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darkmagic-s · 3 years ago

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and i can't help that the devil likes to come and rest his little head

summary: Your sweet devil came back to you, declaring his love and now, you were both kneeling in front of each other, holding each other so lovingly.

When you heard the word 'devil', you didn't think of sharp horns and the colour red.

Instead, your own idea of devil came in green. Your devil was intelligent and handsome, with soft, curly hair.

Your own idea of a devil was Tom Riddle.

You knew of the evil deeds he had done, how he had framed Morfin Gaunt for the murder of the Riddle family and how he had ordered his Basilisk to kill that Ravenclaw girl. You knew of the dark magic that coursed through his veins.

He was cunning and determined. He wouldn't even think twice about using people for his own needs and throwing them aside once he had what he desired.

So, why were you still here?

It was a question you didn't want the answer to, in fear of driving him away, but it was a question that you couldn't help but to repeat in your mind. You doubted Tom would be happy upon hearing that question. You doubted that he would be overjoyed at the realisation that he didn't have a valid reason to keep you around besides—

Besides...

He had wordlessly pulled you closer, with his slender hands gripping your shoulders. He pressed your body against his, and you enjoyed how it felt so right. Despite him being whoever he was, this felt right. You didn't say a word when he moved his hands from your shoulders to sneak his arms around your waist. You didn't say a word when he rested his head against yours. You didn't say a word as you returned his embrace, noticing the way he exhaled, as if being in your arms had freed him from all his burdens.

You didn't say a word because you knew this was what he needed — you.

Whenever you thought of the why, it always ended up with the same reason. The same absurd reason. It was extremely absurd of you to even think that someone like Tom Riddle would even indulge himself in love, of all things.

A part of you hoped that he would, you really hoped that he would.

The signs were there, and everyone could see it. Everyone knew how he felt about you and how you felt about him, because it was obvious.

It was easy to notice his affection towards you when you would catch him staring at you more than once. He wouldn't even look away sometimes. He always looked as if he was trying to uncover something about you, to look into you deeper and more. It was easy to notice his affection towards you when he would randomly brush away the few strands of hair away from your face with the softest touch and when he would tuck your hair behind your ear whenever you were talking.

It seemed like he didn't know why he did what he did with you. Perhaps, he knew but he was scared to acknowledge it. It was funny to you, that you knew him more than he knew himself.

You waited for the day where he would acknowledge his own feelings for you, despite how impossible that would be.

As you stared at Tom planning out his ambitions and telling you about the world he envisioned, you were reminded once again that he wasn't for you.

You loved him, genuinely. You loved the thrill you felt whenever you were with him, you loved the danger of him and you loved that he was him. You even saw him as more, the Hogwarts prodigy, the perfect knowledgeable man and the gentleman who always treated you with the best care despite the things he had done.

You saw him as what he could be.

That was your problem.

He had stopped talking, and his attention was now on his book with his other hand holding yours. Your heart jumped at the his warmth now that you acknowledged it.

You pulled away.

He looked up instantly, staring at you curiously.

"What are we, Tom?" you whispered.

He blinked. "Why do you ask?"

"Can't I?"

"You were never bothered by us," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"That was before. It was fun before but now—" you swallowed, when you noticed his eyebrows furrowed. "Now, I've grown tired of it. You have a future planned out, and I have my own too."

He closed his book loudly, leaning closer to you. You could feel irritation coming off from him.

"And just what is your future?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"The future that I see?" you whispered. "One without you in it."

"You're leaving me?" he asked incredulously.

"I love you," you said, causing him to lean back, visibly startled at the three words that you had never said to each other, despite feeling it. "I do, and I've always been by your side with whatever you do."

You took his hand in yours. "I have a bright future for myself, everyone could see it, everyone says that, and I can't have that by staying with you, Tom. You know what you do, don't you?"

His jaw clenched. "This is about what I do? Do you want me to leave them all behind, then?"

"No," you said sharply. "I'm not asking you to change for me, I've accepted that it wasn't ever going to happen. I'm saying that I'm leaving you because our paths are different."

"You've accepted that it wasn't going to happen?" he laughed cruelly. "You've lost hope for me now?"

"Perhaps, I did," you replied, standing up. This wasn't going anywhere. You were supposed to just say it and leave him. "But why should you care? I'm not here to fix you, am I? That's not the reason you keep me around, is it?"

He pressed his lips into a thin line and you raised an eyebrow. "You were expecting me to fix you?"

"I know what I do is morally wrong, yet you never stopped me," he said quietly. "It was almost as if you liked me that way."

"Because I can't stop you."

"You never tried," he replied quickly, with a hint of desperation in his voice. What was he desperate for?

"It doesn't matter now," you hissed in irritation. He was making it harder for you. Could you even consider this a breakup if you were never officially together?

You stepped closer. "It doesn't matter now because I realise that as much as I love you, I'm in love with the idea of what you could be, not what you are right now."

"You..." you whispered. "You're an evil man, Tom. I wish you weren't. I wish you were the boy that everyone sees, that my parents approved of me to be with, that Slughorn speaks so highly of. Do you know how proud I am whenever he speaks of having connections in the Ministry and wanting to help you out in the future as soon as you get out of Hogwarts?"

You laughed humourlessly. "But you don't want that."

He whispered, "Your parents approved of me? Of us?"

"Again, it doesn't matter now," you replied sharply. You turned around and approached the door. As you held the doorknob, you said quietly, "I'm sorry that this conversation had to go this way. Goodluck with your Horcruxes, Tom. I know you'll succeed in being the greatest."

"I hope..." you continued. "I hope that I won't find myself facing the end of your wand one day."

A week had passed and you were glad to say that you were doing better. You did feel miserable after leaving him for good, but you started seeing on the brighter side. He wasn't meant for you and you weren't meant for him, no matter how much you thought you could change him.

He was your type, certainly. Intelligent, bad and cunning, but having him in your life wouldn't do you any good. You certainly had a thing for the broken things, but you knew the difference between fantasy and reality, and the reality was that he was going to stay that way.

Your friends had asked you what happened between you two. Other people did too, and even Slughorn, which was not surprising for you, considering he was Tom's biggest fan. You just chose to tell them that you both decided to take a break. You refused to tell them why.

You just hoped Tom was saying the same thing if he was asked these questions.

You did miss him, terribly. Seeing him everyday didn't help that feeling. You certainly did still love him, but you found other things to occupy yourself with, hence why you were doing better. Even when there were times you wished you never left him, it didn't matter and you didn't show it. Plus, you've always been good at pretending.

You were going to pretend until you actually feel fine and completely moved on from him, but you would catch him staring. Whenever you did, it was almost like nothing had changed. You hated that.

You weren't actually in love with him, were you?

Of course not, you loved the idea of him.

You loved that he was bad and powerful, that he was capable of things other people weren't.

You also loved that he treated you with care, listened to everything you told him and paid attention to everything you told him. You loved that he would remember things about you that you wouldn't expect anyone else to remember—Tom Riddle was never anyone else, was he?

Perhaps, you did love him, but you couldn't ignore the bad things he did and what he achieved to be.

You sighed as you closed the book you were reading. Despite that it had already been a week, not a day went by where you didn't think of him.

Weekends were usually your favourite time of the week, because you always had something planned, something to do. This week, however, something was different. Was it because most of your plans before usually involved him?

As you tucked your book under your arm, you bid goodbye to your friends, who cheerfully returned the gesture.

You noticed how their expression had suddenly changed to looking startled, how their gazes were now fixed on something behind you. You wanted to ask what was wrong, but your curiosity was answered when someone cleared their throat behind you.

When your name was uttered by the person behind you, by that certain someone, you felt that familiar feeling again. The thrill, the butterflies in your stomach and how your heart skipped a beat.

You turned around, meeting the gaze of Tom Riddle.

You noticed that you had gathered some attention from the people around you, but he didn't seem to mind. He looked at you with an unreadable expression on his face, but if you had to identify it, it would be anxiousness.

What would Tom Riddle be anxious for?

"Come with me," he said softly, stretching out a hand for you to take.

You glanced at his hand briefly and you couldn't help but to notice something was missing. Where's your ring, Tom?

"Please," he added urgently.

As you let your heart decide for you, you wordlessly took his hand.

You walked by his side through the many corridors and you were grateful to feel the warmth of his hand again, to feel his touch again. You didn't question him, you didn't want to.

To your surprise and horror, both of you stopped in the girl's bathroom.

You watched in fear as he murmured something in Parseltongue and you immediately retracted your hand as the entrance that led to Chamber of Secrets emerged. He turned to you, and you noticed that he was holding his diary in his other hand.

Your eyes flickered between the familiar entrance and him.

"I won't tell anyone about what you do," you whispered, stepping back.

He quickly held onto your wrist before you could take another step. "I'm not here to harm you. I would never even try to."

"Then why are we here?"

He slowly slid his hand down from your wrist to your hand, before letting it go and stepping closer to the entrance. "For you to change your mind."

He jumped down and you hurriedly stepped forward, watching his figure disappear into the darkness.

You were terrified, but your trust in him overpowered that fear.

You jumped.

You had clung onto him all the way to the Chamber, hands curled into fists and gripping onto his coat. Despite being here two to three times before with him, the pathway that led you to the Chamber would still scare you. You still remembered how you had jumped on Tom the first time you saw the Basilisk's shredded skin, thinking it was the actual thing. You also remembered how he had caught you effortlessly and tried his best to calm you down. Your heart jumped at the memory.

This was not how you expected your Sunday would go. What you expected was a Tom Riddle-less and Chamber of Secrets-less Sunday. Anything but your current situation.

You couldn't even stop the negative thoughts that were clouding your mind at the moment. He could easily kill you and leave you here, and no one would find you. He never harmed you before, and he just said that he would never even try, but you weren't together anymore. Things were different now.

Once again, you were pathetically hoping that he would change.

You let go of his coat once you both had entered the Chamber, slowly walking beside him now and resting a hand on your wand.

"Don't be so tense," he said, with a hint of amusement in his voice that got you offended.

"This is funny to you," you pointed out in disbelief.

"You have nothing to be afraid of. As long as I'm here, you have nothing to be afraid of," he said softly, with his voice now devoid of humour.

"You're not going to kill me?" you whispered, feeling slightly ridiculous now saying it out loud.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, as if you had just said something offensive to him. Perhaps it was indeed offensive.

"Is that what you think of me now?"

"I would dispose of me, if I were you."

"Fortunately for me, you are not me," he said, before looking at where you knew the Basilisk would be resting. "You know what to do, don't you?"

Despite your fear, you obeyed and immediately stood in front of him, facing him. "Why?" you asked urgently, afraid.

"I'm not letting it out for you," Tom murmured. "Please don't be so afraid."

You swallowed, once again placing your trust in him. You lowered your head and closed your eyes. Now that you had blocked out one sense, your hearing was heightened.

Tom was saying something in Parseltongue, and you heard the sound of the stone moving distantly behind you. You couldn't help but to step forward to where Tom was and grip onto his coat once again. You felt his hand on your back, rubbing it softly as an attempt to comfort you.

You heard something moving behind you and you wanted nothing more than to leave. Knowing that a historical beast was moving behind you, living, while you had your eyes closed was frightening.

Tom would protect you, right?

He said something in Parseltongue again and there was a few seconds of silence before he finally talked to you again.

"You can look now."

You slowly pulled away, hands still gripping onto his coat and lifted your head up to look at him, receiving a reassuring look in return. You turned around, flinching as soon as you set your eyes on the Basilisk, which had its deadly eyes closed.

"And why..." you swallowed. "Why is it here?"

"You said to me that..." he started, causing you to look back at him. "You told me that you love me."

You blinked, startled. "I did."

"Do you, still, love me?" he asked softly.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Because I love you."

You sputtered and let go of him in surprise. "What are you trying to do?"

"Stay with me. Come back to me," he said, almost desperately. "Come back to me and I will leave everything behind. In fact, right now—this diary, my very first Horcrux, I will destroy it right here."

He said desperately, while holding up his Horcrux to show you. "I can be what you want me to be, just come back to me."

"This is quite rushed," you said softly. "Why are you giving up your dreams for one person? What happens when you regret it?"

"I won't regret it," he said firmly, jaw clenching. "You are not just one person. You're my person, who stayed with me throughout everything, made me feel the things I didn't expect to feel and—you understand me more than anyone else."

"So, please," he whispered. "Tell me... do you still love me?"

You nodded. "With my whole heart."

"Can I be yours—again?"

You nodded again, unable to find any words.

He looked down at his diary, with his thumb softly caressing the cover, treating his soul so lovingly.

"You said your parents approved of me," he whispered. "I couldn't stop thinking about that. I also couldn't stop thinking about how... how you said you love me. It hurt me when you said that you hoped you wouldn't be facing the end of my wand one day. It hurt me that it even crossed your mind. It hurt me more that—if I continue on this path, there's a possibility that that might happen."

"One whole week without you," he continued. "It made me feel like how life was before I met you—empty. I always thought having power would fill that void, but it seemed that... it only widened it."

"Until you," he said, looking back up at you. "I never felt empty with you, I realised."

He then threw the book behind you, causing you to turn around and look at where it landed, right in front of the Basilisk. You almost jumped, as you had forgotten that the beast was still there.

"The Basilisk's venom is quite deadly," he stated, looking at his diary on the floor. "Tell me this is worth it."

You turned to him and told him the truth without hesitation. "It's worth it, Tom. We're worth it."

You looked up at him longingly, and placed a hand on his cheek, loving the way his eyes fluttered at your touch. He then spoke in Parseltongue for the Basilisk, despite still looking at you.

You heard the movements behind you, and you refused to look. You found that it was better to look into his eyes, until—

"Tom?!" you exclaimed, when he fell forward to you and groaned in pain.

You tried to hold him up, and you gasped as he fell to his knees, still moaning in pain.

"Tom!"

"It's—" he choked out. "The soul—"

You bit your lip, feeling useless now knowing that there was nothing you could do to ease his pain. Seeing him in pain was a new sight to you and you hated how it hurt your heart to see him like this, the usually composed Tom Riddle, kneeling on the floor in pain.

You chose to pull his head to your shoulder, wrapping your arms around his neck in hopes that your embrace would make him feel better.

It wasn't until a few moments later you realised that he wasn't groaning in pain anymore, only letting out heavy breaths on your shoulder. He lifted his head, resting his chin on your shoulder as he said something in Parseltongue. Behind you, you heard a movement, then water splashing slightly and finally, the sound of the stone again. The Basilisk was gone now.

You pulled away and cradled his face gently. He looked at you tiredly and wrapped his fingers around your wrists.

"I've already destroyed the ring yesterday," he said softly, with his thumb caressing the back of your hand affectionately. "The diary was the last one. I wanted to be with you when destroying it, especially after finding out how painful it was."

Your eyes burned and you blinked your eyes several times. You couldn't help the tears that pooled up in your eyes. You tried so hard to pretend that you were completely over him, but then your sweet devil came back to you, declaring his love and now, you were both kneeling in front of each other, holding each other so lovingly.

"You're mine again," you chuckled, as a tear fell from your eye.

"I am," he confirmed.

You sniffled and laughed, earning a small smile from him.

"I've missed your touch," he whispered. "It always feels right being touched by you. It makes me feel..."

"Loved?" you supplied.

"Loved," he nodded, seemingly coming to terms with it. "Do you feel the same way?"

"All the time, with you."

He licked his lips. "Tell me—what is your future?"

You tilted your head, brushing his hair back gently. "One with you in it."

He sighed in relief, as his hands found their way to your waist to pull you closer. When he pressed his lips against yours and moved them passionately, you agreed wholeheartedly, it felt right.

When he pulled away, he didn't hesitate to rest his head on your shoulder with his eyes closed, finding comfort in your embrace. You smiled to yourself, seeing your devil in such vulnerability that only you could see.

#i am so in love with you tommy #title from hermit the frog by marina #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle fic #harry potter

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hollybollybingbong · 3 years ago

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Albus Dumbledore is the worst.

Albus Dumbledore was written to be a hero, and that's what makes him such a good villain. Almost everyone in the Wizarding World trusted him and thought he was so incredible and amazing, but in reality, he was playing a brilliant game of chess, using them all as his pawns.

How? Let's start from the beginning with Tom Riddle.

Dumbledore first met Tom when he was eleven, and even then, you could see the warning signs. Dumbledore did too. He saw that Tom was dangerous and unstable, and Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, wanted to give him a chance at Hogwarts.

But, Dumbledore, also, being Dumbledore, was the only one who saw who Tom really was, and only "kept an annoyingly close watch on him." He saw Tom Riddle, at the age of eleven saying "I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want," and did not think to do anything about it.

He said to Harry in Chamber of Secrets that, "help will be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it," yet, here we have Tom Riddle, who desperately needed help, and did not get it. Could Dumbledore have prevented Tom Riddle from becoming who he was? I'm not sure. Could he have helped him more while he was at Hogwarts? 100%

Next up, Sirius (and a bit of Remus)

One thing I never understood while reading the books was why Sirius had to spend twelve years in Azkaban when there were literally potions that forced you to tell the truth.

The truth is, unsurprisingly, Dumbledore wanted him there. By keeping Sirius in Azkaban, there was no way he could adopt Harry (who was legally his), and ruin Dumbledore's perfectly thought out plan of manipulating Harry. Dumbledore was a high-ranking member of the Wizengamot, if he managed to get Snape off, he surely could've gotten Sirius free too.

But unlike Snape, and Remus, and Hagrid, and Harry, Dumbledore couldn't use Sirius. Remus was a werewolf with no job prospects in the Wizarding World, and no Muggle qualifications either. He spent twelve years alone, as he watched his friends die or get sent to Azkaban. But then here comes Dumbledore, who gives him a job and a home when no one else would. And suddenly, Remus is loyal to Dumbledore.

Hagrid, a half-giant, was kicked out of Hogwarts in his third year for something he didn't do. But Dumbledore comes along and suddenly Hagrid has a home and job, and owes it to Dumbledore, ensuring his loyalty.

Even Snape, Dumbledore saved him from a lifetime in Azkaban prison, securing his loyalty too.

But Sirius, Sirius was different. He saw right through Dumbledore and his manipulation. He was a rebel and chose his path. A path that didn't involve Dumbledore, which is why he was stuck in Azkaban for twelve years, despite him being innocent. Because him being around would've messed up Dumbledore's plan to raise Harry to die, because there is no way in hell that Sirius would've allowed that to happen.

Finally, Harry Potter, himself.

Harry escaped death at the age of one and then was essentially kidnapped by Hagrid on Dumbledore's orders. While there's no proof, surely James and Lily would've written a will, especially considering they were living through a war with their son being the target for the greatest dark wizard of all time. I believe that Dumbledore pulled some strings (because remember, he was a member of the Wizengamot, and despite not holding the title of Minister for Magic, he was as good as, especially considering how incompetent they were), so he could be in charge of Harry's living arrangements and manipulate him further. Sirius Black was his legal guardian, being godfather and all, and yet Hagrid had "orders from Dumbledore," so he got stuck with the Dursleys.

Harry grew up in this abusive home where he was unwanted, neglected, and bullied, so when he eventually finds out about the Wizarding World, he sees it as a home, a safe haven, away from the Dursleys. He feels grateful to the Wizarding World for saving him from them. And when he has to go back at the beginning of summer, it's a reminder that it can all be taken away, so when Harry has to sacrifice himself to save the world he's come to love so much, of course, he does! Because why wouldn't he? It's his home.

Dumbledore could've left Harry with Remus, or the Weasley's, or the Longbottom's, or literally any other family, but the Dursley's made Harry easiest to manipulate.

And before anyone mentions Lily's blood wards, Dumbledore says in Order of the Phoenix: "You need return there only once a year, but as long as you can still call it home, there he cannot hurt you."

There was no reason for Harry to grow up in an abusive household, isolated from the Wizarding World, but it made Harry an easier pawn to manipulate in Dumbledore's game.

