#satchel cannon

[peculiaritybending]

Reblog for larger sample size

[thefutureiswhat]

Someone has been sittin' in your chair. And someone has been eatin' from your bowl. And someone has been sleepin' in your bed.

[kategivesup]

Saw this phrase in another post and thought of this… I know it’s low quality but editing a still on my iPad is pretty much Microsoft Paint

[ivyfluoresce]

Finally got into Fargo S2 after only having watched S4 and I feel like a disappointed dad… You let me down, little man.

[robbinggoodfellows]

i could write an academic paper on the wizard of oz symbolism of satchel cannon

[sygiandepths]

Team leaders

[sunnami]

❝we can't be friends (wait for your love.)❞

[credits to @artofpan for the lovely art! title is taken from ariana grande's song, we can't be friends.]

summary. fortune favours the bold, so they say. but you're an awkward ravenclaw in yearning.

pairing/s. poly!marauders x reader (james potter x reader, lily evans x reader, remus lupin x reader, and sirius black x reader.)

word count. 11.4k

tags. childhood friends to ex-friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like remus and tonks, also a bit of spice ;3

note. asdhjf while im working on the last part of the time traveller au pls enjoy this fluffy piecee ueueue

‘TIS THE SEASON OF raucous jeering and gaudy paraphernalia in the corridors, the unmistakable scent of overly-polished brooms, mud trekking through the cobblestone floors, and jerseys soaked in sweat, rain, and grime after hours of vigorous training. The dreaded second week of school where arrogant fledglings end up in the infirmary on account of broken noses, dislocated shoulders, or sprained wrists.

In other words: Quidditch tryouts. 

You’re just not fond of the havoc wreaked in every corner and alcove of the castle. But to your relief, the library remains untouched through it all. 

Needless to say, you absolutely hate Quidditch. 

It is a fact you simply will not elaborate on. The skies are blue, the grass blades are green; you and the Marauders are as different as night and day. 

On your way to the library, the last bastion of academia, you weave past the crowd in the courtyard corridor, ears ringing from the shouting match earlier in the Great Hall for breakfast—something about the Cannons versus the Magpies. There’s a pile of books shoved inside your leather satchel, painfully bumping into your hip with each step you take. You traverse through the Romanesque architecture, blissfully unaware of the misfortune to come. 

“If I study for Charms now, I can take a nap for the rest of the day,” You say to yourself, pensively tapping at your chin. 

“Watch out!” 

You barely have any time to react before a Quaffle comes crashing straight into your face. 

“Merlin’s hairy arsehole—fuck!” There’s a sicky sound of bones cracking, a dizzying flash of white before your eyes, and something viscous trickling from your nose down to your lips. Your hands fly to your face—instantly flinching when you catch a glimpse of your fingers dipped in blood. Your eyes grow wide in panic, chest rapidly heaving—it’s only now that you realize that you’re sitting on the ground, textbooks laying haphazardly around you, shoulders quivering from the adrenaline. The crowd’s concerned murmurs are lost in the cacophony of hysteria. 

“Move!” 

To your rescue, is Alice Fortescue, a fellow prefect. She cuts through the onlookers of petrified first-years and nosey fifth-years. You have no doubt this incident will grace the school’s gossip column for the next few days. She grabs your arm and wraps it around her shoulder with ease. You’d write poetry of her gallant display, but you were too busy moaning in agony. She utters a few incantations to stop your nosebleed from worsening, though there’s not much she can do to help with the possible concussion. 

“Did you know Bludgers used to be called blooders?” You mumble languidly, nearly crashing into one of the knight statues. 

“I do now,” replies Alice, tightening her hold on your waist, the ghost of a fond smile on her face. (She’s missed you, actually—three and a half years of radio silence. There used to be a time where running into you in the Gryffindor common rooms was an everyday occurrence. Even the Ravenclaw prefects knew where to look first if they wanted to find you.)

After what feels like an eternity of trudging through the castle, you finally reach the infirmary. The matron, Poppy Pomfrey, shrieks in alarm at the sight of your soiled blouse and blood stained lips. She gently ushers you into her hold, guiding you to a vacant bed. Alice hangs back, awkwardly shuffling her feet, gaze worriedly trained on you. 

“You may return to your classes, Miss Fortescue, thank you,” says Madam Pomfrey, tipping your head upwards and grimacing.  “Oh, good heavens, what happened?” 

Your head droops in her palms, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth—you must have bit your tongue earlier. You blubber pathetically, “Got hit by a stray quaffle.” 

Wordlessly, Madam Pomfrey summons a vial from her stash in the cupboards. She hands the small bottle to you, uttering various healing spells under her breath with a deft expertise of someone who’s been doing this for years upon years now. “There,” says Madam Pomfrey, lips firmly pursed. “That should help with the fractured cheekbones.”

With—what?

As your eyes bulge out of your head, Madam Pomfrey looks over you once more, a floating quill at her side hastily scribbling on a parchment. “Concussion, mild blood loss, fracture in the cheekbones, broken nose cartilage.” She illuminates the tip of her wand, and moves it left and right in front of you. “Hmm. Any nausea at all, dear?”

“There’s a six point four chance I’m going to get amnesia,” You whisper solemnly, head hanging low as your voice cracks from the unbearable pain. “I don’t want to get amnesia.”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that while you’re under my care.” Madam Pomfrey gently nudges you to lay on the pillow. She hands you a folded blanket. “Rest now. We’ll keep you here until the morning in case your condition worsens.”

“I can’t.” You groan, sitting upright—Madam Pomfrey pushes you back onto the bed with a stern glare. “I’ve got to study.”

“And I’ve got three other students to tend to. Mister Lockhart has been dealing with food poisoning all week.” Madam Pomfrey places her hands on her hips, sighing sharply. She jerks her thumb behind her back—that’s when you notice that three certain people are staring back at you. Sirius Black and James Potter squeezing together in one chair—and miserably failing—and Remus Lupin, resting cozily on the infirmary bed with bandages around his arms and head. “And don’t even get me started on this one.”

“You love him, Poppy, don’t lie.” Sirius grins wolfishly at the matron. You make out the sunken bags underneath his gray eyes, pale lips and his unkempt heap of dark curls. 

Pomfrey huffs exasperatedly. “It would be easier to wrangle a hoard of Hippogriffs than to keep you three out of the infirmary past visiting hours.” She spares you one last glance, nodding when she deems you safe and healthy—as can be, anyway. Gilderoy Lockhart rolls out of his bed, his cries echoing around the room, threatening to barf up his entire breakfast, and Madam Pomfrey is gone in an instant. 

There is an awkward silence that envelops your side of the room—you roll over on your left, desperately ignoring the three of stares burning intensely into your back. 

THE STORY GOES like this: 

You know their names more than you know your own. Each morning finds them at the Ravenclaw common room’s doorstep—while waiting, Lily, Sirius and Remus try to figure out the password as James attempts to brute force his way in. (He had actually figured out the riddle minutes ago, James would just rather play along with his friends.) The blue-tied prefects watch endearingly as one of their first-years rush out of the tower, squealing deafeningly, and jumps right into the lion cubs’ embrace. (It’s not that Inter-House friendships are rare, it’s more common than one would think; usually, it just takes more time for the eaglets to break out of their shell.) 

“I got a hundred and twelve!” You exclaim merrily, hair in disarray and eyes puffy from having just woken up. Lily grabs your hands; together, the both of you jump up and down, excitedly giggling in celebration of the success of your History of Magic essay. (You had ignored them for a day to focus on your homework—Sirius did not like that at all. It wasn’t as fun to play if one of their friends were missing. Gone off to study, of all things.) 

The tale of your friendship may be an unsolved mystery to some, but to you, it’s like finding jigsaw pieces that perfectly fit together. Magic isn’t only centaurs in forbidden forests, or ceilings bewitched to look like the night sky—sometimes it’s stumbling into a random train compartment and shyly offering your bag of assorted treats. Next thing you know, Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon are constantly with you in the library, oohing and aahing over pages of the fantasy novels Lily had brought from the muggle world. 

There’s rarely a day where you aren’t spotted in a sea of red and gold. Except when you’ve studied yourself sick—and the Marauders are never fond of that. 

(“I’m sorry, she can’t come down today,” says one of the fifth-year prefects, Lalita Burman, a rather tall girl with intricate curls, brown skin, and eyes that stare into one’s soul. She wakes up to banging on the tower entrance, not even eight o’clock in the morning yet—on a Saturday. It doesn’t come off as a surprise anymore when she opens the door to five red-faced children. “She’s come down with the flu. Most of the firsties have, actually. Madam Pomfrey says they’ll get better by tomorrow but Alex and I have been running ourselves ragged looking after them.” 

James Potter narrows his eyes at her. “Okay. Then we’ll go inside.” 

“Maybe we can help,” says Remus. 

Lalita holds up her hand to stop them from barging in. “That’s really sweet, but we can’t risk any of you getting sick as well.” 

Sirius stands on his toes to spy past Lalita’s shoulder, frowning when he finds nothing of importance—or really, when he can’t find you. He couldn’t wait to call you stupid for getting yourself sick—you just missed out on frog hunting. “That’s alright.” He huffs, shoulders slumping dejectedly. “Our immune system can take it. Will you let us in now?” 

Her eye twitches. “Come back tomorrow.” 

With that, she slams the door in their faces. 

The Marauders then declare you are never, ever allowed to get sick again.) 

Your second year in the castle creeps up on you without you noticing. 

“Remus Lupin, I am going to kill you!” 

No one bats an eyelash when you stalk up to the Gryffindor table, twelve years old and on a mission, fresh from the summer holidays. You slam your hands down onto the table, eyes ablaze as Remus stares at you, head resting on his palms, shaggy blond hair falling over his brows—no thoughts, head empty, just sheer adoration. 

“Hello there, stranger,” Remus says, grinning fiendishly. “You look rather lovely—did you have a good holiday?” 

You scoff, pointing an accusatory finger at him—Peter watches at the scene with wide eyes, slowly chomping on his shepherd’s pie, not an inkling as to what was going on. “Don’t try me, Lupin!” You exclaim sternly. “That book you gave me—you said it would have a happy ending! Tell me why I stayed up until bloody five o’clock in the morning crying me eyes out! You. . . you—!” 

“Wanker, dingbat, berk, git,” Lily supplies helpfully with an innocent smile, pulling you down to sit with her. “And my personal favorite—toerag.” 

You gape at the pretty redhead, jaw falling to the floor. “How do you even know these words?” 

She hums nonchalantly, spreading blueberry jam onto her buttered toast. “A lady must arm herself with the necessary ammunition.” Lily points to a certain pair of boys—James and Sirius are currently engaged in an eating contest, shoveling pancakes after pancakes inside their mouths; so far it looks like Sirius is winning. Lily sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes, “Especially if she wants to survive that kind of company.”  

“Him, even more,” says Lily, gesturing to Remus. “He may be Professor McGonagall’s golden boy but I see right through him.” 

“What can I say?” Remus smirks, helplessly shrugging his shoulders. “I’m a monster.” 

Lily glares at him. 

Then, you turn thirteen—the dreaded age. Suddenly, you’re dealing with oily skin, acne, body odor, hair growing out of places you didn’t even know could grow hair, hormones messing up the way you look at everyone else—something awakens in you the day you see Dorcas Meadowes in the Quidditch pitch wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck—and hormones messing up the way you look at yourself. 

Everything is starting to change. 

You usually never blink twice when James wraps his arms around your waist, laying his head on your shoulder. Except this time, he’s gone from a gangly bean sprout, to a heartthrob with perfectly messy hair, newly defined muscles from his countless hours of Quidditch training, charming smile, eyes that one could get lost into for hours, and a tantalizing scent of mint and bergamot. 

“Are you really not going to our game this Saturday?” James whispers in your ear—the five of you had been hanging out in the library. 

You sigh. “Can‘t. Sorry.” 

“Scared your House is going to lose to us, pet?” Sirius teases from where he’s sitting backwards on the chair next to you, engrossed in twirling locks of your hair around his finger. 

