were causing a ruckus.

Your manner of speech was charming, that certain twang to english and he would be a liar if he denied finding your way of trying to remember words or coming up with new ones when you couldn't was not adorable. Talking with using your hands was also a thing he found endearing. He would deny it to his grave in front of you, die of embarrasment if you knew. He heard that you got into a heated conversation with your first officer, and while talking with using your hands smacked a passing lady in the face. Apologised a lot and brought her an apology gift in form of a few yards of stunning blue silk. The dress she had comissioned to be made of it was breathtaking. But nothing could ever compare to your beauty.

All this was just pulling him into your direction. And when the awaited evening came, James was so nervous about everithing being perfect. You were perfect so your expectations were not to be let down. But, you being you, as if feeling his nervousness arrived early and instead of courtsies and stiff welcomes hugged him like a family member long missed.

As the dinner went on, your conversation flowed over many topics, never ending, never boring. You moved to the sitting room, where to James' torture you sprawled yourself over a love seat and rested. He sat, watching you strech like cat, admiring you quietly. You made eye contact with him and asked :

'James, would you like me to court you?'

He choked on his spit. In a coughing attack, he flushed so red, you jumped to your feet and held his shoulder to try and help. After a while of hacking and a visit from a concerned maid, he stopped and looked at you, not knowing what to say. He saw the unceirtainty in your eyes, even hurt.

'Do you not wish me to court you, James?'

His eyes widened. After years of endlessly chasing Elizabeth's affection, you being so open about it shocked him. He knew he harboured feelings for you but never imagined that feeling would be reciprocated. He took your hands and squeezed them.

'I was just cuaght off guard, dear don't worry. It's standard for men here to ask someone to court.'

'So I'm supposed to wait forever? You have been open with your feelings, but I am an impatient person James. I do not make games.'

'Play games?'

'Is that how you say it?"

James chuckled an held a hand to your face. That prompted you to surge forward and kiss him. For a second, he froze in surprise but leaned into you, sighing into the kiss. You threw your arms over his shoulders and he moaned.

That made you break apart from him and look into the sea green of his eyes. Your warm breath fanned his face, heating it impossibly more. You seemed lost in them and made him nervous that he did something wrong. Seeing his concern, you locked your lips again in a gentle kiss. God, he never wanted it to end. He smiled into the kiss, making you giggle. You two broke apart and looked at each other.

James then spoke :

'I would very much like you to court me, if you let me do the same.'

'Finally making some sense, James.'

[breelandwalker]

Willow Wings Witch Shop - New Merch Drop!

September is here and it's finally time for some new additions to the shop! One is an item I've had on my market table for a while now and the other is a charm I've been working to perfect for several months. Let's meet the new arrivals!

New Home Powder

A formula tailor-made to assist with spells designed to find ideal or improved living conditions. The ingredients are chosen to attract the ideal property or circumstance, to avoid scams and deception, and to increase the chances of success once your offer is made. Pairs well with Home Blessing Powder.

Focus Mini Bottle Charm

This one's for all my witches who have difficulty quieting their minds or getting their scattered and busy brains stay on task. The peaceful turquoise crystal calls to mind a pool of still water, while the clarifying properties of rosemary and green tea help to keep you on task, whether it's magical workings or mundane matters. Yes, that's right - it's Hocus Focus.

Don't forget to use code HOCUSFOCUS for 20% off new and featured items all month long!

New entries in the Enchanted Items collection will now also be given their own individual catalog listings, rather than being variations under one entry. This will make things easier to find for shop visitors and new merchandise easier to spotlight for me. I'll be making updates to existing listings as I restock or feature items for the monthly showcase.

I've also added links to the podcast, Redbubble, and Patreon pages on the header menu to help customers find the show, buy merch, and support my projects. I'm also working on an ongoing Events calendar that will be added to the shop and my Wordpress once it's ready.

Speaking of events, CritWitchCon 2024 is coming up soon! I hope everyone has their tickets, but if you don't, there's still plenty of time to sign up with either the Full Access or Super Saver options. You can register and check out the full agenda here. Join us on Zoom on Sept 27th-29th for a weekend of magic and mayhem with everyone's favorite coven of common sense!

See you there!

[theseeingfawn]

Chapter 3: Inner Circlejerk

Summary:

Elain and Azriel do their best to survive dinner with the Inner Circle.

Azriel

I’m more than a little agitated today. I went on my morning run, shirt on, of course. The leering over the past few days has calmed down and my presence in town seems to become the new normal. It’s when I came back from my run that’s the issue. The Starlight Inn is packed for brunch bingo. Bernadette, the owner, neglected to tell me the place would be overrun with ornery townsfolk. They all stop to gape at me as I walk through the lobby like it’s a 1970s Clint Eastwood film. I decide to dodge the glares and head to my room.

Unfortunately for me Bernadette stops me before I head up the stairs. She scowls as she asks, “You were at Petals the other night, weren’t you?” I just stare at her, before I try to tell her no she tuts, “don’t lie to me, I know you were.” I sigh, “How do you know that?” She gives me a sinister chuckle, “I know everything that happens in this town.” What the actual fuck. “Maybe you should mind your business, Bernadette.” She hisses, “don’t you take that tone with me. Elain is my business.” I fight the urge to argue, getting in fisticuffs with a grandma is not on my agenda for the day. “I guess you want to know what we were doing?” She looks at me with a critical eye, “would you tell me if I ask?” I clench my jaw and bite out, “no.” She claps me on the shoulder and says, “good man. I think I’m beginning to like you despite your proclivity towards nudity.” She takes her time looking over my body. I suddenly feel exposed. I stare at her in disbelief as she leans too close and whispers, “next time use the back window. No one can see you that way.”  I take a step back from the werther's original smell, “there won’t be a next time.” She laughs again, “you know it’s nine in the morning, right? It’s too early to be bullshitting me.” I blink. She adds, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I'm going to go kick Pauline’s ass in bingo.” I have no idea who Pauline is but I’ve never pitied someone more. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The street smells like piss. There is a shanty town with tents made out of discarded items down the alley. I’m definitely not in Hewn Hills anymore. I’m meeting Devlon, my boss, at the safe house in Windhaven to go over the details of my latest assignment. There have been rumors and reports from our contacts in the criminal underground that a new biker gang called ‘The Attors’ is trying to establish itself in the area. 

I've known Devlon for years, before I joined the bureau. He was the commander of my special forces group. When the war ended he offered me a position at the FBI to work as an undercover officer. I would have been flattered if the man didn't hate me. He chose me because of my skill set and reputation, not because he gives a damn about me. I am nothing more than a tool, an instrument to be wielded. Devlon is waiting outside the warehouse smoking a cigarette. “Good to see you boy, come in and let's get this over with.” I clench my fist. I hate it when he calls me boy. I’m less than a decade younger than him. But he wields his authority over me every chance he gets. Devlon is a fortunate son, he hails from a military family well known and respected. I,  the bastard son to a mobster, had to claw my way up the ranks through merit and merit alone. Sometimes, I think that's why he hates me so much. I’ve earned everything I have. “I assume you got your bike?” I nod as we walk into a large open warehouse floor. “Good, I've brought a cache of weapons with me that have been registered in every major database in the country. Each one will be traceable.” The guns are laid out on the floor. There are hundreds of them. “You also have ammo that’s laced with faebane.” I eye him suspiciously. He sighs, “we want the gunshot residue to have a distinct signature.” Faebane isn't just a good chemical for tracing gun powder residue. But a potent poison that can weaken muscles, cause hallucinations and is potentially fatal in high enough doses. A risky substance to be lacing ammo with but I keep my mouth shut… for now.

I’m familiar with it from my time as a captive of Hybern. Hybern, a well known criminal syndicate, has a history of using low grade chemical weapons on its enemies. “Are the Attors tied to Hybern?” Devlon turns away unwilling to address me head on, “yes, we believe Hybern is trying to infiltrate North America. It's still early, no known weapons transfers have taken place. That's why we need you to pose as the Shadowsinger and sell them traceable guns.” It makes sense I suppose that they would try to make inroads here. Hybern hails from a corrupt country with limited resources. I imagine they have grown even more desperate after the war and the embargo that was imposed on trade. 

Devlon picks up a bullet and looks me in the eye for the first time since I got here, “any idea why they would pick this location?” I ponder the question a bit before answering. My silence aggravates Devlon, the vein in his forehead always bulges when I irritate him. I decide to put him out of his misery, “Velaris has the wealth and trade ports to support their smuggling operations. But, Kier and the Nightbringers are too powerful for them to set up shop right away.” The Nightbringers are a big time mob operation operating out of Velaris. I make a mental note to check in with Rhy about their current status. I continue on, “I suspect they chose this place because it’s low on the radar, a small police presence and a local population in need of funds.” 

I seeth quietly. Windhaven is a military town. Most of its residents are active or retired soldiers, many of whom are unhoused or suffering from some sort of service related injury. It’s prime territory to recruit vulnerable men into a life of crime. It’s why my father was able to stay in power so long. Offering weak men power, money and control over their lives. I sigh, “you aren't worried they’ll recognize me?” I’d been briefly captured by Hybern during the war. I was held for a few days before I eventually escaped. I met the kingpin in charge of the operation, Hybern himself and his right hand man Koschei, albeit briefly. Devlon paces back and forth, “thanks to your training they didn't recover any personal information from you. They don’t know who you are. If they do recognize you, it shouldn't blow your cover.” My cover as the Shadowsinger involves military service, though I keep the details vague on purpose. It could work but I have a feeling my presence would be suspicious if I were to be seen by Koscehi. Hybern himself wouldn't likely remember me. Too small a fish at the time, but Koschei has an eye for such details, from what I remember.

“Devlon, Koschei knows I'm Illyrian and saw my scars. He will know me if he sees me.” A part of me felt like this is a setup. Like I am being used as some sort of bait though I can't figure out why. Devlon scoffs, “I have it on good authority that Koschei is on the continent at his lake house. Even if he did recognize you, I'm sure you can spin it to your advantage as you always do. You’re as ruthless as they come.” Devlon hands me the keys to the safe house and quickly changes the subject. “Are you staying in Hewn Hills in your down time?” I nod. “Don’t let any of the bastards follow you back there. It's virtually crime free with one Sheriff.” I grunt in response. “One last thing Azriel, the Attors bar is called Amarantha's and the code phrase to get in is ‘Under the Mountain.’ Here is your new burner phone and I left a stack of briefing materials on the table. Call If you need anything. I will check in next week assuming you have nothing new to report.” And with that Devlon is gone. 

The bar is located in the warehouse district. Close to the safehouse which has a perfect view of the back of Amarantha’s. I dig around and find a stash of reconnaissance supplies including binoculars, a telescope, go pro cameras, bugging devices, an encrypted laptop, and a comfy chair for lounging. There is a mini fridge with snacks and bottled water. I have everything I need for the next few days to observe, learn and plan. I peruse the stack of paper he left. I’ll read it then do my own research. I never trust what the government tells me. A hold over from my stint in the mob. I set up the equipment exactly how I like and watch. 

It’s not long before my mind shifts focus to Elain. She’s all I seem to think about these days. The other night at her bakery was perfect. I smile to myself remembering the way she blushed so easily. How her delicate hands worked the flowers. The unexpected gangster rap that played in the background. Just when I think I’ve discovered her, a new facet of her personality appears. I want to see her again but Bernadette’s comments make me a little weary. I’d have to be careful moving forward, the last thing I want is to create problems for Elain. My phone buzzes and it’s a reminder from Feyre that she’s hosting dinner. I bet Elain will be there. I won’t have to worry about peeping grannies if I attend. Just Rhys. I close my eyes, I do need to talk to him about Kier. That’s all, that’s the only reason I’m going I think to myself as my fingers type out a reply to Feyre.