Similarly, when Harry is in school, he rewards Harry's saviour complex through house points. In Philosopher's Stone, the trio very clearly go against McGonagall's orders and put themselves in dangerous situations to 'save the day.' But instead of facing any punishment, they are rewarded via the House Cup, and Dumbledore is buying Harry's loyalty.

It's always Harry being the one to put himself into dangerous situations, never Dumbledore. Chamber of Secrets, Harry and Ginny both nearly die, but oh, thanks to Dumbledore's phoenix the day is saved! But wait, wasn't Dumbledore there the first time the Chamber was opened? Was there nobody else in the entire Wizarding World who could fix this mess, without having to rely on a twelve-year-old???

Prisoner of Azkaban. Why were Harry and Hermione the ones to rescue Sirius? Why couldn't Dumbledore do it himself? Goblet of Fire. You're telling me the 'most powerful wizard in the world' couldn't break the magical contract? In all honesty, he probably could, but he said it himself, he wanted to see what would happen. He was using Harry as bait. McGonagall seems to be the only person who cares about this poor boy's life. And then we have Order of the Phoenix. Where Dumbledore isolates himself from Harry, gets Snape to teach him Occlumency instead of doing it himself, which leads to Sirius's death, which I believe was planned (to an extent).

And at the end of Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore comes 'clean,' saying that the reason he ghosted Harry for the entire year, was because 'he cared for him too much.' That he cared more about Harry's happiness than the safety of others, that he put Harry's life above the life of innocent people. He was telling Harry, who watched his godfather die in front of him, and blamed himself for it, that him being happy would lead to the deaths of others. Dumbledore's exact quote was, "What did I care if numbers of nameless and faceless people and creatures were slaughtered in the vague future, if in the here and now you were alive, and well, and happy." And of course, Dumbledore said this, because he knows Harry has a tendency to sacrifice himself for others, and as a result, he'll choose to die when the time comes.

Dumbledore kept Harry's inevitable death from him for sixteen years, five while he was at Hogwarts. And guess what? By this point, Harry was wrapped so tightly around Dumbledore's little finger, and wouldn't say no even if he could.

Harry Potter was raised like a pig for slaughter, by a man he trusted. And this makes me so angry. Harry Potter was seventeen when he walked into the forest alone, more than willing to die. He was seventeen when he and his friends fought in a war against people twice their age. He was seventeen when he saw some of those friends for the last time, watched them die fighting a war that none of them had seen the start of.

He was fifteen when he watched his godfather die before him, and blamed himself for it. He was fourteen when he watched Cedric Diggory die at the hand of Voldemort. He was twelve when he had to fight a basilisk and Tom Riddle single-handedly while trying to save himself and eleven-year-old Ginny Weasley. He was eleven and having to find and protect the Philosopher's Stone, the first 'test' of many. He was a child battling an adult's war, with no choice in the matter.

Dumbledore manipulated them all, so he could get children to fight his battles for him.

#anti dumbledore #dumbledore bashing #dumbledore is a manipulator #i hate dumbledore #harry potter

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theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin · 4 years ago

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Hey, you once mentioned something about Tom Riddle being a little suicidal. Your new post reminded of that and I wonder why you think that. It’s the complete opposite of what the books want you to think.

Alright, it’s time, let’s do this.

My standard disclaimer whenever we venture into the dark pit that is my thoughts on Tom Riddle: I’m going to say a lot of controversial stuff that fandom generally doesn’t agree with, I will say so much of this shit that I simply do not have time to explain it all, I expect 99% of you to disagree with me and the other 1% to be so horrifyingly offended that I dare to contemplate a world in which Tom isn’t always an overly competent psychopath that they leave me notes telling me to take this trash out of their character tags.

We good? Alright.

So, when I say a little suicidal, I mean that he is suicidal.

Not on the level that he’s going to kill himself tomorrow, or even has plans to kill himself, but in that he makes very strange decisions for someone who desperately wants to live.

And yes, I realize I speak blasphemy given that Tom Riddle’s entire m.o. is supposed to be his crippling fear of death.

Oh man, this one’s going to be so long.

So, my reasoning comes down to a few things:

The location of the horcruxes and the nature of their protections.

The events of Deathly Hallows and Tom’s final actions in the novel

The nature of horcruxes and what it means to not only be able to create one but what it does to you (caveat that I am going to headcanon hard here and speak utter blasphemy)

So, let’s start in order this time, because I think the first two are actually far easier for me to explain.

The Location and Nature of the Horcrux Protections and the Trouble with Backdoors in Security

So, first, the horcruxes are all conveniently located in Great Britain. Not even just in Great Britain, all in places that Albus Dumbledore and later Harry Potter can track down with relative ease, all fairly close to each other.

Now, part of this is undoubtedly attributable to Tom’s overly romantic nature.

Yes, Tom Riddle is a giant romantic, though not necessarily in the traditional sense everyone thinks of. The film “Patton” and its treatment of Patton comes to mind. Tom Riddle is a man enamored by a sense of greatness, of being remembered in this world rather than fading into oblivion, by the significance of places and times in history not only of the world but of himself. He creates an entire, grand, persona for himself because to live an ordinary life for him is to be worthy of nothing.

So, given that, of course Tom places the horcruxes in sentimental locations that have personal meaning to him.

However, it also makes them perilously easy to find and collect.

By itself, this wouldn’t spark my notice.

The ability to destroy horcruxes are not easy to come by. There’s only one basilisk and it’s by chance/Lucius fucking up that Harry gains access to the necessary basilisk venom. Using Fyendfire is an incredibly dangerous thing to do and just as likely to blow up you and the next three towns over as it is to destroy a horcrux. And if there are other means of destroying a horcrux they’re just as hard to come by or just as dangerous.

It’s not quite throwing it into the fires of Mt. Doom from which it was forged but it’s pretty damn close.

So, really, without JKR’s convenient Deus Ex Machina giving both him and Dumbledore the means to actually destroy these things, Tom Riddle’s horcruxes are pretty damn safe no matter where we put them. As we see from the locket, which Regulus manages to collect but Kreacher cannot destroy even after several decades.

However, what does spark my notice, is that the horcruxes can be collected by someone other than Tom Riddle when it appears as if they were never intended to be. What do I mean by this?

From what we see, there’s no benefit to Tom if the original horcruxes are found by anyone. He doesn’t seek them out to restore his original body, they’re just anchor points that should be hidden at all costs. So, he’ll never need a Death Eater to go collect them for him should he be indisposed (indeed, to do so would require a tremendous amount of trust in people he has very little trust in).

So, why hide them in such a way that others can access them? There are canon based options which would have prevented anyone else from reaching them. Given the existence of age lines, I imagine Tom Riddle could make some arbitrary barrier keyed only to himself. There are mokeskin pouches, such as the one Harry is given in the seventh book, which we know can only be accessed by whoever they’re keyed to. There’s the Fidelius Charm which, true requires a secret keeper which Tom would be very meh on, but options exist.

Tom Riddle could wipe the locations of his horcruxes off the face of the map. He chooses not to. Which leads me to believe that, at least on some unconscious level, he wants the horcruxes to be found.

Then we have the protections.

Specifically, I’m thinking of the locket here.

Yes, the protections are very formidable, but they’re also goddamn weird.

Rather than make the horcrux simply inaccessible, kill all those intruding, instead the intruder has to go through a very “Saw” like puzzle in which they drown themselves in despair until they finally get the locket, at which point they likely suicide by zombie.

More, there’s no hint that there’s any other way to retrieve the locket.

Backdoors in security are a very bad idea. What they do is weaken the security as a whole and, if you can take a short cut is, it means that someone who is clever enough and motivated enough can to. Dumbledore is both clever and motivated enough, and I imagine if there was a way to get the horcrux that involved not doing this ridiculous task he would have done it.

More, we’d be back to the land of Tom making sure only he can access the horcrux by requiring a password, keying it to his magical signature, or something so that no one else could get it.

Which means, that’s right, if Tom wants to get the locket he’s drinking the goddamn despair juice just like the rest of us.

What kind of a person would do any of this?

I’ve gone over this before, but I don’t think Tom Riddle’s crazy. Rather, in this case, I think he’s driven by an unbelievable amount of nihilist rage and is also quite depressed.

Tom goes to collect his horcrux, “Ah, it’s time to remember what a miserable life I’ve led and the sheer awfulness of my own existence. Good, I was starting to feel a little too happy. Let’s see if I get eaten by my undead, vengeful, victims today.”

The Events of Deathly Hallows and Tom Riddle’s Death

I think Tom Riddle’s final death in the books was suicide.

Tom takes over the Wizarding World, finally, and it’s as miserable as ever.

He’s trapped in this sham, barely functional, probably very painful body. His Death Eaters are completely out of control and for all that he wanted society to burn it’s now burning and no one’s even learned anything from this. Children in Hogwarts are being routinely tortured and have now staged a rebellion in which he’s having to slaughter them (I have reasons to believe that this is not what Tom Riddle wanted, at all, but that’s best saved for another post), and then he learns his horcruxes have all been destroyed without him even noticing.

There’s so little left of him, he has accomplished nothing, and there’s Harry Potter back from the dead yet again, gloating at him that love conquers all and Tom Riddle will never understand.

And Harry’s right, Tom Riddle will never understand, the world is meaningless and flat to him now and he finally understand that there’s no point to it. I think Tom Riddle decides he’s done. He’s just done.

He enters in a duel with Harry Potter knowing the weird nature of their wands. Now, it can be assumed he used the Elder Wand, but we know they get locked in Priori Incatatum , and that makes no damn sense with the Elder Wand (well, wandlore in general is silly, but I’m working with what JKR gave me here). So I choose to take JKR at her somewhat established canon and say that, no matter what Harry thought, Voldemort was using his original wand.

He throws out the killing curse, despite having now witnessed Harry resurrecting twice to this thing, and within two seconds it rebounds and kills him.

Voldemort’s death is a lot like this scene from the recent, terrible, 2020 live action Mulan (10/10 do not recommend). Now, we’re supposed to think that this scene is the witch saving Mulan’s life and thus showing her hope for the next generation. In actuality, the witch literally flies into an arrow she could have easily deflected from Mulan’s path. It’s a suicide that Mulan is too stupid to notice.

Tom chooses suicide in the most ridiculous, flamboyant, and easily written off manner one can and no one even notices. Instead Harry crows that he has personally defeated Voldemort, with the power of love no less, HUZZAH!

And the castle parties.

The Nature of Horcruxes

I almost don’t want to include this because it’s so... well, I’m really drifting far from canon and fandom now.

However, with horcruxes, there’s always an overriding question of why Tom is able to make so many when we don’t see anyone else with these things around (especially as it’s clear that murder doesn’t simply happen for those that now have horcruxes).

Usually, you have fic authors just sort of shrug and go, “Well, he’s that evil, I guess.” Sometimes you have them go, “No one else is crazy enough to keep going, and that’s why Voldemort’s cuckoo bananas.”

One very good explanation I’ve seen is that it’s because most people, when they murder, feel remorse immediately. The soul split happens, but they’re haunted by the murder for the rest of their life, and thus the horcrux isn’t made. Voldemort, feeling nothing when he kills anyone, is thus able to make them even for when he’s only indirectly associated with the death in question.

However, to me that never really jived philosophically.

Mostly, I simply cannot imagine that tearing apart your very soul is an act of indifference. Here’s how I see it: to do something like that to yourself, you must care, you must care beyond all imagine and human endurance. Your soul literally cannot abide it and saws itself in half, purging what you cannot stand about yourself the most.

The remorse part is, yes, remorse for the act and the victim but more to the point it is the ability to forgive and reaccept the worst part of yourself. That part of yourself that you purged and destroyed, which is nearly impossible to do and might very well destroy the fabric of who you are).

In other words, while creating a horcrux is an abominable act of hatred, it is also one of profound self-hatred.

Tom Riddle loathes himself so much that he is able to do this over and over and over again.

As Tom Riddle goes on he makes himself into less and less and less of himself until he probably doesn’t even know who he is anymore. He just knows, whatever is left of him, he loathes that too.

And then, of course, he gives up, runs into the nearest flying arrow, and dies.

TL;DR: Tom Riddle’s is a miserable existence that ended in a miserable if unintentionally hilarious manner

#ask #anon #tom riddle #voldemort

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dropssofjupitter · 4 years ago

Text

The American

Pairings: Fred Weasley x Slytherin!Reader [Platonic] , George Weasley x Slytherin!Reader [Semi-slowburn]

Summary: A new transfer student is welcomed to Hogwarts during the politically tense times that have befallen the wizarding kingdom. And despite their better judgement and the new (and frankly horrifying) DADA teacher, the twins can’t seem to get her out of their mind

Word Count: 2.5 k

Warnings: Umbridge (I feel like that’s enough said for that one), anxiety mentions, swearing (light. maybe one f-bomb), Ron being a lil prejudiced against Slytherins

Next >>

A/N: I took a small liberty with the last name just to help the story flow better, so I’m sorry if that’s upsetting. I am also apologizing ahead of time if I wrote the twins ooc, it’s my first time writing a fic for them! [Not beta read, any mistakes are mine and mine alone]

You took a breath, hands smoothing down the sides of your skirt, twisting nervously in the folds. You could do this. Nerves ran throughout your body, making it feel like it was humming with energy as you shifted on your feet. You could do this. The professor next you, McGonagall if you remembered correctly, placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. You forced a small smile, turning your face back to the set of great wooden doors in front of you. You could barely hear a thing that was being said, you just knew that you would be introduced after the new teacher and then sorted into your house.

“In other news,” a voice raised from behind the doors and you looked up sharply. “We have a transfer student joining us this term. We have decided that it would be best for everyone if her sorting ceremony were as public as the first years, so please. Join me in welcoming Y/N Jones.”

The hand left your shoulder and you looked up, taking in another nervous breath as you watched McGonagall place her hand on one of the doors, nodding to you to motion that it was time before pushing the doors open. You forced your face to remain neutral, and straightened your back as you walked alone up to the Headmaster in the front of the room.

The sound of your shoes hitting the stone floor caused your anxiety to rise again, but you pushed it down, forcing yourself to keep your head high and act like you knew you belonged here. You stopped in front of the stool placed at the top of the steps and turned, sitting down on it and effectively silencing the whispers that had been floating around the Great Hall.

The headmaster (god, what was his name again?) raised a dusty old witches hat and placed it on your head. The brim of the hat slipped over your eyes, and an older sounding voice resounded in your head, mulling over where to place you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fred and George had fully expected this year’s welcoming feast to go like all of the others. Cheer when the first years were sorted (booing when it was into Slytherin, of course), boo again when the new DADA teacher was announced, and then gorge themselves as they planned the perfect way to sneak puking pastilles into Draco Malfoys food (it never worked). However, they were both pleasantly and utterly surprised when Dumbledore announced a new transfer student. Hogwarts had never really had a transfer student, at least while they were there.

Fred turned to George and elbowed him slightly, a half smirk on his face. “Maybe we’ll have another gullible second year to talk into insulting Snape, eh George?”

George grinned as he swallowed a quick swig of pumpkin juice. “Maybe so Freddie.”

However, as the doors to the Great Hall opened and you walked through, all thoughts of pranking left the boys’ heads. You carried yourself like you were the only one meant to be here, and like the others were new students embarking on your domain, and it drew the boys’ full attention. They only remembered to pick up their jaws when you sat down on the stool to be sorted.

Ron, who had noticed their strange reaction, tried to get their attention through a poorly hushed whisper, but to no avail. The twins were too focused on what house you were going to be sorted into.

It felt almost foolish to hope that you would be a Gryffindor, but hope they did. They waited with baited breath as the Sorting Hat took its sweet, sweet time. After what felt like an eternity, the hat had finally reached it’s verdict.

“Slytherin!” The voice rang out through the Great Hall, and the Slytherins cheered as their flag was momentarily displayed on the walls of the Hall. The twins felt their heart sink as they kept their eyes on your form, watching you as you walked over to the Slytherin table and sat down in between the first years and older house members.

“Oi! Fred! George!” Ron exclaimed, exasperated as he gave up on catching his brothers attention. “Bloody hell! It’s like I don’t even exist!”

Next to him, Hermione giggled knowingly, shaking her head at Ron.

“Oh? Have you got something to say now?” Ron asked, turning his face towards Hermione.

She sighed and shook her head again. “You really are incredibly dense sometimes Ron.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had spent the remainder of the feast politely talking to your fellow house members, answering their questions and asking some of your own. It seemed that they were all either in awe due to your transfer, or in disbelief once they found out that you were American. Quite honestly, you couldn’t blame them. Yet your anxiety kept you from speaking about it, and instead had you hesitantly picking at the comfort food that had magically appeared on your plate once you had sat down.

After the feast was done, you were escorted to your room and introduced to your roommates by a prefect whom had asked you multiple times (despite your constant assurances) if you needed a tour of the castle itself. You settled into your room quite easily, introducing yourself to the girls and exchanging pleasantries before unpacking your trunk and getting your belongings situated. One girl, Pansy you believed, seemed particularly kind to you, and you made a mental note to get to know her better.