You bristle at the nickname—they have been brazen with the endearments lately, you’ve noticed. “It’s not like we’re going to win anyway,” You mumble, tapping your quill on the empty parchment—there’s never any work done while they’re around. “There’s only a sixteen point seven percent chance of Ravenclaw winning against Gryffindor.”

James wrinkles his nose, now sitting on the edge of the table. “Percent, shmercent. What matters is how everyone plays that day.” 

He kicks his legs against yours, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “So, will you come watch?” 

“We have that History of Magic project, remember,” You say defeatedly. “I need to get started on it this week otherwise I’ll be behind all the electives I signed up for this year.” 

Lily frowns, looking up from her own homework to glance at you in concern. “How many did you even pick?” 

“All of them.” 

“What?” Lily screeches in terror, suddenly rising from her seat to lean over the table. “How is that even possible? How did McGonagall even allow that?” 

“Professor Flitwick,” You correct, wincing when Lily and Sirius glare at you. “It took a lot of convincing, but eventually I wore him down. All I had to do was rework some of my class schedules and promise him over a thousand times that my wellbeing wouldn’t ever be compromised by my studies. Otherwise he’d take back his decision.” 

Remus doesn’t seem all too happy. “No wonder we don’t see you at Transfiguration anymore.” 

“Or in Kettleburn’s class,” Peter pipes in. 

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be taking that many classes at once?” Remus grimaces, sharing a worried look with James. “The limit is three, and even that is too much to handle.” 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

(Peter knows a lie when he hears one.) 

James tenses up, jaw tightening. “So you’re saying you’re going to miss a game because of school? Like all the other times? That’s bullcrap!” 

Remus hisses his name in warning. 

Tears prick your eyes instantly—you’ve heard him speak like this when quarreling with Slytherins, but never to your face. “That bullcrap means a lot to me, Potter. You’d understand that if you took your studies seriously more than just going around and playing silly pranks on everyone!” 

James scoffs. “Like how you take us seriously? Did you know that Lily is the youngest ever to be invited to Slughorn’s club? Yeah, she got the invitation last week. Did you congratulate her for that when she was staying up late with you to revise for your practical test in Herbology?” 

“I—” You stammer, guilt pooling in your stomach. 

“No, you didn’t.” James sneers. “You only see yourself. Do you know what Remus has been going through? Do you even care?” 

“That’s enough, James,” Lily says vehemently. 

“Well, if you think like that, maybe we all should just stop being friends!” You retort.

Before anyone else can reply, Madam Pince comes around the corner, and everyone falls silent—a tense atmosphere that threatens to choke you. With a heavy heart, you gather your belongings and run out of the library. 

The months pass by, and Frank Longbottom wonders why he doesn’t wake up at midnight anymore to find five students having a sleepover in the common room with a certain eagle, each of them trying to contain their giggles and  failing. (One time, the Prewett twins had run down the stairs in panic, only to find you and Peter screaming from Remus’s theatrics in telling his ghost stories during an awful thunderstorm.) You no longer visit the Gryffindor table at breakfast, and they no longer wait for you after your classes. 

“It’s probably just a tiff,” says Alice to Mary Macdonald. “They’ll make up—they always do.”  

Mary nods, though unsure—while Peter is gut-wrenched about it all, the other four in particular seem like heartbroken puppies when you enter the Great Hall and barely acknowledge their presence. 

The snow melts and time catches everyone unaware.

“I can’t believe I’m going to graduate and you idiots haven’t made up yet,” Lalita sighs as she pulls you in for a hug. In a few weeks, she and the other seventh-years are due to leave; you’ve grown real close with her over the past few terms. Her departure is going to be truly difficult for you to handle. “Just talk it out with them, okay?” 

You sniffle, holding onto her robes. “I’m trying, but they’ve been ignoring me, too.” 

Lalita squeezes you tighter. “Don’t worry. These kinds of things have a way of sorting themselves out.” 

At the end of the term, you present your final project to Professor Binns. The ghost nearly returns to life. It was a research study on the Evolutionary Analysis of Magical RNA Manipulation in the Catalonian Fireball. Days after your paper is published, you’re featured on the Daily Prophet; dragon tamers and professors from Spain are owling you letters of praise and congratulations. It goes without saying that such a feat had naturally catapulted Ravenclaw to the top, ultimately winning the House Cup. 

(But what you don’t tell everyone is that you’re so severely burnt out after that—to the point where you didn’t want to ever pick up a textbook again. For the first time in forever, learning had become a chore, not a passion. You’d been puking out of anxiety, hands trembling as you forced yourself to write on the parchment, the sides of your fingers constantly swollen and raw. You’d study until four o’clock in the morning, and wake up an hour later to complete all of your homework. You’ve begun to masquerade as the ghosts of Ravenclaw Tower; lifeless and indifferent. Xenophilius and Pandora fuss over you, but you just lock yourself in your room and say: “I’m tired.”

Perhaps, it is why Professor Flitwick isn’t surprised when you withdraw from most of your electives. 

“The pursuit of knowledge is a rewarding journey,” says Professor Flitwick on the day you visit his classroom—hours away from needing to be on the train platform. He sighs and sets his spectacles on the table. “But it is a perilous one, too. I trust that you have understood the consequences of your actions. As a teacher, I can only offer guidance when it is needed. The other professors may disagree, but I find the best learning method to be, what is it the kids say—fuck around and find out.” 

You snort. 

Professor Flitwick chuckles, quite pleased with himself. “If I may be so bold as to leave you with another piece of homework, I would like to ask you to truly enjoy the holidays. I hear the summer is a time for discovering new things about oneself, for new beginnings and growth. After all, learning does not happen only within the castle grounds.”) 

Later that day, you board the express, purposefully choosing the farthest compartment where you know they’ll be staying in. You share the cabin with two people whose names are Regulus and Narcissa Black—this is the first time you’ve ever met them. Narcissa shares her green tea flavored candy with you.  Afterwards, you spend the rest of the ride back to King’s Cross asleep. 

(Right before the train arrives, Remus is nervously searching for you in the crowd of people. 

“We’ve got to say goodbye, at least.” Lily nibbles on her lower lip uneasily. She once joked that she could find you anywhere—as if you two had a red string tied around both your pinky fingers. Now, it seems you’re too far away for her voice to reach you. 

James drops his head down in shame. “I never got the chance to apologize.” 

“She’ll appear somewhere,” says Sirius unwaveringly with a nod, taking Lily’s heavy suitcase from her as steam whistles are heard in the distance. “She could be in our special compartment, waiting for us right now.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter questions dubiously. 

“Of course I am, she’s my best friend,” Sirius counters resolutely. “She’s there, I can feel it.”)

You’re fourteen when you return back to the castle—you hadn’t touched a single book throughout the summer, but you find yourself well-rested; you learn how to swim from your mother; staying up all night to accompany your family dog as she gives birth to seven beautiful puppies, and scratching yourself on the bark of sycamore trees with your poor attempts at climbing.

You find out that you don’t like Arithmancy at all, strongly preferring Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve also garnered a curiosity for Ornithomancy, the oracle reading of birds. 

This year, you signed up for the Gobstone club, despite your unfamiliarity with the game. It’s led by a Slytherin girl named Haerin Seong. (It’s properly read as Seong Hae-rin.) She has pin-straight hair, a sharp nose, and the mouth of a drunken sailor.

You also decide that you want to become a professor after Hogwarts. The groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, belly laughs when you declare this to him one afternoon, right in the doorway of his hut. 

“Well, go on then!” Hagrid bellows, patting you on the head. “Anyone who tries ter stop yeh has got ter go through me!” 

On the dawn of your fifth-year, an owl delivers a prefect badge to your doorstep. Your father, born and raised as a Muggle, doesn’t understand the significance of this, but he cries harder than you on that Sunday morning. (“My child is a prefect!” He sobs into the telephone after dialing your aunt’s number.) 

The fresh batch of Ravenclaw firsties aren’t the only new additions to the castle. According to the gossip mill, James and Lily are finally dating, so are Sirius and Remus apparently. (Then, months later, everyone would be shrieking about how they’re all dating. )

You hear of the news as you guide the first-year eaglets to their next class. You’re climbing up the spiral staircase when you see the Quidditch pitch through the window. They look like flying ants from this distance. You can imagine the wind in their hair, the tense muscles as they chase after the Quaffles, the crowd roaring in their ears, victory within their reach if they just fly fast enough. 

You hate the way you envy them—how easily they soar up in the skies while you watch from below, much like a flightless eagle, shackled by your own shortcomings. 

You hate Quidditch.

It’s bound by no rules, unpredictable and barbaric. Most of all, it looks down on the cowardly. 

In your sixth year, you have your first kiss with a boy named Augustine Fenberry. It’s extremely short-lived and awkward. You date for three months until it’s unanimously agreed that you two are better off as friends—until you catch him laughing about you with his mates in an empty corridor, saying that you were clingy, too much, and needed to learn how to shut up. (You wonder if that’s why they grew tired of you, too.) 

You handle him with a quick, “Entomorphis.” 

It’s probably one of the more cruel jinxes; Augustine bawls piercingly as he grows antennas atop his head, the spell forcing him to get on his hands and knees; his friends hover around him in panic, but all Augustine can do is chirp like a grasshopper in the night. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, but Haerin tells you that’s exactly what Augustine is—vermin. 

You also, with great satisfaction, deduct thirty points from his House—which happens to be Ravenclaw. 

(Nobody knows this about Peter, but he’s nimble on his feet, a bit of a wallflower—and he is now the newest editor of Hogwarts’s newspaper column, The Golden Snidget. By the next day, everyone knows what he’s done. Argus Filch, who’s in charge of his month-long detention, should be the last of his worries. Peter sympathizes with the wizard—but only for a fraction of a second. Because it’s not even the werewolf Augustine has to be scared of, not the pureblood heir who could ruin anyone with just a lift of his finger; not the Quidditch prodigy with a sharp mind, knowing a thousand ways to seek revenge. 

It’s Lily Evans. 

“Go near her again and I’ll rip your balls off!” Marlene flips the bird to the group of cowering boys. “Matter of fact, if you treat anyone like that again, I will come for your bloodline.”

“Fucking toerag!” Lily wildly swings the Beater’s bat she had stolen from the Quidditch changing room. “If you even look at her, I’ll hunt you down and shove this up your arse—until you feel it in your throat!” 

Peter shivers in fear. He didn’t ever want to be on the receiving side of Lily’s wrath. 

“This is the same girl who cried for an hour when she saw the ducklings in the Great Lake separated from their mother,” says Remus, horrified. 

“Honestly, I feel so, so conflicted whether to find this terrifying. . . or attractive,” James whispers to Sirius.

“Attractive. Definitely attractive,” Sirius responds breathlessly, all eyes on Lily.)

Gryffindor wins the House Cup that year, to no one’s surprise. You find yourself clapping along with everyone else, but can’t help it when your gaze drifts to the left-side of the Gryffindor table. You watch as Sirius lifts Lily in the air, her giggles somehow louder than the thunderous cheering, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. James stands on the table, encouraging everyone to sing more of his praises—there’s a split second where his eyes find yours, you look away immediately—as Remus covers his face with his palms, flushed from all the attention. After James, Remus had won the most points for their House. 

They seem complete—a puzzle that never really needed another piece. (You miss them, heartachingly so.) Maybe it was for the best that all of you drifted further and further apart. You now forget the way they call your name.  

And so, the story ends just like that. 

YOU HAVE FOUND yourself in a very tricky position. 

It’s past midnight when you wake up—you nearly scream bloody murder when James, Lily and Sirius materialize out of thin air. They stare back at you, frozen in place, unblinking for the last twenty seconds. 

“Oh God, I’m hallucinating.” You cry to yourself, wrapping your arms around your waist. “I hit my head and now I’m seeing things.” 

“No, no, no, no,” James stammers, shaking his head. “It’s an invisibility cloak—see?” He wears the cape, then abruptly takes the cloak off—his body disappearing and reappearing in time with his actions. “Not hallucinating, I promise.” 

“That’s even worse,” You say hoarsely, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Y-You’re out past curfew—visiting hours are over. Someone could catch you. Madam Pomfrey will have your heads.” 