Elain

It's D-day… doomsday. The most dreaded time of the month. Dinner at the townhouse. RIP my ego. I shake my head. I’d rather it be death to Lucien day. No Elain, be reasonable. Gods, am I sick of being reasonable. I nervously brush my hair, I’m dreading going to Feyre and Rhysand’s place. Well, one of their many places. They own a penthouse in downtown Velaris, a cabin in the Illyrian mountains and a townhome in Hewn Hills. They spend most of their time in Velaris but they return to Hewn Hills regularly. Velaris is only a forty-five minute drive away so traveling back and forth is easy enough. The monthly dinner includes what Feyre annoyingly refers to as the Inner Circle, her group of friends, which unfortunately for me includes Lucien. He also has an insufferable name for his group of friends, the Band of Exiles. I suppose that was one of the reasons they are such good friends, they both tend to be annoying. I have successfully avoided Lucien as much as possible, except for nipplegate (that’s what Nuala calls it), but that would be impossible tonight. I've tried to move past his hurtful words but can't help but dwell on them. 

It hurts because it isn't the first time someone called me boring. Nesta often teases me about being demure. Feyre patronizingly encourages me to take up her hobbies as if mine are inadequate. Both of my sisters coddle and stifle me. I'm just Little Lainey or Angel Elain. They censor their words around me assuming I am too faint of heart to hear the word fuck. They exclude me from important conversations. I’ve learned the hard way there is no arguing with the two of them. They just steamroll, shout it out and on a handful of occasions thrown down Kardasian style. Their meddling only got worse after my failed engagement. 

The breakup only emboldened Feyre to match make. To Lucien's credit he doesn’t actively encourage the behavior and seems to resent the interference. I respect him for that and for not pursuing me despite the pressure to do so. It is one of the reasons I relented and asked him out. He is just as much a victim of the town rumor mill as me. He has no choice and neither do I. But, our date was a nightmare and I'm convinced now more than ever that we aren't meant to be. I also can't get past his comments. Lucien holds power and influence. If he decides to bad mouth me to the town, I would never break out of the cage I’m in. Feyre asked about the date and I said it was fine. She wanted more details but I’ve successfully dodged her since then. Tonight, I won’t be so lucky. I only hope Lucien didn't tell my sister I’m the problem. I also don't want to pretend we’re dating. I don't know what to do. I know if I go to Nesta she would put an end to the whole thing. But, I’m a grown woman and I want to handle it myself. What I need is some courage and confidence. 

I peruse my closet picking out one of my favorite dresses, a baby pink sundress with a sweetheart neckline. It’s held up by delicate flower embroidered straps. The knee length skirt flared from a tight fitting bodice and a sweet little bow cinches around my bust. I pair it with nude opened toed sandals. I paint my nails a pastel lavender shade and wear my hair down in natural loose waves. If I can't feel my best, I’ll at least look my best. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Azriel may be there, nothing at all. 

As usual, I baked a cake to bring with me. It’s a victoria sponge with a chantilly champagne cream frosting paired with ripe berries. I fasten the cake carrier to the fender of my bicycle and head to the town house. It’s just a short 10 minute ride. I pull up to Feyre's street and see Azriel's black Harley parked out front and smile. I walk up the steps and before I can knock, the door swings open. Cassian bellows out, “cake’s here.” Then his gaze sweeps over me and he whistles loudly. “Damn Lainey, looking good.” Nesta knocks him to the side with an elbow to the ribs. “Get away you pervert.” Cassian smiles like a wicked smile, “you know, if you're interested I could show you just how perverted I can be.” Nesta, without looking at him coolly says, “I'd rather die.” I fight a grin, these two are either going to kill each other or get married one day. Cassian grabs the cake carrier and starts running toward the kitchen. I hear Rhysand chide him in the distance, “gentle feet, big boy.” 

Nesta grabs my arm and pulls me inside. “I heard you had a date with Lucien. Say the word and I will castrate him without a second thought.” I can't help it, I snort out a laugh. Nesta is a lot sometimes but she loves me fiercely. She’s 100% sincere which might alarm someone else but I find it endearing. I pat her shoulder, “it was awkward and as terrible as you can imagine. I dont think it's going to work out. Hopefully Feyre drops it.” Nesta rolls her eyes, “of course it was terrible, it's Lucien for gods sake. As for Feyre, she's like a dog with a bone. I'll do my best to bring her to heel.” I groan, “please don't fight.” Nesta merely huffs and storms away, I assume to find Feyre. 

I walk into the foyer and as if summoned, Lucien walks up. He looks hesitant like if he makes any sudden movements I might run away like a frightened doe. “Hi Elain,” he says nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hello,” I say, faking a smile. He clears his throat, “so, I wanted to talk to you about the date. I apologize for having to leave. I told Feyre the date was cut short because of an emergency. She asked when I was going to make it up to you but I wasn't sure what to say. So, I told her I was busy.” 

I nod. “You are very busy and I have my shop. I think it's best if we focus our energy elsewhere.” His face relaxes in relief. “What will you tell Feyre?” He asks, apprehensive. “Don't worry about Feyre, I can always unleash Nesta, if needed.” He smiles which quickly fades into a wince. “Just don't sick her on me.” Before I can think better of it, I reply in a sing-song voice, “no promises.” 

I leave Lucien in the foyer and head into the living room. My eyes search for Azriel to no avail. I do, however, see Mor. Feyre rushes to greet me. She gives me a big hug and whispers, “sorry about your date with Lucien, the next one will be better.” I groan internally. Feyre takes my hand and leads me directly to Mor. “Elain, you remember me talking about Rhys’ cousin Mor?” I nod and wring my hands out. I forgot Mor might be here.  

Feyre turns, looking toward a crashing sound and Cassian's curse. She sighs, “give me a minute.”  Mor gives me a megawatt smile and grabs my hand, “Oh Elain! I've heard so much about you. It's a pleasure to finally meet you… and oh my gods that is such a sexy dress. You are stunning!” I blush at her attention. Feyre already left the room, missing Mor's praise. Of course she missed it . I manage to squeak out a thank you. Mor grabs my hand and tugs me into the corner, “Just so you know, I'm not seeing Azriel.” I look at her surprised. She smiles and laughs lightly, “you must think I'm crazy but I couldn't help but notice the way he looked at you the other night and I want to let you know I'm not an obstacle.” I just stare at her, what does she mean he looked at me. But, Mor just barrels ahead talking so fast she barely breathes, “the two of you together would make such a hot combo.” She does the chef's kiss gesture. “He's grumpy and your sunshine. He's all dark and mysterious and you look all innocent and pure but I know a freak in the sheets when I see one.”  She leans in and whispers, “it's always the quiet ones.” I turn crimson, like the deepest shade of red a person can be. I don't need a mirror to know it because my cheeks are literally on fire. She just winks at me and walks away. Leaving me completely dumbstruck. 

I don't have much time to mull her words over because Cassian is being dragged over to me, he’s bleeding. Feyre sighs, “damn it Cassian, you bleed every time you come here.” I laugh because it’s true. “It's not my fault you keep sharp glass sculptures laying around.” Rhysand walks up, “Do you mean vases? And by laying around do you mean sitting on a table?” Cassian mutters under his breath, “smug bastard.” Rhys pretends he didn't hear it and winks at then kisses my cheek and tells me I look beautiful. Such a charmer. I glance back at Cassian and shake my head. “Come on Rambo, let's get you cleaned up.” He beams at me, “I love it when you play nurse.” Somewhere off in the distance Nesta groans. I take Cassian up to the second floor bathroom where the first aid kit is kept. He has a gash down his left forearm. 

He bumps, falls and straight up crashes into things so often it has become routine for Feyre to stash medical supplies in all her homes. I was trained as a nurse before I opened my shop. Father was disabled and needed extra help. But it was never my dream, just a means to help my family and save on in-home care. After he died, I used my inheritance to open my shop. But, I am now the de facto care giver, in more ways than one, to the Inner Circle. I clean Cassian up as he tells me about a bar fight he broke up last weekend in Windhaven. He’s never one to say no to a fight. Thankfully he doesn't need stitches, it’s just a surface level cut. A bandage will do just fine. He thanks me, giving me a chaste kiss on the forehead before he bounds down the stairs. 

I sit on the edge of the tub as I clean up the bloody mess. For a surface wound it sure did bleed a lot. “Why is there blood on you?” Azriel says as he drops to his knees, taking my hands in his. He looks them over searching for an injury. “It's Cassian's, he knocked over the foyer table.” Azriel lets out a long suffering sigh. “Nurse Elain to the rescue, I see.” He grabs a clean washcloth from under the sink and begins to wipe my hands off. His touch is gentle and his skin rough. “At least he didn't ask me to kiss it better this time,” I joke. His hands stills, a flash of anger across his face. I quickly add, “he does that sometimes in front of Nesta to get a rise out of her.” Azriel shakes his head, “when she's around it's like he has no common sense.” I agree but I think it is sweet, endearing even. He lets go of my hands and sits the cloth on the sink. 

“I heard Lucien will be joining us,” he says, not a single shred of emotion on his flawless face. “He’s already here. I saw him when I arrived.” He looks at me, studying my face. “Feyre seems to think you two are going out again, is that true?” I sigh and rub my forehead, “she's convinced we’re soul mates, half the town agrees with her but we're not.” I’m so tired of this situation but I don't know how to end it. “Lucien isn't interested. I'm not interested. But that doesn't seem to matter.” He nods reassuringly and asks gently, “why not tell Feyre?” I purse my lips together, “I have a dozen different ways. The more I object the more she's convinced I’m harboring feelings but I’m just too afraid to admit it. I've given up on trying to get my sisters to hear me. They hear what they want to hear.” Azriel scrunches his forehead, “why not date someone else.” I snort a bitter laugh, “Who would that be? Like I said the town is on Feyre's side or convinced Lucien and I are already dating.” 

I want to stop talking but once I start opening up to Azriel it’s like the floodgates have opened and it is impossible to stop. “Turns out the only man I'm allowed to date isn't even interested.” Azriel sits up straighter, “He told you that?” I fight back tears as I say, “You were there, he ditched me. That was after I overheard him on the phone with his friend when he thought I was in the bathroom. He wanted him to call and make up an excuse. He said…” I sniffle weakly, “ he said I was boring and too meek for him. A snoozefest” Azriel shoots to his feet, “that son of a bitch.” He paces around the small bathroom like a bull in a china shop, “I'll kill him. Just say the word.” I grab his hand and he stops moving, his eyes focused on the point of connection. “First of all, Nesta called dibs on killing him years ago. Second, you’re already on thin ice with the streaking incident. And Third,” I let out a long painful exhale. “You can't kill him for being honest.” I look away, my lower lip quivering. His pointer finger hooks under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. He is so tall I have to crane my neck to meet his eyes. His eyes have such a tender expression, “He’s wrong Elain.” I shake my head then whisper softly, “No, he isn't.”  Before he can reply, we hear Mor calling for us from the foot of the stairs. I brush past him without another word and head for the dining room. 

Azriel 

Deciding where to sit for dinner is a shit show. Elain hasn't taken her seat because Lucien hasn't taken his seat. She is waiting for him to sit so she can avoid him. Lucien is having an animated chat with Cassian about an upcoming hockey game. I suspect Elain is waiting for Lucien because she keeps looking at him and rolling her eyes or huffing. It would be amusing if I wasn't waiting for her to sit. So, I decided to speed things along. “Cass, I just so you know  Nesta plans to sit across from Amren.” He gives me a confused look and says “So.” I shrug, “I just thought you should know. I heard her tell Feyre that if she was stuck staring at your ugly mug again she would pluck her eyes out.” Did this happen? Yes. Today? No. But it is something I've heard Nesta say more than once. Cassian, never one to pass up an opportunity to annoy Nesta springs into action. Ditching Lucien mid conversation, like I knew he would. Lucien looks at me, his eyes studying as if I were a puzzle he’s trying to solve. I don’t like it, I think about punching him. Thinking about punching him might be my new favorite pastime. The man has the most beautiful woman in the world on a silver platter and somehow manages to fuck it up. And I don't mean physical beauty, though, my gods she is devastatingly gorgeous. That dress she's wearing, that hair, and that perfectly plump ass. I think I might groan.