Before you knew it, you were fast asleep in your bed, wrapped in the comfortable blankets that had been provided and assuring yourself that tomorrow would yield only positives.

~~~~~

The next day had indeed started out well. You woke up on time and were able to find your classes easily, and you were also praised by Professor Sprout for your extensive knowledge in Herbology. However, things took a small turn for the worst went you entered Defense Against the Dark Arts.

The first thing you noticed was the teacher in the front of the room, watching with beady eyes as students casually found their way to desks and friends. Her monochrome outfit looked awful, having the likeness of a pattern you swore you saw on your grandmother’s couch once, and had given her a look that, quite plainly, reminded you of a toad.

The second thing you noticed was the fact that the seats were filling up, and quickly. Scurrying towards the closest open seat, you ended up next to a girl with unruly hair and a red and yellow tie. She smiled kindly at you as you sat down, and you returned the action before returning your eyes to the front of the room.

“Ordinary Wizarding Level Examinations, more commonly known as O.W.L.S.” The teacher spoke, seeming to punctuate every word of her sentence with a pause as the blackboard behind her wrote what she had spoken.

“Study hard, and you will be rewarded. Fail to do so, and the consequences may be, severe.” She smiled, a tight lipped sort of smile that let everyone know she was faking it. With a wave of her wand the stacks of books behind her began to float down the aisles, distributing themselves amongst the students.

“Your previous instruction on this subject has been, disturbingly, uneven.” You looked down as a book placed itself on your desk, pulling a face as you saw the cover and began to flip through it.

“But you’ll be pleased to know that from now on you’ll be following a carefully constructed, Ministry approved course of defensive magic.” The girl next you did the same, and raised her hand.

“Yes?” the professor called on her.

“There’s nothing in here about using defensive spells?” she said, the confusion evident in her voice and mirroring the confusion on everyone else’s faces.

“Using spells?” The professor laughed, walking closer towards your table. “Well I can’t imagine why you would need to use spells in my classroom!”

“We’re not gonna use magic?” a redhead boy piped up, turning the book over in his hands.

“You’ll be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way,” the professor replied, her annoyingly ‘girly’ voice already seeming to get on your nerves.

“Well what use is that?” A brunette boy who looked shockingly similar to Harry Potter asked. “If we’re going to be attacked it won’t be ‘risk free’.”

“Students will raise their hands when they speak in my class!” The professor said, her nerves evidently already frazzled as she raised her voice. The brunette boy sat back in his seat (No seriously. He could make money as a Harry look-alike) , obviously on edge as the professor took a moment to turn around and address the class again.

“It is the view of the ministry, that a theoretical knowledge would be sufficient to get you through your examinations which after all, is what school is all about.”

“And how are theories supposed to prepare us for what’s out there?” the brunette boy asked again, sharing a look with his table partner who had spoken up earlier.

“There is nothing out there dear,” the professor replied, and at this, you couldn’t hold back a scoff. The professor whipped her head in your direction, and a few classmates turned to look at you.

You looked up and swallowed thickly, your eyes meeting the professors. “I mean, I could be wrong, but wasn’t there a basilisk within the school a few years ago? That kind of seems like something ‘out there’.”

The professor stuttered, and a few eyes widened around the classroom. “Ex-cuse me?” she said, taking a step towards your desk.

“I’m just saying that there are certain undeniable dangers. Especially around this school, it seems.” You paused, hands fiddling with your robes under the table in a nervous habit that you hadn’t quite seemed to kick just yet.

“Lying, Miss Jones, will get you nowhere.” The professor fired back, a tight-lipped smile plastered on her face.

“She’s not lying,” the brunette fired back. “There are present dangers out in the world. Like, oh, I don’t know. Lord Voldemort.”

The entire class went silent at his comment, some turning to glare at him with barely disguised hatred and others suddenly finding their desks and books to be the most interesting thing in the room.

The professor, after taking a moment to recover of course, changed directions in order to walk towards the brunettes desk. “Now that, is a lie.” She replied in a dangerously low tone.

“Oh, so I suppose that Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord then?” he replied in an accusatory manner. Gasps rose up from the class, disgust now evident in most of your classmates faces.

“Cedric Diggory’s death was an unfortunate accident-”

“No it wasn’t! Voldemort killed him! I watched it -”

“That is enough Mr. Potter!” The professor yelled, losing her composure suddenly. The dead quiet settled over the class again as she smoothed down her skirt. “Potter, Jones, please see me for detention after classes today.” She said simply, before turning around and starting the days lesson as if the entire exchange had never occurred.

You sat at your desk, absolutely dumbfounded. You had had no intention of speaking up in class, much less saying something apparently so controversial that it warranted a detention. Yet here you were, in your now decidedly least favorite class with your most recently least favorite teacher. How did you manage to get yourself into these situations?

The brunette next to you looked over with a small look of sympathy whilst your fellow Slytherins shared a not so subtle haughty laugh in the corner of the room. You sunk low in your seat, making up your mind indefinitely that speaking in class was completely off the table now.

Thankfully, the class passed without any further altercations, and you nearly sighed with relief when it ended. You gathered up your items, shoving the new (and frankly quite stupid) DADA book into your bag and turning to make a beeline for the door.

The brunette who had offered her sympathy earlier in the class spoke before you could leave the desk though. “Thank you for speaking up. For Harry I mean. Not a lot of people would do that, especially now.”

You looked up, slightly confused. “What do you mean?”

She returned your look. “Did you not hear?”

“Hear about what?” The two of you had slowly made your way to Umbridge’s door, lest you incite her wrath twice in the same day.

The brunette was about to answer when the redhead who had spoken earlier wrapped his arm over her shoulder in a protective matter. “Is this Slytherin bothering you Hermione?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at you in what you assumed was his best glare (honestly it wasn’t very good).

You furrowed your eyebrows and took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” he stepped in front of Hermione and crossed his arms, “is this snake bothering you?”

“Oh honestly Ronald!” Hermione cried out from behind him, grabbing his arm and pushing him out of the classroom door. She threw an apologetic smile over her shoulder at you before turning back to Ron and smacking the back of his head.

You stifled a laugh at the look on his face and shook your head as you headed the opposing way down the corridor, not entirely paying attention to your surroundings as you double checked your schedule for the third time that day.

Moments later you were sprawled out on the corridor floor, having collided with two people who had apparently been running at breakneck speed. You groaned and picked yourself up to a sitting position, looking over at the other two boys currently thrown over one another. Great. More redheads.

Despite your better judgement, you gently kicked one of them with your foot after picking yourself fully up off of the floor. “Hey, are you guys alright?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fred and George were royally screwed. Fucked, if you will.

They hadn’t planned to quite literally body slam you in the corridors whilst running away from Filch after setting off dung bombs in his office, it had just. . . happened. And quite unfortunately, at that.

George rolled over and off of his brother as he felt your foot kick him, looking up at you with what he hoped to Merlin was a dashing smile as he suppressed whatever copious amounts of pain that he was feeling in that moment. “Barely, but I suppose we’ll manage. Right Freddie?” He asked, looking down at his brother who was still planted face first into the stone floor.

“Speak for yourself oh brother dearest,” he sarcastically replied as he peeled himself from the stone.

“Weasley’s!” Filch yelled from down the corridor, running full speed (or as well as he could) towards them, students wrinkling their noses in disgust and turning away as he passed them.

“And that,” Fred said, offering George a hand up, “would be our cue to leave.”

Both twins offered you crooked grins, George even going as far as saluting you, before they dashed off through the corridors, quite possibly traveling faster than they had when they’d ran into you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You watched them, thoroughly amused despite being tackled, and bent down to pick up the paper schedule that had fallen from your hands. As you reached down, you noticed a larger and much thicker parchment next to yours. You grabbed both and looked closer at the thicker parchment, watching with amazement as what seemed to be a map of the school faded away into nothing.

You looked back up at the boys just in time to see them turn a corner and disappear from sight. It appeared as though you’d have to return their tricky map to them another time.

Smiling at the thought of interacting with the chaotic individuals again, you headed off towards Divination.

Add yourself to my taglist here

#Harry Potter #dolores umbridge #fred weasley #george wealsey x reader #george weasley #fred weasley x reader #pansy parkinson #Draco Malfoy #weasleys wizard wheezes #weasley twins #fred and goerge weasley #Ron Weasley #Hermione Granger #dumbledore #minerva mcgonagall #snape

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pillage-and-lute · 4 years ago

Text

An Ever Fixed Mark (Part 9)

Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, (here) Part 10,

Read it on Ao3 HERE,

WARNING: Character injury as a major plot point. Lots of mentions of blood.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Roach’s hooves hit the dirt like hammers, scooping up great clods of earth with each beat. Her gait barely registered to Geralt as blood welled up underneath his hand. There was so much, too much. His lap was soaked, it ran over the saddle and down his trousers, staining his boots and roach’s sides. It mixed with the dust on the sides of the road to form horrible rust-colored clots barely visible in the dark.

And Jaskier.

Jaskier was dying, his face white, his eyes rolled back, almost closed. Geralt pressed his hand tighter to the wound on his husband’s thigh and pressed Jaskier to his chest with his other hand. He wasn’t riding with reins, he didn’t need them. Roach sensed his desperation, likely smelling his anguish and fear. He had to trust his horse and Jaskier...Jaskier would have to trust in him. In the distance, the lights of Oxenfurt glittered in the darkness.

------

They had been traveling back to Oxenfurt anyway. The summer was still feverishly hot and travel had been rough. Even with his newfound resolve to do right by his husband, Geralt’s temper had been fraying. He knew he’d been talking less, marinating in the heat and his own sweat. He knew it was annoying Jaskier, who kept trying to make conversation, but Geralt wasn’t well built for heat, and his black armor and clothing cooked him.

Jaskier had been complaining for days, too. There weren’t many settlements around for him to play in and the fields were too hot, the waterways too muggy, and the forests too oppressive. They slept in the open without a tent to avoid simply cooking in their sleep.

There had been a moment, though, not so bad as the others. A clearing in a forest, lush, but with plenty of shade, and Jaskier had looked so beautiful.

Geralt had been remaking some potions, teaching Jaskier the names of some of his less monstrous ingredients, pointing out what was good for salves, what was safe for humans, and so on.

Jaskier had held up a buttercup, root and all smiling at the little petals. “I knew they were poisonous, of course,” he said, stroking the root with his thumb. “But I never thought they could be useful.”

“Only this,” Geralt said, taking it from him and cutting the roof. “Sagebrush buttercup, the root is still poison, but combined with Moonmoss it’s okay enough for a witcher.”

“Not for humans, though.”

“No, still poison.”

Jaskier had toed off his boots and leaned against Geralt’s shoulder, picking the flower up again, rootless now, and twiddling it in his fingers. “Seems fitting,” he said at last, and put it behind his ear.

Geralt wasn’t great with words and those had been cryptic, but he felt like he was missing something important.

“Hmmm?” he asked. Jaskier was getting really good at understanding him anyway.

“A Jaskier, only okay enough for a witcher,” Jaskier said, smiling a little sadly at Geralt.

There was such an odd tone there, something more there. Like Jaskier truly thought he was only suited to...but down that road madness lay. It also lay in the way sweat made Jaskier’s cheeks shimmer in the dappled sunlight.

“Why are you Jaskier?” Geralt asked, going back to grinding the roots with the flat of his blade. It could have been phrased better, but Jaskier understood.

“It seems a little silly now, but when I was about ten or so I was rather melodramatic,” Jaskier said, ducking his head.

“Hmm,” Geralt said.

“I felt...so alone. There was just no one who seemed like me. Father thought music and poetry and anything except hunting, fistfights, money and war were silly. I annoy people,” he tilted his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder. “I annoyed you at first. Still do sometimes. --It’s okay,” he said, cutting off Geralt before he could hum his dissent. “I seemed to be a burden and a pain to everyone, something fleeting in their lives. I felt like a buttercup, fine to see in passing on the side of a road, but bad in a pasture, poisonous to eat, of no use to anyone and likely to get crushed by a boot.”

“The boot in question being your father?” Geralt said, setting aside his crushed roots and beginning to shred the Moonmoss, horrible, slimy pale stuff, between his fingers.

Jaskier knocked their heads together gently. “Congratulations, Geralt. You navigated an extended metaphor. Anyway, it was a little melodramatic, but so am I, so it stuck, at least in my mind.”

“I think it’s better than Julian,” Geralt said, scooping his moss and root mixture into the boiling pot.

“Me too,” Jaskier said, quietly.

Around them, a light summer rain had started, sprinkles and mist, mostly, but in the deep shade it was almost chilly, even to Geralt. Jaskier picked up his lute and played a pleasant tune for a while, fingers light on the strings. Geralt let his concoction bubble before pouring it into one of his Brimstone Glass vials. He examined the way the light hit the bottle, making slightly more of a show of it so that Jaskier might notice.

Dinner was cold rations, a hot meal being too hot, even in this pleasant respite. They’d picked up dark rye bread in the last town and were eating it with a paste of late-season wild garlic. Jaskier began eating but he shivered and said “Geralt, could you be my hero and pass me the doublet.”

Geralt pretended his whole body didn’t tingle whenever Jaskier called him a hero. He didn’t need to ask which doublet. Jaskier had plenty, but the doublet, that was the basilisk leather. Geralt held it out and took Jaskier’s bread as he slid the doublet on. Passing the bread back to Jaskier when both sleeves were fully on his arms.

The rain picked up, still pleasant compared to the heat, but Jaskier and Geralt stood, Jaskier holding his bread in his mouth, and packed up those parts of their camp that would suffer from the rain.

“Do you see--” Jaskier asked, just as Geralt handed him his lute oil.

“Is the--” Geralt said, interupted by Jaskier handing him the hoof knife he’d been searching for.

“Do you think--” Jaskier began.

“The horses will be fine, should we--”

“Yeah, keep the tent packed away, the bedrolls--”

“Will be fine if we lay them on grass instead of mud,” Geralt finished. Then he realized how close he was standing to Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” he said, reaching out for the raindrop quivering on his husbands cheek. “I--”

Jaskier fell to the ground with a cry.

There was a crossbow bolt in his leg and already blood was wetting the forest floor.

The bandits were dead in seconds. They’d likely only seen a well-dressed noble, all alone. They’d never expected something like Geralt.

Anger and panic and dreadful fear all fought for dominance as Geralt dispatched the luckless thugs. The fear was icy cold in his veins. Whatever evil, dark coldness had first driven humans to create fire filled his blood.

There was fire as well. Fury and anguish rose in him like great tides of flame. It was like the Trials all over again, he was being burned from the inside out, being remade until something new lived in him.

He stepped over bodies without a second glance, boots leaving bloody prints on the ground, soon to be washed away.

Jaskier was curled by Roach, hands clutching at the wound in his thigh and surrounded by scarlet.

Geralt left Thunderbolt, Jaskier’s horse, tied in the clearing, Roach never needed tethering and sprang to his command. In his arms, Jaskier bled. They were so close to Oxenfurt.

They had to make it.

------

That had been then. Now, the lights of the city blazed in Geralt’s sight and he cursed himself and everything else.

Jaskier was cold in his arms.

Before he had twitched or grunted, sometimes, horribly, he’d cried out at being jostled. He was still now, and too cold. His human heart was beating slowly, slower now than Geralt’s. But he had to live. He just had to. Jaskier had to live because...

Because Geralt loved him. Wholeheartedly and without reservation Geralt loved Jaskier, was so in love with him that it had clouded his judgement.

He’d been about to say as much, about to tell Jaskier the truth, when his husband had been struck down.

Geralt loathed Destiny, but he knew too much to deny her existence. This had been a judgement.

Geralt knew what life he led, he knew his Path, had known that humans couldn’t walk it. And he’d brought Jaskier anyway. This was punishment for falling in love and not leaving Jaskier safely in Oxenfurt like he’d planned from the start.

The basilisk doublet flapped around Jaskier like a shroud. Had Geralt really thought it was enough? A single, simple doublet? Had he intended to fight cold and hunger and sickness with the swords he strapped to his back? Had he planned on fighting Destiny herself to keep Jaskier safe?

If Geralt could have struck Destiny down he would have.

The doublet hadn’t even kept Jaskier safe from the crossbow bolt. It was still embedded in his thigh, a terrible reminded as Geralt staunched the bloodflow. It hadn’t been enough. Geralt might as well have killed Jaskier himself.

Jaskier’s father would certainly say that he had. Witchers would be hunted. There’d be a war and people would die all because Geralt had fallen in love. He’d been selfish and kept Jaskier at his side, luxuriating in praise and a pair of beautiful eyes. Dreaming that he could have love instead of leaving Jaskier in Oxenfurt where he was safe.

Geralt was taking Jaskier to Oxenfurt now, he only hoped his husband would still be alive when they got there.

Roach’s hooves rang on cobblestone as the first vestiges of the city flew past. Geralt flew into the city, louder than a rumor and faster than a plague. His eyes sought the telltale signs of magic, glowing gold and fighting to see in the darkness and the rain.

His love was going to die. He was so still against Geralt’s chest he was never still.

Geralt prayed. He hadn’t prayed since the Trials. Even then, that hadn’t really been a prayer, that had just been a scared little boy screaming for somebody, anybody, to make it stop.

Geralt prayed to every god he could think of. He wracked his brains as Roach ran through the city, trying to remember who was the god of poetry. Jaskier had been magic, a poet who could talk to the dead, such a person couldn’t just die this way. Geralt made an appeal to Justice, who he didn’t believe in.

Jaskier is good. He begged. He deserves to live.

Take me instead.

Geralt’s eyes, moving in a far different plane than his mind, saw what he’d been looking for.

Smoke. There. Green smoke, nearly invisible against the darkness and the rain. It curled up from the chimney of a building, poorly built and leaning out into the street but Geralt knew there was magic inside.

He jumped from Roach, not taking the time to slow her down. His boots skidded on the cobblestones but he ran to the door, shifting Jaskier to one arm and knocking to wake the gods.

“Healer!” he screamed. “We need a healer!” His hand slammed the rusted knocker down like thunder.

“Please!” he was crying without tears, his voice taking a desperate and thin edge. “Please, we need a healer!”

The door was swung open without ceremony and Geralt barged inside. There was a workbench with scrolls across it but Geralt swept them off, laying Jaskier onto the wood like an offering at an altar.

The mage, placed a delicate hand on his chest and pushed him back.

He followed, feeling numb. The addrenaline was fighting his system, the fear of the ride stopped dead because there was nothing more he could do.

That was the worst part. There was nothing more he could do. Geralt sank against the wall in the corner of the room, his heart racing and his mind achingly blank.

Some small part of him realized that Jaskier’s feet were bare. He’d left his boots back at camp.

The mage was flowing magic over Jaskier in waves. It gathered in a purple mist over his wound, mixing unpleasantly with the blood.

“Pick up those scrolls,” snapped the mage, who didn’t look at him.

Geralt did, his body moving without input from his battered soul. His fingers smoothed yellowed parchment and curled it back up into neat tubes.

“He’ll need paying for,” said the mage, hands poised over Jaskier as her magic slithered.

“Name your price.”

“I don’t want coin.”

Geralt gritted his teeth, watching the magic pull the bolt from Jaskier’s thigh. “Name. Your. Price.”

“What if I ask for your name as payment?” the mage said, not looking at him.

“I’ll give it to you.”

“And if I ask for your life?”

“You can have it.”

She hummed. Geralt knew it was a habit of his own but it set his teeth on edge.

“What if I ask for that?” she said.

She was pointing to Jaskier’s mother’s ring, the opal glittering on his finger.

“It’s not mine to barter, but for his life, I’m sure he’d understand,” Geralt said.

“Luckily for you I’m not interested in trinkets.”

“What do you ask?” Geralt said, fed up with the games. Whatever perfume the mage was wearing was making his head spin too, it was nice, fruity and clean, but too heady for his heightened senses.

“I want a baby,” the mage said, levelling stunning purple eyes on him.

Geralt’s mind reeled. “I can’t give you one.”

The mage sighed. “I know,” she growled, yanking her magic as it swirled. She snatched up a jar of something dreadful and began to smear it.

“Even if I promise you my first born,” Geralt said. “It’ll never happen.”

“I know that, witcher.” She spat it like a curse, but Geralt got the feeling that her issue was not with his profession.

“Witchers come by children by the law of surprise,” he said, watching the salve sizzle on Jaskier’s skin and wincing.

“I want my own.”

Geralt scoffed, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s leg as it started to ooze.