Remus chuckles—he had missed your voice so bloody much. He barely contains his grin when you glare at him. (Finally, after three years, you look his way again.) 

“We snuck in here to see you all the time,” Sirius tells you, the corner of his lips tipping into an overfond smile. “At some point, Poppy just stopped trying to keep us out.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Your gaze falls to the floor as you mousily toy with your fingers. The infirmary falls painfully silent. Again. You clear your throat. “Anyway, I–I should get going.” 

“Oh.” Lily’s expression turns crestfallen, words cracking from the thick lump wedged in her throat. (This is the first conversation she’s had with you in years—one that isn’t awkwardly bumping into one another with shallow, hesitant greetings, before you scurry off like a timid squirrel.) “R-Right. But why don’t you have dinner first? We brought some from the feast and—” 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” You rasp, slipping into your shoes and throwing your cardigan over your shoulders. (More than anything, you want to hug Lily and congratulate her for making Head Girl—but you have to wonder if it’s too little, too late; if the distance between you and her is too great to try and  cross.) 

You toss Remus a wary glance. There used to be a time where you could say anything to him, and now it feels like ice-cold hands are stapled over your mouth. “F–Feel better soon.” 

“Thanks.” Remus coughs. 

Sirius’s eyes bounce from you to Remus, mentally ripping his hair out from exasperation—this whole thing is going nowhere. 

You sprint out of the infirmary without a word, hands trembling from the nerve-wracking encounter inside. You take a moment to catch your breath, to shove your heart back inside your ribcage, as you lean sideways on the wall. It’s like running into a pack of wild chimeras in the mountains bare-handed. 

“That was so scary.” You breathe out deeply, clutching the front of your shirt tightly. 

The loud call of your name slices through the hallway and you jump in fright. 

Luckily, it’s just James—but just James sets your heart aflutter and your knees wobbly even after all this time. He bridges the gap between you in quick, long strides; murmuring your name once more like a prayer. “Hey,” James says quietly, as if afraid to spook you off. 

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, tucking your hands inside your pockets. “Hey.”

“Listen, I just wanted to say—back in the library, all those years ago. I’m sorry. Really bloody sorry. Sirius decked me in the face that day, which I definitely deserved.” James nervously scratches the back of his head. “It was stupid of me—and I never should have said any of those things. I know it’s been years since then, you don’t even have to forgive me. But I just wanted you to know—”

“It’s fine, James.” You cut into his rambling, having already forgiven him for that day. “Really. Water under the bridge.” 

In fact, some of what he had said made you realize how much you isolated yourself without even knowing. “And, I—uhm.” You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.” 

James widens his eyes, then instantly shakes his head. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

A dark red blush spreads from his neck to his prettily carved cheeks.  “So. .  . uh. . . are we okay?” 

“We’re okay,” You say and he exhales deeply in relief. “And James, I. . . I. . .”

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he takes one more step towards you—achingly patient, but there’s a sense of urgency and desperation. 

“I—” You look away and the words fizzle out in your throat. “Never mind.” 

I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said that day. I miss you more than life. Thank you for staying by my side all those years—for being one of my best friends. You make me feel safe, James Potter. You are one of the most intelligent and caring wizards I know. How  anyone can think otherwise is baffling to me. I’m sorry if I don’t let you know that more often. 

“See you around, James.” With that, you turn and leave. 

Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. 

(So why is your heart shattering into a million pieces?) 

“TODAY, WE ARE GOING TO be interpreting messages from the divine!” 

On a lovely Friday morning, Professor Nasenyana drags the class out to the grounds for a hands-on Divination lecture, the groundskeeper’s hut within sight. He unlocks the barn nearby, where flocks of various bird species take to the skies instantly. He’s a rather eccentric fellow with one of the friendliest smiles you’ve ever seen. Most of the Ravenclaws are also star-struck, hanging onto his every word. As it turns out, Nasenyana is a graduate from Uagadou, the top school for Astronomy and Divination.

“Ornithomancy—!” He proclaims, flashy cloak billowing, startling some of the Gryffindors from their sleep. “It is a form of divination that looks into the behavior of birds—celestial creatures blessed with the ability to traverse through the heavens and the earth. But, you see, it is more than that. It requires utmost concentration and mastery. To pass this class, you will need to—” 

“I told you we didn’t miss anything important!” 

“Pads, shut up.” 

Sirius and Remus come rolling down the hill. Remus’s robes are disheveled, whereas Sirius’s tie is loosely hanging around his shirt, sleeves folded up. They nearly crash into Professor Nasenyana—who doesn’t appear to be pleased with their tardiness. You notice Remus’s flushed cheeks, the sweat running down the sides of his forehead, and the pinkish bruises on the column of Sirius’s neck. 

Lily chortles. 

Oh. 

You blush deeply—that is so none of your business. 

“Mister Black! Mister Lupin! So nice of you to finally join us.” Professor Nasenyana exclaims. “I trust that it won’t take you thirty more minutes to find a place to sit?” He gestures to the assembly of students sitting down on the grass, some shielding the sunlight from their face with the Divination textbook, and others transfiguring their school robes into a picnic mat. “Take your seats, gentlemen.” 

“And that is five points from Gryffindor. Each.” Professor Nasenyana declares just as Remus and Sirius plop down on the closest patch of grass to them. 

Which happens to be right beside you. 

You pour all your attention on the teacher, and not how warm Sirius feels next to you. 

“As I was saying,” Professor Nasenyana continues, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “In order to pass this class, you will form groups of three where your task is to read each other’s fortune based on the information presented to you and document your findings. Everything you need for interpretation is in your textbooks. You will hand this assignment in after the winter holidays. I expect excellence from each and every one of you. Failure to comply will result in a Dreadful.” 

Gilderoy’s arm shoots up in the air. 

“Shall I guess your question, Mister Lockhart?” Nasenyana grins blindingly. “Your groups will be determined by fate—those closest to you will read your fortune, and you theirs.” 

He lowers his arm with a bright blush. 

You, however, are frozen in place, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a robe strewn over your lap—you even hold your breath from the shock. Fate must be mocking you right now. Spending the next few weeks in close proximity with the boys who held your fragile, little heart in their hands.

How fun.

Not.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in forever, you don’t pay attention in Charms.

The thought of working with Remus and Sirius haunts you so much that you burrow your head in your arms for the entirety of Professor Flitwick’s lesson. Your seatmate, Xenophilius, watches in horror as you flub the enunciation for Ascendio. Thankfully, no one is accidentally flung into the air—except for Gilderoy who is unfortunately blown away from his chair.

“Sorry.” You twinge empathetically as he climbs back onto his chair, glaring at you. 

Xenophilius nudges your shoulder, whispering, “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” You respond hurriedly, almost choking on your spit. “What ever gave you the idea that I was not fine? I’m bloody fantastic even. The sun is shining, fishes are swimming, and there’s not a single thing out of the ordinary in my life.” 

“It’s cloudy outside,” Xenophilius says impassively. “And Lockhart is looking at you like you’ve just attempted murder.” 

“Lockhart always looks like that.” You brush him off with a wave, busying yourself with flipping the pages of your Charms textbook. 

Xenophilius pokes you in the side. “You are avoiding the subject. Is it because of Lup—”

“Ascendio!” 

This time, it’s too perfect of an incantation that even Merlin weeps from his grave.

At the end of class, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. Just as you leave the classroom, you find Sirius and Remus standing in the corridor, so absorbed in conversation that they don’t notice the sixth-year girls giggling as they walk by—either that, or they have had plenty of practice when it comes to  ignoring attention from the entire student body. It’s not like you can blame everyone else—they’re a duo carved by heaven’s finest. 

Sirius realizes instantly when you walk out of the doors. He smiles blazingly at you, instantly rising to his feet, hands shoved inside the pockets of his trousers. You can’t believe this is the same boy who’d give you piggyback rides down the hallway. Dark layered curls tumble messily past his shoulders, a smidge of dark liner around his eyes, multiple piercings in his left ear. He’s grown taller, certainly more confident, too. 

“Ready to go, pet?” He asks, as if casually inquiring about the weather. 

“Go?” You echo, nonplussed. “Go where?” 

“Birdwatching, obviously.” Sirius grins devilishly before grabbing your hand and leading you to the courtyard, Remus hot on your heels—who, for some reason, now has your bag hanging from his shoulders. 

“D-Do I even get a say in this?” Truthfully, you had thought that you could finish the project without meeting up. Ever. You even think of collaborating with them via owl; staying far, far away from one another. So that none of you get hurt again, and you don’t risk another heartbreak. 

“Not one bit, darling.” Sirius looks back at you and winks—this cheeky bastard!

You’re in a daze by the time the three of you reach the middle courtyard. Sirius happily plonks down under a tree, further unbuttoning his shirt until a hint of a tattoo peeks out—you gape. Remus chuckles before urging you to sit as well, before he settles on your other side. 

“This is nice,” says Sirius as he leans his head against the tree trunk, eyes closed. “Bloody missed this.” 

“Missed what?” You dare to ask, heart hammering in your chest. 

He opens one eye, cheek dimple flashing. “Being by your side.” 

“Oh.” 

One does not respond to that, actually. One just simply passes out and fades away. 

And as you typically do when facing hardships in life, you ramble about homework. Clearing your throat and staring straight at the earthworms crawling out of the mud, you say, “So, about our project. . .” 

“I was thinking we could get started on it next Saturday,” You splutter, fiddling with your fingers. “Or I could start on everyone’s reading and we’d put it on paper sometime next month—but I could do that myself, too. I-If you wanted. Just so that it’s easier for everyone. We really don’t have to rush, honestly.” 

“Procrastinating on schoolwork?” Remus laughs heartily with a slow shake of his head, stretching his long legs on the ground. “Who are you and what have you done to our best fr—” 

The word falters on his tongue, and his smile fades into a somber line. 

To save everyone from the awkward tension, you carry on, ignoring the way Sirius stiffens, “If you want to start early, I can head to the library after lunch to find some books on Ornithomancy. The more references we have—”

“What happened to us?” Sirius interjects gravelly. 

You let out a deep sigh. 

You suppose this conversation has been a long time coming, given lions and their stubbornness. 

“It’s simple,” You say gingerly. “After that. . . that day, the distance kept growing and growing until we went our own separate ways without looking back.” 

A single teardrop slides down your cheek before you can stop it. “You changed. I changed, too. The difference was, you all had each other while I had no one.”

(Though Pandora and Xenophilius were the truest and most honest friends one could ask for, they didn’t hold your soul captive the way they did.) 

Sirius stares at you as if you had just spit acid; a thunderstorm forming within his gray eyes, his jaw locking painfully. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Remus asks softly, leaning forward to offer you his handkerchief. His voice sounds strangled—as though your words physically torment him. He pulls away just as your gaze falls on his. 

“That’s what happened, though. But I suppose it doesn’t really even matter anymore.” You flinch away, electrocuted from his touch. 

There’s a stretched silence that blankets the three of you. It carries on for a few minutes, the breeze flowing by, and the slow, clamorous bell chiming in the distance. You’re about to speak up when Sirius breaks the quietude first.

“Be ready,” He says decidedly, looking straight ahead. 

“For what?” You ask in disbelief. 

Sirius drags a hand through his hair with a loud exhale. He rests his elbows on his knees, chin carelessly set on his palm, eyeing you intensely. “We’re going to prove you wrong from now on.” 

“What exactly are you going to prove?” 

Sirius chuckles, coiling a strand of your hair around his finger. “That it’s always been you and us for life, princess.” 

Merlin’s saggy balls. 

THE GRYFFINDOR TABLE descends into a coalescence of wide eyes and rapid, hushed whispers when you arrive sometime during dinner. It’s not out of your own volition, of course, but your own duty and responsibility as prefect to return the handkerchief that Remus had lent you earlier this afternoon. You hoped it would be a quick in-and-out; dishing out more forced smiles, and some half-baked banter until you could finally run away, tail tucked between your legs. Like most things in your life, it does not go the way you want. 

“You could keep it, if you want,” says Remus, hesitantly taking the embroidered cloth from you. 