It’s her inner beauty that I find so breathtaking. Elain is the kind of person who remembers your favorite cookie and makes it for you on your birthday. She is empathetic and kind, even when most people aren’t. Most remarkable of all she chooses hope, even when the rest of us would have caved to despair. That's why it kills me to stand in front of Lucien and not deck him. But, I hold back, for her. I would do anything to spare her suffering. That doesn't mean I will hide my disgust with him. His eyes catch on my sneer and he blanches. He wisely decides to take his seat. Cassian sits across from Nesta. Lucien sits next to Cassian and closest to Feyre at the head of the table. Rhysand sits to the other side of Feyre and next to Amren. Mor sits on the other side of Cassian and I take the seat next to Nesta, leaving the last seat for Elain. She walks over and I stand, pulling out the chair for her. She blushes, a shy smile on her face. Mor gives me a knowing look and I avoid looking at Rhys. 

The table is covered in Chinese take out containers. I love Rhys and Feyre but neither one of them can cook. Which for a man of Rhys’s age is truly embarrassing. Feyre is the baby among us so she has an excuse. Rhys on the other hand is just spoiled. I watch as the table descends into chaos. Mor's grubby hands hoards several containers to dish out onto her plate. Cassian is eating directly from a container with no regard for anyone else. Feyre and Rhys are feeding each other with chopsticks in the most obnoxious display of PDA I’ve ever seen. I never thought I'd have to watch my brother suck a chopstick seductively, but here I am… horrified. Amren pokes at the edamame like it’s cancerous. She is one of those people who never drinks water or eats vegetables. Nesta just stares at Cassian with disgust. Lucien is shoveling food into his mouth as fast as possible, I assume so he can escape the dotting couple next him. I turn to Elain and whisper, “heathens the lot of them.” She giggles. Mor gapes at me, as a half eaten wonton falls from her mouth. While she’s distracted, I grab the containers from her and shovel food onto Elain's plate, then mine. 

Conversation flows as it normally does, though Elain is unusually quiet. I want to cheer her up so I gently toe my boot into her shin and tilt my head toward Cassian. He has a piece of lo mein noodle stuck in his beard. Nesta is smiling at his stupidity which he is mistaken for flirting. Elain smiles. In a rare act of civility, Nesta subtly points to her chin trying to give Cass a heads up. The man is completely oblivious. Instead of cleaning his face he puckers his lip and blows a kiss. This catches Amren's attention, “Nesta doesn't want to kiss you, you idiot, there is a noodle in your beard.” Without an ounce of shame Cassian's tongue darts out as he tries to fish it from his beard. I look at my plate fighting back a laugh, then I hear a clunk and watch as Elain does the quiet shaking laugh I love so much. Our eyes meet and I blow her a kiss, just the way Cassian did to Nesta. She snicker snorts so loud everyone's head turns toward us. My smile drops completely, comically stoic in comparison to her which only makes her laugh harder. I bask in the warmth of her smile. I feel pride swell in my chest knowing I did that, I made her laugh. For a moment I feel like a prince, worthy of the princess of Hewn Hills. Then I notice the scowl on Rhys face and I'm brought back to reality.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

I’m stuffed. I indulged in one too many slices of Elain's cake. It was the most delicious thing I've ever had and I'm not much of a sweet tooth. I joined the guys in the study while the gals were catching up in the sunroom. Lucien left early to hang out with his other friends. So, it’s just the brothers together, at last. “How's the job going Az? Rhys asks as he nurses a whiskey. “It's barely going. I staked out the place for nearly a week and didn't see anything of note. I'm starting to think it's a waste of time.” Rhys sighs and looks at me, “maybe it's a good thing, you deserve a break.” Cassian hums in agreement. “I've been to Amaranta's before and nothing serious has happened. Sure there are some rough looking duds but no one seems shady.” I look at Rhys and give him a knowing smile, “Cass, did you or did you not brag to Nesta you won a bar fight there last weekend?” He smiles, pure arrogance. “I win every fight.” Rhys shakes his head. “Tell me what happened,” I ask. He explains how some ZZ Top looking ass man, his words not mine, pistol whipped a fresh out of service army brat. Some sort of disagreement over who was sitting where. It seems petty and below my pay grade. “Rhys, do you have any intel on Kier?” Rhys isn’t in the mob or a sleazy politician like his father. He works in finance. Mor’s estranged father Kier however is a mobster and uses Rhys to manage his extensive portfolio of offshore accounts. Rhys isn’t technically a part of the ‘business’ but I know better, he’s cooking the books among other things. I normally don’t address the subject head on which is why he is looking at me like he wants to kill me. He doesn’t pry about my work and I don’t pry into his but I’m feeling more than a little salty. First, he chats up Feyre on my job and then he tries to cut me down with eyes at the dinner table for talking to Elain. Fuck that. 

“Why do you want to know?” I shrug, “let’s just call it curiosity.” Rhys gives me a withering look. I don’t pull the fed card often, but I will if he makes me. He knows it too. “As far as I know, it’s business as usual.” I crack my knuckles, “and if business starts to be unusual?” He glares at me for a long moment, “are you asking as an agent or as the Shadowsinger.” I give him a knowing smirk, “Both, of course.” He sighs heavily, “you know I could make your life miserable if you push too hard.” I chuckle, “Rhys, we both know I keep more of your secrets than you do mine.” He looks murderous. On a handful of occasions we’ve come to blows over the years where our work has crossed paths. He likes to think he’s come out on top each time. But, he doesn’t know half of the things I do. We glare at each other before Cassian clears his throat, “you two are assholes. Just help each other out or I’ll drag you both outside and kick your asses.”

Rhys closes his eyes and I swear steam is shooting out of my nose. I tap my fingers impatiently. Rhys picks a piece of invisible lint off his shirt. “Godsdamn it,” Cassian shouts. Rhys binks first and grits out, “Fine.” I fight back a smug smile. “Kier’s accounts are the same as usual. But, he is asking to pull some funds aside for the import business. He hasn’t told me why though.” I nod, satisfied, “when you find out why, you’ll tell me.” Rhys slams a fist into the chair he is sitting at, “you’re giving me an order?” I sigh, his ego is getting out of hand. “It’s a polite suggestion.” That pisses him off even more. “A suggestion?” I smile at him. I never really smile and he looks unsettled. Good, you should be. “I’d never dream of ordering you around, brother. I’m just looking out for you, so you don't end up trapped in the family business.” There’s a tense pause. Cassian mutters something under his breath. Rhys looks away more than a little ashamed. I don’t bring up the family business, his father, often but when I do he knows I’m not fucking around. He doesn’t know the full extent of his father’s crimes or th role I was made to play but he knows enough. He gives me a slight nod and downs his glass of whiskey. 

Cassian claps and says, “enough of that bullshit.” And just like that it’s in the past. We bounce from topic to topic for the next hour including Cassian’s plan to open a fitness and self defense studio. We served in the special forces together and he has been saving since his G.I. Bill to purchase a studio of his own. He has been waiting for permits to get started and it finally seems like it was going to happen. “You're staying in Hewn Hills? Rhys askes. I nod. “You should stay at the townhouse. We spend most of our time in Velaris and would appreciate you keeping an eye on the place while we are away.” I get a flashback of Bernadette’s creepy smile. “Thanks, I'd be happy to look after the place.” After another round of drinks, Rhys shows me a guest room I can use. It’s Mor's old room and it’s… hideous. The bedding and curtains are bright fuchsia satin. There’s a leopard print chair in the corner and a mirrored dresser with crystal knobs. A collection of what looks like Precious Moments figurines littering every surface. She denies it but we all knew that she secretly loves those gaudy figurines. I immediately regret my choice as Rhys pats my shoulder and gives me a smug smirk. That sly bastard . I need to get out of this room before I punch him in the face.I bid them farewell. Opting to return to the study to top off my drink and revel in my quiet solitude. 

[thgfanfictionlibrary]

Mature Rated Fics Masterlist (37)

Part 1-Part 25 / Part 26 / Part 27 / Part 28 / Part 29 / Part 30 / Part 31 / Part 32 / Part 33 / Part 34 / Part 35 / Part 36 

Created: March 14th, 2024

Last Checked:------

Panem's Most Eligible-c_r_roberts (ao3)  Summary: For up-and-coming chef Peeta Mellark, agreeing to be the Bachelor on a popular reality dating TV show is just the means to an end in guaranteed restaurant success. But when Katniss Everdeen, a girl from Peeta's home district with an agenda of her own, ends up one of the contestants vying for his love, things get complicated. AU. An Everlark love story inspired by "The Bachelor." Panem Cruises-Alliswell (ao3)  Summary: Peeta has been with Panem Cruises for a very long time, enjoying his bachelorhood to the max, but when a fellow crew woman bumps into him in a compromising situation, everything changes. There’s this one problem, he can’t make a good impression on this girl no matter how hard he tries. Could all these mishaps ever end well? Party Games-Angylinni (ao3)  Summary: Peeta and Katniss are getting married but before that happens, their friends want to take them out on the town for a night of hi-jinks and fun. Peeta's Blessing-cd291104 (ff.net)  Summary: A Blessing In Disguise in Peeta's POV. AU/OCC. K/P have been best friends for years. They have difficulty with relationships. One night after a break up and with the help of tequila they find themselves crossing a line. The next morning they agree to pretend it never happened however that becomes impossible once Katniss confesses she's pregnant. Where does that leave them? Phoenix Rising-burkygirl (ao3)  Summary: Katniss and Peeta are growing back together in District 12 when they realize that even though the Hunger Games and the war are over, Panem's fragile peace still requires their protection. Pity the Child-Authoresskika (ao3)  Summary: Primrose Everdeen was alive for 4,930 days. She spent parts of 5 of those days hating her sister, Katniss. Powder Keg-appleblossomgirl, burkygirl, JavisTG, merciki, NotAnIslander, Peetabreadgirl, Xerxia (ao3)  Summary: Katniss accepts a job as a ski instructor at Mount Mockingjay alongside her childhood-crush-turned-enemy, Peeta Mellark. Will the two of them be able to put their animosities aside or will tensions mount until Katniss is forced to give up the best paying job she's ever had? An Everlark Your Own Adventure Story. Promise I'm Worthy-HGfanonezillion (ao3)  Summary: Ten years after the uprising that started after the 75th Annual Hunger Games, a ceremony is being held in memory of all those that lost their lives. Annie and her son make the journey reluctantly. There they meet with Gale and a friendship starts. As Gale sets Annie's world askew and forms an attachment with her son, a new feeling is sparked between the adults. Puzzle Pieces-authoresskika (ao3)  Summary: A collection of drabbles, smutty one-shots, and the occasional outtake from my time on Tumblr. Refuge-DustWriter (ff.net)  Summary: AU: District Twelve struggles to recover from the revolution that tore the country apart years ago, and the eldest Everdeen daughter sacrifices her freedom to help her starving family. But even in the darkest places and times, refuge can be found.

[cherlockgomes]

Bridgerton: A romantic poem about Indian culture.

As an Indian, Desi representation in the media can be difficult. It dances precariously between romanticism and downright insulting. It stands to change the world’s view on those with an ethnic background, often pushing the “white saviour” agenda forward. Speaking from personal experience, I can attest that it creates an internal battle. Growing up, I watched shows like Phineas and Ferb, where characters like Balgeet or Ravi from Jessie were portrayed as kooky, with exaggerated accents and quirks. While I agree stereotypes can often aid the comedy in a show, repeatedly watching the Desi characters be used as comic punching bags created an air of displeasure within me. I found myself wanting more and more to be like Hannah Montana, with her blue eyes and blonde hair, rather than one of the Patil Twins from Harry Potter. It took years to unlearn the racism I had internalised and finally see the beauty in my culture. 

It is possible to argue that the growing number of comedies starring racial minorities has facilitated racial tolerance. Take, for instance, the second season of the popular Netflix show Bridgerton, which centres around the romance between a viscount and a character of Indian descent, Kate Sharma. I liked the show's appreciation of my culture through romanticism. Three unique scenes stand out to me in particular—the hair oiling, tea brewing, and Haldi.