The mage whirled to face him, her hand coming up and slapping him before even his witcher reflexes could stop it.

“Go,” the mage snapped, eyes flashing. “I don’t want your derision.”

“But Jaskier--”

“Won’t be helped by you,” the mage snarled. “Go do something useful and come back when you’re ready to pay up.”

“With a baby?”

“I’ll think on payment,” she said, magic turning Geralt’s feet for him. “Leave.”

The door slammed behind him.

Geralt stood on the cobblestones, water soaking through his boots, meeting Roach’s gentle gaze. He stroked her muzzle, feeling the velvet against his palm.

Jaskier’s feet were still bare, he thought. Mind too tired and broken to even bother with baby-wanting mages. Jaskier’s boots were at camp.

Geralt rode there and back, before dawn. He’d been able to pack everything up and find stables and lodgings without ever actually thinking of anything except Jaskier.

Jaskier’s cold, bare feet. Jaskier’s closed eyes. Jaskier’s blood all over their campsite and Geralts clothes. Jaskier’s lute, tucked away safely in it’s case an unfamiliar weight on Geralt’s shoulder.

Jaskier’s eyes as Geralt had almost said I love you.

That thought, as Geralt stood outside the mage’s door again, still bloody and clutching Jaskier’s boots in one hand, finally broke through the haze.

Geral was in love with Jaskier.

The mage had asked for his life, his name, and he’d agreed without even having to think.

Geralt didn’t just love that Jaskier was beautiful, or that he adored Geralt. Geralt loved Jaskier, whole and simple. He loved that he slept like an octopus, he loved that he hated mint. He loved that Jaskier loved poetry. He loved him.

It seemed to be carrying over into everything else, and had been for some time without Geralt even realizing it. Geralt loved music now. He loved poetry. He loved sleeping curled besided someone else. He loved buttercups.

His buttercup was lying somewhere inside the mage’s house, maybe dying. Maybe dead. Because of Geralt. It was Geralt’s fault.

He knocked on the door.

It opened at the first tap.

The mage was there, but Jaskier was nowhere to be found. Geralt’s head whipped around, panic rising in his throat.

“Stop,” the mage said calmly. “He’s in bed upstairs.”

“Is he--”

“He may live. He may not. Anything now is up to him.”

“I want to see him.”

“I want payment.”

Geralt growled. “I didn’t bring a baby with me.”

The mage pouted at him infuriatingly, violet eyes laughing. “Obviously not. I considered what you said.”

“What?”

“About the Law of Surprise.”

“You said you wanted a baby of your own.”

The mage sighed. “I want the choice.”

“You don’t get that choice.”

Her gaze narrowed dangerously. “Do you think I don’t know that? I want to be whole.”

“A womb won’t make you whole. It doesn’t make someone a mother either.”

The mage’s eyes flashed and she stepped forward dangerously but Geralt was simply out of emotion.

“My mother gave me up to be made a mutant. She had a womb but what kind of mother does that. His father,” Geralt gestured upstairs to where he assumed Jaskier was. “Gave him up in the hopes he’d be slaughtered. He may be the reason Jaskier was born, but he’s not a father.”

“I want the choice,” the mage said stubbornly.

“You still have the choice to be a mother,” Geralt said. “Some mothers end up with children and don’t get a say in that so go...adopt some kid.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Geralt scrubbed his hand over his, frankly, filthy face. “I don’t have the energy for that. Look...what’s your name?”

“Yennefer.”

“Yennefer, decide on payment - not a baby- so I can give it to you and see my, my bard.”

“I’m claiming the law of surprise.”

Geralt blinked at her blearily. She was exceptionally beautiful, but she was also in the way of seeing Jaskier. “That’s only if you save my life.”

“Then I’m claiming it from him.”

Geralt didn’t have it in him to argue. Destiny had heard the claim. Whatever good luck Jaskier saw next was hers.

Geralt walked slowly up the rickety stairs, heart sitting low and heavy in his stomach. He paused at a door, hearing a heartbeat beyond. It was Jaskiers. It came as a surprise to Geralt that he could recognize it so readily, but he knew it as well as his own.

It was thready and thin right now, though, and Geralt hesitated. Moments of their time flashed before his eyes, meeting Jaskier, how beautiful he’d looked in his wedding attire, him threatening thugs with a fish knife, him talking to the dead. And he lay on the brink of death in the next room. Could Geralt actually bear to see him like that?

Geralt would probably never forgive himself for a lot of things, including bringing Jaskier with him in the first place, but if he left him now...no.

Geralt walked into the room and knelt beside the bed. Watery dawn light filtered through the window, across Jaskier’s pale face. It was much too pale. The past weeks of sunlight and freckles seemed to have been erased from him, making him much more the man Geralt had met at Chateau Lettenhove, and less the man he’d come to love.

Geralt washed his hands and face in the washbasin in the room. He still felt grimy, even with his hands scrubed raw, but he knelt at the side of the bed and took one lute-calloused hand in both of his.

Whatever happened next, whichever way Jaskier was tipped on the scales of life and death, Geralt would be with Jaskier when it happened.

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Tag List! Some of these don’t work well, let me know!

@llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar @aziz-the-fangirl @mordoriscalling @bastardofmothman @negativenuggetz @morte-mistrata @ailorian @hayleynzlive @filledepluie @bygodstillam @sociowithatardisachevyandawand@faery-god @honeysuckletook @theflurtifly @saibowtie @werevampiwolf @frywen-babbles @the-kewlest @innocentbi-stander @1stbonesfan @aqueenrisesintheeast @toothhurtyam @marauders-fan-account @ineffable-lasagna @limevodka @rocknrollphanda @seralyra @permanently-exhausted-witcher @aj-itated @watchthewolvesfall @00qtea @the-blondey @birds-of-forgiveness @westmoor @abstractartwithoutpaint @darkonesdagger7437 @onwardsandfourwords @underwaterattribute @whenrainbowsend @goldbvtton @little-piece-of-tamlin @in-love-with-writing002 @flustratedcas @fontegagrilledcheese @so--many-fandoms @kirk-spock-in-the-impala @oniongrass @flowercrown-bard @maya-the-yellow-bee @comfyswitcherblanketfort @wellthisstinks @thenameislion-dandelion @flowercrown-bard @obsessedchildsworld @debellatis @zotinha456 @tumbleweedtech @goblin-loves-shiny-things @birdsflyhome @holymotherwolf @the-shenny-of-azkaban @darkangel91939 @enkelikauneus @saphiramalbec @silvermirror1997 @just-a-himbo-and-his-feral-bard @iamaqt314 @itsthelittlethingsnlife @oneshots-galore @inikokoru @gryffinqueen @anythinggoesfandoms @artemisthehuntress @pomegranatebitch @nuitarius @ub-sessed @tookarma @spearmint-honk @nicelytousled @wingirl2015 @live-long-and-trek-on @kingcitywitch @flowrhippieprincess @oneshots-galore @laughingatlivedragons @letmereadplease @annafortoday @dapperanachronism @jaybeefoxy @gods-no-longer-tread-here @flustratedcas @nbspaceboy @comorbid-corvid @ellwren @red-wasabi89 @ouradarablelove @chanonce

#the witcher #geraskier #arranged marriage au #major character injury #geralt finally figured out some feelings #but oh no!#there's drama!#Jaskier #Geralt of Rivia #Yennefer #appearing for the first time

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aidanchaser · 3 years ago

Text

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero @magic713m @ccboomer @aubsenroute @somebodyswatson

Chapter Sixteen Harry Alone

The lake was freezing — well, that was an exaggeration because the lake was not frozen over yet — but Harry was colder than he’d ever been in his life. Azkaban had to be warmer than this.

He didn’t have a choice other than to bathe at night, and he worried about what he would do when the lake did freeze over. Staying clean was crucial to his survival. As helpful as the Invisibility Cloak was at hiding him, it did not obscure his scent.

Two weeks ago, Harry had nearly been caught by Snatchers who had been certain that someone was hiding nearby. He’d managed to Confund them, but it had been a close call. He had been careful to wash daily since then, no matter how cold it got.

Harry pulled himself back onto land and used his wand to dry off and remove any mud before dressing again. He couldn’t help but wish he had Hermione’s exceptional Flame Charms for warmth, even though wishing for that hurt.

In these last few weeks, Harry had grown unfortunately familiar with loneliness in a way he had never truly understood before. Even the times he had once felt alone, like during the Triwizard tournament, or in detention with Umbridge, or when he had learned about the prophecy, paled in comparison to this.

He had no parents to turn to, no friends to lean on, not even a professor to at least listen to him. He was well and truly alone.

He supposed he could talk to Ginny, but he had been afraid to reach out to her. He was still unsure how to explain to her that he had left Ron and Hermione. At least, he didn’t know how to explain it in a way that she would understand.

Harry pulled the Cloak over him, for both protection and the small bit of warmth it provided, and ducked into the shelter of a willow tree that hung over the edge of the small lake.

Soon it would be dawn, and the streets of London would come to life. He had learned to be ready for his day before the sun rose.

By the light of his wand, Harry dug into his tightly packed rucksack and pulled out parchment, ink, and the thickest book in his small library: A Compendium of Codes of Conduct for the Career Auror.

It was also the least interesting book in Harry’s collection, so he didn’t feel terrible about using it as a surface to scribble out a quick letter:

Cedric —

This is the last time I’ll try to reach you. Just tell me everything’s okay. Meet me at the small cottage on the lake tonight.

— Harry

Harry didn’t know if Cedric would find a way to reply, but he was growing desperate and running out of options.

These last few weeks Harry had been on the hunt for two things: information about where the cup might be hidden, and a source of cockatrice blood or basilisk venom to destroy the diadem. Cedric was still key in his plan to find the cup, though Harry was beginning to lose hope that he would ever get a reply. As for destroying the diadem, he would get his mother’s help with that.

Harry muttered his half of the incantation to Obscure his note to Cedric and folded it into the shape of a Ministry memo. He missed Hedwig, but it wouldn’t do for her to deliver this note to Cedric in front of the entire Ministry on his way to work. She was probably much safer and happier with Ginny at Hogwarts.

The stab of loneliness that came with missing both Hedwig and Ginny hurt worse than remembering Hermione’s adept flame charms, but he was growing used to brushing the pain off. He shoved the thick tome back into his bag and double-checked that he had left no evidence of his presence in his hiding spot.

He never cooked food, lest the smell attract attention. He never even bothered to set up shelter or even a bedroll. It was one thing to use spells to hide a campsite in the country; it was another to hide a tent in a city, especially on the doorstep of the Ministry of Magic. The Invisibility Cloak covered him while he slept, and his own Non-Flammable Flames provided just enough warmth to keep him alive, and that had to be enough. Besides, he had tucked the diadem into his bedroll back at the campsite with Hermione and Ron, and Harry had no interest in pulling it out until he was ready to destroy it.

The only clue that someone had been here was the depression in the earth where he had slept. He did his best to kick around the mud and vegetation to obscure it. It at least looked less like the impression of a person when he was done.

The Cloak served as perfect protection as long as Harry avoided large crowds. That was harder to do during the usual commuting hours of the morning, but if he could get to a hidden spot or vantage point before the hustle and bustle began, he could pass the morning undetected.

He left the park he had taken to sleeping in, jumped out of the way of an early morning cyclist, and crossed the street to the white stone buildings. He had gotten quite good at keeping the Cloak around him as he climbed railings, buildings, and trees, but it wasn’t a perfect practice. He checked to make sure that no one was paying much attention and hoisted himself into his chosen lookout then double-checked that the Cloak completely covered him.

Today, Harry had settled on a window ledge that gave him a decent view of the Ministry entrance. It was not the most comfortable of his hiding places, but it was out of the way of the crowds and it would provide him a good opportunity to see members of the Order as they came and went.

Harry had been watching the Ministry ever since he’d left Ron and Hermione. It hadn’t been all of his plan, exactly, when he’d left. He certainly hadn’t included in his goodbye-note that he would be spending his time in London, but they had to have guessed it was where he would be. The only reason they hadn’t come to the Ministry together was because it was too great of a risk. Harry understood that, and had no desire to put Hermione, Ron, or the Weasley family at risk, but if the risk was all on him? That wasn’t so bad.

Not that his risk had gotten him very far. In his month of observation, he had seen the Prewetts, the Longbottoms, Arthur Weasley, and Cedric Diggory, all coming into work. He had hoped that he could find a way to contact someone the Order for information about his parents or about Bellatrix Lestrange and Pyrites, but so far, he hadn’t had any success.

Harry had, a few times, slipped notes into Cedric’s pockets. He had started as subtly as he could, with Switching Spells to get them into Cedric’s bag, but when he received no reply, it occurred to Harry that blank parchment in a bag wasn’t terribly unusual. So Harry had tried slipping notes into Cedric’s pockets. He had used his wand at first, but when he still received no reply, he was more direct. He had used the very limited supply of Polyjuice Potion that he had on hand to transform his appearance. Then he had bumped into Cedric and made sure that he dropped the notes directly into Cedric’s pockets.

Still, Harry had received no reply. Today, Harry was going to make sure that Cedric not only received the note, but he was going to watch Cedric open it. Maybe it was an unnecessary risk, and he should probably have cut his losses and tried for the Longbottoms after leaving notes in Cedric’s pockets had failed, but he was desperate.

He wasn’t just desperate for information on Bellatrix Lestrange and Pyrites. Even if the notes to other members of the Order might not be as protected as his code with Cedric was, it was an option he ought to have explored sooner. Harry wanted information to help him find the cup, but more than that, he wanted to prove to himself that Dumbledore had been wrong about Cedric. He needed to know that Cedric had not abandoned him.

Harry shifted uncomfortably on the small stone ledge. One of the things he had hoped to find by striking out on his own was peace of mind. Being alone meant that would not be putting his friends at risk, and that he would not have to argue in circles with Ron and Hermione. He had discovered, however, that it was just as easy to argue in circles with himself, and that was a far more futile exercise.

Harry had reviewed the facts so frequently that he could recite them in his sleep: Dumbledore had not approved of Harry writing letters to Cedric, Dumbledore had warned Harry about trusting someone so close to the Ministry, and Dumbledore had left Cedric out of the will. Harry wanted to believe those decisions were wrong, but, as far as Harry could tell, Cedric had abandoned the Horcrux hunt.

The counter arguments, though smaller in number, were more powerful to Harry. He always reminded himself of the evening he and Cedric had spent in the grove of Styncon Garden, picking mulberries. Cedric had made him promise that he would not face Voldemort alone, and Harry could not believe that Cedric had not meant it.

The more Harry recited this argument with himself, the more Harry found that he actually missed Hermione telling him to forget about Cedric and to focus on the Horcruxes. She would have, at the very least, broken up the monotony of his own thoughts.

As the morning traffic rush began to fill the streets of London, Harry sat up straighter. He watched the people going up and down the street and paid close attention to those headed towards the Ministry’s hidden entrance. It wasn’t long before he saw Cedric and, unfortunately, Cedric wasn’t alone.

Cedric and Christian did not always arrive at the Ministry together nor always leave together, which Harry was grateful for. He had not yet taken the risk of trying to plant a note on Cedric while Cedric was with Christian, and Harry second-guessed his plan. He could always try again in the evening, and hope to catch Cedric alone.

His hand tightened around the parchment. No, he knew that, despite the risk, he couldn’t wait. It had been weeks of trying to make progress in the Horcrux hunt, and he had nothing to show for it. Desperation was overwhelmingly powerful motivation.

“Locomotor Note,” Harry whispered, and the memo slipped out from under his Cloak. It fluttered a few feet down and caught Cedric in the shoulder just as he and Christian passed beneath Harry’s ledge.

Cedric turned to see what had tapped against him and watched the parchment fall to the pavement.

“What is it?” Christian stopped as Cedric picked up the note and unfolded it.

He looked over the blank parchment, checked the back, then looked around for where it might have come from. He made a point of checking behind the columns at the building’s entrance, but there was no way for him to notice Harry, sitting in plain sight beneath the Cloak.

Cedric frowned and looked down at the parchment again. “It’s another one of those blank sheets.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “I told you that you should let Anne take a look at them. She’s got nothing else to do all day.”

“Oh, she’d love to know you said that.” Cedric laughed. “Besides, I’m sure I can figure out what they are.”

“You said that last week. And the week before.”

“Obviously whoever’s sending them thinks I can figure it out, or it wouldn’t have been sent to me.” Cedric looked over the parchment one more time before folding it up and tucking it into his cloak. “Would you believe me if I said that I think it has something to do with Quidditch?”

Christian shook his head, and they moved too far off for Harry to hear the rest of their conversation.

Harry resisted the urge to bang his head against the window, which would certainly startle whoever was in the office behind his hiding spot.

At least now he knew that Cedric had been getting the notes, even if he hadn’t read them. But Harry didn’t understand why. If he had stumbled across a very obvious blank note, his first though would be to test the incantation that he and Cedric used to conceal their ink. Perhaps Cedric had tried their couplet on the other notes, but the spell had worn off somehow?

But that was a rubbish thought. Harry had checked the ink just yesterday. He’d recited both halves of the incantation, and the ink in the bottle had disappeared and reappeared, just as it was supposed to.

It seemed, short of revealing himself to Cedric directly, Harry would have to find another way to get the information he needed from the Ministry. That could be tomorrow’s task. Today, he was determined to destroy the diadem.

But until the morning rush died down, it was impossible to leave his ledge, so he closed his eyes and waited.

Harry didn’t sleep properly anymore; every part of him was constantly on alert — for Snatchers, Death Eaters, or even Muggle police. The Cloak could not protect him if he moved and it slipped off of him. He missed the safety of the tent with Ron and Hermione, their protective charms that had served them well out in the countryside, and the safety of numbers, of knowing someone you trusted could watch your back while you slept.

And, perched here on this ledge, it was hard to doze off much at all with Big Ben chiming every quarter of an hour.

So he didn’t sleep, but he rested as best as he could until the commuter crowds had thinned out enough that he could safely hop down. He had a small window before the tourist crowds really picked up to move to a new spot, or he really would be stuck on that ledge all day. It had happened once before, and he had had to spend an entire day sitting on the podium of a statue of some important Muggle until well after the evening commute had died down, when he’d finally been able to climb down without bumping against any Muggles. At least if the Cloak slipped while he moved, the Muggles never gave his hiding spots more than a puzzled second glance before returning to their business.

Despite the Invisibility Cloak draped around his shoulders, Harry still pressed himself up against the wall as two wizards dressed in deep burgundy hurried up the street towards the Ministry. He’d learned to recognise the weak Muggle disguises of those in the Muggle-born Registration Commission as easily as the Muggle police uniforms. It helped that they always wore burgundy in the same shade as their cloaks, as if it were a source of pride that they refused to shed. He had seen more than one witch or wizard dragged into the Ministry even as they had insisted that they had a magical ancestor in their family tree. Harry had tripped up the M.R.C. wizards when he could, to give those witches and wizards time to run, but he had been afraid to do much more and risk his own capture.

Once the red-clad wizards had disappeared into the Ministry entrance, Harry hurried up the street and towards the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn’t a long walk, though Harry often took circuitous routes, turning a half-mile trip into one or two miles, just in case. It was the sort of paranoia he thought Mad-Eye would be proud of.

The Leaky Cauldron, though, was not Harry’s real destination. He only used it to get into Diagon Alley, and, when he could, get some food.

More often than not, he could swipe a scone or a piece of toast from a table as he passed. He felt guilty about stealing, but there were few places to get free food in London, and his supply of Galleons was already growing thin.

Besides food, however, the Leaky Cauldron had one other important feature: newspaper stands. Harry not only pocketed unwatched food, but he had also gotten into the habit of snatching the paper each day as well. He felt less bad about stealing that. It wasn’t as if the Prophet deserved any of his gold.

After slipping through the Leaky Cauldron and into Diagon Alley, Harry’s pockets were filled with two bread rolls, a scone, and a rare prize: a hot buttery potato. It leaked into his jeans uncomfortably, but it was nothing a spell couldn’t clean up.

Once Harry had crossed into Diagon Alley, he usually took one of two paths: either find a hidden corner in Knockturn Alley or see if there was a reserved table at Rosa Lee’s. Reserved tables were nice, because they often sat empty for twenty minutes to an hour, giving him plenty of time to eat and browse the paper.

After facing both the risk of reaching out to Cedric and the pain of how badly it had failed, however, Harry did not feel brave enough to slip into a tea shop and seat himself at an empty table. He headed, instead, for Knockturn Alley. It was where he needed to end up, anyway.

Knockturn Alley was full of hidden nooks and crannies, perfect places for wizards who did not want to be found. It was also ideal for Snatchers, but Harry had found that as long as he stayed clean and didn’t snore, Snatchers weren’t bright enough to look for much else. In their defence, they probably didn’t come across many runaway Muggle-borns with Invisibility Cloaks.