If the world knew how many trinkets Remus Lupin had gifted you during your friendship, you would be swimming in gold—and cursed letters from his devoted fangirls. 

“That’s alright. Thank you.” You placate him with a crooked grin, the words spilling from your lips like a jumbled mess. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon and Fabian Prewett nudging each other’s shoulders whilst pointing at you, keeping their heads low. You have no idea what that’s about. 

“Well. That is all. E-Enjoy your dinner.” You nod, mentally patting yourself on the back for not passing out in the den of lions. “Goodbye.” 

Though the Ravenclaw table is placed next to Gryffindor’s, you have the bright idea of sitting with your backs to them, lest you engage in a round of cloddish staring contests with the Marauders. Just as you pivot on your heels, ready to make it to Pandora’s side, an achingly familiar voice calls for your name. 

“Wait!” Marlene is partially out of her seat, bright blonde hair in a loose, messy braid; hand outstretched, as if reaching out to you. Her pale cheeks blossom with shades of scarlet as she receives miffed glares from the students nearby—such is the curse of a Gryffindor; if this were a fantasy novel, they would be the perfect protagonist. “Why don’t you eat with us? F-For old time’s sake. It’s been so long and I really would like to catch up with you.” 

Your resolve nearly crumbles. This is the same girl who would bring sweet candies in her pocket in case you got hungry during class. But, if this were a fantasy novel, you would only be an extra; fated to walk a path so different from the likes of James Potter and Lily Evans.

“Maybe next time,” You say, unconvincing to even your own ears. 

FROM ACROSS the Great Hall, another conversation is taking place. 

“I am telling you, Minerva, I caught them talking again in the infirmary,” says Poppy Pomfrey to her fellow teacher, a spry grin on her kind face. 

“Poppy, as I’ve told you, I do not make a habit out of discussing my students’ personal lives,” McGonagall replies tiredly, slicing into her dinner plate of steak and kidney pie. She pauses for a few moments, before pushing up her spectacles with a wrinkly smile. “But, perhaps, I’ll let this slide just this once. Tell me all about it. I’ve also heard that—” 

“ACTA NON VERBA.”

Deeds, not words. 

Truly a befitting password for the House of bravery and recklessness. The Fat Lady’s portrait gasps in delight, raising her champagne glass to you. Seconds later, the Gryffindor common room is revealed to you. (Most of the Ravenclaw prefects have the House passwords memorized, in case they encounter a lost student outside the dormitories who has forgotten the passcode. It happens more often than one would like. Although it isn’t just first-years who are often stuck outside. You’ve stumbled upon Frank Longbottom many times before in a heated argument with the Fat Lady.) 

“Oh!” Alice, bundled up in a red scarf and a wooly jumper, is startled to find you at the entrance. She breathily says your name, eyes crinkling as she smiles widely. “What a pleasant surprise! Oh my Gods—it’s so nice to see you again. How’s the head? Last time I saw you, you were bleeding everywhere.”

“I didn’t get amnesia. So that was good.” You head inside the room, instantly enveloped in a familiar warmth, a welcoming hug as if you had never strayed far. “Thank you. For that day, I mean. For bringing me to Madam Pomfrey.”

She waves you off. “Don’t mention it.” 

“But. . .” Alice cocks her head with a conniving smile. “Don’t tell anyone else this, but when James found out it had been the Gryffindor team’s co-captain who hit the Quaffle your way, I heard James put him through some intense training. He must’ve had to run a hundred laps around the pitch for a week straight.  Poor guy even had to wash everyone’s jerseys without magic.” 

“What?” You shriek. “But it was just an accident. Surely, James wouldn’t—”

Alice tweaks your nose with a chuckle. “Oh, for you? He would.”

You have the strangest urge to throw yourself out of the tower. 

You cough into your first, desperate to shift the conversation topic otherwise you’d spontaneously combust. “S-So, where’s Remus? We agreed to work on our Divination project here—if that’s alright with you and the others, of course.” 

“Ha!” Alice exclaims, palming her forehead. “So that’s why the tower stinks of flipping perfume.” She snickers at your bewildered expression, before engulfing you in a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you. You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”

“Thank you, Alice.” You squeeze her back, giving yourself just this one time because you really did miss her.

Alice takes a step backwards before roaring loud enough to shake the ceiling. “Remus!”

“Get down here! Your girlfriend is waiting!”

You break out in a coughing fit. “I am not his girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” Alice winks at you, patting your cheek before skipping out the common room. 

You hear the heavy footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. Moments later, you see Remus Lupin beaming at you, casually dressed, hair damp and tousled over his brows, broad shoulders stretching his white top, and fluffy, mismatched socks over his feet. He walks over to you in record speed. 

“You came,” He says huskily. 

“I did.” 

“You look beautiful today.” Remus grins wolfishly, dimples poking out of his cheeks, flecks of light in his hazel eyes. 

You blink owlishly, dumbfounded. You peer at your clothes—nothing fancy or experimental. “This is how I normally dress, though.” 

“I know.” 

Remus smiles, swiftly taking your bookbag from you. (Alice was right. He smells like a basket of green apples, old leather tomes, and sandalwood. Not that you mind.) You follow him to the couches by the fireplace. 

“Where’s Sirius?” You look around the common room as you sink into the red sofa. There’s a pair of third-years playing chess, a young girl feathering her hand across the bookcase; sunlight streaming in from the tall windows. 

But no sign of Sirius Black. 

“Miss me, did you, love?” 

Sirius chuckles into your ear—you jump out of your skin, clutching at your knees in fright. 

“Merlin’s tits—!” 

You gasp for air while Sirius and Remus laugh at your expense. “You fucking wanker!” You grab one of the quilted pillows as Sirius jumps over the back of the couch. “You’re an idiot, Sirius Orion.” 

“There.” Sirius flops right down on the sofa; his hair tied up in a low bun, silver rings around his fingers. “Now you don’t look so bloody scared and nervous around us. We don’t bite, you know.” He pauses, then grins devilishly at you. “Unless you ask.” 

You slap your palms against your lap. “Anyways—!” 

Nostrils flaring as you take a deep breath—this is going to be a long day. You begin setting the parchments, feather quills, and Divination textbooks on the coffee table, along with a notebook where you had written some observations during the week. “When we were out—erm—birdwatching the other day, I noted down the birds that flew by for our readings. For Remus, it was a flock of Firecrests. And—” 

“I’m very sorry, loveliest love, but none of this makes any bloody sense to me.” Sirius goes through the Divination volumes you had checked out from the library, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Tea reading, I can tolerate. But studying bird droppings really isn’t my thing.” 

You glare heatedly at him, oddly defensive about the subject. “We’re not studying bird droppings, you plonker. There’s so much more to Ornithomancy than what meets the eyes. You see, nature connects everything. From the number of birds you encounter, to which direction they fly, their pattern of flight, down to the colors of their wings.” 

You point to the glaring page from Snallygasters and Omens: Vol. 1 where a picture of a Jobberknoll jumps out. “This bird flies to the east because the east governs new beginnings and warm springs after winter. Blue wings symbolize reliability. One day in the future you’ll be tasked with a huge responsibility. A family could entrust their godson to you, who knows? You have to be clear-headed, Sirius. Your emotions can get the best of you if you’re not careful.” 

Without even pausing to breathe, you say, “Remus. The firecrest. Smallest bird in the wizarding world, but will dare to fly higher than any other creature, even the king of birds. The firecrest and its flock were flying to the south that day, Remus. To the place of passion and life. Love. Beauty.” 

“So it’s. . . it’s more than just bird droppings!” 

By the end of it all, your chest is heaving, fingers trembling with adrenaline; Remus and Sirius gazing at you with stars in their eyes, devotion pouring from their growing smiles. (Oh, how their hearts beat for you.) 

Sirius tips your chin with his knuckle, leaning closer until you feel his breath on your nose. “Welcome back, princess.”

NIGHT FALLS WITHOUT anyone’s permission. James, Lily, and Peter make their way back to the Gryffindor tower, patches of sunburn on their nose after spending the entire day outside observing bird flight patterns. Like Sirius, Lily has her mind firmly set against the philosophies of Divination; the mumbo jumbo not really all that comprehensible to her. As they enter the common room, her hand in James’s, they’re greeted by a rare sight—one that Lily didn’t think she would see again. 

Sirius is sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wand tucked behind his ear, a pile of books at his side, his brows contorted in frustration as he drowns in the pages of When Fortunes Turn Fowl. He presses his finger to his lips when his silvery eyes fall on Lily and James, jerking his head to the scene across him. 

Lily fails to bury her smile when she sees you snoring away at Remus’s lap, his fingers absentmindedly knitting through strands of your hair. The space is bedecked in loose pages with scribbled notes on them and ink stains on the carpet. 

“I take it you three got further along than we did,” Lily whispers as she kneels beside Remus, softly nudging his chin as she captures him in a fond kiss. 

Remus smiles into her lips. “A month’s worth of progress, at least. Thanks to this one here. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a bird the same way again.” 

“Who knew our little eagle had a knack for Divination?” Lily chuckles, gaze softening as she delicately drags her knuckle down your cheek. “It’s getting pretty late. Should we wake her up?” 

Remus shakes his head. “No. Let her sleep a bit more.” 

Selfishly, Lily agrees. She traces the tip of your nose, the pillows of your lips, before retracting her hand with a long sigh. “We used to talk about anything and everything until the sun rose. Now, it seems like I can never catch up to her no matter how fast I run.”

“Lily—” 

“Don’t worry,” says Lily. “I am nothing if not stubborn. She’ll know my wrath soon.” 

Sirius snickers. “How charming.” 

The fire crackles and you mumble something, deep in slumber, shifting in Remus’s hold, “Only one percent. . . of the world’s population is . . . is naturally redheaded.” 

“Is that right?” Lily grins from ear to ear. 

Just you wait, Lily is going to sweep you off your feet.

(Something she should have done years ago.) 

“IS THAT A new jumper?”

Pandora simpers knowingly, heterochromatic eyes uncovering your every secret—the beads in her long braids click as she keeps in time with your brisk pace. She teasingly pulls at the oversized sweater. “It looks good on you.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, watchfully twisting your arms around your waist. “It was cold this morning, alright? Remus lent it to me. It’s not a big deal. It’s what friends do, right?” 

“So, you’re friends now?” Pandora muses. “Well, thank the Gods, because it has been excruciating watching you tiptoe around one another. It only took you lot three years, but it’s better than never, eh?” 

“Wilderwood! No magic in the corridors! That’s five points from Slytherin!” You bark at the stubborn fifth-year who grins sheepishly at you, before you reply to Pandora, an ache forming at the back of your head. “It’s complicated. Everything was sort of awkward in the beginning.” 

You think of last night, how Sirius was especially keen on making you laugh every few seconds; Remus would inch closer to you, head nearly on your shoulder as he peeks at the notes you’ve jotted down. You could barely think straight in their presence. Then, you remember waking up earlier this morning, James sprawled all over Sirius and Lily on the couch; Remus’s nose fully buried in his drawing book.

“But. . .” You trail off, remembering Remus’s arms around you as he sent you off, careful not to wake the others. (“I am a selfish bastard, pet,” He whispers into your hair, “I’m sorry, but let me steal this morning from them.”)

“It’s like coming home after a long day.”

“Brilliant!” Pandora exclaims, roughly laying her hands on your shoulders as she ushers you past the cobblestone walkway and into the grassfield, where the Quidditch Pitch rests in the near distance. You hadn’t even realized that you were a little ways from the castle already. “Tell them that!” 

“What?” You squawk. “Are you mad, woman?”

You hear the sound of brooms zipping by at an unimaginable speed. The crowd clamors over the announcer’s intense commentary. Your legs feel like they’ve been jinxed to feel like jelly. You hate Quidditch. 

“GRYFFINDOR SCORES! — That’s one-hundred and twenty in all! — Still no snitch yet! Hurry on, Potter! Mulciber’s got nothing on you– Ow! Professor! — Fawley heads for the goal! — Great deflect by Black! — Bletchley misses! — Another point for Gryffindor! We might as well end the game now!”