In the hair-oiling scene, Kate comforts her younger sister by running oil through her dark tresses. Sitting at your mother/grandmother’s feet while she oils your hair is a canon event in every Indian girl’s life. It is an intimate act of devotion and love in Desi culture, as the person takes great pains to massage the oil into every crevice of your scalp as it stimulates hair growth. In Western culture, oily hair is often looked down upon. While I grew up in India and thus had no first-hand experience of the same, I’ve read multiple stories about how brown girls were bullied and belittled for having oil in their hair. Therefore, seeing something as trivial as oiling a loved one's hair being romanticised in a popular show could change people’s perspective on Indian culture, enabling the rest of the world to see it as we do. 

A quintessential experience in a desi household is watching the chai (tea) being brewed as the aromas of its spices fill the air. Desi tea is more than just milky dishwater. It's a delicate blend of floral notes and spice that warms the back of your throat, only to be soothed by the creaminess of the milk. Making it is an art you’re forced to pick up as you watch your family members painstakingly observe the handi (pot) to ensure it doesn’t boil over. Like the hair-oiling scene, Bridgerton brings out this tradition quaintly. In an episode, Kate removes a few spices from a richly decorated pouch and adds them to a strainer suspended above a teacup, along with a handful of tea leaves. She then pours hot water over the mixture before adding milk to it. It is a scene shot in solidarity with close-ups of Kate’s actions to create an almost Wordsworthian romanticism of an activity nearly second nature to my people. Indian food is often criticised for being too smelly or having a flavour profile that’s too strong. Like the hair oil, Desi children are frequently belittled or bullied for bringing cultural dishes to school. Therefore, watching the precision and complexity that goes into making something as simple as masala chai (spiced tea) can change people’s opinions on the cuisine. 

As Indians, Haldi, or turmeric, is a spice that’s ever-present in our lives. It’s used in our dishes and is an answer to almost every disease and injury. As children, we’re urged to drink Haldi Doodh, or, as it’s better known by its gentrified name, golden latte. For centuries, it’s been used to treat injuries. When we get injured, the yellow powder is usually pressed to the wound as it is believed to hold natural healing powers. Thus, it comes as no surprise that we’ve even found a way to include the marvellous spice in our marriage ceremonies. The Haldi Ceremony is performed a day before the wedding. It takes place in the couple’s parental home, where a mixture of Haldi, oil and water is usually rubbed onto the face and upper body by the couple’s close friends and family. In Bridgerton, we see a similar practice carried out by Kate and their mother the night before Edwina’s wedding. The scene is portrayed in an intimate manner compared to the grandiose version you might see in a traditional Indian wedding. Nonetheless, seeing a critical Desi tradition integrated so well into a mainstream show was quite a surprise and a good one at that. I loved that they paid such close attention to detail, going so far as to drape the characters in yellow clothes, which are considered auspicious during a Haldi. 

I watched a beautiful Indian woman cast as the main character in a Netflix show instead of some caricature, and it healed something inside me. I loved that my culture was finally getting the appreciation and exposure it deserves. The way the show’s creators integrated age-old traditions into the storyline instead of repeating harmful stereotypes like with Apu from The Simpsons, made me appreciate the show and its gradual shift to accurate inclusivity.

The entire point of the Romanticism movement was to take seemingly mundane things and describe them in such a way that makes them seem extraordinary. It aims to change the person’s view on the subject by painting it in a remarkable light. Take, for example, the poem “The Orange” by Wendy Cope. It describes the simple joys in life, like sharing a fruit that graces almost every fruit bowl. It changes the way you look at things, and that’s why the romanticism of the Indian culture in something as mainstream as Bridgerton is so essential. It has the power to change how people view Indians and how we view ourselves. 

[annaphoenix1994]

Black Powder Soul

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

"I'm surprised you're still in this shit hole town," Isaac Graves said to Malcolm, the brother of Phillip Graves and a retired Case Officer of the C.I.A. His grey eyes held a sharp stare as well as a malicious agenda - something both Malcolm and Isaac shared. "Although I can't say I'm quite surprised." 

"Why's that?" Malcolm questioned, pouring Isaac another round of bourbon. 

"You haven't heard?"

Malcolm shook his head in confusion. 

Isaac's face pulled into a grin, pulling out the file folder that was tucked between the fold of his laptop. "You're a wanted man now. Seems like our old friend had an investigation opened on you for apparent war crimes." 

That fucking bitch, Malcolm grimaced, pursing his lips and imagining the sadistic smirk that would plaster on Kiera's face. "There's no proof of that." 

"Perhaps, but there's still an investigation. Shepherd has been wanted, too."

"Is that why he sent you to me?" 

"Indeed," Isaac nodded. "I worked for Shepherd last year. Chief Laswell was my supervisor before I received my promotion. I was Shepherd's second-in-command up until he practically disappeared. Nobody knows where he is. All of his calls have come from an unidentifiable location." 

Right under your nose, Officer, Malcolm mused to himself, feeling like he had, already, a subtle power over the Case Officer before him. "Understood."

"We are on a high-value target now," Isaac said, leaning over the table, the smell of bourbon on his breath. "She is a threat to us. She killed my brother in cold blood when all he was doing was defending his own." 

"Do you know her?" Malcolm asked, a hint of anxiety coursing through him as he knew it wasn't going to be an easy fight.

"Know of her, not personally. She works for Laswell - was sent to ally with the Mexican Special Forces and 141 to help find Hassan. I was assigned to stay in D.C. with Shepherd and was deployed to Chicago after we received word that Hassan was there. My orders were to eliminate her. She was getting too close to Shepherd, and he wasn't having it, especially after she killed Graves." 

"Well, forgive me for sounding rude, but your plan didn't work, Officer. She survived the blast." 

"Oh, I'm aware. I should've stayed around to make sure she was dead, but I left before anybody saw me." 

"The report said that it was one of Hassan's men who shot the launcher?" 

"Inside job, son," Isaac chuckled. "You'll learn that there are many ways to skin a cat, my friend."

"Shepherd said we don't have much time-"

"We don't. We need to do something and fast. Have any ideas before I start stating my own?" 

"I already arranged the flight over the field for some of my men to drop clover bales. That's what started it, really, but aside from that, I haven't been able to compose anything else. I know the 141 is still at her ranch on vacation, but I'm not sure when they're supposed to be leaving."

"I can find that out easily," Isaac smirked. "Shepherd wants to send a message to have her stand down. If she doesn't, which is expected, he wants to have her meet a certain demise. Those British assholes, too." 

"How are they going to do that? I mean, I can come up with a lot of things, but unless we were to fly over and drop a nuke on that ranch, I don't think of anything else that could get the job done to terminate all of them." 

Malcolm watched Isaac smirk, the Case Officer removing another file from between his laptop, opening it to reveal a bundle of photos of each member of the 141 and Mexican Special Forces as well as Kiera, excluding a photo of Simon himself as that task was nearly impossible. "I did some necessary research on the last team and compiled a list. Colonel Vargas is the only one with a son. If he's at her ranch for this so-called vacation, we abduct his son-"

"Kidnapping? I'm all for taking someone hostage, but a child?" 

"The boy will be safe; I can assure you. I can have an arrangement made with the Wyoming Traffic Cartel on the state border. If they get too close, they'll ship him off to either Montana or North Dakota in one of their safehouses in the mountains. I've already discussed this with Shepherd, and he agrees. It'll get them angry - angry enough to be desperate to find him without assistance of the law and we can terminate them all in one spot." 

"Sounds practical. Aside from making the boy an orphan, of course." 

Isaac shrugged, "He'll eventually be directed back to his mother in Mexico, but I can arrange that after everything is done. We won't be seen as the bad guys anymore, Malcolm. We'll be heroes. Your name will be off the board, Shepherd's will be off the board, and I'll remain anonymous. The only one left to take care of will be Laswell if I can't "strongly suggest" she resigns with a written contract." 

Malcolm nodded, "What will I have to do now that I'm wanted?" 

"That's another reason why I'm here. I've made some arrangements. When this gets out, we both know your home will be raided with force. I have a safehouse just outside of Cody." 

"...But Cody is where she lives..." 

"Exactly," Isaac smirked. "Right under her nose. We'll be able to keep close eyes on the ranch and out of her reign of terror." 

"Sounds like a plan." 

"Now, let me make a few phone calls and pack your stuff. We'll be occupied for a while." 

»»-------¤-------««

"Wow." Fernando smiled, gripping onto the rails of the pen as he watched cowboys exercise their horses, warming them up before working a cow. A practice called "Working Cow Horse" was an art of the cowboy, showing immense communication and horsemanship between the horse and rider. 

The visit was rescheduled for another day to allow for tension to subside on the ranch after Malcolm's visit, deciding to go and participate two days later to allow Fernando to watch the horses he had been begging his father to go and see as well as Bud to allow himself for promising horse shopping. Not that he needs more horses, Kiera thought, tacking her own horse up as she wanted to participate as well as refresh herself on running a cow down the fence.

She smiled as she watched Fernando cling to the pen, watching with intent and bright eyes although he was unaware of how much money the horses were worth. They were prime athletes, earning at least ten grand every time they entered the showring. As for the cowboys themselves, most of their earnings racked up to the millions. Alejandro did the same as his son, watching the art before him, keeping his eyes on the red roan as it was one of the most beautiful horses he had ever seen. "How would I like riding that one?" He chuckled at his son. 

"I think I'd look better, dad." 

"You're probably right." 

"Can we buy him?" 

Alejandro scoffed, "And how are we going to get him back home? Do you have thirty-thousand dollars in your pocket that I don't know about?"

"KK can take him for us." Fernando said, still unable to pronounce Kiera's name fully. 

"He's just a boy with a plan, yeah?" Johnny chuckled as he and Teeter sat on the top of the rail, having the best view of the arena. 

"I don't know where he gets it from." Alejandro chuckled, shaking his head.

Simon couldn't keep his eyes off of Kiera, watching her mount her horse in slick dark leather shotgun chaps and a pink button-up shirt with a brown felt cowboy hat that accented her apparel. And I thought she couldn't get more attractive, Simon thought, his pupils dilating at how professional she looked. Like a million bucks.

Her palomino gelding communicated well with her, listening to her with soft eyes and relaxed ears. Although the horse kept his shaggy winter coat, his coat still shone with a gold tint and his mane and tail was a stark white, his mane braided from his poll to his withers. Simon couldn't help but smirk as he had just noticed that the horse's saddle pad matched Kiera's shirt.

She practiced her stops, backing up, and circles like she had been doing it her whole life. Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn't, but one thing was for certain: she had been around horses her entire life and it was clear that her palomino was meant to be her mount. "When are you going, señora?" Alejandro asked her after she was done warming up her horse. 

"Here in a minute, hopefully," she said, exhaling a breath of nervousness as she felt she was going into the AQHA World Show, sighing as Alejandro and Fernando gave her horse loving touches along the gelding's neck. "I'm not going to lie, I'm nervous." 

"Nothing to be nervous about." 

"Considering I haven't put him on a cow in so long like this and did sliding stops with him in forever and I feel like I'm competing against these million-dollar horses, it's something to be nervous about." 

"Relax, it's not a show. It's just showing off," Alejandro chuckled. "Just do what you know. That's all that matters." 

"He's right, love," Simon added, patting her leg as he stood next to her on the ground next to her horse. "Your father is horse shopping, and these guys are just here for a good time. You'll do fine." 

She smiled down at him, "Thank you, but I'm still nervous." 

"You know most of them, yeah?" Simon asked. 

"Yeah, the one on the roan horse over there has been friends with my dad since I was a baby. He watched me grow up. The one in the blue shirt is best friends with Frankie and you met him on Thanksgiving. The others are friends of them and wanted an excuse to ride today since it's in a covered arena and out of the weather." 

Simon nodded, patting her leg again as if he were telling her 'Good luck'.

"Kiera!" The man on the red roan said, riding up to the rail to greet her. "You wanna have a go?" 

"I guess I don't have a choice now, huh?" She chuckled, Simon watching her finger twitch as it was one of the many things she did when she was anxious. 