Harry found an empty space between The Spiny Serpent and Moribund’s and settled in with the Prophet and his breakfast. He would still have to keep alert and make sure that no one else also looked in and thought this empty spot would make a nice hideaway, but for now he was as safe as he could be.

He had grown unfortunately familiar with seeing his own face on the cover of the Daily Prophet. If he was lucky, some other headline might take priority, like last week, when they had announced the cancellation of the Quidditch World Cup. Though upon reading the article, Harry had learned that the real story was only that some league administrations were discussing the possibility of canceling the World Cup, in light of the sudden rise of tragedies occurring throughout the magical community of Europe.

Today, though, his face was front and center. The article did nothing but speculate about what Harry Potter might be up to next, and offered some rumours that he had been spotted in Cardiff. Harry always read the articles closely, in hopes that sightings of him might actually be sightings of his father. But he never knew how much to believe of the Prophet, nor how much to hope that his father had escaped the Death Eaters.

He had not had any more dreams of Voldemort torturing his father, which Harry trusted was a good sign. Instead, his dreams were filled with the thief who had stolen something from Gregorovitch. Harry was terrified to think too heavily on these dreams, lest his knowledge of the thief’s true identity bleed into Voldemort’s mind, but he was no closer to knowing what Voldemort truly wanted than he was to finding Hufflepuff’s cup.

At least, even if he didn’t have the cup, he had a plan to destroy the diadem. Harry shoved the Daily Prophet into his bag and exchanged it for the hand-written book his parents had gifted him for his sixteenth birthday, which happened to be his favourite book from his small library.

He opened to the section on Potions and flipped through his mother’s recipes and notes until he reached the recipe he had pored over the most since receiving this gift: the Wolfsbane Potion.

It was the one recipe he was most interested in, not only because it was exceptionally detailed, but it was the one potion he had wanted to brew since childhood. He still hadn’t done it himself yet, only helped his mother a few times last year, but he’d studied it frequently. And, even while he was on the run, he had found himself returning to it, especially in the days leading up to the full moon. It helped him feel connected to his family.

He was familiar with what went into the Wolfsbane Potion — everything from aconite to powdered silver — and had never paid much attention to the ingredients part. Mostly, Harry worked to memorise every detail of the instructions. But the other night, he had noticed an odd annotation to the ingredients list. Lily had written, beside each ingredient, special preparation instructions. Next to powdered silver, she’d written the incantation for efficiently turning sickles into powder. She’d marked that Jobberknoll feathers needed to be shed at the full moon. She’d also noted that it was best to pick Wolfsbane at the new moon, and she had instructions for properly preserving the flowers and roots. Next to those instructions, however, was a note that Harry hadn’t understood. She’d written “Kn-14A.”

It wasn’t a measurement that Harry was aware of. It wasn’t an ingredient that went in with the Wolfsbane, or some variant strain of it, as far as he knew from watching Lily and James make the potion at each full moon. And though his mother had gone through the recipe with him when they had brewed it last summer, she hadn’t mentioned anything about Kn-14A.

Yesterday, however, when he had ducked into the alley near Borgin and Burkes to avoid a Snatcher, he had noticed the shop number: 13B.

Kn-14A wasn’t a set of instructions related to brewing the Wolfsbane Potion; it was where to find ingredients.

Harry finished the potato, but decided to save the bread and scone. Food was no easier to come by in the city than it had been in the countryside, so he had maintained the rationing strategies he had gotten used to while traveling with Ron and Hermione.

He squeezed the bread into his very full pack and, not for the first time, wished that he had asked Hermione to show him how to use the Undetectable Extension. He reached into the side-pocket for the flask of Polyjuice Potion and shook it. He had maybe one use left. Was this worth it?

If Harry was going to get more information on Bellatrix Lestrange or Pyrites, he might need to get into the Ministry. The Invisibility Cloak wouldn’t protect him from Secrecy Sensors. His best bet would be Polyjuice Potion.

He reached back into his bag and pulled out the Daily Prophet.

How much did he still look like himself, really? His scar was hidden behind his hair, which had grown out considerably, and his face was partially obscured by the beard that had slowly grown in over this last month. Shaving had not been on Harry’s priority list. He could Transfigure his hair colour, but even then, the glasses would be a dead give away.

He took off his specs and squinted into Diagon Alley. Without them, He wouldn’t be able to read any bottle labels. He looked down at the blurry frames in his hands and had an idea. It was either the stupidest thing he had ever thought of or the most genius. He supposed he wouldn’t know until it was done.

He tapped his wand against his glasses and muttered the incantation for a Disillusionment Charm. He focused on the frames and not the glass, since he still needed to be able to see through the glass. The thick, dark frames dissolved away, though he could still feel them in his hand. He put the newly obscured frames back on and used his reflection in the two-way mirror to help him turn his hair dark red. Finally, he held the Prophet up beside the mirror. It wasn’t as good as a Polyjuice Potion, but it was better than nothing.

Reluctantly, and with his heart thudding against his chest, he removed the Invisibility Cloak.

He half-expected Voldemort to appear out of thin air and attack him, or a Snatcher or Ministry employee to point him out. But no one paid him any mind. No one seemed interested in the lanky, disheveled young man tucked away in a corner of Knockturn Alley. He supposed there were different kinds of ways to be invisible.

He took in a deep breath, and headed up the street. He kept his hand on his wand and his head down. Fortunately, Knockturn Alley wasn’t a place known for its friendly patrons, and no one gave him a second glance. Still, he felt overwhelming relief when he arrived, unaccosted, at Shyverwretch’s Venoms and Poisons.

There were no windows looking into Shyverwretch’s. Whether that was to protect the patrons or the products, Harry couldn’t say. But he had come this far, so he might as well see this plan through. He placed a hand on the door and pushed.

The shop bell made him jump, and he closed the door hastily behind him.

The room was dimly lit, which Harry was grateful for. It wasn’t much bigger than a cupboard, though, and if Harry wasn’t certain he had just entered from Knockturn Alley, he might have worried that he’d stumbled into someone’s private pantry. Shelves lined the wall from floor to ceiling, stocked with small bottles of dark glass. None of the bottles were labeled, but each of the shelves were marked with a series of numbers and letters. Harry supposed that people who bought poisons did not want to advertise their purchases, but that meant he would have to ask the shopkeeper for help.

Not two feet from the door was a small shop counter with a glass case that contained some of the more opulent bottles. Behind the case stood an elderly wizard holding a mortar and pestle. He had no hair, but did have a long, wispy beard that brushed against the glass. His sharp eyes were focused on Harry.

Harry swallowed. “Er — morning.”

The elderly man said nothing.

Harry cleared his throat and lowered the pitch of his voice, hoping he would sound older. “A friend told me you sell poisons.”

He let out a wheezy laugh and set the mortar and pestle aside. “I imagine my sign did as well.”

Harry’s ears burned and his heart raced. “Yeah, it helped. She said you have — er — aconite?” Harry wasn’t sure which name was most appropriate or least suspicious.

“What date of harvest do you need?”

“Oh — no, actually I’m looking for something a bit harder to come by.”

“You’re interested in the seeds? I’ve sold them before, but it’s a special order —”

“No — er — you don’t happen to have any cockatrice blood do you?”

The elderly man stared at Harry, and when Harry did not elaborate, he wheezed again and doubled over in laughter. The laughter rapidly turned into a horrible cough and Harry was afraid he had accidentally killed the shopkeeper.

It took the man some time and several loud, wheezing breaths to regain his composure.

“Pardon me, boy,” he finally said, “but do you have any real business to conduct?”

Harry hesitated. “Do you know where I could find some?”

“Of course. You can travel to Egypt, find a cockatrice, and pray you kill it before it kills you.”

Harry’s hand went to his hair out of habit before he realised he was about to accidentally reveal his scar. He scratched his chin instead. “What about basilisk venom?”

“You’ve certainly got a taste for rare poisons. Bit young to be filling out such an expensive collection.”

“Look, do you have any or —”

Harry was interrupted by a soft jingle as the shop door opened. He held his breath, afraid to turn around and see who had entered. The shop was small for a duel, with no cover besides the shopkeeper’s counter. He just had to hope he could leave before he was recognised. He gripped his wand tightly.

“Hey,” a low voice seemed to growl, “Shyverwretch, do you have what we discussed?”

Harry’s stomach dropped and he fought off the panic that rose in his chest. He knew that voice far better than he would have liked.

Shyverwretch didn’t look anymore fond of the man than Harry felt. His beady eyes had gone wide and he swallowed slowly before speaking. “Greyback, I told you, I don’t take the names of my customers —”

“But I’m not asking about customers.” The bell jingled again as Greyback closed the door. He did not try to move past Harry to Shyverwrtech, and Harry could not help but think Greyback was intentionally blocking the only exit.

“I’m asking about cowards.”

“I can’t help you — I don’t have what you’re asking for.”

“Oh, but I know you do. I also know you have a granddaughter in South Harrow. Your great-granddaughter just turned three, didn’t she?”

Shyverwretch paled. His whole body trembled and his gaze slid from Greyback to Harry. Slowly, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed it at Harry.

Harry turned, but he wasn’t fast enough. Greyback grabbed his wrist before he could draw his wand. The werewolf’s claw-like fingers dug into Harry’s skin.

“No need for wands between us. It’s lucky I found you when I did. So, you’re here for wolfsbane?”

Harry kept his eyes down, both to hide how much pain he was in and to hide his face. No one had said his name yet. If he could just get to the door, if he could get out of this small shop…

He tried to jerk his arm away from Greyback. Blood trickled down his wrist and into his clenched fist.

“Why are you trying to run? I’m here as a friend, to show you a way other than wolfsbane.” Greyback leaned in close and Harry’s heart raced. “Spend the next three days with me. That’s all we’ll need. Three days, and if you don’t enjoy hunting with a pack, I’ll let you —” Greyback paused. He took in a deep breath. “I know your scent.”

Harry tore his arm away, not caring that he lost his grip on his wand as Greyback’s claws shredded the tendons in his arm. He could heal it later, or he would duel left-handed if he needed to, but he had to get out of here first if he was going to live.

As his uninjured hand yanked on the shop door, Greyback snarled, “Potter!”

Harry ran. He ran faster than he had ever run in his life. Faster than when he had chased Bellatrix Lestrange through the Department of Mysteries, faster than when he had run after Snape. He didn’t dare stop to fish his wand out of his pocket with his working hand. He ran out of Knockturn Alley and through the Leaky Cauldron back to Charing Cross.

Automobiles screeched and honked as he ran into the Muggle road, but Harry paid them no attention. He didn’t know if it was in his head or if he could actually hear Greyback’s snarls behind him. He wasn’t going to turn to check.

He made it through the busy junction without getting hit by any drivers, and he didn’t hear anyone run over Greyback, either. He clutched his bleeding hand to his chest as he ducked around Muggle shoppers and scanned the Muggle shops he passed in search of a place to hide or at least get enough cover to draw his wand.

He wondered if Greyback cared enough about the Statute of Secrecy to not rip his throat out right in front of all these Muggles. Or, more likely, Greyback would want to take him back to Voldemort. He supposed the Ministry would have a grand time Obliviating all the witnesses, and Greyback wouldn’t spare them a thought.

He still did not dare slow his stride, but he did glance across the road to the tinted shop windows, where he could see his warped reflection intermittently between motorists. He certainly looked absurd, but that wasn’t what he was concerned with. He could see Greyback’s reflection, too, still on his heels.

The man was larger than Harry recalled from that night on the Astronomy Tower. He seemed to be made of sheer power, and Harry was certain that Greyback was gaining on him. Harry forced himself to increase his speed, and his legs burned in protest, but obeyed as much as they could.

He couldn’t outrun Greyback. He needed to get somewhere safe.

On the corner up ahead, Harry saw the red and blue logo of the London Underground. He had only ridden it a few times, but if anything was faster than Greyback, it would be the Tube.

He pushed his way past the Muggles and practically jumped down the stairs. A few people called out in protest, but their weak shouts turned into proper cries of outrage as Greyback threw them aside in pursuit of Harry.

Harry could see the ticketing gates up ahead and knew Greyback wasn’t going to wait around for him to fish any Muggle money he might have out of his pack. He leaped over the barrier, but when his trainers hit the smooth tile, he sprawled out onto the ground. A Muggle in a bright red shirt and blue tie ran towards him.

“Hey! You can’t jump the —”

Harry scrambled to his feet and kept running, ignoring the taste of blood in his mouth from where his teeth had punctured his tongue. He was pretty sure he’d cut open his chin on the tile, too, but those problems were secondary to getting away from Greyback.

He heard more shouts, assumed Greyback, too, had jumped the barrier, but he kept his eyes ahead in search of a way out. The last thing he needed was to get in a carriage with Greyback and put more Muggles at risk. He passed the information center and half-ran half-slid down the ramp to the platform. He didn’t care which line he got on, as long as it was going fast and he could get in just before the doors closed.

The rumble and squeak of a train coming in echoed around him, and he fought the burning in his chest and the stitch in his side to try to catch it. He skidded out onto the platform and bolted for the first carriage he saw. A woman with a pram protested sharply as he pushed her aside to get through the doors just before they snapped shut behind him.

Greyback slammed into the doors at full speed, and the entire carriage rocked from his momentum. The passengers gasped, but the train lurched forward onto the next station without care as Greyback banged his fist into it again.

Harry fell into the nearest open seat and looked down at his clothes, soaked in blood. He started to reach for his wand, but there was a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

Harry looked up at a man in a suit, who was probably about his father’s age, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. Harry’s first thought was to run, that this man could be a Hit Wizard or a Snatcher, but reason settled in and reminded him that no self-respecting blood purist would be caught dead on the Muggle Underground. Perhaps Harry should have been riding the trains more often during his time in London.

“M’alright,” he said, and wished he didn’t notice the way his speech slurred. He knew what he needed to do, he just needed there to be less Muggles paying attention to him.

“Here, keep this pressed there.” The helpful Muggle put something against Harry’s arm, and Harry didn’t look to see what it was, but he listened. “My name’s Nigel. I’m going to help you get to a hospital.”

“Thank you,” Harry put effort into pronouncing each word, “but I’ll be okay.”

“That’s a nasty scrape on your chin, too. Did that man who was chasing you hurt you?”

Harry didn’t bother to answer. He had no idea how to explain why Greyback had hurt him, let alone why the man had left claw-marks in his wrist.

He pulled his wounded arm to his chest and, as surreptitiously as possible, slipped his wand from his pocket. He used the makeshift compress the man had given him to hide his wand as he pressed it to his injury and muttered the incantation to seal the cuts closed. He could feel not only his veins, but the muscles and tendons knit themselves back together. He’d never had to perform a spell like this on himself, but he was familiar with the feeling. Sirius had closed up similar wounds from Greyback last summer.

When it was done, he flexed his hand and closed it into a fist. It was a bit stiff, but he would be able to duel just fine.

The train slowed to a stop and Harry stood, but Nigel pushed him back down.

“Not yet, son. We’ll get off at the next one.”

The Death Eaters may not use Muggle transport, but they weren’t stupid, not even Greyback. It wouldn’t be hard for them to patrol the stops on this line to try to find him. He needed to change trains before they filled up each station. He needed to get out of London.

“I promise, I’m fine —”

“It’s a short walk from there to St Thomas’. They’ll be able to help you.”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t know if he was weary from his intense sprint, the fading adrenaline, or the loss of blood, but just the effort of it made him dizzy.

“I don’t need a hospital.”

“One more stop,” the man promised. “If you’re worried that man will be waiting for you, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Nigel had no idea what he was promising, but the carriage doors had already closed.

Harry pulled the compress off of his arm. “I’m fine, see? It looked bad, but it really wasn’t.”

Nigel stared at Harry’s arm in astonishment. “But there was so much blood —”

“Guess I hit my chin hard. Listen, I just need to get out of London, okay? So can you point me to a train that can do that?”

“You can get just about anywhere from Waterloo.” The man sighed. “I still think you should go to the hospital. You might be hurt more than you —”

“No, thank you.”

Nigel pursed his lips as the train slowed to a stop. Harry hurried out of the doors the moment they opened, and he didn’t like that the nice Muggle man followed him.

“You’re sure I can’t convince you to go to a hospital?”

Harry tightened his hand around his wand, but did his best to keep it hidden in his sleeve. He searched the platform for any sign of Death Eaters or the Ministry.

“I’m sure,” he said.

“Then let me help you out of London. Where would you like to go?”

Harry had no idea.

“Do you have family or friends you can connect with?”

Harry swallowed down a lump in his throat. “I don’t… have anyone. You don’t need to worry about me — I’ll be alright on my own.”

Nigel gave Harry a long look and seemed to resign himself to Harry’s stubbornness. “Well, how does Kent or Brighton sound?”

It was hard to think through the fuzz in his head, but an idea sparked. It wasn’t a perfect idea, and it was certainly risky, but it was an idea, and he was short on those at the moment.

“Could I get to Surrey from here?” he asked.

“You have friends at the University that way?”

“I have an aunt and uncle out there.” He didn’t know where Vernon and Petunia were, exactly, but he knew they weren’t at home, which meant that the house was probably empty. He couldn’t imagine the Death Eaters would think it important enough to keep a consistent watch on.

Nigel looked relieved to hear that Harry did indeed have family he could get to. He helped Harry find the right train and even paid for Harry’s ticket.

Harry protested — he had some Muggle money — but Nigel insisted.

“It’s not right to stand by when someone is in need,” Nigel said. “I’m just glad someone was able to help you today.”

Harry didn’t have too much experience with Muggles as a whole, but he was grateful that he could add Nigel to that experience.

They shook hands, and Nigel took the opportunity to once again examine Harry’s wrist. He marveled that there was no sign of a wound, but without a way to explain it, he let the matter drop and waved Harry off.

Harry thanked him again, and found a seat on his train as far away from any Muggles as he could get. It was easy enough to clean up without anyone looking at him, and with the help of the mirror was even able to fix the cut on his chin.

Once he had finished Healing everything and removing blood-stains, he sank back into his seat and considered how fruitless his day had been. He hadn’t been able to make contact with Cedric, he might as well have announced his presence to Voldemort directly, and he didn’t even get what he needed to destroy the diadem.

He wouldn’t be able to come back to London.

With a sigh, Harry dug into his pack for the bit of food he had left. Under normal circumstances, he would have waited a few more hours before eating again, to let his food last as long as possible, but between his sprint and Healing his wounds, his body needed to refuel. The scone had slid down the side of his pack and was nothing but crumbs beneath his books. The bread rolls were squished into his bedding.

Carefully, Harry extricated his bedroll from his pack. He unrolled it on the seat beside him and as he stuffed one of the flattened bread rolls in his face, he felt through the bedroll for the second roll, and for the diadem. He only found the bread.

In a panic, he dumped his bag out onto the seat beside him. His canteen tumbled out, along with a change of clothes, the crumbs of the scone, the Daily Prophet, the Snitch from Dumbledore, his books — the Auror code, his parents’ gift, and two Defense books — but there was no Horcrux.

Panic rose in his throat. He had no idea when, or where, or how, but somehow he had lost Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem.

#hp everyone lives au #hp everyone lives #hp #hp fic #dh

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stargazing-enby · 4 years ago

Text

In Need of Assistance

A collab with @april-thelightfury115! 😍 I had a lot of fun with this collab, and this was also a great way of combating writer’s block 💪🏼 we hope you enjoy!

Drarry | 2k words | General Audiences | Eighth Year, Getting Together, Spiders, Arachnophobia, Fluff, Truth or Dare | Read on AO3

“AHHHH!”

Harry and Ron exchanged a confused look as a yell from the bathroom interrupted their sleepy morning shuffles. Eighth year was in full swing, lessons began at the crack of dawn, and no-one was happy about it this morning. But that didn’t mean it was worth screaming about.

A second later, a half-shaven Malfoy stumbled out of the bathroom, hair flying in every direction as he panted. Wild eyes finding everyone’s confused attention on him, he paused, quickly smoothing a hand down his rucked shirt.

“Um…” he stumbled, visibly taking a breath. “Blaise, I’m in need of some assistance.”

The Italian sighed.

“Can’t you just… vanish it or something?”

“Vanish what?” Ron asked, suspiciously.

“Nothing that concerns you, Weasley,” Zabini muttered in a bored tone.

“Blaise, I mean it."

“Fiiiine, keep your hair on, I’m coming.” After hauling himself off his bed, Zabini strolled past the practically twitching Malfoy into the bathroom, re-emerging a few seconds later looking just as bored and refined as ever. Only his tightly curled fist—that Malfoy vehemently avoided with comically wide eyes—suggested anything was wrong. Before Harry could ask what the hell was going on, Zabini had opened a window, stuck his hand out, shaken it, and was closing it again.