“Mr. Prewett!” You hear McGonagall scold into the charmed megaphone. 

“Sorry, Minnie! Anyway! — Mulciber and Potter race for the Snitch! Potter reaches out! — Surprisingly good manoeuvre from Mulciber! — Come on, James! — He’s almost got it! — It’s right there!”

You wait with a bated breath.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

“Potter’s got it! — GRYFFINDOR HAS WON!” 

“Go on now, treasure. Before the Wrackspurts get inside your head again.” Pandora urges you forward, dusting the invisible creatures off your shoulders. As you take one step into the field, fireworks of gold and scarlet light up the sky, the Gryffindor teams’ cries of victory shake the ground; you hear Fabian screaming into the megaphone. Your fingers go numb. “Don’t let another day go by without expressing your heart,” says Pandora into your ear, almost a gust of wind if you hadn’t been paying attention. “Go to them. They are waiting for you.”

“But what if they aren’t?” You watch as the sun descends on the Gryffindor team lifting James in the air, Golden Snitch in his gloved hand. Sirius catches Lily by the waist, twirling her up high; her smile more dazzling than any other gem you’ve seen. As James is set back down on the ground, he snatches Remus unaware and bends him down for a fervent kiss.

“Dora, what if I’m the only one who feels this way? I can’t do that to them. What are the chances that I’ll ruin everything? That would hurt more than anything.”

Pandora cups your cheeks and lays her forehead on yours. “You won’t ever know unless you go out there.”

With that, she pushes you into the Quidditch pitch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, ears ringing from the crowd chanting James’s name, and your heart pounding in fear. 

“J-James. . .” You call out weakly as he drowns in the sea of students.

Perhaps it’s a sign.

This really wasn’t a good idea.

Love is a fool’s game.

Don’t you get it? They don’t need you in the picture at all.

“N-No!” You shout, chest heaving. If everything happens for a reason, maybe you were meant to meet in that train compartment all those years ago. You’ve lost three years with them already.

If you don’t go to them right now, you could lose a lifetime. 

If bravery is for the reckless and arrogant, you’re prepared to be the most depraved witch in the castle just to stay by their side. 

“James—!”

“Go, go, Gryffindor!”

You bite your lip in frustration—but you can’t just give up. Not now. 

Once more.

“JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER!”

Please.

Time stops as you stand at the edge of the field; James whips his head around and finds you instantly. The glow of having just won a match doesn’t even compare when his eyes land on you. He pushes past his team members and some of the Gryffindor students, his gaze unwavering, some of them call out his name but he doesn’t bother looking back. Before you even know it, he stands in front of you, breathing heavily—but not from the rush of the game.

“You’re here,” He says, eyes disappearing into his smile. “But you hate Quidditch.”

“I do.” You grin wearily. “But I love you more.”

Without even giving James the chance to speak, you ramble on, hurricanes whirling in your stomach, “You’re a bloody brilliant wizard, James Potter. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that before. I see you. I see all of you. How could I not? I love you. I think I’ve loved all of you before I knew it was even love. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same w—” 

James grabs the back of your legs and hoists you up, tendrils of hair falling over his glasses as he beams at you. The sun can’t even dream of competing with him. 

“Put me down, James, I am going to hurl—!”

He spins you one more time for good measure before placing you on the ground. James barely gives you a second to gather your bearings as he seizes your lips with his own, hand cradling the back of your neck. 

“You’re here,” He says, unable to believe his very eyes, gently chasing after your lips, breaths mingling until you don’t remember where either begins or ends. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” You promise breathlessly as James pecks the tip of your nose, the arch of your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Beautiful.” He kisses you until you’re gasping for air. “And all ours.” 

There’s not a moment where you don’t feel loved, not even when he lets you go, and it’s Lily who encompasses you in her arms, bright hair filling your vision; you willingly burn in the warmth of her body. The mellow scent of pomegranates and red roses fill your nose. You see a never-ending horizon of kindness in her emerald eyes. (How could you have stayed away for so long?) It’s like finding a missing piece of your soul that you never knew that was lost. 

Lily laughs—it sounds like an orchestral symphony. Her gaze cascades to your lips, the prettiest of smiles on her face; she cradles the curve of your jaw with utmost sincerity, a few drops of tears shimmering against her freckled skin. “May I?”

“Please.” You feel her breath tickling your lips, deftly pulling you in for a kiss until all you can feel is her. She consumes every inch of you, and you are happy to surrender, heart and soul. 

“You must be the thickest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met,” says Lily, giggling as she kisses you once, twice—thrice. 

“And that means?” You scoff lightheartedly. 

She steals another kiss from you. “That means: I hope you know that we have loved you ever since, you daft witch. That I’ve loved you all this time. And now that you’re ours, we are going to make sure you remember that. Every single day for the rest of our lives.” 

You smile, holding onto her hand, dizzy with a hundred emotions. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

(Your Divination project is a point lower than Lily, Peter and James’s, but you find that it’s the luckiest fortune you’ve ever had.) 

EPILOGUE:

“I LOVE QUIDDITCH!” 

You are twenty-two years old, nose bitten from the chilly air, lounging in the best seating area the Quidditch World Cup has to offer; an unobstructed view of the players. The match is between the Brazilian and Japanese National Quidditch teams. Much to Sirius and James’s chagrin, your cheek is painted in yellow and green stripes, the vibrant flag around your shoulders. 

You scream along with the crowd, nearly spilling your Butterbeer popcorn, as the Brazilian players enter the vast stadium. You ardently shake Lily’s shoulders. “That’s him! That’s him! Lily, it’s Brazil’s youngest ever Seeker! Vinícius Silva! I watched a replay of his matches and he’s got a seventy-eight percent win rate!”

“Watch out, love, you’ll fall off the edge if you aren’t careful,” Lily says worriedly.

“His fastest record for catching the Golden Snitch is ten minutes and thirty seconds! He’s won Most Outstanding Player in the Junior Division twice! I’ve got a good feeling about this team—I knew those auguries were a lucky sign.” 

“The only Seeker you should be obsessing over is me.” You hear James grumbling behind your back, stealing a kiss from Lily’s lips before pressing his mouth to your cheek. “And you bloody well know that Japan’s Chaser, Kurosawa, is going to steal the limelight in this match. An average possession time of thirty seconds per play. A beast, that one.” 

You wave him off, more confident in your statistics. “Did you place my bets? I’m telling you, we’re going to be rich.” 

“Yes, darling,” He says, utterly loving his role as the dutiful husband. 

Moments later, Sirius appears at his side, fussing over your scarf, and kissing you just because. “Can we take off your bloody hat now? I think you just blinded Malfoy and his little blonde gremlin.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You simper fiendishly before smacking his arm. “And don’t call your nephew that.” 

Sirius grins.

You pull at one of his curls. “Besides, if you’re good you can take off everything later tonight.”

He pulls you in for a deep kiss, hand at your waist, nose brushing each other’s. “And that is why I love you, dear wife.” 

You pout, albeit seeing right through his white, little jape. “Truly?” 

Sirius lands another kiss to your forehead. “Are you doubting me, loveliest love of my life? The lighthouse in my ocean storms. The apple of my eye. Fire in my loins—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “I get it, thank you, my love.” 

Sirius beams from ear to ear. “Glad to have eased your doubts, darling.”

Thirty minutes into the match, Remus arrives, dressed in a muted gray suit, light brown hair flopping over his eyes. He greets everyone with a tired kiss. 

You immediately wrap him in a hug, nuzzling your nose into his neck. He had a particularly difficult full moon some nights ago. You press a tender kiss to the scar right below his jaw. “How was work? Did you bring my binder? It has my lesson plan for next week, I don’t want to return to the castle unprepared, and—”

The newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor squeezes your waist. “Work was fine, pet. And no, I didn’t bring the papers because right now we are not working. We are going to watch Brazil win the bloody match and get right home to Harry after.” 

You, the newest Divination teacher of Hogwarts, tug him by his necktie, smiling coyly. “Sounds like a wonderful plan to me.” 

BONUS: 

“REMUS!”

The empty classroom is filled with soft, fervid moans—two professors especially drunk on the taste of each other’s lips. You’re seated on the desk, Remus wedged between your thighs, his hand inching dangerously higher and higher; the other hand slipping under your shirt and thumbing the bare skin underneath. He captures your whispers and mewls with his lips. Jackets and ties are tossed carelessly to the side. 

“So fucking beautiful.” He nips at your lower lip. 

“Rem. . .” You whimper, tugging at the strands of his hair. “Remus—please!” 

The door to the DADA classroom slams open and you two detangle from each other’s embrace in record speed. As you pat down your hair, Remus draping his blazer over your shoulders, you watch Lily and Harry stalk over to you in lengthy strides, reaching the both of you within seconds. You clear your throat, awkwardly averting your gaze from your son’s precious eyes; Lily, a moment away from throwing her head back in laughter. 

Harry, fourteen, and not at all ignorant to what couples do in the castle alcoves, sees the ruffled hair, the lipstick over his father’s cheeks and neck, and his parent’s misbuttoned blouse. 

He grimaces. “You two are disgusting, you know that right?” 

You guffaw, pinching his cheek. “Now, is that any way to greet the person who’s changed your diapers since you were a baby?” 

Lily cackles from Remus’s side, fixing the collar of his shirt. “Harry’s got a bit of a problem. Go on, tell them, my love.” 

Harry immediately throws his hands in the air, groaning frustratedly. “It’s Ron! He thinks I put my name in the bloody Goblet—!” 

“Which, I will still be having a word with Dumbledore about,” You say decisively. You’re not about to endanger your son. The Minister of Magic and the Headmaster be damned. They can also take it up with your husband, James, Head Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement department. 

“And now Ron’s not talking to me, Hermione’s not talking to me because I’m not talking to Ron—Colin’s following me around everywhere I go! I’m going mad, mum!” Harry slumps on one of the empty chairs, huffing. “Stupid bloody tournament.” 

You chuckle as you walk over to him, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. “Take it from me.” You press a warm kiss to his forehead. “Talk to them, otherwise you’ll lose time that was meant to be spent together. It doesn’t matter who was wrong or who was right. It’s important that you have the courage to reach out. They’re your friends. They will understand your heart soon enough.” 

Harry blinks. “Thanks.” 

He exits the classroom in a daze, heavily pondering on your words. 

The door clicks shut, and Lily wordlessly locks the entrance. She turns to you and Remus, a sultry grin on her ruby red lips. “What are the chances we Floo home, and invite Sirius and James to join us?” 

You take her outstretched hand. “A hundred and twelve.”

a/n. i wasn't satisfied with the angst here.. so expect a hufflepuff!reader and enemies to lovers next time (i promise to do better in the next fic aaakfsh) tell me what u thought of this one EUEUEU HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS FIC!! heart heart

[pop-sesivo]

Satchell Cannon (Rodney L Jones III) y Rabbi Milligan (Ben Whishaw) en el mejor episodio de la temporada 4 de la serie Fargo, "East/West", emitido el 15 de noviembre de 2020.

If I don’t come back, I’m dead or in jail

[notsopersonalcharlie]

Work Divorce

Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader angst/fluff

Summary: Aaron and you come to a realization when you get into a fight about a case.

Warnings: Cannon typical descriptions of violence, alcohol, mentions of divorce, aaron being cuddly, no use of Y/N

Notes: I thought of this (and wrote it) at the airport so sorry for mistakes! Read more of my hotch stuff here and the angsty interlude to this here Gif isn't mine

“Absolutely not. You are not going out there.” Hotch’s mouth was a straight line, and his features read anger to anyone but you. It was his eyes that gave him away. Pure panic and fear.

“Hotch, I built a rapport with him over the phone. I can-“ You tried.

“That’s final.” The whole room was tense, the police officers who didn’t understand the implications and your team, who felt like they were watching their parents get into an argument.

“You have to let me do my job.” It hung in the air, and Hotch didn’t respond.

The tension followed the team onto the plane. The case had ended badly. Yes, the team had managed to rescue four of the five hostages, but not all of them and the unsub was dead. And it had become abundantly clear that Hotch had made the wrong choice. You could have saved them all.