Frank smiled softly, "We're not paying up like last time. Just showing off for your dad." 

"Yeah? Well, the Lord knows we don't need more horses." 

"I know. He wanted to buy this one I'm on, but I told him I'm wanting to retire before I get too old. I don't have time to take another horse down the road anymore." 

Kiera nodded, watching Alejandro open the pen for her, patting her horse's hindquarter as the gelding passed by, both Alejandro and Simon watching as Frank was giving her advice as they rode alongside each other, seeming to give her tips on how to refresh with her horse what was called a "sliding stop." 

"Hey, Kiera!" Colby shouted from the side of the panel, a mischievous smile splaying on his face, eager to pick at her. "You're gonna ride that mule down the fence to work a cow?" He poked. 

Simon didn't like it, knowing that Colby was sure to make her more nervous than she already was. Instead of saying something like he wanted to or force him into a fetal position, he glared at him. 

"Shit," Kiera scoffed playfully. "I'll be showing him in Mule Days come spring." She poked back, causing both Colby and Frank to laugh. 

"Show us what that glue factory reject has got, then." Colby continued to poke. 

Again, Simon didn't like it, especially when it came to watching someone poke at something that meant the world to her. She breathed a chuckle, "You want me to do the whole thing? Circles and all?" 

Frank nodded, "If you want to, to refresh that yellow horse's memory, then after you're done with your sliding stops, you can run a cow down the fence, unless you'd just rather work a cow, just tell me."

"I think I want to try to do the whole thing," She replied, confidence engulfing her. She felt that her horse was perfectly able as he had done it before, she had just been doubting herself, growing more nervous that Simon and her father were watching her. "We haven't done the entire pattern since before I left on deployment."

"Alright, I'll get out of the arena so you can do your thing." Frank nodded, Colby opening the gate for his horse to exit. Simon leaned up against the panel next to Alejandro, who was now holding Fernando's legs as his son sat on his shoulders, excited to watch "KK" ride her horse as Fernando favored her horses over the rest because of his gold coat. Simon watched her exhale a deep breath, reaching down to pat her horse on the neck, appearing to whisper something to the animal before she rode towards the entrance of the arena, nudging him up to a trot as she rode along the rail, turning right to stop in the middle of the arena, adjusting her seat as she leant forward slightly, using her calf to nudge the horse into a slow lope (0:22) to perform circles - also known as "Figure Eights." 

The horse moved nicely, Kiera smirking as she heard Teeter shout encouragement to her from where she sat on the top rail of the arena, unaware that Johnny was watching her speak as if she were a precious gem. 

She cued for her horse to change leads (0:46) to the left, performing the same maneuver except she was going in the opposite direction, making two half-laps around the arena before cueing for the gelding to switch leads again (1:09) before taking a heavy breath, mentally preparing herself for what was called a "Run Down" - making the horse take off at a gallop before sitting deep in the saddle and saying woah! for the horse to make a hard stop, seeming to slide after halting its momentum.

Johnny's brows rose as the horse took off, afraid that he was going to jump the fence over him, immediately reaching his arm towards Teeter, "What's she doing?" 

"She's gonna stop that motherfucker hard and he's gonna slide, baby, watch!" Teeter said, her gaze fixated before she shouted excitedly as the horse did exactly as he was told, licking his lips as Kiera let him catch his breath (1:24). "That looked damn good, baby!" Teeter shouted to Kiera, watching her giggle as she looked down to her horse's neck, patting his neck to prepare him for the spin.

"Thank you." Kiera nodded, picking up her left rein and using her right calf to apply pressure to her horse's side, using her spur lightly to cue him into a spin, the horse doing it surprisingly nicely for being off for some time when it came to showing off (1:33). She stopped the cue once her horse's head was aligned with the opposite side of the arena, nudging him into a gallop again to perform the same cue just to spin to the right before lining him back up for a final run down, smiling as she had upmost confidence and respect for the animal below her, patting him on the neck after every gesture. 

She locked eyes briefly with her father, watching his face light up with pride as he watched his daughter before he leaned towards Alejandro and Simon, "That's a damn good horse. I wish she'd take him down the road. She can win so much money." 

"Something tells me she's a homebody, sir." Alejandro chuckled as Fernando kept his fingers tangled in his hair to keep himself stabilized. 

Bud sighed, "That she is. She's always loved showing, though. She's won some money on that horse after she trained him." 

"She trained him to do all of that?" Johnny questioned, his brows lifting in surprise. 

Bud nodded, "Took her a few years to do it. That son of a bitch bucked her off so many times," He chuckled. "She got him from a kill pen in Minnesota. I remember her cussing at him telling him that he was there for a reason, but you see how that worked out." 

"So that's why that boy called him a glue factory reject." Johnny guessed, putting the pieces together. 

Simon didn't participate in the conversation, even though it was about Kiera. He was too fascinated with watching her ride, watching her communicate with her horse as it was clear the gelding was nervous too, judging by how jumpy he got after hearing a gate rattle or spooking at some of the banners that clung to the inner panels of the arena. She rode so well, her hips matching the rhythm of the horse's stride, eliminating any chance of unbalance as she performed the final run down, stopping and backing the horse up to the middle of the arena, the gelding licking his lips and lowering his head on her cue as he did so (2:15). 

She reached down to pat the horse's neck again, the gelding licking his lips in relaxation as she turned him around after hearing Teeter yell, "Bring out the cow!" Kiera shook her head, giggling at Teeter's comedic relief as she heard the gate on the other side of the arena open, a black angus heifer coming out into the arena, spooked at the isolation. She trotted towards the cow (2:25), both hands on the reins as Simon could notice her posture stiffen. He then grew nervous for her. 

The heifer darted towards the right (2:52), her horse immediately going after it on Kiera's cue, cutting the cow off before it turned to the left, making a hard diagonal run towards the other side of the arena, causing Kiera's horse to react slowly and having to work harder to keep up with the cow, Kiera immediately stopping her horse after she jolted, hearing a whistle blow for her to stop, soon to hear another comment from Teeter on the other side of the arena. "That cow ain't shit! Put out another'n!" 

As soon as Kiera could realize what was going on, both Frank and Colby rode in on their horses, ropes out and swinging towards the heifer to guide her back to the chutes, leaving only Kiera and her horse in the arena before another cow was presented for her. 

She cued her horse to trot towards the new cow, confident that the cow was going to be less sloppy for her to work, although she could sense that this new heifer was just as spicy to work (3:55). 

She kept a good distance between her horse and the heifer, successfully letting her horse work by keeping the cow cut and going into the direction in where she wanted it to go - towards the left side of the arena for working it along the fence. (4:08) She kept the cow nearly pinned between her horse and the fence as she kept the pace with it, getting close to where both Teeter and Johnny were before cueing her horse to turn into the fence at the gallop, the horse using his hindquarters to stop and turn on nearly a dime, Kiera laughing as Johnny was prepared to jump down from his position to get away from the event as the sight of both a horse and cow running at him was intimidating. 

Johnny winced as a hard piece of arena footing hit his leg, Teeter laughing at him as she offered to "patch up his wound" after calling him a baby as Kiera continued to work the cow down the fence again, turning her horse to the right just how she did before (4:21). 

She worked the cow into two circles (4:30), keeping working advantage over the animal as she switched sides, appearing to guide the cow into a figure eight before a whistle was blown, informing her that her time was up. With a smile, she stopped her horse and began rubbing the gelding's neck, immensely proud of him for a job well done. 

Frank began to clap as she exited the arena, complimenting her horse as well as offering to buy him for futurity shows in the summer, but he knew Kiera would politely decline. 

"Best eight-hundred dollars I ever spent." She chuckled at Colby, who appeared to be at a loss for words after playfully teasing her before. 

"Still gonna show him in Mule Days?" Colby chuckled. 

"Nah, I may not even show him at all. I like him being a ranch horse. This is just showing off for fun." She shrugged, dismounting and loosening the cinch of the saddle before leading him towards where her party was, hanging her hat on the saddle horn as she couldn't help but blush at Simon's smile at her. 

"That was pretty to watch, love." He mused, leaning down to kiss her, although he wanted to refrain as he knew her father was watching, but he couldn't help himself. 

"Thank you," She blushed, watching Simon pat her horse's sweaty neck. "I didn't think he still had it in him." 

"Like riding a bicycle," Simon assured her. "Your father was just saying how he wishes you'd take him down the road and win some money." 

"He knows I don't want to do that. It's exhausting on not only him, but me," She sighed, referring to her horse. "There's a lot of money that goes into it when you're gambling on how much you can win. I wouldn't have a chance competing with these guys." 

"Well, if you ever wanted to, I'd gladly go with you," Simon grinned, looking down at her. "I got some good pictures, too." 

She blushed, "Oh, Lord. I'm afraid to see them." 

"Why? I can be a good photographer. I'll show you my favorite. He was making a funny face after that first stop you did, but I liked how you were smiling down at him." He explained, pulling out his phone to show her the photo. You got my good angle, babe, she giggled to herself as she looked at the photo, smiling at how her horse always seemed to "roll his eyes" every time he licked his lips - a quirk she grew to love the longer she had him. She was looking down at him in the photo, patting his neck as her smile was bright, the brim of her hat hiding her eyes slightly.

Aside from the photos she hated seeing of herself, she was glad that Simon saw the true connection between her and her horse that he was able to capture in a photo. "It's my wallpaper now." He admitted, taking a few seconds to set it as his wallpaper before showing her. 

She blushed, "I love that picture. Can you send it to me?" 

"Of course, love. I'll send you the video, too." 

"Nice horse." A man complimented, dressed in jeans and a pocket t-shirt. Kiera turned her head, looking his direction to thank him, partially expecting him to be someone she recognized, but it was just a nice stranger. 

"Thank you." Kiera smiled. 

"You ever want to sell him; I'll write you a check!" He chuckled. 

"Well, I hate to inform you that you're out of luck with that." She smiled. 

"I don't blame you," He nodded. "Have you seen Frank?" 

"Sure, he's over there." Kiera pointed, watching the stranger pat her horse before walking Frank's direction, pulling his phone from his pocket as it was ringing. 

Isaac smirked to himself that his plan was working, managing to eavesdrop on most of the conversation to target a specific name to keep suspicion off of him, knowing that Frank was a well-known name around the arena, knowing almost every visitor was looking for him to catch up, knowing that Kiera wouldn't suspect anything.

[mastermindmp3]

I continue my agenda that TTPD is secretly a western album, I swear—

God. This song. This song.

At this point, I should put a boiler plate disclaimer that I understand these songs are very much about Taylor's life, and this one especially so. It's all about scrutiny, about the press and the media circus of being a child in the spotlight, about not being able to grow up (you stay the same age you get famous at in the public's eye, to paraphrase Swift.) It's about the mental side effects of that, of the suffering she admits to hiding: I want to snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me.

I think there is an expectation that people (any people, not just celebrities) should only show signs of distress when they are at rock bottom. If you're functioning, if you're getting out of bed most days and still brushing your teeth, etc, you aren't depressed enough to complain. Who's Afraid of Little Old Me is Swift striking back at that mindset, that actually, she shouldn't have to perform rock bottom ( because she seems done with performing peak happiness ) 24/7.

However, I really want to dive into the imagery of the song, and then maybe elaborate on it too much.

I'd be remiss to say that I'm writing this the day after she performed it live for the first time, and I am so utterly obsessed with the live performance. The lights, the mirrored platform giving the appearance of levitation, and say they didn't do it to hurt me—

BUT WHAT IF THEY DID?

In general, that section of the bridge is my favorite. I've already referenced it twice! To give context, the full line is: So tell me everything is not about me, but what if it is? And say they didn't do it to hurt me, but what if they did? I want to snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me.

( That is followed by the line that has become a meme, and I wrote a whole post being annoyed at that. It will forever rot in my drafts. )

The speaker's description feels like hypervigilence, the kind caused by a life time of whispers and daggers behind your back. If you've ever been the center of a workplace drama, or the odd kid out, or the New Person in a club or activity, or just have anxiety, you know this feeling well. You know the feeling of asking - is this about me?