“There. Done. Finish getting ready," he commanded. To Harry’s surprise, for once in his life, Malfoy did what he was told without comment, practically scurrying back into the bathroom.

What in the…?

“What was that about?” Harry asked. But of course, Zabini merely donned his robes, ignoring him entirely.

“What was in your hand?” Ron demanded. But still, the Italian simply grabbed his bag and breezed out of the dorm. Arrogant bastard.

Exchanging a final look of utter bewilderment with him as the sound of running water joined the periodic sighs and curses that always commentated the dorm’s morning routine, Ron shrugged, donning his robes and leaving Harry no choice but to do the same. Apparently, Malfoy screaming in the morning was just another oddity he was going to have to get used to now he was rooming with the Slytherins.

He held the handle tightly, edging the door open inch by inch, determined to make as little noise as possible as he entered the dorm way past curfew.

Old habits die hard, Harry thought to himself with a wry smile. A long Potions lesson had left him in dire need of some tea at Hagrid’s, and then the cool night air had been too nice to resist. Before he’d known it, he’d been staring at the stars for a few hours. Only the looming threat of McGonagall’s wrath in Transfiguration in the morning had forced him back into the castle.

Bypassing his bed for the bathroom, the snores of his dorm-mates sent a yawn shivering through him. Bed definitely sounded like a good idea…

“Are you going in there?”

Harry wheeled around, coming face to face with a silhouetted figure sat cross legged on the bed.

“Jeez, Malfoy! What are you doing, trying to kill me?!” he whispered, trying to slow his racing heart.

“If I was trying to kill you, you’d be dead, believe me,” Malfoy bit back. Harry just rolled his eyes, the pressure in his bladder reminding him of more important things.

“Whatever, Malfoy. Go to sleep before you terrify someone else.”

“Wait!” The sound of Malfoy’s feet hitting the floor reached his ears. “I—Um—Are you going into the bathroom?”

Harry frowned.

“No, you see, this is actually a secret door to an alternate universe where I own a bakery and I’m late opening it, so if you’ll excuse me."

“Oh fuck off, Potter," Malfoy spat.

"Gladly."

But as he pushed the door open, an honest to god squeak came from behind him. Incredulous, Harry turned back to the pointy git, studying him. One of his feet was mounted over the other, avoiding the cold stone of the bedroom, and he was shaking slightly. No—he was doubled over like he was in pain. Harry squinted.

“Malfoy, why are you awake?”

Malfoy tried, and failed, to seem nonchalant.

“N—No reason.”

Harry huffed.

“Look, I’m exhausted. If you don’t want me to know, go wake Zabini up and ask him again to deal with whatever—”

“I—I can’t. He has an Ancient Runes exam in the morning.”

“Well, then. Whatever’s in there isn’t worse than a Basilisk, is it?”

“Depends on who you ask.” Malfoy grimaced. When Harry glared at him, he muttered, “Okay, fine. It’s not. You’ll be fine. Probably.”

“Good enough,” Harry said. He opened the bathroom door, but looked back at Malfoy, who hadn’t moved and was looking at him intently. “Malfoy.”

“What?”

“You’re staring. It’s weird.”

“Oh. Oh! Yeah. Don’t mind me.”

“Fucking hell,” Harry grumbled, but decided to ignore the Slytherin and go pee regardless. Malfoy was old enough and ugly enough to take care of himself.

Despite his efforts, Harry couldn’t stop himself from staring around as he did his business. There weren’t any ghosts around; no strange voices hissing behind the walls, no Boggarts crawling in the corners. The most exciting things he could spot were the annoying, constant dripping of their wonky tap, and a small spider chilling on the ceiling right above his head.

Unless…

Nah, that couldn’t be it. Could it? It did sort of make sense, what with Zabini carrying something in his fist that one morning and throwing it out the window… But the idea of Malfoy being scared—no, terrified—of spiders was... absurd. Hilarious. Interesting.

When he walked back into the bedroom, Malfoy was still exactly where he’d left him. Harry smirked to himself, leaving the bathroom door ajar and walking past him without a word. Waiting to see what Malfoy would do.

“Did you—” Malfoy murmured after a moment of silence, just as Harry sat on his bed. “Did you... see anything?”

“I did, actually,” Harry said casually as he untied his shoes. “There was this ginormous dump that someone had left there, floating endlessly in the deep waters of the toilet—”

“I’m serious!”

“Oh, and there was also a tiny spider somewhere around there.”

“It wasn’t—! It wasn’t tiny,” Malfoy grumbled, raising his nose in the air. “It was… moderately intimidating.”

Harry bit his lip so as to stifle a chuckle.

“Just go pee, Malfoy. It’s not going to kill you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It didn’t kill me.”

“You’re Harry bloody Potter, it doesn’t count.”

“Malfoy…”

“You know I have a point!”

Harry sighed. “Do you want me to get rid of it?”

“You… would?” Malfoy said, tone shifting to an almost pleading one. How long he must’ve been lying awake trying not to pee himself, only Merlin knew.

“If it’s going to shut you up…”

“Yes. Yes. Most certainly it will. Please—?”

Rolling his eyes, Harry got back to his feet and made his way to the bathroom, followed at a cautious distance by a visibly distressed Malfoy.

While he climbed the toilet, Harry murmured, “I always used to sleep with several of these over my head, you know. They mostly leave people alone. And even when they don’t, their bites don’t hurt that much.”

When he climbed back down, spider in hand, Malfoy was staring at him from the threshold in a mixture of awe and horror.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Don’t, then,” Harry shrugged. “How come you’re so scared of them, anyway?”

“It’s called being sensible, Potter. Anyone smart or without a deathwish would want to keep their distance around them.”

“And by keeping the distance, I assume you mean screaming to the top of your lungs?”

“That was different! The fucker was right in front of my face when I leaned into the mirror.”

The spider, still in his fisted hand, crawled around in his palm, making him shiver slightly. He might not mind spiders, but the sensation wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“You’re impossible,” Harry concluded with a shake of his head. “I’ll get rid of this one. You go… pee, or whatever. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He was about to follow a very grumpy Ron down the stairs to the Common Room when a hand grasped his wrist and pulled him back into their dorm.

“Good morning to you too,” Harry said, too sleepy to sneer back at Malfoy when he caught sight of his expression.

“You’re not going to tell him about last night, are you?” Malfoy pointed his chin toward the stairs as he talked. “Because if you do, I swear to Salazar, Potter, I will turn the rest of your school year into a living hell.”

“Sure, sure.” Harry yawned. “Look, I’ve had enough terrible years already. I’m not about to do anything that could disrupt the shaky peace of our dorm. Relax, okay?”

Malfoy leaned forward, giving him a glare that he was sure was meant to be intimidating. “You’d better.”

“Mate, why are you—oh.”

Harry watched with increasing horror as Ron’s expression changed into one of realisation, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he took note of the way Malfoy was leaning over him—the way he was pressed against the bedroom wall. Fuck, why the hell had Malfoy cornered him against the bedroom wall?!

“Er—I’ll—I’ll wait in the Great Hall, then. Leave you two to…” He gestured vaguely. “Yeah.”

“Ron, it’s not—!” Harry started, pushing Malfoy away from him and running for the door. But Ron was already out of sight. He leaned against the doorframe, cursing silently.

“What the fuck?” said Malfoy from behind him.

“Congratulations,” Harry muttered, slowly turning around. “Ron still doesn’t know you’re terrified of spiders. He simply thinks you were about to snog me senseless!”

“What?! Why in Merlin’s name would he think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because you had me pressed against the bloody wall?!”

“I didn’t—!” Malfoy started, cheeks aflame, but gave up with a huff when Harry raised his eyebrows at him. “Look, let’s just—let’s just go get breakfast. And you”—he pointed an accusatory finger at Harry—“had better convince the Weasel that we were arguing over something completely heterosexual and absolutely not spider-related. Is that clear?”

“Whatever, Malfoy.” Harry turned to leave, letting a small smile slip now that the Slytherin couldn’t see him. Gosh, Malfoy was so funny when he was flustered it was almost endearing. “Come on.”

“Mate, you can’t be serious.”

Harry felt Malfoy’s groan in his very soul as they walked out of the Potions ingredients cupboard.

“It’s the third time this month!” Ron hissed as they made their way back to their cauldron. “And we’re in the middle of class! You know I love you, Harry, but this is getting out of hand.”

“Zabini wasn’t around to help him,” Harry muttered. “You know, if you really did love me, you’d believe me when I tell you that—”

“Ah, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley!” Slughorn chirped. “I take it you’re finished with your potion, since you’re having such a fun time in my class! You won’t mind if I give it a sip, will you?”

All eyes on him, Harry muttered an excuse and gave Ron a death glare.

“So, Harry,” a very tipsy Hannah said, wiggling her eyebrows, “what will it be? Truth or dare?”

Why did I agree to this again? Was the only answer his scattered thoughts supplied.

“Er—dare,” he blurted after a moment.

Hannah’s eyebrow wiggling increased exponentially.

“How about you give your boyfriend a snog, then?” A chorus of giggles exploded around them. “I think we’ve all been wondering what you two get up to in the cupboards.”

“He—Malfoy’s not—” Harry spluttered, but his words caught in his throat when he saw the state Draco was in: pink from throat to ears, mouth slightly parted. Eyes filled with dread, but keen on straying from Harry’s gaze down to his lips. He’d clearly had one drink too many.

A push on his back made him topple forward, and, as several people cheered, Harry crawled toward Draco, unable to remember or care why his sober self would think this was a terrible idea.

“Potter,” Draco breathed, a hand grasping Harry’s waist. Half-lidded eyes falling on his lips again. Harry’s breath hitched.

“We can—I mean, we don’t have to—”

“Potter.”

A pull at his hip; a fist clenched around his jumper. Urgent.

“Okay.”

Draco’s hands slid against his scalp and into his hair, making him shiver.

“Thanks,” Draco murmured against his lips. “For… you know. Your assistance.”

“You’re w—”

Draco’s lips parted and caught Harry’s lower one in a kiss. The last thing Harry noticed before the last of his coherent thoughts left him with a low moan was Ron’s half-frustrated, half-victorious cry of, “I knew it!”

#aprilwrites #otpshipper98 #drarry #drarry squad #drarry fanfic #harry potter #drarry fic #harry x draco #draco x harry #collab fic

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meowmerson · 5 years ago

Note

A tomione time travel but she’s just pissing off Tom because she keeps sending roosters to the Chamber of Secrets to kill his basilisk. I’m just saying

Initially, she laid low.

It seemed like the sensible thing to do. Stranded in an unfamiliar world and desperate to get home before her very existence brought about horrific consequences with only an old man (younger now) who she barely trusted as an ally, it made sense for her to just keep her head down and focus on getting through each day until she could go home.

For six months, she did. Six fucking months.

She knew what happened here in 1943. Every time she felt the urge to intervene she reminded herself what was at stake. When she saw a young girl in Ravenclaw robes wiping at her eyes after something a cruel group of girls had said she bit her tongue, and when she saw a handsome, unassuming boy with Slytherin robes and perfect hair and a disgusting, vile, evil soul, she dug her nails into her thigh until she drew blood and told herself that if she couldn’t do anything now she would be able to do it later, when she was home.

Myrtle died, and Hermione–though she never knew the younger girl–felt her loss like a hole in her heart.

And then she couldn’t go home.

Dumbledore didn’t understand her reaction when he told her that it was increasingly unlikely they would ever find a way to send her home. He kept saying things like ‘you can make a new home here,’ and ‘you’ll see your friends again, if its meant to be,’ and ‘open yourself up, you can have a life here,’ and she couldn’t make him understand that it wasn’t true. She couldn’t make him understand all the reasons she could never have a home here, and when she opened her mouth, thinking what’s the point if I can’t go home, I may as well just tell him everything, but the words got caught in her throat, and all she could keep thinking was Myrtle died for nothing, I could have saved her and it wouldn’t have made any difference but I let her die anyway.

It ate her up inside.

So she retaliated in the only way she could think of short of murdering Tom Riddle in his sleep.

She flooded the whole fucking school with roosters.

She wasn’t sure the basilisk would still be awake, and even if it was, she wasn’t sure it would be anywhere within hearing distance of the roosters. But it wasn’t really for the basilisk, she did it to see the look on Tom Riddle’s face as he stormed through the hallways filled with roosters, slapped one off of the Slytherin table with an expression on his face like he was in physical pain.

Dumbledore saught her out almost immediately, a rooster sat upon his head, and calmly asked her to join him in his office for a chat.

“Miss Granger,” He began, his voice soft, “It is unclear to me what the purpose of this was.”

“I’m not clear on the purpose either,” She said, plucking a rooster off the floor and holding it in her arms. “I’m also not clear on why you think I would know what the purpose is.”

“Miss Granger,” Albus repeated.

“Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione replied.

They stared at each other for a long moment, nothing but the soft coos of the cockerels filling the room.

“Miss Granger,” The old man repeated, “Closely following our last conversation about the…permanence of your situation, our school was inexplicably filled to the brim with Roosters.”

“Yes, it was.” Hermione confirmed.

“I have every reason to believe–” He was briefly interrupted by the Rooster in Hermione’s arms suddenly crowing, “I have every reason to believe,” He repeated, still sounding very calm, Hermione was always impressed by his ability to remain calm in all situations, “That the person who has somehow managed to pull this off, is you.”

“Interesting conclusion, Professor.” Hermione said, and refused to say anything else.

The truth is she was angry. She was angry that she was here in this time, she was angry that Dumbledore was so quick to give up, that he refused to understand why she didn’t want to be here. She was angry that the rules of using a time turner had been ingrained so strongly into her that she was afraid to say anything, to tell him about the monster disguised as a boy, to warn him about the impending war.

She was angry that she didn’t know what to do. So she just did something that would be satisfying for a moment.

She wouldn’t think on it too much for fear of upsetting herself, but she did have the brief realization that she had never related to the twins more.

But Dumbledore did not pull her into his office to speak about the Roosters, not exactly, and this became explicitly clear when he continued, “I wonder, and I hope you will indulge an old man’s curiosities when I ask you,” Hermione watched the rooster on his head, instead of meeting his twinkling eyes, “If this has anything to do with our most recent tragedy, and if you know what, or even who, is responsible.”

She did know. And she ached to tell him, to take him by the hand and walk him right up to Tom Riddle and say it’s him, that’s the monster you’ve been looking for, bring Hagrid back and give him his wand, put this man in Azkaban for a thousand lifetimes and don’t ask any more questions.

She still watched the rooster. It cocked its head at her, beady little eyes staring back at her. “I have not yet decided,” She said quietly, because she lacked the strength currently to raise her voice, “If it is wise to tell you.”

Albus understood, as he always did. He nodded silently, and the Rooster did a funny little dance on his head to keep his balance. “Time is a funny thing,” He answered, “It is worth considering, perhaps, that if you are stuck here, you might as well do all you can to make your life here a happy one.”

It did not escape Hermione’s considerations that Dumbledore’s insistence that she was stuck here may have less to do with the possibilities of time travel and more to do with his desire to pry information out of her. She didn’t precisely resent him for it, but it did make her angry, and the way he continued to imply that she could ever be happy here away from everyone she ever loved upset her just as much as it always did.

“Is that what you think?” She asked.

“It is.” He answered

She was teary-eyed, and still watched the rooster who stared back at her with black, beady little eyes, and she said, “Then you are a fucking fool.”

The door flew open, and the roosters in front of it crowed and flew away. Hermione turned, rooster still cradled in her arms, to see Slughorn and Tom Riddle in the doorway. Slughorn was rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, looking extremely stressed. Tom Riddle was stone-faced and stiff-shouldered, and he looked straight at her.

They hadn’t spoken, not once. She noticed when she first arrived, he paid some attention to the new transfer student, but after some time lost interest when she proved to be ordinary. She made friends within her house, sat quietly in class, achieved average marks. Soon his observations of her became less frequent until eventually, he lost interest altogether. So seeing his attention fully fixed on her once more was more than a bit jarring.

“I apologize, Albus!” Slughorn said, sounding out of breath, “I didn’t know you were with a student! How do you do, uhh…” He looked at her, and remained there with his mouth open for some time.

He forgot her name. Hilarious.

“Granger,” She confirmed, and turned back to Dumbledore. “Case in point,” She said, referring to her previous statement and pointedly nodding to what was clearly an unlocked door. She stood, let the rooster flap out of her arms and land on Dumbledore’s desk.

“Albus, we simply must do something about these Roosters!” Slughorn said as Hermione picked up her bag, “Tom has graciously offered to help.”

Of course he has, Hermione thought.

“Perhaps Miss Granger would also like to help?” Dumbledore offered.

“Not particularly,” Hermione answered, “But good luck to all of you.”

“Perhaps we can continue our conversation later,” Dumbledore said, and Hermione really wished he would stop singling her out right in front of Tom Riddle.

“No need,” She said, “Thank you for meeting with me, but I have everything I need now.”

She thought Dumbledore might’ve noticed how she pointedly made it sound like she had arranged for this meeting herself, if the way he glanced toward Tom Riddle said anything. She didn’t want to let on that she was suspicious of Riddle though, not yet, let Dumbledore craft his own suspicions, but she refused to make any major changes yet.

“Of course,” Dumbledore said.

Hermione knew she shouldn’t do it, but when she noticed a dainty little hen sat amongst Dumbledor’s books on his shelf, she couldn’t stop herself from plucking it up and walking toward to door.

She deposited it into Tom Riddle’s arms just to see his microexpression of disgust, “This one is a hen, better keep her separate.”

“Thank you, Miss–!” Slughorn began.

He forgot her name again. Lovely.

She left them like that, Dumbledore with his twinkling eyes, Slughorn looking flustered, and Tom Riddle looking distinctly uncomfortable with a hen cooing in his arms.

–

“Miss Granger!” A voice called from behind her in the corridor, and she tried to contain her disgust.

It had been two weeks since the incident, and Abraxas Malfoy had taken to checking in on her. He spoke to her nearly every day despite her obvious disinterest and was somehow more annoying than his grandson, and she didn’t think that was possible.

She knew it was for Tom. He had taken to quietly observing her again, but she couldn’t say for sure if he had decided he would keep an eye on her before or after she thrust a hen into his arms. But if she could shake his interest once, she could do it again, so she didn’t allow herself to worry.

“Malfoy.” She greeted as pleasantly as she was able, but she didn’t stop to wait for him, so he was forced to jog to catch up with her until he could match her strides.

“You walk frightfully fast for a woman.” He commented.

“I’m not sure what that means.” She answered evenly.

“Well, the way women walk is always slow, and sweet, and delicate.” He answered. She sped up her pace just a hair, just to be difficult.

“I have never heard of anyone walking sweetly.” She said.

“Ah well–” He continued, nonplussed, “Not a surprise, considering your upbringing.”

She ignored that comment. She had to ignore that comment because if she was going to avoid attention she couldn’t be righteously defending her muggle-born status. It was obvious with her name that she wasn’t pureblood, but she wouldn’t turn herself into an activist, not when she still had plans to leave this time relatively unscathed (the rooster incident notwithstanding) and return home.

“How can I help you Malfoy?” She asked.

“I was hoping you might accompany me to Hogsmead this weekend.” He answered promptly.

Peculiar, she thought, but not altogether unexpected. “No, thank you,” She answered politely, “I’m going with some of my friends.”

Malfoy laughed, a cutting sound, one that grated on her ears, “Your friends?” He repeated, “What, the chatty one who’s balding at 15 and keeps worms? Or the one who smells like eggs?”

“Alfred is not balding and he only kept worms once and it was for the plants he keeps in his bedroom,” Hermione curtly replied, “And I’m not sure who you are referring to with that second comment–” Yes she did, she only had 2 friends, “–But none of my friends smell like eggs.”

“Miss Granger,” Malfoy said firmly, cutting in front of her so she was forced to stop walking, “I am simply suggesting that…perhaps you need a little help deciding who is the…wrong sort.”

It runs in the family, she thought. But then she already knew that. She thought of Harry, and felt a horrible pain in her heart, “I think I can decide the wrong sort for myself, thank you.”

He blinked, seemingly unsure of what to say, then laughed a bit hesitantly and said, “I am trying to look out for you, Miss Granger.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Hermione said, and feeling as if she might be a bit too abrupt, added, “But thank you very much for trying.”

She tried to move around him, but he stopped her with a hand on his arm.

“Hermione,” He said quietly, and she wished he wouldn’t use her name, wouldn’t touch her like they were friends, they were not friends and they never would be. “I really do suggest–”

“Get your hand off of my arm, immediately.” She spoke lowly, wouldn’t keep the anger out of her voice. She could handle his irritating attempts to befriend her, speak to her, learn about her in order to report to Tom, but she absolutely would not let a monster put this hands on her without her consent.

He laughed, which completely erased any small bit of patience she had left, and then he said her name again, “Hermione,” He said, and just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, he continued, “You must know the way people think about mudbloods, but I really do believe that you–”