You were kneeling on the dirt floor of the cave the unsub had dug, holding cloth to a bleeding hostage. The other four had been able to walk out on their own and you were waiting with her for the paramedics who had to make their way through the forest. She was crying, tears leaking down the sides of face and dragging clean lines in the dirt and blood that had been caked there.

“He wanted to talk to you. I could hear your voice. I cou-“ she hiccuped, “Why didn’t you come?”

Your lip trembled and you swallowed trying not to think of the memory as you curled yourself into a seat beside Derek, using him as a barrier against Aaron. He had sat down in his usual seat, the one beside it occupied by JJ who usually sat where you were now.

“You did what you could, kid,” Dave said, patting your shoulder on his way past you.

You tried to sleep on the flight, closing your eyes and staring at the back of your eyelids. You had no idea how much time had passed since the plane took off, but you heard an exchange beside you and Derek moved, replaced with the familiar warmth you knew as your husband.

“I-“

“I don’t want to talk right now,” you responded, eyes still closed. The scene of her body being carried out of the hole, limp hand sliding out of yours, was replaying on a loop. Aaron’s hand rested lightly on your calf where you’d pulled it up to make yourself smaller. It was his form of an ‘I’m sorry’.

-/-/-/-/-

Derek and Emily were whispering over the dividers between their desks when Spencer got in. He tossed his satchel in its usual spot and leaned over.

“What’s going on?”

“Their stuff is gone from their desk. Hotch got here alone,” Emily hissed, nodding to where you usually sat. All of your trinkets, colorful pens, and most importantly your wedding photo were gone. It had been a week since the last case, and the last time the team had seen the two of you together was the day after you got off the jet. You had gone into Hotch’s office, door closed, and from the expressions visible through the noise proof window, it looked like you were yelling at him.

You had left, stormed off was more like it, and not been back over the week. And now this on a monday morning. Hotch was visible through the window, frown prominent as he read over a case file. All three younger agents averted their eyes when he looked out, but Spencer managed to scan over the expression when Hotch looked at your empty desk. Melancholy was the best way he could name it.

-/-/-/-/-

Another week and another case passed without a single mention of you. Hotch had never been one to wear a wedding ring, not after his first divorce, so there was no indication there. Still Hotch’s expression flickered to sad when he looked anywhere you usually were, beside him on the jet, in the bullpen, at the round table, and even in moments when the team was used to your quips against him.

“Whatcha got, babygirl?”

“Is everyone there?” Garcia asked, uncharacteristic of her. All ears turned in that direction.

“Everyone but Hotch and Rossi.”

“Good. They are still married! Legally at least. Hotch put in the transfer papers two days after the fight for them to move to the counterterrorism team.”

“Three whole floors?” JJ joked.

“This isn’t a laughing matter, Jennifer!” Penelope’s voice shrilled, “This could be serious! The fight was real!”

“Baby girl, let’s not get all sorts of spin up.”

“They drive to work separately!” Reid cut in. All eyes turned to him.

“What?”

“Wednesday and Thursday I saw both their cars in the garage on my way in.”

“And you kept it to yourself?” Emily complained. The door to the conference room, turned BAU office opened admitting the other two members of the team.

“Thanks for the heads up, baby girl. We gotta go.” Morgan ended the call before she could give them away.

“What was that about?” Rossi asked, taking one of the seats.

“Just warning us about weather patterns,” Emily said at the same time as Morgan said, “She was telling us about another case to keep an eye on.” The two agents glared at one another.

“Smooth,” Rossi joked, “Can we get back to work now?“

-/-/-/-/-

The case didn’t end up being too horrible or difficult. They made it out without another killing and the unsub was caught without a firefight.

Emily picked up her phone, the ringtone distinctly Garcia.

“Hey, we’re almost-“

“Stall! I don’t want to see them fight!” Emily’s eyebrows knit and she frowned. JJ gave her a questioning look.

“Who?”

“The Hotchners! Just stall!” The call ended. Emily looked at the team, who were slowly getting out of the SUV, a few protesting groans since they all had to run through the streets of Cincinnati a little bit longer than they would have preferred. She huffed to herself and quickly unclipped an earring, dropping it between the seats.

“Shit!” The whole team turned to look.

“I dropped my earring.” Hotch looked exasperated, but he turned the car back on so they could turn the lights on and climbed in the back with Emily to hunt it down.

Upstairs the other SUV of the team was standing in the hallway talking to you.

"How was the case?" You were carrying a few things from Hotch's office, the blanket from the back of the couch and one of the photos of you and Jack that sat on his desk. Spencer was documenting the items in your hands and cataloguing them, JJ could tell based on how is eyes scanned over the items twice.

"Not bad. We were just talking about celebrating." You gave a tight smile and your eyes flickered to the elevator coming up from the garage.

"I'll talk to Hotch. I gotta go." You rushed for the stairs, the door closing just before the elevator doors opened to reveal the rest of the team.

"They seem like sturdy earrings," Morgan sighed, "but whatever." JJ and Spencer were staring at Hotch openly before Emily coughed.

"What?" Hotch asked, looking down at his suit.

"Nothing. We were just talking about celebrating today. We haven't all hung out for a while. Rossi, can you host?" The older agent rolled his eyes.

"You know you could at least ask me before asking in front of the whole team," he griped, "But yes. I can host. Make yourselves scarce. Drink some water. See you at seven." The agents scattered to their desks, but once Hotch and Rossi were in their offices, they stood with their heads together, occasionally glancing up at Hotch's office to see if he noticed the missing items.

Aaron walked into his office and immediately noticed the lack of blanket on the couch. Additionally a spot in the dust on his shelf and an absent little plastic dinosaur that sat next to the Captain America figurine on his desk gave away your recent presence. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the rest of the room before deciding everything else was in place. With a sigh, Aaron tossed his go bag by the door and removed some files from his briefcase before picking both bags up and heading for the door.

The agents in the bullpen were whispering and Aaron rolled his eyes at them. They were terrible profilers sometimes.

"See you soon," he called, hiding his smile when they all jumped apart.

"It must have been so bad! For them to be avoiding each other! And stealing stuff out of Hotch's office? That's crazy!" Emily hissed.

"We'll find out tonight." They knew you would never miss an evening at Rossi's. You two were always there first and left later than everyone else.

The younger agents nodded in agreement and dispersed, a continuous drone of concerned texts in their chat as they got dressed for the evening and stopped for snacks, wine, and beer.

Spencer, who was chronically punctual arrived first, the driveway conspicuously empty. He jabbed a message into the chat 'no one's here yet'. The responses of shock were followed by 'go inside and ask dave about it!' from Emily.

The front door was always unlocked when he knew they were over, given Dave's chronic laziness and the access to a firearm in basically every room in his massive house.

"Rossi! It's Spencer, don't kill me."

"We're in the kitchen," came Hotch's voice. Spencer peaked in and failed to hide his shock. You were sitting across Aaron's lap, red in the cheeks from alcohol. Your arms were wrapped around his neck and you were in a full body laugh. Aaron was laughing too, his headshaking, eyerolling one when you said something particularly silly. Dave was leaning on the other side of the counter, the grin on his face prominent.

"I can't believe you would betray me like that," Aaron chuckled, "It's my stuff."

"Nuh uh! We're married! It's my stuff too." Aaron's arms squeezed tighter around your middle, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You could feel his smile when he kissed you again and you felt like a teenager blushing. Dave pointed past you to the doorway.

"Don't you dare start texting, boy genius. Let the kids find out on their own." You and Aaron both turned to see Spencer put his hands up, phone slipped back into his sweater pocket.

"Take a seat, Doctor Reid. Have a drink," you joked. Dave poured him a glass of wine.

"So you just switched teams?" You looked at Aaron, who shrugged a little bit. No use lying.

"Kind of. We both realized there was no world in which Aaron could be impartial, no matter how hard either of us tried. And I got promoted." Watching Spencer's gears turn was always fun. You could almost see the puzzle pieces fall into place as they did in a split second.

"You're the new supervisor in the CT unit! That's why you stole your stuff from his office. They were for yours." You nodded.

"Precisely. And it's not stealing! It's mine!"

"It is absolutely stealing, you're a menace."

"Your menace," you corrected, booping him on the nose before reaching for your wine.

"We're here!" Penelope's voice echoed through the house, followed by the cacophony of Emily and Derek arguing. It was about you.

"Just come in here!" You complained. There was a thunder of footsteps running through the front hallway and the three other agents cartoonishly paused in the doorway staring.

"You know people are allowed to get new jobs right?" Aaron asked. He wasn't usually the joker in the group, but sometimes with just the right amount of alcohol his dry humor took over.

"Thank god! I thought I was going to have to start planning two parties!" Penelope gushed, running over to hug you. You laughed, sliding out of Aaron's lap. He was reluctant to let you go. He had been every time you were together, now that you didn't see each other constantly he missed you being beside him.

"Anyway, if we ever separated I would get the team," you stage whispered. Aaron pinched your thigh.

"Absolutely no you wouldn't."

"We will have to write up a contract for your work divorce," Spencer laughed.

"That's not fair! He used to be a lawyer," you whined. Aaron pulled you back into his arms, resting his chin on your shoulder where you stood in front of his stool.

"187 over here can help you." You bickered and laughed and explained yourself to the team once JJ and Will arrived.

"I can't believe you thought we broke up," you sighed once dinner was over and all of you had settled in the backyard under the summer stars.

"I can't either," Dave laughed, "They have no idea how much more of a mess you two would be."

"Hey!" Both of you interjected. The team laughed as you both looked at each other. Aaron pulled you ever closer, nuzzling his nose to your cheek. He was properly drunk now, which is why you both decided ubering over was a better idea so you didn't have to worry about a car.

"He's right," he muttered, his letters slurring together. You chuckled, wrapping your arms over his shoulder and squishing him to your chest.

"I know. I would be too."

[galedekarios]

references in gale's banter on selection

just thought i'd go through a few of his selection lines that stuck out to me.

Oh, what a tangled Weave we web!

reference to: "oh what a tangled web we weave" from a poem by sir walter scott:

"Like so very many of Shakespeare’s lasting observations, it’s  a beautifully expressed aphorism that uses just a few words to describe one life experience so perfectly, and is so true, that it enters into the English language and becomes one of its most powerful idioms – one that will last forever. ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave/When first we practice to deceive’ means that when you lie or act dishonestly you are initiating problems and a domino structure of complications which eventually run out of control. The quote is from Scott’s epic poem, Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field.  It’s an historical romance in verse, published in 1808."

the next one is is a play on a line from a shakespeare play:

All the world's my stage and you're just a player in it.

the play is titled 'as you like it' and the line appears in the following monologue:

"All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely Players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His Acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."

the next one appears to reference a poem:

The path less travelled.

i think this is in reference to the well-known poem by robert frost, 'the road not taken':

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

i think this ties in well with gale's wanderlust, his wish to explore different worlds and planes of existence.

the next one is a waterdhavian saying, which i already took a closer look at in one of my metas:

'Doth thy mirror crack?' Apparently not.