I love the phrasing of I want to snarl, because it shows that she is expected not to. She is expected to... Actually. Let me set this up.

There's a parallel to her country contemporary Miranda Lambert's Mama's Broken Heart. Lambert details allowing herself to be dramatic and heart broken after she feels like her life went up in flames. Where Swift's speaker enacts supernatural revenge, Lambert's is more mundane (cutting her bangs with scissors, hunting him down at the bar in their small town.) The bridge, here, describes the expectation that is put upon young women:

Powder your nose, paint your toes / Line your lips and keep 'em closed / Cross your legs, dot your eyes / And never let 'em see you cry

Swift's speaker, jilted and in pain not just from her lover (the who's who of who's that) but also from the scrutiny she's placed under (by her community, her friends, maybe even the press) has decided that she will no longer be the picture perfect woman. She will no longer bow to their whims, and is executed by public opinion for it.

So I leap from the gallows and I'll levitate down your street.

This very strong imagery.

Historically, women who have been hanged are expected to act a certain way. We often think of witch trials, but women have also been executed for crimes like murder and theft. They are to act penitent, to appeal for public approval with their final breaths. If they serve as anti-examples, begging for God's forgiveness and showing other women to behave, how to not make their mistakes, then they are granted posthumous grace.

But speaking of witch trials. Women and men who were accused of witchcraft were not witches, not in the modern sense of the word, or the historical one. Some were midwives, some were just poor women, old women who had things their neighbors wanted to take. Some were widows, and some were just disliked. It had nothing to do with their "crimes," and all to do with wanting to get rid of someone "unseemly."

The witch trials are often used as emblems of sexism - because they were. They were a tool of patriarchal oppression against women who fell outside the system, for one reason or another. ( I'd also like to note this oppression went doubly strong against women and men of color. It's a very loaded topic. )

The imagery also makes me think of Margaret Atwood's Half-Hanged Mary, a fictionalization of the real life Mary Webster. Webster was accused of witchcraft by Phillip Smith, and taken to be hanged in Hadley, Massachusetts. Mary, a woman in her approximate 60s, survived the whole night, was supposedly buried, and still emerged alive.

Atwood's fictionalization has the same spite, the same rage as Who's Afraid of Little Old Me, "Tough luck, folks, / I know the law: / you can't execute me twice / for the same thing. How nice." By the end of the poem, she has become the witch they accused of her being.

Here, the speaker of Who's Afraid of Little Old Me does the same. Almost implied to be a ghost, but the imagery also implies a witch, a woman too powerful for the rope to kill - she decides to return to haunt her accusers, her killers. She crashes their party (there were often parties or auctions of the women's belongings)—

Like a record scratch as I scream — who's afraid of little old me?

She, too, has become what they accused of her being. I am what I am because they trained me.

Phillip Smith, by the by, didn't do so well. He disappears from the account around 1683. In The History of... Massachusetts Bay... by one Mr. Hutchinson, "...it happened that she survived and the melancholy man died." Webster went on to live for 14 years after her hanging.

It felt a very apt comparison to make.

There are other metaphors at play here - a media circus going on in the background, references to the stage animals that have killed their handler for their mistreatment. The title is a reference to Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, a play about how lives are so complex behind closed doors.

But in the end, I think it all furthers that same metaphor.

The pain of being in the public eye for too long has hurt the speaker in ways that the audience can't understand, because they have not lived it. Very few people are at that level of fame and scrutiny, and while a non-famous audience can relate in some ways, the speaker feels the only way to get the severity across is to invoke death and false hangings.

She is asking for them to see her as powerful, but also as human, and flawed, and hurt.

[tired-biscuit]

this is like maybe a little specific and really just me rambling

but FIRST of all im obsessed with your portrayal of kiba. he's like always been my fav but his content is so limited so its been away since my imagination flew but phew these last few days reading your blog has been a journey.

but back to the ramble ive been thinking a lot of the brother's bsf trope for him. at first i was riding naru bc bros but then i thought about sasu and the whole prideful uchiha vibe. even in the modern version, then just being like these corporate giants alongside the hyugas and the other ‘noble’ clans. and like maybe kiba isn’t really bsfs with sasu but like the whole ‘genin’ growing up around each other thing. probably all just went through the same school system.

ANYWAY rambles

i imagine like the uchiha ‘princess’, the only daughter and youngest sibling to sasu and ita. and like she’s just really grown up with that whole corpo royalty vibe, getting everything she wants, always supervised low key suppressed LIKE NOTHING NEW HERE low-key maybe even loosely in talks of being engaged to one of the ally corps like hyugas or something the point is its SCREAMING corruption for kiba. like the forbidden fruit. subtle classism, like kiba’s family isn’t what the uchihas would envision for her but like I just imagine her sneaking out with her brother to a uni party or something (like maybe sasu got to go to a public uni and she got the private treatment) and just like bumping into kiba in all his alpha buff man-ness and just like that first spark of lust just like overwhelms her like doesn’t even know whats going on but OH BOY KIbA does and he’s just like ‘yeah I got what you need bbygirl’ and yeah. Asdfsjhkgrhgo I have a lot of thoughts sorry for all the words 🐣

i don’t see kiba and sasuke being friends because kiba is too big of a hater, BUT i think that would even add more to the appeal because, like… he can act like a real proper shithead towards the people he doesn’t particularly like, so scoring sasuke’s little sister? yeah, he’d definitely try it just to get a sense of some kind of victory from it.

and i think it’d be the initial motive at first — the whole ‘haha, i fucked your sister, whatcha gonna do ‘bout it?’ — but then one thing leads to another and suddenly he’s caught… feelings. feelings that he doesn’t really know how to comprehend yet, and it’s weird because you’re like his exact opposite; so fancy and with your nose upturned whenever he winds up in your presence, pushing your whole princess agenda forward. and he knows that he should find it annoying because you’re acting just like your equally as annoying brother, but instead he’s catching himself thinking about you more and more and he’s almost finding it entertaining. pestering you is almost fun to him.

i think he’d wonder what you’d look like without the make up and the pretty skirt. what you’d look like with messy hair instead of it being in that almosy eerie state where each strand is sitting perfectly in place. he wants to see actual sweat coating your face instead of that matt powder he’s seen you reapply once or twice before because you hate the shine on your forehead. he wants to fuck you nasty and ruin that idea of you being a perfect girl in every single situation just so that he can see what you’re really like underneath.

besides that, i also imagine him initially pursuing you because he hates, hates, hates the whole idea behind noble clans, as well as the set of strict, mostly unfair rules that they’ve got going on, because of what they did to hinata. so if you’re his ticket to fuck with them a little bit, hey, why not?

you would find him appealing because he just simply does not give a shit what anybody thinks. he might get pissed off if someone insults him, sure, but he still ends up doing whatever it is that he wants in that moment and he doesn’t apologize for it. plus, his clan is more like one big family instead of a picture on the wall where everyone is smiling their most perfect grin despite the fact that their eyes still end up looking cold.

he’s warm, you know? carefree and dumb and not uptight at all. he finds joy in the little things and instead of spending money on fancy dinners, he buys things cheap because he’s saving up for a roadtrip that he’s planning to go on this summer with his shitty truck. he doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty and he loves his dog more than most people.

…and he’s also the first man who actually looks you in the eyes and tells you you’re full of shit when you start acting bratty and deserve to be called out for it. he treats you like a person instead of delicate glass.

[rjmartin11]

Sweet Kisses

Pairing: Elvis & black!female!reader

Summary: Candy, a young enslaved woman, learns the art of witchcraft from her mistress, Margaret. Along the way, Candy meets the mysterious Elvis, who appears to be more than what he seems. A vampire with an agenda. Candy and Elvis form an unbreakable bond that proves to be fatal.

Word Count: ???

Warnings: Witchcraft, vampires, blood, murder, magic, hence the witchcraft, talks of slavery, sadness, forbidden love, smut, death.

Material is not suitable for under 18 years of age. View discretion is advised!

Author's Notes: I'm making this special appearance for a limited time. One of my friends (@powerofelvis) wrote this incredible story about the Vampire Elvis, and I always wanted a prequel to it. Sadly, said friend has quit indefinitely. I'm heartbroken over it, and I hope I do it justice. This is one of my favorite stories written in the fandom. If you enjoy this tale, please like, follow, comment, and repost.

・ʚ♡ɞ・💋・ʚ♡ɞ・

"These violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey is loathsome in its own deliciousness, and the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore, love moderately." - William Shakespeare: Romeo & Juliet

1692

Candy toils away in the kitchen as dinner soon approaches. She sweats as the heat of the oven has the room sweltering. She's been working all day to make sure the food is prepared to master's liking. The breads baked to perfection. The roast is honey coated. The mash potatoes are fluffy, the greenbeans seasoned, and the cake's sweet. So she hopes.

Candy wipes her brow as sweat pours down her face from the heated stove. She hears a slight rattling on the table and swiftly turns around to look at the table. Everything is in place as it should be. She takes out the roast, placing on the adjacent bar.

The rattling sound happens again. Candy turns just in time to see a teacup falling to the floor. She's too far away from the falling teacup to catch it, so she does the only thing she can. She stretches out her hand, feeling the energy of her power flow through her. She catches the cup in mid-air. She places the cup back on the table with ease and exhales. Her fear subsides, allowing her to relax once more.

"Very good, young one," Margaret says, stepping out of the shadows of the doorway. "You've been practicing."

"Yes, thank you, Mistress," Candy says, bowing her head.

Margaret walks into the hot kitchen, looking at all the food prepared for the evening's dinner. She pauses, not wanting to take another bath.

"Candy, make it cooler in here, now," Margaret orders.

"Yes, Mistress."

Candy faces the three windows that lead to the outside. Slowly, she raises her hands up, opening the windows. Putting her hands slightly together and widening her fingers, Candy quietly conjures the cool night air to cool down the room.

"Very good, Candy."

"Thank you, Mistress," Candy says, placing her hands back in front of her.

"Tonight promises to be a must eventful evening," Margaret says, looking back at Candy.

"Why is that, Mistress?"

"After dinner, when the men smoke their cigars and have their console. The women will have ours," Margaret says.

She lightly lifts up Candy's chin.

"I will announce you as my apprentice. You will join my council of witches. You will be seen as my equal in a circle where there's no favorites. We will be sisters, and you will call me Margaret."

"Yes. Margaret."

Candy knew, as well as any slave, it was forbidden to cross the line of formal and casual with her mistress and master. Yet her mistress is giving her a direct order to call her by her name as if she's an equal. Candy knows her place. She knows what to say in front of Master Abbott. It was beat into her for the last two years of how to act properly as an enslaved woman. Now that her mistress has commissioned her to be a witch, she realizes she must tread softly.

・ʚ♡ɞ・💋・ʚ♡ɞ・

As the other servants of the Abbott household, Candy has permission to be absent for an hour. She wastes no time, taking a spare pair of clothes with her, and quietly runs through the woods. Slaves don't have the right to wash indoors, but Candy found a private spring a mile away from the Abbott's house.

Running through the woods is almost as good as running through the palms of Barbados. If she closes her eyes, she can almost smell the fresh salt sea air.

When she reaches the spring, she stripes herself away from the chains of slavery for just a moment. Candy places her clothes on the giant oak tree limbs that reach over the water. Without another thought, Candy dives into the lukewarm water, cleasing herself from the Abbotts.

When she comes up for air, she rubs her left shoulder, where her moon shaped birthmark lies. As she washes her hair, Candy sees the figure of a man in the distance. Candy gasps as she back strokes in the water.

"Who are you?!" Candy asks, covering herself with her hands. "What are you doing here?!"

"Who are you?!?" The stranger asks, the bass of his deep voice sends fear to Candy's heart.

"Never you mind!" She shouts, realizing he was a white man she swims back to the shore.

Not caring if he sees her naked body, Candy rings out her wet curls and puts on her clothes.

"You're not a shy one, are ya?!?" He shouts to her.