It was that word, spoken so casually, as if it meant nothing at all, that finally sent her over the edge. She thought of Draco Malfoy, the vitriol with which he spoke, spat slurs and insults at her every day for no reason other than that she existed. That horrible, disgusting word, thrown around like it wasn’t used as justification for wars, torture, genocide–

She grabbed his wrist tight, wrenched herself out of his grasp, and pinned his wrist to his chest. She stared him right in the eye as he kept glancing between her hold on his wrist and her face. “If I tell you to get your hand off of my arm,” She said severely, “Then you take your hand off of my fucking arm.”

She let go of him, and he took a large step away from her, looking caught between offended, outraged, and shocked.

She shouldered past him and he said nothing to her.

–

Hermione sat outside before the Hogsmead trip staring at the place where the Whomping Willow would eventually sit. She knew she shouldn’t have shown her anger with Malfoy, but she hoped it wouldn’t raise too much suspicion. Surely it was normal if she became angry when she heard a slur, but then it didn’t quite match up with the mellow, ordinary, unbothered persona she had crafted since she arrived. The anger was one thing, wrenching his wrist off her arm, swearing at him, and practically threatening him was another.

She couldn’t help but feel like things were unraveling.

“Miss Granger.”

Shit.

She looked up from the field to see Tom Riddle standing a couple meters away.

“What are you doing out here all alone?” He asked.

She couldn’t breathe, she tried to be sure her face was schooled into something pleasant, unsuspicious, unreadable, but she couldn’t be sure she succeeded. “Just finding a moment of quiet, it can be difficult sometimes to find time on one’s own.”

He smiled, looking unfairly beautiful, and said, “It’s not as if you are surrounded by friends demanding your attention, though, is it?”

She was sure that was meant to rile her. It didn’t.

“No, I suppose you’re right.” She said. She didn’t make a move to leave, if she tried to leave now he might change tactics and try to anger her like Malfoy did, and if Tom Riddle touched her she would punch him in his sodding face, she swore to Merlin.

“Do you mind if I join you, then?” He asked politely. The early morning light suited him, it fell on his hair and made it shine shades of brown and brass, it shone on the highest point of his cheek. Harry was right, Tom Riddle was handsome.

The thought of Harry hurt her heart. She looked away from Tom and back to the empty field where the Whomping Willow should be.

“You can if you wish,” She said, still staring out at the field, “Don’t you have many friends fighting for your attention?”

“None quite so interesting as you.” He parried, and sat beside her at a respectable distance. She didn’t like that answer, it felt flirtatious, and she didn’t know why he would be flirting with her. It felt like a strange tactic.

She glanced toward him, tried to keep her expression mild, but he could clearly read the confusion on it.

“Does that surprise you?” He asked, “That I would prefer your company?”

“Yes,” She admitted, and she didn’t think that would raise a brow, she felt that was a perfectly ordinary thing to express.

He smiled a quiet, private sort of smile. One that felt like it was reserved for you. She knew it was an act, but she couldn’t figure out what the act was, or why he was playing it. “I must admit, you escaped my notice for quite a while,” She didn’t like his use of the word ‘escaped,’ but found it fitting nonetheless. He didn’t elaborate, and she tried to search for something nondescript to say.

“Well, I…” She faltered, looked back at the field so she didn’t have to see him staring at her, but she still felt his gaze on her like a physical weight. She had no idea what to say.

“Miss Granger,” Tom said, quietly, his voice carried over to her only by the grace of the wind, “I was disappointed when Abraxas said you wouldn’t be joining us in Hogsmead.”

Some part of her knew that when Abraxas asked for her to join him in Hogsmead, that extended to Tom and possibly more of his followers, but Abraxas had never mentioned it, and she had no reason to know that, so she asked, “I didn’t realize he was asking me to join the both of you.”

“A group of us,” Tom confirmed, and then with a tinge of genuine confusion in his tone, he asked, “Did you think he was asking the two of you to go…alone?”

Hermione turned back to look at him. She didn’t understand why that would be so unheard of - there was the obvious that Abraxas Malfoy would sooner die than ask her on a date, but she didn’t necessarily think it was so incredibly strange for a girl to assume it means ‘alone’ when a boy asked her to accompany him and mentioned no one else.

“Don’t you think that would be inappropriate?” Tom asked.

She blinked. Of course, it would be. this wasn’t the 90s anymore. She grappled for a response, and finally settled on, “He called me a mudblood. I don’t exactly have a lot of confidence in his manners and deocrum.”

That seemed to settle Tom, he lost the edge to his features that Hermione was coming to associate with suspicion. “Yes,” He said, “Abraxas told me that you were…upset.” She looked away again. “He was quite shaken himself.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Hermione responded.

“He said he had never seen a woman look at him like that before.” Tom pressed. She didn’t look at him, kept staring at the empty field.

“I find it difficult to believe he has never had a woman look at him with disdain,” Hermoine said.

“Disdain, perhaps.” Tom agreed, “Were you looking at him with disdain?”

A strange question. A strange tone. Hermione had a feeling she had made a wrong decision at some point of this conversation, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out where she went wrong. She didn’t want to look at him, she truly didn’t, but she did anyway, she turned and met his gaze and realized he had shifted closer. She didn’t like it, having him near her made her feel on edge, it made her feel twitchy and afraid, and the way he was looking at her was too invasive, like he was trying to read her. She tried not to look afraid, but she knew she was failing, and the only way she ever knew to cover up fear was through anger.

“I’m not sure what the point of this conversation is,” She snapped, “Abraxas called me a mudblood and I reacted in kind. If you have something you want to say to me, I would appreciate it if you just said it.”

“I have nothing to say,” Tom said quickly, shaking his head, his eyebrows raised and he blinked once, his lips had the slightest downward turn. The perfect picture of innocence. “Nothing except I find it an admirable trait in a woman when she can strike the fear of god straight into a man’s heart.”

It was a joke, she realized. He was joking with her. He had lightened his tone to one of a teasing nature, but his eyes were as sharp as ever. She thought of every interaction she had with anyone in this time period so far and tried to find a reason for the way he was looking at her now, and could find none.

“If you have nothing to say,” Hermione settled on, “Then I will take my leave.”

She pushed herself to her feet, and he did a peculiar thing then. He quickly raised to his feet as well, and without asking, without warning her, reached for her arm to help her stand. It was too quick, and too sudden, and as soon as his fingers wrapped around her arm she found herself reacting in a way that was entirely out of her own control.

She wrenched her arm out of his grip, turned, and slammed the heel of her pal straight into his sternum in order to shove him away. It was a brief, hard strike, and he was pushed away. It only lasted a second, he caught himself by taking a quick step back, and there was space between them again.

He stared at her with a strange look. Suspicious, surprised, perhaps a bit angry. But he also tilted his head the way a cat does when it locks in on its prey, and Hermione didn’t like the look of that at all.

“I apologize,” She said, and she was out of breath, the fear of feeling this monster’s hand wrap around her arm was so sudden and so fierce that she found herself breathless and couldn’t right herself in time. “I don’t like to be touched.”

“Of course,” He nodded, and his eyebrow quirked briefly before he righted his expression, as if he didn’t believe her. “I will be sure to relay that to Abraxas as well, it may settle his mind as to why you reacted the way you did.”

Hermione knew that she had complete, irrevocably fucked everything up.

“Thank you,” She said, and she had control of her voice again, but that only seemed to intrigue him further, “And thank you for sharing your time with me. I’m going to go find my friends.”

“Of course,” Tom Riddle said, and his voice was quiet again, so so quiet, “Have a lovely time in Hogsmead, Miss Granger.”

She wanted to go home. She wanted to leave this time and see her friends and family, but the more time she spent here the more she so desperately wanted to make him pay for everything he would do. She hated him so much, she felt so much anger within herself and she hoped to Merlin it didn’t show on her face, she hoped beyond hoping that she could find some way to get him to stop staring at her like she was some marvelous discovery.

“Goodbye, Mr. Riddle.” She said, and she walked around him, ignored the way he watched her leave.

She would need to do something, anything, to get his eyes off of her. She just didn’t know what yet, or if she could even distract him anymore.

#Anonymous #hi this is from a very very long time ago #but i was filling a prompt and saved it as a draft right #and then when i went into my drafts to finish it found this #and like #i shoudl really finish it #so i was like #ok #and i did #again.......long...........#also remember when i said i woudl be focusing on bleed for me #im STILL TRYING I PROMISE #tomione #meow writes

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charlieweasleyxmc · 4 years ago

Text

Inside Jokes

The second week of classes was nothing if not brutal for the sixth years. Assuming that they would be given a bit of a break after completely their O.W.L.s last year, they had not expected to be barraged with a new load of coursework right off the bat.

“You are now preparing for your N.E.W.Ts,” Professor Flitwick twittered to them, “and we need to get you going right away.”

(Y/N), who had chosen Care of Magical Creatures, Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, and Defense Against the Dark Arts as just a few of her N.E.W.T. classes was already beginning to feel the strain.

“At least you don’t have to also captain a quidditch team,” Charlie said, groaning as he massaged his left shoulder with his right hand. “The new beaters have already got me running from bludgers and we are only two days into practice.”

(Y/N) nodded at him sympathetically, but it was Andre who truly understood Charlie’s pain.

“I’ve been made captain, too,” he said as they made their way to Transfiguration. “We have team tryouts this weekend so I won’t be able to go to our meeting.”

Charlie and (Y/N) acknowledged him, continuing their walk to Transfiguration in silence.

When Friday evening came around and they all collected around a library table, there weren’t very many of the sixth years who had been able to make it.

Only Talbott, Chiara and Jae—the last of which said he wouldn’t be caught dead studying instead of attending a cursed vault meeting—had joined Charlie and (Y/N) at their table.

(Y/N) hiccupped. She had been suffering from the infernal things all day after a spell in charms went turbulent and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of them. She remembered vaguely a potion that would stop them, but hadn’t seen Penny in order to ask her if she could get ahold of it.

The five of them poured over some books Rowan, despite not being able to attend, had insisted that could possibly contain the protections and guards for the final cursed vault.

The most disturbing of the suggestions was a book on basilisks.

“Spiders flee before it,” Chiara read, a disturbed expression on her face.

Even Charlie looked as though he might be sick at the thought of a dirty great snake in the castle.

(Y/N) hiccupped again.

“But that still doesn’t make sense,” Talbott said, glancing over at Chiara’s page. “Basilisks kill. They don’t turn people to stone.”

“Where’s Beatrice?” Chiara asked looking up from her book to meet (Y/N)’s eyes just as another hiccup let lose. “She was the first person who saw the frozen student.”

(Y/N) shook her head, hiccupping as she did, “Penny still hasn’t been able to speak to her. I’m not sure Beatrice would come even if I asked.”

“And Penny wouldn’t be so thrilled if you got her sister involved in all of this again,” Jae snorted.

“Chiara,” (Y/N) began slowly, “you don’t know of any other creature that could do this.” She made sure to put just enough softness in her tone, but she could have sworn that Chiara’s eyes flashed.

A shadow that looked suspiciously like a wolf crossed her irises…

“Arooooo!!!!!”

(Y/N) jumped what must have been a foot out of her chair and whipped around so quick, the roar right in her ear.

She smacked Tonks in the chest as she twisted before she caught sight of her.

Her other hand, which had been reaching for her wand, pulled back and she breathed a sigh of relief.

Tonks was laughing so hard and (Y/N) caught Charlie stifle a giggle behind his hand.

“What was that for?!” she called. “You sounded like a bloody werewolf!”

Two boys, (Y/N) recognized them as Charlie’s younger twin brothers, Fred and George, were holding their stomachs behind Tonks, laughing their heads off.

(Y/N) glared at them all, but that still couldn’t keep them from seeing the smile on her face.

“You looked as though you’d just seen Snape set on fire,” Tonks roared, still laughing.

“I would kiss the person who set Snape on fire,” Fred responded, laughing too.

They heard the tell-tale sound of Madam Pince clacking over to their table and immediately quieted.

“Your hiccups are gone, aren’t they?” Tonks asked wiping her eyes of tears and chuckling as she went to take one of the three open seats beside (Y/N). Fred and George took the other two.

“Yes,” (Y/N) replied, though only a little reluctantly. She leaned over Dora to look at Fred and George, “what are you two doing here?”

“Just wanted to visit our dear brother,” Fred said in a simpering tone.

“We really haven’t seen enough of him since we’ve been at Hogwarts,” George said, putting a fair bit of melodramatic somberness into his voice.

“Oh,” (Y/N) said, giving them both pitying looks. “I am so sorry. We’ve been monopolizing his time. I’m sure you two are so lonely and bored what with it being such a large castle. No way you could be watched at all moments. Plenty of other people to blame pranks on. Yes. I’m sure that’s just torture for you.”

She grinned at them.

Fred and George shared grins between each other and then her.

“I’m glad,” Fred said, “that somebody understands our pain.”

“Oh, I do,” Jae said from across the table, stretching out the words and smiling along with them as he leaned back in his chair.

“Found your brothers in the corridor trying to eavesdrop,” Dora said as a reply. “You should get some sort of wires like those muggle wires that stretches a great distance and lets you hear things on the other end.”

“Our Dad’s always talking about muggle stuff,” George said, “but they never seem to work as well as magic.”

“There’s a charm for that,” Talbott said suddenly, looking up from his book. “Some sort of an extendable charm. I’ve read about it.”

“When you were supposed to be studying for a class, no doubt,” (Y/N) said, her tone teasing.

Talbott shrugged, a small smirk on his face.

“Maybe,” he said.

(Y/N) missed Charlie looking between them.

“What were you guys studying?” Tonks asked.

“Actually,” (Y/N) said, a bit of hesitation in her voice as she glanced at Chiara, “magical creatures. We were wondering if a creature could be responsible with the petrification of the students,” she let out quickly.

Tonks glanced at Chiara.

“I don’t know,” Tonks said, “It could be some kind of jinx.”

Now Fred and George were also looking at Chiara, who was fixedly staring at her book without her eyes moving. When (Y/N) glanced at the others, Jae was peeking over his book, Talbott was hidden behind his, though she supposed he could still be listening, and Charlie, who was right beside her, had his book covering his face from everybody else except for (Y/N).

He was looking at the page and was reading, though his eyes were moving slowly as though he were trying to multi-task in listening to them and studying the context of the pages.

“Do you think it’s a creature, Charlie?” (Y/N) asked.

Charlie looked up at her and their eyes locked as the book fell slowly to rest on his lap between them.

His eyes were dark in the shadowed library and (Y/N) felt that they reminded her of a thunderbird’s eyes, all light and deepness within them.

“A werewolf cannot turn people to stone,” he said simply and she felt her heart fall as his eyes drifted away, falling back down to his book eventually, which he reopened and began to digest with a more intense look.

“So,” Tonks said, a slight mischievous tone entering into her voice, “who you all taking to the celestial ball then?”

Everyone, but Chiara dropped their books, the resounding clattering sending Madam Pince to come stomping over to berate them most severely.

Once she had finally left again, Tonks turned back to them, raising her eyebrows.

“First years can’t go,” Fred said, a little bit crestfallen, but also not looking entirely worried.

“Wish they could,” George said quietly.

Fred glanced at his brother. “Who would you take if we could, that Johnson girl? She’s the prettiest in our year,” Fred said conspiratorially to Tonks.

George’s cheeks turned slightly pink, but he looked down, “no, I wouldn’t take anyone,” he said, “just be a good place to set off some pranks, wouldn’t it?”

“That it would,” Tonks said wistfully, “if only McGonagall wasn’t on such alert at those kind of events.”

“Who you taking?” Fred said, leaning over Tonks to look at (Y/N). There was a strange note in his voice. Something (Y/N) couldn’t identify.

“I don’t know,” she said hedging, “I don’t know if it would be very smart to go to the ball right now what with everything going on.”

It was the truth and she knew from the way she said it that Charlie would have picked up on what she wasn’t saying.

The celestial ball was just another thing to have nerves and worries over, something she had plenty of with the cursed vaults constantly on her radar.

Fred looked disappointed.

“What?” (Y/N) asked, “Were you volunteering?”

Fred grinned, giving her his best charming smile, his teeth sparkling even in the low light of the library.

“Not saying no, am I?” he said, continuing to give her a cheeky smile.

She chuckled, shoving her hand into his face and pushing him back into his chair.

“I like much older men,” she said.

“Oh,” George said, a bit of mischievousness entering his tone as well, “but still with the red hair?”

(Y/N) blushed.

“Bill is a catch,” George simpered.

(Y/N) felt Charlie beside her and she could have sworn his arm tensed.

“I hadn’t thought about it,” she said, putting forced disinterest into her voice. Although, it wasn’t true. She had thought about it. Bill was very handsome by anyone’s standard. But he had been more of an older brother to her than a crush.

She knew Rowan felt differently about that though.

“Now,” she said, as the twins both opened their mouths to say something else. “Shall we get back on topic?”

It only lasted for a few minutes before Jae, Tonks, and the twins were back on the subject of the celestial ball and who was going with who. Even Chiara and Talbott were sucked into the conversation and finally, a little before nine, (Y/N) told them they better all get off to rest before bed if they weren’t going to do any studying or planning anyway.

The twins looked disappointed, but their moods seemed to cheer up almost immediately after a short, whispered conversation that left them disappearing out into the corridor at a run.

Madam Pince glared stoically after them.

Charlie went quickly out into the hall after them and (Y/N) knew he felt that it was his job to look after them.

“Bye, (Y/N),” Tonks said cheerily, moving to leave the library.

“Bye, Dora,” (Y/N) answered absently.

Chiara and Jae left soon after, which left only (Y/N) and Talbott.

“Well,” (Y/N) said, “I better be getting to bed.”

“It’s only a little after nine,” Talbott said, a hint of disbelieving in his voice.

(Y/N) shrugged. She had been going to bed earlier as it sometimes took her a while to fall asleep with all the concerns going through her head.

She didn’t tell Talbott this though.

“Yeah,” she said breezily, “I’ve been really tired.”

Talbott nodded, moving so that the table was no longer between them. Madam Pince was looking at them warily from across the library and Talbott glanced nervously at her before looking back to (Y/N).

“Listen, (Y/N),” he said, “about the ball.”

Her stomach dropped.

“I was just wondering if you already had a date?”

He had been looking at the floor, but once the words were out, he seemed to think he could look up again, and did, right into her pale face.

“Oh, you already do, don’t you?” a small breath leaving his mouth. “Alright. Well. Hope you enjoy it.”

He moved past her and left the library.

(Y/N) gazed after him, her skin tingling all over and she wasn’t sure if the sensation was pleasant or not.

Was Talbott about to ask her to the celestial ball? Of course, he was. At least she thought he was. But then he had left so quick before she could answer. Did she want to go with him? Had she even wanted to answer?

She swept her books into her bag quickly, rushing from the library with her head down.

“Is it true?”

(Y/N) jumped, almost dropping her book bag.

Charlie was leaning against the stone wall.

“Is what true?” she asked.

He walked forward, reaching out to lift the shoulder strap, that had fallen down, back onto her shoulder, his movements sure, and yet still gentle.

“That you have a date to the ball,” there was no accusation in his voice and he was waiting patiently for her reply.

She suddenly felt, knowing Charlie, that if she refused to answer and walked away, he would let it go.

But she wanted to answer him.

“No,” she said, “I don’t want to go to the ball. It would be too…too much,” she finally landed on, not knowing how else to explain it.

Charlie nodded, “Alright.”

He turned to go and she let him walk with her down the corridor and through the castle to the (Y/H) common room.

He stopped before she entered.

“You know,” he said, “If it would help you not to feel anxious, you could always tell people you were going with me.”

She stared.

“I mean, you wouldn’t have to feel anxious about the dance since you would just be attending it with me. And,” he continued, “you wouldn’t even have to actually go. I could say I got sick the day of and that would give you an excuse not to go, but also give you an easy reason to reply to all the invitations in the meantime.

“I know you don’t need a reason. But if you want one, feel free to use me,” he stopped with a smile, looking back into her eyes from the stones on the ground he had been glancing over.

He moved his hand to gesture her inside, not expecting an answer.

But she gave him one anyway.

“Yes,” she said.

He stopped, “what?”

“Yes,” she repeated, “you can go ahead and tell everyone we’re going together if you want too. That way they might not ask, although I’m not sure anybody else was going to ask anyway.”

“You’d be surprised,” he breathed. And for a moment, (Y/N) wondered if he had heard of others intending to ask her. For a minute they just looked at each other. It wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either, they just kind of let themselves look.

“Alright,” Charlie said, finally, “I don’t want to hold you up getting to bed,” he said gesturing at the entrance to (Y/H) house.

(Y/N) moved to enter, but before she did, she turned back…and flung her arms around Charlie.