Early on in his learning of magic, the long-dead and locally famous first Lord (revered in Waterdeep for his role in establishing the city as it is today) Ahghairon said, "I am no wizard. I am a dabbler but no master of magic; it seems no mastery burns within me." These are famous words in Waterdeep, still known by most Waterdhavian children and all adults, and are oft referenced, as in the dry comment "No mastery blazing forth yet," or "A dabbler but no master, eh?" (Comments applied to skill trades and crafts, not just to magic use.) Tuezaera Hallowhand was a famous "lone cat" thief of Waterdeep in the 1200s DR who disappeared suddenly and is thought to have come to a violent end. She once robbed a wizard, and wrote this on his wall with a fingertip dipped in his favorite red wine: "I take things. You take freedom with your spells. Which of us is the greater thief?" This statement, too, is well remembered, and usually echoed in Waterdhavian speech by someone using the last (questioning) sentence of Tuezara's inscription.  Laeral, Lady Mage of Waterdeep for some years (when married to Khelben "Blackstaff" Arunsun), once publicly rebuked an overambitious wizard of the Watchful Order of Magists & Protectors thus: "If I hurl spells but think not of consequences, I am nothing. If I take lives but count not the cost, I am nothing. If I steal in the night and see not the faces of the devastated come morning, I am nothing. If I make decrees like a ruler but undertake none of the responsibilities of the throne, I am nothing. And if I do all these things in the name of the Watchful Order, I am less than nothing. Doth thy mirror crack?" These scornful words are remembered and used almost daily in Waterdeep even a century later, though almost never as the full quotation. Rather, someone will ask scornfully, "Doth thy mirror crack?" or "Hurl but think not?" or "Take but not count cost? Be nothing, then!" [source: waterdeep: dragon heist]

i think this one is very neat:

No gloom, all doom.

because i believe it references xan of evereska from baldur's gate 1. xan is infamous for his gloomy nature, often talking about his doom, the folly of the quest, etc. some of his lines include the following:

"We're all doomed! Run while we're still able." "If we are doomed to fail, could we at least do it faster?!" "Eh. Onward, to futility!" "We're all doomed." "Life is so hollow."

i think it's not so unlikely because gale also references other characters from the baldur's gate series and the forgotten realms overall, like elminster:

Elminster's not around, so might as well.

as well as halaster blackcloak, a mad mage residing in the undermountain in waterdeep:

I hope Halaster takes good care of Tara while I'm away.

as well as another character from the games, edwin odeisseron:

Don't make me go all Edwin Odesseiron on you.

edwin, a red wizard of thay, was a companion in baldur's gate 1 and 2.

No rest for the wicked, I see.

a common idiom that originated from the bible:

No rest for the wicked begins as no peace for the wicked in a 1425 rendering of the Old Testament’s Book of Isaiah 48:22: “The Lord God said, peace is not to wicked men.” The sentiment is echoed in Isaiah 57:20, which in the King James Version reads: “But the wicked are like the troubled sea, when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt.”

another bible reference may be:

Seek and you shall find me.

You will seek Me and find Me when you search for Me with all your heart. 

from jeremiah 29:13.

more folklore than an idiom, but:

The witching hour.

Origins. The phrase "witching hour" began at least as early as 1775, in the poem "Night, an Ode." by Rev. Matthew West, though its origins may go further back to 1535 when the Catholic Church prohibited activities during the 3:00 am and 4:00 am timeframe due to emerging fears about witchcraft in Europe.

i couldn't find the poem in full, but i was able to find the line that references the witching hour:

Along whose banks at Midnight’s witching hour (So wayward Fancy dreams) aerial Beings pour!

another shakespeare reference is:

What fools these mortals be.

which is a line from a midsummer's nights dream:

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!” is used in Act III, Scene 2 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare. The line is spoken by one of the best-loved characters in the play–Puck. Here is the short quote in which the line appears in:  Captain of our fairy band,  Helena is here at hand,  And the youth, mistook by me,  Pleading for a lover’s fee.  Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! Puck speaks this line to his king, Oberon, while the two are watching the four Athenian main characters lost in the forest. These four lovers, whose love affairs are at the center of the play, are behaving in a way that Puck finds foolish and amusing. It should be noted that Puck bears some of the responsibility for the complicated relations between Helena, Demetrius, Hermia, and Lysander. 

this one is, i believe, a dnd reference most likely:

May the dice roll in my favour.

i did however have the immediate association with alea iacta est:

Alea iacta est ("The die is cast") is a variation of a Latin phrase attributed by Suetonius to Julius Caesar on 10 January 49 BCE, as he led his army across the Rubicon river in Northern Italy. With this step, he entered Italy at the head of his army in defiance of the Senate and began his long civil war against Pompey and the Optimates. The phrase, either in the original Latin or in translation, is used in many languages to indicate that events have passed a point of no return. It is now most commonly cited with the word order changed ("Alea iacta est") rather than in the original phrasing. The same event inspired another idiom with the same meaning, "crossing the Rubicon".

Gone with the Weave.

this is a reach, but my mind always went to 'gone with the wind' (margaret mitchell's novel and the 1939 movie adaptation of said novel) when i heard it in the game.

nothing in depth here, i just wanted you all to know that, haha. (((':

A rough tempest I will raise.

this may be another shakespeare reference and this time it's from 'the tempest':

Prospero: Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time Goes upright with his carriage. How's the day? Ariel: On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. Prospero: I did say so, When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the king and's followers?

on researching, i found a reddit post that also discusses this likely reference.

the last one i want to end the post on is:

Your knight in magic armour.

this line is still bugged and thus i couldn't find it on the wiki, but it's an assist line for a romanced protag.

it obviously referenced the knight in shining armour:

The present-day use of this phrase is, of course, figurative and refers back to the notion of gallant knights saving fair maidens in distress. The reality behind that imagery is dubious and it no doubt owes much to the work of those Victorian novelists and painters who were captivated by the chivalrous ideal of an imagined court of Camelot. Nevertheless, knights did wear armour and that worn by royalty and the high nobility was highly polished and did in fact gleam and shine. The earliest reference that I’ve found to the phrase in print dates from the late 18th century – in The British journal The Monthly Review, 1790, in a poem called Amusement: A Poetical Essay, by Henry Pye: No more the knight, in shining armour dress’d Opposes to the pointed lance his breast

but it also features heavily in art, across various periods in time, like these from john william waterhouse:

i did see someone on reddit also discussing the creator and destroyer line in reference to various deities throughout history, which i thought was interesting as well.

anyhow, thank you for reading! i may have overlooked something so feel free to add your own thoughts!

🖤

[peculiaritybending]

HE’S PLAYING WITH HIS TOYS :’)

[thefutureiswhat]

Fargo 2x02 // 4x09

[futurepastme]

I'm all for the "hates killing animals" Merlin (and that can still be true), but a conversation at work today made me realize that Merlin is a peasant and I don't remember cannon enough but if he's not also a farmer (even if a small one) he's definitely had to kill and prepare animals to eat before, either just for himself and his mom or to help people around in Ealdor.

Now, consider Arthur and the rest of the knights of Camelot. Before Arthur started to knight common men, they were all nobles. They were taught how to hunt, of course, but they never really needed to prepare the game they'd caught before, they all had servants and cooks to do that. They had learned how to hunt for sport and that was it.

All that to present the concept that: Before Merlin came to Camelot, Arthur and the knights (reminder: not our knights, the noble ones that Uther approved of and were already there before cannon started) had to survive quests mostly with the rations they took with them, only turning to hunting as a last resort because they all suck at preparing their catch.

They'll either skin them wrong, losing a lot of meat in the process or will simply be bad at cooking it, most times burning it a little. And the flavour, of course, sucks.

Arthur, I think, would be the only one to be half decent at that because I like to believe Uther would like to have him ready for any outcome, but he was the prince and nobody would dare to ask him to cook for them and we're talking about a before-Merlin Arthur, so I don't believe he would volunteer because at this point he's a prat.

Then comes Merlin, the idiot that was recently awarded the position as Arthur's servant. And the knights all know that Merlin is useless because Arthur's been complaining about him since day one.

Now the bumbling fool is following them to some mission somewhere and they have no hopes that he'll be of any use at all. That won't stop them to order Merlin around like the inferior peasant that he is, though.

But then.

Then they get delayed and have to hunt for food.

And of course Merlin is in charge of cooking it, because now that they have a servant there, there's no way any of those nobles will get their hands dirty with such an inferior task such as cooking.

They catch an animal (any animal, honestly. I don't care, from a mouse to a bear, it's up to you) and promptly shove it towards Merlin with no hopes of a good meal, but with the assurance that at least this time it would be bad because of a servant and they all would be allowed to complain about it with no reservations.

Then Merlin sits there by the fire, with a barely sharp enough knife and whatever animal they had caught, and seamlessly and smoothly skins the thing.

It takes him no time at all and there are no chunks of meat missing. Clumsy, idiot and useless Merlin had perfectly skinned the creature in a matter of seconds, like it was the easiest thing in the world, and had not damaged neither the meat nor the pelt.

They all kind of stop what they are doing to watch Merlin as he starts to cook the perfectly skinned meat. They stare as the boy seems to put green plants on it and some type of powders he had in his satchel, befuddled and confused.

And when they finally get to eat it, by the gods, if it isn't the best thing they have ever eaten outside of Camelot.

Slowly, the rumors of Merlin's skills start to spread amongst the knights and soon enough all of them are dying to try it.

In a matter of weeks all knights of Camelot agree that if you happened to end up in some type of quest with the prince, you're the luckiest bastard to ever live, not because of the honour to fight along the prince, but for the chance to eat a meal prepared by Merlin.

By the sixth month of Merlin tagging along with Arthur, the rations they bring to quests and such become the last resort food or maybe just side dishes, because if Merlin is at the party then hunting is mandatory, for every knight of Camelot loves Merlin's food. (Arthur is chef Merlin's number one fan, btw)

[ivyfluoresce]

🥀⏳ Russell's Viper ⏳🥀

The hissing was still there, buried in layers of gypsum lath and plaster. Rabbi knelt by the fireplace and did what he could to cook the plague out of the air.

(Time Loop. Ghosty. Set in the Barton Arms boarding house.)

Rabbi Milligan & Satchel Cannon

Rabbi Milligan/Original Male Character

Chapters: 3/16 :: 17.5k words

CW // Graphic violence, horror, period-typical attitudes, non-graphic CSA recovery in adulthood (+ others not central -- tagged and/or in Author's Notes)

[fanaticsnail]

It's been a while

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 2,900+

Synopsis: Trafalgar Law has been missing his favorite courier, so at the encouragement of his first mate, he is prompted to do something about it.

Themes: Trafalgar Law x Box "Cottontail" Mila, fluff, long distance relationships, fluff, hurt / comfort, pining, longing from afar, den-den mushi, Law is tired, Law is missing his special person.

Notes: This is my half of the trade organized through the OC Discord Server for @bloglop and her beautiful OC, Mila. She gave me such a cute art piece for my Tobiuo x Heat 'Teat' ship, and I love it. I hope you like my half for your beautiful Mila! Divider by @/firefly-graphics.

Warmth swelled within the cool heart of the dark-haired captain, his chest ignited beneath the blaze of anticipated relief. Honey eyes briefly widening, they relax as his smile illuminated his cheeks with an emotion Trafalgar Law had not allowed himself to experience in so long. He knew it; he saw it every day of his life growing up in Flevance. His parents had it when their eyes met in the early hours of the day, he saw it in his sister’s eyes when she looked at her favorite desserts. 

Love.

Trafalgar Law was in love. 

Rolling on her heels to the balls of her feet, the twitching anxiousness was demonstrated within the grip of parchment clutched against her chest. Another delivery for the Tang: likely the recipe exchange Penguin set up between Sanji and Killer at the last meeting with Strawhat crew and the Victoria Punk.

“Mila,” Law sighed, his voice feeling foggy at the edges, echoing within the halls of the Polar Tang. He shook his head, shrugging off the tension and apprehension from his mind as he picked up speed. 

Trying not to seem overeager in seeing his lover so close to him fled his thoughts, he physically couldn’t contain it any longer. He needed Mila in his arms, embraced fully against his chest and lifted up into his arms. 

He wanted her, needed her, craved her in a way that felt like a part of him was missing: a part only she could fill with her presence. That little laugh, that soft stutter when she’s trying to hold her enthusiasm back, the way her ears would extend and tail would protrude when she was nervous, the buzz of life that illuminated and vibrated with excitable static. He craved to have all of that within his arms, lips touching so intimately close: sharing breaths and heartbeats as he entwined himself against her in an encumbering embrace. 

His feet carried him closer, further and faster than he could ever dream of. Ignoring the wind-smudged faces of his crew, Law simply sprung hurriedly towards Mila like an iron ball from a cannon barrel. 

Turning slowly towards her, the orange-hue of her widened orbs lit up and rose with her smile behind it. Expending her arms towards him, Law couldn't help but spring to close the distance between them. Hoisting her into the air, and with a large twirl to expel all the parchment from her tanned satchel. The pages seemed to float beside them as if meeting with water, held in stasis beside them while Law met his eyes against hers. 