Candy looks over her shoulder then walks away. She was hoping for a peaceful bath, but she was interrupted by a stranger who could possibly get her into trouble.

"Wait a minute!" He shouts to her.

Candy stops in her tracks, knowing the rules. If a white man, woman, or child asks her to do something, she's supposed to do it without question. Fully dressed, he makes his way in front of her.

"You didn't answer my question," he said.

"W-which question was that, sir?" Candy asks, looking into his eyes.

Something behind his eyes captures her heart. His eyes were as blue as the waters that surrounded her home island. Behind his oceanic eyes lay a rushing wave that spoke to her lonely soul.

"Who are you? You're different. You have fire in you that most slaves would fear to have."

"I'm... Candy."

"What family do you work? Candy?"

"I'm a slave in the Abbott's household," she answers, crossing her arms shrinking away from him.

"The Abbotts... fine company you keep."

"Sir, forgive me. I have to get back to my mistress."

"I never liked the thought of slavery. In fact, it makes me sick to my stomach," he says, lifting her chin. "You're the first servant that's looked me in my eyes since I've been in town."

"Sir, please..."

"Elvis. My name's Elvis, little one."

"Master Elvis..."

"It's just Elvis... Candy."

Candy knew with one breath she could knock him down on his back. But the law would kill her for exposing herself as a witch.

"I have to go... Elvis."

Candy runs past him, heading to the Abbott house. Once back in the house, Margaret escorts her to the ladies' quarters. Inside, about fifteen ladies fill the room, seven of which are black. Light illuminates the quarter as the candles flicker. It sparks that fire Elvis was telling her about earlier.

Margaret and Sarah Barnett bring Candy the coven wine gauntlet.

"Sisters," Margaret starts. "Let us welcome our new sister, Candy, to the coven."

The ladies individually say their hellos and greetings to Candy. Margaret gives Candy the gauntlet of wine and whispers to her instructions on what to say in her induction speech. Candy smiles, taking the gauntlet in her hands.

"I... I drink of my sisters, and I do so entering this unbreakable circle with perfect love and perfect trust. Never putting no one above my sisters and this coven."

Candy raises her glass in a toast and takes a sip. The ladies applaud her, then one by one, kiss her cheeks, welcoming her into the coven. They asked for a small demonstration of her powers. Candy levitates all the candles in the room. This act pleases the coven.

The evening goes on with light wine and conversation. The ladies speak of secrecy and discretion.

"First and foremost, we are to remain quiet about who we are. We also must watch out for vampires," Sarah instructs.

"What are vampires?" Candy asks.

"Our true enemies. They are the enemies of those who produce warm blood in their veins," Sister Miraim squabbles.

Mistress Sarah gently places her hand on top of Miraim's hand, calming her.

"If I may," Sister Beth commented. Beth was the slave of Lord and Lady Blacksmith. "As Miraim more spiritly put it, vampires are our enemies, yes. But moreover, they are undead creatures that look and speak just like us with minor misconceptions. Other than drinking the blood of the living to survive, they sneak through the shadows of the night like evil spirits. They can't walk in the daylight. The sun is a holy relic that burns their pale skin. They are unholy creatures. If they feed on a witch, they gain ten times more strength and speed."

"Vampires are our enemies, and they will be disdained as such," Candy stated.

As the meeting drew in for a close, Beth pulled Candy aside for a small conversation.

"Just between us, Candy. I'd love it if you joined our small group of enchantress," Beth said.

"Enchantress group?" Candy questioned.

"You must never tell your mistress. All of the enslaved women here are a part of it. They may see us as equals here in this room, but once outside those doors, we are mere slaves yet again," Beth states.

"I know this to be true," Candy acknowledges.

"Do you know of the Well's family?" Beth asks.

Candy shakes her head.

"They were absent tonight, but they have a slave by the name of Renée and she's also from the island of Barbados."

"My cousin? Here in Salem? We were separated during the auction two years ago. I feared I'd never see her again."

"Never say never, Sister Candy. She's a part of our coven. Will you join us at your leisure tomorrow?" Beth asked.

"Yes. I will be there."

The next day, Candy reunites with her beloved cousin, Renée. Seeing Renée brought a great joy to her, she thought she'd never experience again. Candy and Renée reconnected, building a strong bond of blood and magic.

Because of this, Candy pledged her undying loyalty to this secret black coven within a larger coven. Together, they formed the Coven of Black Enchantresses. Reading and writing were outlawed for slaves but the sisters taught each other how to read and write. Margaret secretly tutored Candyin her spear time from the Book of Spell Casters.

Two weeks later...

The churches harvest ball was quickly approaching. The autumn leaves were falling, and the weather started to cool. Candy cleaned the house from top to bottom with the assistance of her cousin, Renée.

"Candy, this harvest ball sounds so exciting," Renée said, striking up a conversation.

"Yes. Too bad slaves can't participate."

"True. Can we just imagine, though?"

Candy looks back at Renée's eager face. So full of hope for things to come. Being that Renée is her younger cousin, Candy obliges her whim of imagining a life better than their current one.

"Let's make a small circle, Candy. We're alone," Renée says, grabbing her hands.

Candy and Renée breathe deeply, chanting small incantations. As the circle forms, they open their eyes to look at one another.

"What are we imagining, Renée?" Candy asks.

"A life without servitude, cousin. A life away from this hell."

"Home..." Candy whispers as she imagines the waves crash against the shore of her home.

"Candy, you are of age. If things were different, you could have on one of those pretty gowns and fall in love tonight."

"That's not in the book for me."

"Imagine. Don't break the circle because of things that may not be. Close your eyes as I conjure you up the perfect night," Renée says.

Candy obeys her cousin and allows her imagination to run as wild as horse on a prairie.

"You have on the most beautiful dress of all the eligible women at the ball. Every eye is on you, but one bachelor catches your eye. Oh my. Candy, he's handsome."

Renée says these words, and those pair of blue eyes come back to her mind. The fine cut jawline exquisitely complements his brood shoulders. He's built like a god of legend. He lips... cover a smile of sharp fangs.

"Elvis!" Candy shouts, breaking the circle. Fear covers Candy's soft features.

"Who's Elvis?" Renée asked.

"I wish I knew," Candy says, taking a breath. "Come, let's finish up. No more imagining for today."

The Harvest Ball

The entire town of Salem, with a few residents from surrounding areas, has come to celebrate. All the lords, ladies, and their children are dressed in their Sunday best. They make conversation, sip on libations, and nibble on snacks as the light hymns play.

Candy was excused from the duties of the event. She quietly watches from the window outside. A part of her wishes she could be in there dancing with a handsome stranger. She wishes she could be the bell of the ball. But no, she would rather go for a swim.

She goes to get Renée, Beth, and Phadrea to go for a swim. Originally, her spring was supposed to be a private place, but she'd not dare keep it from her sisters.

As they walk arm in arm through the quiet town, they hear growling like a pack of wolves have surrounded them.

"Those are vampires," Beth says. "Be ready to defend yourselves, sisters."

The three witches fight with their might. Candy turns to her left and sees a pair of red eyes in the dark. Fear seeps within her veins, and her heart races at the face of this loathsome creature. She takes a deep breath and chants her incantation as dark smoke springs from her hands. She throws her hand up, slamming the vampire hard against the side of a house. He laughs with evil delight as Candy gives herself strength to pick him up and throw him. He hits the ground with a thunderous thud. He looks over at Candy, his demonic eyes glaring back. She's ready for him.

Then Candy hears Renée scream at the top of her lungs. A vampire on top of Renée, ready to sink his into her flesh.

"RENÉE!" She shouts, using her energy to throw the off of her.

The vampire Candy turned her back on, grabbed her neck from behind, throwing her to the ground. He growls, exposing his sharp fangs to her. Candy places her foot in his abdomen, flipping him underneath her. He rips the top part of her dress off her shoulder, showcasing her moon shaped birthmark.

"The cresent moon," he says, looking into Candy's eyes. "Little one?"

Candy backs away from him, holding the top of her dress. He stands and shouts at the other vampires. They all scatter in different directions except for him. He glares at Candy for a moment, revealing his human face.

"Elvis," Candy breathes.

Elvis smiles and races into the darkness of the night. Candy exhales for the first time since the first initial attack.

"Candy?" Renée says, coming to aid. "Are you alright?"

"I... I think so," Candy says.

"We are not safe, sisters," Beth states. "There are vampires in Salem. We must inform the heads of the council."

・ʚ♡ɞ・💋・ʚ♡ɞ・

The next day, Candy cleans the house from top to bottom, trying to get that image of Elvis out of her mind. Ever since the first time they met, Candy knew there was something about him. Something different. She never dreamed it was that he was a vampire.

Candy finds time later in the afternoon to make her way to the spring. When she arrives there, it's as silent the grave. She quietly walks to the edge of the water, bracing herself for the unexpected.

"I hoped you come," Elvis said.

Candy throws him up against the base of the oak tree, holding him there.

"We need to stop meeting like this, Candy."

"Why should I trust you?" Candy asks.

"Because, if I wanted you dead, I would have killed you last night."

"I don't trust you. Vampires are the sworn enemies to witches!"

"We don't have to be. I don't want to hurt you."

"What do you want, Elvis?"

"To live in a world where slavery doesn't exist. A world where vampires and witches are not enemies but live together in harmony. A world where humans don't fear us. We shouldn't have to hide in the shadows."

"That's impossible..."

"Why? Because you were told it couldn't?"

Something in Candy wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe him. She eases her hand down, releasing Elvis from the tree. Elvis slowly walks up to Candy, never looking away from his eyes.

"Sit with me, please," Elvis asks.

"Why would you want to sit with me?"

"I find you beautiful and interesting. I've been waiting for you to come back here and spend time with me."

Elvis offers Candy his hand, and without hesitation, she takes it. Noticing how warm his touch is, her heart rate raises.

"You're so warm," Candy points out.

"Yes."

"And you're out in the sunlight."

"Yes, I am. Those tale tales were created to throw humans off our scent," Elvis admits.

He sits her down in the grassy meadow. For a moment, they stare at one another. Elvis admires her dark curls and honey coated skin. He finds her absolutely breathtaking.

"Where are you from?" Elvis asks her.

"Barbados. I was kidnapped two years ago. My cousin and I. Sent here. Away from my family. Forced into slavery," Candy sighs.

"You miss it."

"Everyday. I miss the palm trees and the sandy beaches and the blue water, my mother," Candy said, reminiscing about a life stolen from her.

A tear falls from her eye. Elvis takes her hand and places a kiss on her knuckles. An energy radiates from his touch to her soul. For the first time in a long time, Candy smiles a true smile.

For the next week, Candy finds a way to spend the afternoon in Elvis' arms. They share stories about their lives. Soon, Candy finds herself falling madly in love with Elvis. He's never far from her thoughts.

"How's about we go for a swim, baby?" Elvis asks.

Candy stands up and strips her dress off, being completely bare in front of Elvis. Elvis analyzes her body carefully. Every curve and every scar.

She runs into the water, diving into the water. When she comes up for air, Elvis has disappeared.

"Elvis? Where are you?" She calls out.

"Here," he whispers in her ear.

She turns to see Elvis behind her. Elvis grabs her face and kisses her lips softly. There's nothing between them at this moment but water. Candy wraps her arms around Elvis as he kisses down her neck to her arm. He kisses her birthmark.

"Oh, Elvis," she cries out.

He stops short and looks at her.

"What's wrong?" Candy asked.

"I want to taste you."

"Will it hurt?"

"Yes, but you'll like. I promise."

"Okay," Candy says, bracing herself.

Elvis kisses her neck then sinks his teeth into her skin. Candy feels a rush as he tastes her blood. Candy sees Elvis' past in quick images. Love. Loss. Death. It makes her want to protect him and guard him from the world. She also feels herself wet as Elvis sips her blood. He pulls back for air and licks her wounds.

"You're pure magic, Candy," he says.

"You're pure love, Elvis," she says, kissing his lips.

Elvis lifts her leg and drives into her with his hardened shaft. She moans at the urgency of it all. Her bud is so sensitive, and she feels so needy for what Elvis can give her. She never truly knew about this connection. The bond among her coven was nothing compared to this. She feels herself expand as he thrusts his cock into her throbbing pussy.

A fire deep within her has ignited and feels like Elvis is casting a spell on her. She grips ahold of him chasing this feeling until finally she bursts. Elvis follows quickly behind her.

"Oh, E. That was spellbinding."

"That was lovemaking, darling."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I love you, Candy. I'm in love with you," Elvis says, kissing the top of her head.

Thirty minutes later, Elvis takes Candy to his cabin. Their both still pretty wet from swimming, so Candy lights a fire for them. They sit for a while, getting warm from the flames.

Elvis can't help himself. He strips from his wet clothes and asks that Candy do the same. He lays her down in front of the fire and precedes to make love to her once more.

The flame on the inside of Candy scorch her soul as he pushes and pulls in and out of her until once again she cums. They lay in each other's arms for a while until Elvis breaks his silence.

"Marry me, Candy. Be my bride. Let's rule this world as one," Elvis begs.

Candy looks at him. Seeing the seriousness in his eyes melts her heart. She wants nothing more than to be with him.

"What about my sisters?" Candy questions.

"In time, they will come to accept our union. Please, my love. Marry me."

"Yes, I will."

"You will?"

"I will."

They kiss for a moment, and Elvis cuts his arm to unite them both as one.

"Drink. Be one with me. It won't turn you into a vampire. This will make you more powerful than any witch on Earth."

Candy licks his cut from top to bottom. The blood fills her taste buds with a peculiar taste, but the sensation was a delight. She feels stronger somehow. She feels like she has more control over her powers.

Realizing the time, Candy gives Elvis one last kiss goodbye and runs back to town. When she arrives, the coven is all there waiting to her.

"Where have you been?" Margaret asks.

Candy has no words. She can't lie to them, but she can't tell them the truth either.

"Beth," Margaret called. "Make her speak."

Beth stepped forward, placing her palms up and out to Candy.

"Give me your hands, Sister Candy," Berh orders.

Candy hesitates but does as she's asked. She places her hands on top Beth's hands.

Beth sees all that had conspired in Candy's mind. She sees the secrets they have and all of her moments with Elvis. All their private moments.

Beth gasps, pulling away from Candy she slaps her in the face.

"Sisters, she has betrayed us all! She has lied with a vampire, allowed him to drink blood from her veins, and tasted his blood as well!!!"

An unholy gasp spreads across the room.

"Sisters, please. Let me explain," Candy begs, tears falling from her eyes.

Margaret slaps Candy's face, silencing her.

"You have lost all rights to speak!" Margaret shouts.

"I love him."

"You shall burn for your sins against us. Your betrayal has stung us all to the core," Margaret states. "All witches in favor."

"Aye!" Screamed by each witch except for Renée who watches in terror from the back of the room.

For the next few days, Candy remains locked in an upstairs room with little to no food. She cares not for herself but for Elvis. She was supposed to see him at the springs. With little to no way to get to him, Candy falls into despair.

Suddenly, there's a commotion downstairs. Things are being thrown about the rooms, and there's yelling.

Candy has been patient long enough. She blows the door down with one wave of her hand. She runs downstairs and sees Elvis being choked by Margaret. Candy waves her arm and flings Margaret away from him.

"Elvis, darling," Candy runs to him, helping off the floor.

"My love," Elvis says, kissing her lips. "I've come to take you away from this horrible place."

"Traitor!" Margaret yells.

"No! Margaret, I don't want this! Elvis wants to make this world better for us all. He's a great man!"

"Love, she's set in her old ways. No use explaining to her," Elvis says, picking her up in his arms and racing out the door.

For the next week, Elvis trains Candy on fighting and strengthening her powers. Elvis feels a fight coming, and he wants to be prepared. Candy wants Elvis to fight her with all his might because if she could stand against him, she can face anyone.

Elvis knocks Candy down on her back this time. It's hard enough that blood comes from her mouth.

"Did I hurt you, my love?" Elvis asks, stretching out his hand, helping her up.

"Yeah, but I'm tougher than I look, E," she says, giving him a kiss on the lips. "Do you really think I'll be ready to face them? I mean, they taught me everything I know. Before them, I was a slave who couldn't read or write. I own them everything."

"You're ready, and once we defeat them, you'll be my bride, and we will rule this world together. Hell, you're already my bride, Mama!" Elvis says, pulling her close to him. "They will come around. Eventually."

"I'm ready," Candy says.

But she wasn't ready. Two days later, Candy goes to comfort the coven. It was a trap. They tie Candy up, using incantations, they burn her at the stake. She screams and begs them for mercy, but they ignore her.

Elvis witnesses the whole scene unfold. He tries to save her, but his men hold him back as he cries out to her.

"Candy! You can defeat them! You're strong! Don't give up! I LOVE YOU!!! PLEASE!!!" He screams.

Candy sees Elvis trying to get to her, but it's too late. She cries as the flames of hell fire burn her from the inside out. She let's her last words be for Elvis. He hears her whisper.

"I love you," she succumbs to the flames.

Elvis and his clan of vampires are forced to flee away from Salem back into the woods.

A day later, the witch sent Elvis a box. Inside the box is Candy's burnt heart. Elvis hadn't slept all night from heartbreak, and this is what happens.

Elvis loses it and orders his men to attack Salem. His vampires came in droves and ripped Salem apart. Finding every witch they could get their hands on and bleeding them dry.

The Black Enchantresses, led by Renée, fled for their lives out of Salem and from the bonds of slavery. Renée knew the story of Candy and Elvis was to be kept a secret for all time, and so it shall remain.

After his fill of witches' blood, Elvis, heartbroken, carries Candy's lifeless body away. He wraps burial cloth around her body from head to toe. He places her under their special oak, feet away from their pond where they meet mere weeks ago.

Elvis lays her in her resting place gently, placing the box that contains her heart on top of her. He weeps the tears of a widower. For they had only just begun.

As he places fresh water lilies on her grave, a strange feeling comes over him. As if he's not there alone.

"Elvis." A voice of an angel whispers. His angel. His bride.

Elvis turns to see a figure in white standing in the grassy meadow. As his eyes adjust, he realizes he looks upon the face of Candy. Her hair was curly with little flowers, and the sun kissed her skin perfectly.

"Candy?" He breathes.

"Yes," she answers.

"You've come back to me, love?"

"No," she says, a tear trickling down her cheek. "Wait for me."

"How long?" Elvis beeched.

"I don't know."

"It doesn't matter. I'll wait forever for you. I love you."

"I love you, Elvis. Once I return to you. I'll never ever leave you again. Wait for me." Candy sits in the grass as a light fog engulfs her and she vanishes.

Elvis feels sorrow, but in his heart, he knows Candy will return to him. When she does, they will rule the immortal world together. He will wait. No matter how long it takes.

Taglist: @missmaywemeetagain @beeandheroddobsessions @headfullofpresley @everythingpresley @epforeverohyes @vintagepresley @pianginferno @powerofelvis @ab4eva @foreverdolly @searchingforgravity @thatbanditqueen @daffieapple @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @epsgirl @richardslady121 @literally-just-elvis-fics @eptodaytommorwforever @vintageshanny @iloveelvis @dreamingofep @aliypop @spooky-hazex

Are you bummed at the ending? Here's the link to the original story!!! Better ending.

Sweets For My Sweet by: @powerofelvis (Daisy)

[rogunetocentral]

AGE OF X COMMUNIQUES:

SUBJECT Magneto (The General)

CIVILIAN NAME

Not clearly established. Aliases include Eric Lensherr and Magnus Eisenhardt: either could be his real name, as all relevant records have been destroyed, we believe by Magneto himself.

KNOWN RELATIVES

Magda Eisenhardt: Wife, dead (circumstances of death not known).

Wanda Maximoff: Daughter, and Pietro Maximoff, son. Both dead (see: Operation Red Hot)

Lorna Dane: Possibly another daughter. Was incarcerated at Alcatraz, but died while trying to escape. Officers were disciplined: her use as a bargaining counter against Magneto might have been considerable.

COMMENTS Magneto is clearly the biggest threat we currently face. Attempts to capture or kill him using “Minimum-metal” Exonim units of Mark-IV and V types have all failed, although we believe that the Baton Rouge ambush left him wounded.

I think our mistake in the early operations was in viewing Magneto purely and simply as a terrorist. He actually has a formidable strategic mind and a radical agenda which goes beyond simple resistance or protest. He organized two extremely successful mutant terrorist cadres that we know of (see: Brotherhood, Acolytes) and also provided logistical and intelligence support for the Mutant Liberation Front. His attempt to reverse the Earth’s magnetic poles would have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Tony Stark and Reed Richards, whose field valence manipulators are still running full-time to prevent a repetition of that crisis.

The truth is – and please don’t take this as any kind of an endorsement – Magneto is an idealist. In other circumstances, if we hadn’t been able to roll out the Exonim program when we did to cull mutant numbers so effectively, it’s possible that he might have mobilized them into a terrifyingly potent force. Subject Simon Hall admitted under interrogation that Magneto had plans to found a mutant republic on Genosha. I leave you to imagine the implications of that, in light of the invaluable technical support that the Genoshan magistrates have provided to our own people.

Bottom line: even if the opportunity of taking Magneto alive were to arise, I’d advise against it. I wouldn’t lower the threat assessment on his file until I’d seen him not just killed but ground into fine powder and scattered over the Eastern seaboard.

[fairylandblog]

Types of Fairy Dust

Folklore, fantasy, and fairy tales have long used fairy dust to symbolize magic, transformation, and awe. Generally, stories depict fairy dust as a shimmering, ethereal material that grants wishes or allows flight, yet each story varies in its properties and applications. Each sort of fairy dust has its own abilities and properties, reflecting the many roles fairies and their magic play in human imagination. Flight-related fairy dust is famous. Fairy dust is a shimmering powder that lets characters fly in J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan. Golden, bright fairy dust requires belief and a joyful thought to activate. It symbolizes fairy magic's whimsical freedom and capacity to transcend physical constraints. The dust's association with happiness and belief shows that magic is physical, emotional, and spiritual.

Other fairy dust heals and protects. Fairies are sometimes kind and utilize their abilities to help people. People believe that their silvery or light blue dust has healing properties. This may heal wounds, treat ailments, and fight off evil spirits. Fairies, who safeguard the environment and humanity, exhibit compassion, much like this fairy dust. The fairies protect balance and harmony with this dust, which shields them from malevolent powers. Transformative fairy dust can change looks or make ordinary objects remarkable. This dust appears in stories where fairies help humans achieve a goal or conquer a difficulty. In certain fairy tales, dust can convert a pumpkin into a chariot or a torn robe into a ball gown. These cases show multicolored or sparkling dust, signifying magic's unlimited possibilities. This transformational dust represents change and the concept that magic may unleash latent potential or produce something spectacular from the banal. Dark or cursed fairy dust represents the darker side of fairy magic in several legends and fantasy worlds. Unlike its beneficent cousins, this dust is either black, gray, or dark and menacing. It causes turmoil, misfortune, and even harm to people it affects. Trickster fairies or evil spirits sometimes utilize it to prank or avenge offended humans. This dust reminds us that not all magic is beneficial and that fairies, like people, have complex and unpredictable agendas. Dreams and creativity are associated with rare fairy dust. People claim that this delicate, sparkling dust fosters creativity, enables vivid dreams, and grants access to magical realms during sleep. Sometimes, painters, poets, and writers connect it with dream fairies or muses. This dreamy dust suggests that fairies are representations of our inner creativity and amazement, linking magic and the human mind. Fairy dust in legend and fiction reflects fairy magic's complexity. Each variety gives wings, heals wounds, inspires imagination, or warns about enchantment's sinister side. Fairy dust symbolizes magic as a force that transcends the mundane and opens up possibilities beyond the natural world. It captures wonder and reminds us that magic occurs wherever we see it—through belief, imagination, or storytelling.