Inked hands pressed at the back of her neck, toying with the finer hair growing at the base of her scalp, he drew her into his face. Lips finally colliding, he seared into her all emotion he craved to give her through his intense kiss. Expecting the common softness to her lips, his brows furrowed where all he could feel was a coarse scratch on his skin. Parting his mouth and deepening his kiss, her lips tasted of ink blotches and black coffee stains. He shook it from his thoughts, holding on tighter and refusing to be pried from her, her embrace felt different. 

“Law?” Mila’s voice ricocheted within his mind: sounding muffled as if forced to speak with a muzzle over her lips. Shaking his head, he gripped her tighter and more intently. Hands roaming and wandering, her skin felt cool to the touch and almost like steel. 

“Law?” her voice sounded several tones too deep, prompting Law to almost break away from her lips pressed against his and look up into her eyes. But he couldn’t, he was too overwhelmed by the fact she was hare, and she was finally back, to care about anything else. 

Mila’s hand gently reached up and grasped his shoulder, pinching and rolling the flesh between her perched digits. Shaking him from her, her strength managed to pull him away from her and force his eyes to fall on hers. 

“Mila?”

All he could see in lieu of his lover was a sheet of pale paper with stains of ink and black coffee. 

He had fallen asleep at his desk once again. After too many sleepless nights of peering over the edge of the Polar Tang, hoping the figure beyond the horizon was a small blotch of pink blur, he finally fell prone to the melody of sleep. Thin, paper pages stuck to his face as he jolted upright, looking immediately to the large, white fur that clutched onto his shoulders. 

“Just me, Captain,” Bepo sighed softly, a small amount of sorrow caged at the corner of his tone, “I'm sorry I'm not Mila. It's-... It's been a while, hasn't it, sir?” The Polar bear mink gently reached for the page affixed to Law's face, peeling it from his skin and placing it back down in a neat pile in front of him. Several words from the parchment transported onto his skin, words in reverse staining his pores by marking his face with its blotches. 

“It's… it's been a while, yeah,” he chuckled dryly, drawing his thumb and index finger up to pinch his eyes in a bid to pry the sleep from them, “M’sorry, Bepo. How long was I-?”

“-You need to call her, sir,” the first-mate spoke over his Captain. Bepo’s dark eyes seemed to command him, prompting Law to feel taken aback by the notion. He was not used to the large bear giving him commands, and making a call to his lover seemed an odd thing for him to get up in arms about. 

Law sighed, smearing his hand down his face before taking his chin in his hands. Although Law seemed to raise a smile to his lips, there was no real joy in his expression. He was truly lost, a man without direction and plagued with more sleep deprivation than he was truly able to withstand. 

“Look, Bepo,” Law chuckled, drawing his hand down to the desk in front of him, “I don't even know where she is right now. She could be legions away-.”

“-She’s on Komugi Island, delivering the outcome of a contract for intention for betrothal,” Bepo stated in a matter of fact way, fishing up the slumbering transponder snail and placing it on Law’s desk, “She’s staying at an accommodation close to the Charlotte’s. Call her. Please call her, sir.”

Law groaned at the pushiness of his first mate, rolling his eyes and reaching for the transponder. Tapping the shell awake, he offered it a small piece of lettuce he kept on his desk for it in payment for being awakened so abruptly. Looking up at Bepo, he shook his head with his exhaustion hanging on the small puffs of his elevated eye-bags. 

“There a number I need to dial?” Law asked Bepo, who hastily spat the digits immediately. With a small grunt in gratitude with a hidden and flustered smile, Law waved Bepo away from the room and excused himself to the company of himself and the snail. 

Gently rolling onto her back, Mila toyed anxiously with the ends of her blush-colored hair. The accommodation on Komugi Island made her feel more dwarfed than ever, and she was relatively tall. The land of giants, with a tyrant overlord that could potentially lose their temper with the outcome of Mila’s delivery, was otherwise quite welcoming. The minister of flour ensured her safety, the room was comfortable, and the food was incredibly sweet and playful. 

The one thing that she felt truly absent from this experience was her friend and lover, the captain of the Heart Pirates. She wanted to be with him a little more often lately, but she wasn't quite sure why. There was something in the way her heart sang to him in the quiet hours.

Her body became rigid as she rolled over to her side to move within a curled position beneath the blankets. She drew up the linen material in a bid to press more weight into her. The warmth provided beneath the blankets was comforting, but it wasn't what she truly wanted. 

She wanted Law. 

Her job had her darting her lanky legs around all of the blues and beyond: hopping between ports within the grand line, and sprinting as a courier to deliver packages in a timely manner. She had formed connections, made bonds, curated an eclectic assortment of clients, and was a trusted ally to all those who depended on her services. She was good at her job, and her reputation by word of mouth shepherded her everywhere. 

But it didn't manage to take her to the Polar Tang for some time. She missed it. The yellow submarine piloted by her beloved, hat-wearing, broody captain that she hoped cherished her as much as she did him. She loved him, and wanted to stay with him and hold him within his quarters and his office until she was certain he would eventually become sick of her. 

It had been a while since Mila had experienced love in her heart, and when she met and learned about Law, it hit her like the reputable ‘gum-gum-pistol’ from their Straw-Hat ally. Love hit her so hard, she almost felt like her legs would buckle beneath its weight every time she saw him. 

But, unfortunately for the both of them, she still had a job to do. She hoped she would come across someone who was in need of a courier to deliver a package to the Tang, but for now, she lay quietly buzzing with energy beneath the weight of the heavy duvet. 

The Zoan-Fruit user always had trouble sleeping when facing a trial like this. A client may be disgruntled by a letter, and often want to keep her around to formulate an appropriate response to send back. Mila would get stuck in the crossfires often, and remind them softly: ‘I am just the courier, but I will ensure to relay your objectives when I deliver your response.’ She was nothing if not professional, and professional, she was. 

Struggling to find rest, Mila scrunched her eyes shut and focussed on the sounds of her environment. Sizzling plates from the restaurant outside, the chirp of sweet bug song, the thumping of her anxious blood flooding her face, the soft purr of her carrier snail ringing on her desk-.

-Mila jolted upright, throwing the duvet off her body with the expectation that her client was calling her into the main keep to relay her response to the outcome of the betrothal. Putting on her best ‘professional’ voice, Mila took a deep breath as her lips curled around her words. Just as she tasted those first syllables on her tongue, she halted at the voice on the other end. 

“Cottontail? You there?” 

She froze. Her skin almost buzzed with the haste her shock managed to sizzle beneath her flesh. Each follicle stood like static ignited the ends of her pink tufts as her eyes flew wide. Lip quivering, hastily split her lips up into a radiant and broad grin. 

“Law?” She almost squeaked, managing to compose herself enough to answer tastefully, “I’m here. I was just about to turn in for the night.” She heard Law gently huff out a curse alongside a subtle whisper of ‘time difference, I'm an idiot,’ which rose a flutter in her chest. 

Silence fled from the Den-Den, an awkwardness once again present between the two of them. Neither spoke, nor made a single sound to alert the other was present. The only knowledge that another person was on the end of the transceiver was the fact that it was their snails we're awake. 

As Mila plopped down on her bed once more, the snail tucked against her pillow and laying comfortably on the heavy linen, Law had managed to sneak into his personal quarters from his office, gently doing the same. 

Law’s personal Den-Den buzzed gently as he lay his head down on the pale cerulean silks of his firm pillow. Considering his earlier doze, he was still feeling groggy and lethargic while his head felt heavier than what his neck could truly carry. Rolling onto his side, he blinked his heavy eyelids and spoke softly into it. 

“What are…? What are you up to right now?” Law asked barely with a breath, his inhale and exhale softening out at the corners. He could almost feel Mila’s smile through the snail, picturing her face as his eyelids finally grew too heavy to remain open. 

“I'm in bed, talking with you,” Mila offered gently in return, lulling him into a soft tranquility with her voice. Law smiled, nuzzling against the bedsheets and drawing up his legs to become more comfortable. He hummed a small chuckle in return with a light flush rising in his dark cheeks. 

“You're right here with me, are you?” Law’s question ignited Mila’s cheeks with that rosy tint he loved to see with her fluster. 

“I'm right there,” she confessed with a little shrug in her shoulders, neatly tucking herself within her blankets and nestling them around herself. Gently rising her question in her chest, she felt the small amount of fluttering anxiety swelling her heart, truly wanting him to answer honestly and truthfully. “Are you…? Are you here with me too?” 

Not even a beat of a butterfly's wing passed between them as Law graced her with his answer. 

“I'm there. I'm right there beside you, and,” Law halted his words, taking his time to stretch his lips through a yawn of exhaustion, “I'm gonna be there with you until the morning. Are you tired?” 

“I'm not tired at all, are you?” Mila asked in response, trying to choke down the emotion at the ease his response gave to her. Through this trip, this trial of delivering such an important contract with the Charlotte's and the response they got from the recipient, it truly weighed on her. The exhaustion that came from it, the sorrow she felt at the lack of deliveries with the Tang, the way she truly wanted nothing more to be curled up in Law's quarters and listening to him talk about the latest addition to his coin collection - everything felt so raw at this moment. 

At such an innocent and easy question, and hers in return, she felt the well of emotions rise up in her chest and swell behind the closed dam of her teeth. 

Almost in a sense only captain's and doctors seemed to comprehend, and in the comfort Law truly wanted to receive from his beautiful courier, he whispered against the microphoned end of the snail. 

“Mila, I need you to talk,” he confessed to her, feeling the weight of his own release, “I need to hear your voice, I need to hear about your day, and I need to-...” He choked on his admission, feeling heavy and vulnerable as he laid in his bed, “...I haven't been able to sleep properly. I need to sleep, and you… You always seem to be able to help me switch off. Can you do that for me? I promise it won't take long-.”

“-I’ll do it, Captain,” she cut him off, her eagerness causing Law to chuckle in a low tone. “I'll talk your ear off, and I won't stop even if you beg me to.” Mila tucked herself completely in, laying on her back, and thinking where in her journey she should start her tale.

Recounting the initial retrieval of the response from the recipient of the Charlotte family’s proposal, she began spurting a relay of every event that transpired from there. Traveling the seas, running as fast as her legs could take her, meeting Charlotte Linlin and her sons: Oven, Cracker, and Katakuri, she spoke on it all. 

Every syllable the pink-haired Zoan-Fruit user was a sweet melody to the exhausted captain. Mila would ask questions to gauge where he was in his exhaustion, and Law would go from asking a question in return, to a one-worded answer, to a small grunt or moan in response. 

As Mila spoke on, the slow blinks from Law’s eyes opening a crack would reveal his Den-Den shell in one moment, before dissipating to see Mila in all her cottontail glory beside him in the next. She was there, truly there, and he felt every second of it. The scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her hair, the smile on her lips: she was right there as she spoke within his mind’s eye.

Smiling, his chest rose and fell with each passing moment Mila would speak to him. He was prompted to set internal reminders to order some flour and sweets from Komugi island for the crew, utilizing Mila's service and giving her a reason to be with him. His rationale dictated it would be good for morale, and Penguin would appreciate the fresh produce.

Whereas all Law wanted was Mila.  As he drempt, all he pictured was the waves of lengthy pink hair from the back of Mila, holding her close in his dreams as she spoke. 

The next morning, he woke to hearing the soft rustle of Mila’s snores from the disgruntled and sleep deprived Den-Den snail, prompting him to give it a look of softened pity. A few small gentle taps to the eyeballs of the snail seemed to cause it comfort, so he continued to do so while he moved it over to the desk in the corner of his quarters. 

He waited until she woke naturally, truly reveling in the way her little sleep sounds were truly and distinctively hers. This only spurred him on to craft a finer arrangement of items he invented to guide her home to him. He wanted her home with him.

Their home, together, right there on the Polar Tang.

[chexparty]

(unfinished art from may) beta/satchel/younger sunny in my style

Found this in my gallery lol, I still think the art is alright so ill post it! sunny satchel is real and cannon now( i wish) this is kinda my headcannons for younger sunny tho its kinda changed now