He returned her hug almost immediately.

“Thank you, Charlie,” she said releasing him. “Thank you,” she said slower and more meaningfully.

He smiled, reaching a hand up to fidget with his ponytail.

“Anytime,” he moved away and she smiled before ducking into the common room.

...

Love these Cursed Vault Meeting artworks

#charlie weasley #charlie weasley fanfiction #charlie weasley x jacob's sibling #charlie weasley x mc #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley x you #harry potter fanfic rec #harry potter fanfiction #hogwarts mystery #hogwarts mystery charlie #harry potter fanart

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halothenthehorns · 3 years ago

Text

All in the Family

Chapter 34: The Chamber of Secrets

The sensation of falling wasn't unknown to a Quidditch player, but James usually had control of it! Instead he was left a screaming, flailing mess as something hard slid along his back, and there was minimal lighting at best as pockets of air kept shooting in his face like he was being spun past whirlpools. He was sure he screamed, and it wasn't just him.

There was an unsavory crack upon his landing, and the shooting pain of landing on his rear led him to the fearful belief at first he'd cracked a bone in his arse. Scrambling madly to his feet to detect any damage and deny any such thing lest his friends die of laughter, his hands scraped over something that too cracked and shifted beneath him, something even digging into his palm as he got upright. The pain lingered, but no worse than usual, so he let out a final gust of relived breath he not only could stretch as much as need be, but there was plenty of space around, even if it was all pitch black.

Then he shivered and swallowed loudly upon realizing this same thing. "Guys?" He called hoarsely, from dust hovering about the place he assured himself, not any sort of fright of what could be lurking around this unknown area.

Seven calls came back in varying degrees of pain, then one pitched higher than the rest. "Eww, get it out!"

"Evans?" He called quickly, stumbling in his haste to try and pinpoint her voice and flaming hair in the gloom.

"There's something in my hair," she insisted as he slowly came into sight, indeed swiping at her long locks. He could just make out something gossamer indeed tangled in, and so desperate was she to get it out, she didn't even argue the point as he stepped forward and helped her.

"Here, I got a light," Smith popped up beside them and did as such as James pulled off something long and white clinging to her.

"It's on you too," she wretched, stepping away from him and still batting at herself in disgust. "What is that stuff?"

James knew from his many escapades deep in the forest, but didn't want to tell her.

"Think it's spiderweb," Regulus called, his voice still far enough away in the gloom it was echoing, but his tone was almost semi-conversational. Between Evans being more repulsed by her situation than being near him and the young Black's gratitude of being able to stretch again, everyone seemed in an almost pleasant mood. "I'm guessing we were just in Aragog's cupboard Hagrid kept him in."

"Well, I guess I count that as the lesser of two evils, considering where we could have ended up," Peter said from close behind him. He was trying to shuffle around much more carefully than anyone else, but the sharp snapping noise every time he moved his foot still echoed about them.

"Great, now we know where we were, let's have a chat about this place," Longbottom sighed, lighting his wand too and raising it as high as he could. Still farther off in the distance, James could only make out the source of the brightness, but everyone made little gasping noises of surprise that finally had him looking down too.

Eight sharp sounds of rat bones now snapping beneath them filled the chamber at once. None succeeded as the floor was absolutely littered with them.

"Did we find where Mrs. Norris stashes her meals?" Peter demanded in a wobbly voice, and James really couldn't blame him for being a little extra sick at the idea of this.

"This place is huge," Sirius disagreed. "There's no way we're on Hogwarts grounds and we don't know of this area."

"So conceded, the lot of you," Evans huffed, crossing her arms and glaring up at James as if he'd said the words. Though he hadn't exactly disagreed with his best mate either. "You think you know every inch of this entire castle and it's grounds."

James bit down on his lip to stop himself pointing out their map of the place should be evidence enough, but instead offered her a saucy smile and opened his arms invitingly. "I'd gladly search them all with you Evans."

She rolled her eyes and walked away, James watched her go in the dim light for a moment with an incorrigible smile before turning to Peter and whispering softly, "keep your eyes up mate, I do not like to think what led Harry down here."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Peter agreed, his face still a bit green around the edges as he reached over and plucked a little rat bone out of James' palm.

More than ready to get out of this place, James summoned the book to him. The sound of yet more bones scattering around them as it flew to his hand sent shivers up his spine, where he hoped it stayed, instead of splayed out around him. The second he flipped the book open to where the chapter began, his breath stopped cold in his heart.

"James? Prongs? What's wrong?" Remus and Sirius were suddenly surrounding him, and the cascade of noise beneath their feet should have made that much more obvious. It was hard to hear anything over the sudden pounding of his heart though when he answered.

"I think I know where we are." Taking one more shallow breath, he managed to get out the chapter title in barely more than a whisper.

He swore the air around them got colder, even as everyone tried to step a bit closer to each other.

"How, why is Harry in here?!" Evans's voice echoed more than ever in their surroundings as no one even seemed to be breathing anymore in fear of attracting anythings attention.

"I'm more concerned with getting us out, I'm sure we'll get your answer as we do," Longbottom called. James took another uneasy breath, but readily agreed with that.

Thankfully the beginning of the chapter didn't start with anything too harrowing, just the boys rehashing everything. Nothing of interest happened at all really until Ginny arrived acting like a suspicious little thing, but James excused that as a first year acting as scared as the rest of the school was. Merlin, Evans still was, and she was the toughest person he knew. Yet he saw it every time he looked out of the corner of his eye at her, the way her hands shook, the way she stood ready to run at a moments notice since these attacks had begun, how she was actually seeking out companionship from someone other than Snivellus in Longbottom and Smith.

Peter had to jab him in the side to remind him to continue, and he dragged his eyes back to Percy acting like a shifty git. They were all eternally grateful Moony hadn't let his Prefect status change anything about him.

McGonagall catching the boys trying to sneak off and see Myrtle, and the exchange that instead caused them to go visit Hermione was at first the highlight of his day.

"She always was a sucker for our sob stories the most," Sirius agreed with chipper.

"You know, after she took away fifteen points each for catching us in the first place," Peter rolled his eyes.

The boys were having so much fun reminiscing James was hardly paying attention to a word he was reading, and almost glossed right over the detail of what Hermione had in her hand.

"A, a basilisk?" The demanded question came out in such a soft hiss, the others all shifted around in unease waiting for the beast to show its face. Frank couldn't even attempt to keep going without that same panic in his voice. "How, that's not possible- a basilisk!"

"It makes sense though," Remus managed in just as low a whisper, crowding closer to his friends and eyes peeling through every shadow. "All the clues Harry just spelled out were right there the whole time." He was kicking himself now for not thinking about this more, every time the stray thought occurred to him to investigate and put together the same his friends distracted him, as usual.

"We really need to start paying more attention to this stuff," James managed in a hoarse voice he still tried to make lighthearted.

"It's not as if there's one down here," Sirius made a brave stab and a much better attempt at sounding casual. "If Slytherin put it down here, I mean, even those snakes can't live as long ago as that."

"But there's something prowling around the school now," Peter reminded, eyes flickering in so many directions he was worried they were going to fall free of his head. "And whoever's opening the Chamber now could have just as likely put one down there, especially if it's the same person who done it fifty years ago. Basilisks live a couple hundred, yes?"

Regulus watched from the mouth of the tunnel as the lot of them debated this with disbelief. He'd had his suspicions it was some sort of monstrous snake for ages, and here they were arguing the point even when that little Muggleborn good as confirmed it. He could only watch the back and forth for so long before he finally burst, "would you get on with it! What does it matter, we're still stuck down here until you bloody finish!"

There was an odd silence as everyone turned to him in surprise, before he managed to spot Sirius' flashing smile. "Mother would be so disappointed, you speaking out of turn like that."

"Shove it Sirius! I just want to go home!" His voice had managed to remain calm and collected this entire time, but the force of his words he was sure must be impactful. He could swear even the ceiling let out a trickle of dust.

Potter continued anyways, clearly eager now to at least admit to the fact getting out of this place would be the better option. He'd barely managed to get to the revelation of McGonagall summoning all the teachers though when the ceiling began to more than sprinkle dust, it suddenly became a flood, and before anyone had time to process more, the whole Earth seemed to be shaking around them. He was sure someone shouted out the command to run, as if that weren't obvious enough. Jumping back into the tunnel as the first bit of safety his mind latched onto, he clung to the hard metal that barely allowed him to rise off the ground it was so slick, the curve that had shot them all out impossible to actually find purchase on. He felt right through his bones the shattering of the ceiling behind him.

He tried to take a breath, but all that came up was a sharp, painful cough as dust continued to settle around him. Refusing to let himself stay curled up in here a moment longer, he poked his head back out and swore his heart stopped in surprise.

"Sirius?" The uneven croak could have come from anyone, surely it hadn't been his voice to crack like that upon seeing the wall that had bombarded them from nowhere.

There was more coughing now, he was sure it wasn't his own! Fighting his own legs refusing to uncurl from his position, he eased back onto the leveled ground and demanded his eyes to focus in this new gloom, the dust still lingering at all levels in the air like he was trying to see through mist.

Movement, and he was stumbling forward, still fighting back his own cough just to get a glimpse, yes! Sirius was doubled over, holding his chest in discomfort for coughing so hard even as he was still trying to stagger about like a drunkard. Potter was right beside him, patting his back and alternately glancing at Evans, whom he barely recognized now. Her shock of red hair looked as if it had aged a couple hundred years in the span of the few seconds. He was sure none of them looked any better.

He heard voices as if from a long ways off, his ears still ringing so loud it was hard to distinguish who was shouting for who, but at least someone else had survived on the other side of the wall. Sirius caught himself then, eyes darting back to awareness in a panic and at once latching onto his brother. The relief that actually flew onto his face was too much for Regulus to process all at once, and he sat down on the spot, too tired to fight back his own coughing.

"Hey, hey, it's fine. Come on Reg, let it all out," Sirius promised, his voice probably not as soothing as he was going for as restricted as it still was, but patting him roughly on the back had the same effect.

"We're fine, hey Wormtail, don't do anything stupid! Yes, all four of us, we are fine."

Potter's voice sure could carry, even managing to make itself heard through the pounding of his head, surely the others on that side heard as well. Still eyeing his best mate, he directed towards Evans now, "you sure you're alright?"

"I, ah, yes," she muttered, carding her fingers through her hair without purpose, looking him full in the face with pure shock. Regulus didn't know what had happened there, but he could imagine it. Everyone else had made a run for the other side, the opening none of them had wanted to go near. Potter and his own brother though, hadn't. What had Evans been doing to have her unwanted admirer seek her out? What had Sirius been thinking coming back!

Mother was on the verge of disowning him if he did one more thing to disgrace their name, and he'd given no uncertain emotion he was okay with that. Sirius had been avoiding him the entire time they'd been to school together and they'd had little to no contact even during the holidays.

So what had possessed him to come charging this way? Aside from backing up his best mate...

"Look, if everyone's still breathing, I'm going to bloody finish this before the rest of the roof goes!" Potter called out. He had to clear his throat several times, and still only managed some painful coughs for his efforts.

"Here, cup your hands," Evans suddenly said. Potter gazed at her for a second before tucking the book under his arm and doing as asked. With a wave of her wand and a quiet uttered word, a fresh pool of water appeared. He took a tentative sip, spilling most of it down his chin.

"Thanks," he finally said in a clear voice again. She just nodded once, crossing her arms defensively again once more and turning her attention back to the wall, brushing her fingers across the rough surface.

Potter finally went on reading, and the horrifying news there was a little girl dragged down here all on her own was enough to make him wish the ceiling had caved in the rest of the way, blocking anyone from ever being down here again. Ginny, a little pureblood who'd never done anything to anyone.

"Reg, here, would you put these on already." He startled, not having realized Sirius had even stayed beside him this whole time. He felt so out of it the basilisk could probably appear at this point and his head was still so stuffy he wouldn't even be able to run. This could be remedied by the shoes his brother was holding out.

"Where did you get those? You really been toting them around with you this whole time?"

"Nah, I've always been good at transfiguration," Sirius rolled his eyes without care. Regulus felt his mouth open in surprise as he glanced down at the piles of rocks now all around, his mind still drawing a blank at such advanced magic when most students in his brothers year were still struggling to turn mice invisible, let alone into something completely other.

"Thanks," was the only thing he could manage to whisper. Regulus knew he was many things, but not a fool. Knowing when to accept something had always been one of his biggest attributes, his mother had always praised, so he accepted the boots while bunching up a handful of his dusty robes and trying to wipe up several scrapes of blood across his feet. The stinging didn't even start until after the first few swipes, proving just how numb he'd been to the world.

"Oh here, let me," Sirius quickly waved his hand away, and a few quick utterances later with his wand and Regulus' feet were bare of anything except skin once more.

"Have a secret talent for healing charms as well?" He muttered curiously as he slipped the socks and shoes on.

"Practice," was the only vague answer he was going to get, as Sirius was no longer paying him any attention, his entire focus suddenly back on Potter and the book.

Regulus understood why. He'd only been half listening to the poor Weasley family's suffering and the boys attempts to right the wrong, and really what had they been thinking going to a fool like Lockhart for help? Now here that old fraud was, being even more of a bastard than any of them could have predicted.

"I swear when we get out of this, I'm going to make sure that fool doesn't have a head to use, let alone a hand to write those lies with," Potter hissed, his hands fisting along the books bindings.

"Oh this can't be good!" Evans groaned in protest as the boys next leap of logic was to take that neanderthal with them to this very place. Their presence down here left none of them in doubt Harry and Ron would find a way down to where they currently were.

Indeed they did, with a little help from Myrtle pointing them in the right direction of a tap, with a snake on it.

It didn't take long after that to find out what had caused the cave to collapse, and every one of them had the urge to do something much stronger than just kick Lockhart in retaliation.

James clung to as much relief as he did fear in these last pages as Harry forged on ahead, alone. At least he could still rely on his friends around him as they were plunged into the next unknown.

#Marauders #fanfiction #Harry Potter #reading the books #CoS #wolfstar #Jilly #James Potter #Lily Evans #Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #Peter Pettigrew #Regulus Black #Frank Longbottom #Alice Smith

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hphm-etched-engraved-everlasting · 4 years ago

Text

31. Clara

The sun’s warm orange light bathed the Hogsmeade train station in its late afternoon glow, a glow that would have warmed my heart had it not been for the reason I took this trip. As Rowan and I stepped onto the platform, watching all the other students and Hogsmeade patrons walking by, I felt fear grip at my chest once more, clawing at my innards with a touch of ice. This was where I told Tonks earlier of the threat carried by R, where she proclaimed I must have become a hit witch in such a short span of time. The mere reminder of it made me clench my fists in the pockets of my jacket--this should be the point where my friends should stop caring so much about me. I couldn’t blame them if they couldn’t stay committed to helping me up till the last step.

I figured Rowan had all the more reason to be suspicious of what I was up to, especially with all that was happening recently. When I arrived at the greenhouses earlier that afternoon to pick rose thorns and rose petals, I found her tutoring Barnaby in Herbology despite it being her weakest subject. Her confusion over my request did not go unnoticed, and especially when we were in the kitchens to get peppermint with Jae she had raised so many questions about what I was doing to the point where she ended up wanting to come with me to the train station to see the trade of pearl dust and powdered moonstone through. Despite Jae’s warnings that her curiosity could put her into danger, I allowed her to come with me, given that we have had so little time to spend together recently.

“Where’s the train?” I asked her upon seeing the empty station, no trains in sight at the platform. “Jae said it was scheduled to arrive now.”

Rowan didn’t answer me immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the large clock hanging above the door of the station master’s office, where the hour hand and the minute hand were frozen at ten past ten.

“Have you ever noticed that the clock here is always stuck at ten past ten?” Rowan remarked softly, tilting her head in intrigue.

“I know! It’s as if Hogsmeade Station is frozen in time,” I responded thoughtfully, following her sight up to the clock as well.

“Yeah. Not ideal for a train station where time is of the essence,” Rowan agreed.

“Exactly! I need to get Powdered Moonstone and Pearl Dust from a witch on that train right away,” I told her with a shake of my head. “Penny and I can’t start brewing a Love Potion without it. And then I’ve got to trade that potion for the Invisibility Cloak I need to sneak into the Ministry of Magic--”

At this plan, Rowan’s eyes widened, her jaw dropped in surprise. “So that’s what you want an Invisibility Cloak for? What kind of dodgy business have you got yourself into now?”

Was this concern or suspicion? I immediately jumped onto the defensive, stepping back a little and resisting every urge to fold my arms.

“Why do you want to know?” I inquired, raising an eyebrow. “Are you planning on telling on me to the professors?”

“What--no. Of course not.” Rowan’s eyes softened at my movements, and she tilted her head, almost in a matter like anyone would look at a homeless kitten ducked under the bench. “I’ve always done my best to keep your secrets. I just worry about you.”

It was hard to hear that she still cared so much--especially considering how much I had abandoned her in my haste to slow R down in their search for the final Cursed Vault. My mind flew back to all the times she accompanied me on several adventures, from the Cursed Ice Corridor and the hall behind the Vanished Stairs to the Cursed Vault in the Forbidden Forest, guarded by an Acromantula who was all too eager to feast on our flesh. Had it not been for Rowan’s quick thinking of a Basilisk looming behind the spiders, we wouldn’t have been standing here today. Despite all the letters I sent her over the summer, I figured that words etched on parchment didn’t compare in the slightest to the person who actually wrote them. Memories were meant to be made together. Nothing would come out of something you couldn’t see right in front of you--especially a best friend one hasn’t seen in so long.

“I’m sorry, Rowan,” I eventually apologized. “I know how badly you want to be Head Girl so I assumed you’d insist on following rules.”

Rowan smiled a little and put a hand on my shoulder. “I do like to do the right thing. But right now the right thing is supporting you. You’ve been through a lot.”

“That’s putting it lightly, Rowan. Perhaps all that’s happened with Rakepick and my brother has put my guard up,” I remarked in a low voice.

“Do you think what happened in the last Cursed Vault changed you?” Rowan finally asked.

Changed was definitely an understatement. From the experiences in the last Cursed Vault, I felt like I had been forced through a transformation--though maybe not as drastically as some others who were with me.

“Yes, of course, I’ve been changed by what happened,” I eventually responded slowly. “For better or worse…”

“Or perhaps it’s for better and worse?” Rowan clarified.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, perhaps what happened has made you suspicious for the worst, but braver for the better.” Rowan shrugged offhandedly, her gaze growing distant. “I think sometimes the worst moments can bring out the best in ourselves.”

“And I think...we’re the only ones who haven’t given up on this train arriving,” I added, eyes flitting to the tracks where I had anticipated the train to come roaring in. Alas, the tracks were still empty.

Rowan nodded, her glance flitting for a moment again to the clock above our heads. “The train station is rather empty for ten past ten,” she remarked.

“Except that it’s not still ten past ten. Not really.”

Anyone who was anyone would know of the phrase, time was of the essence. I just wanted nothing more than to grab the ingredients off the tracks if I had to and hightail back to the castle to procure my end of the Invisibility Cloak deal. It seemed Rowan knew better than to question me again, because then she said, “At least the train delay gives us some time to catch up.”

“Yeah.” I nodded and turned to her. “What would you like to talk about?”

“How have you been? What’s new with you?”

“Rowan, I feel like the whole school knows what’s new with me.”

“Heh.” Rowan shook her head and shrugged again. “I was being polite.”

“So then what’s new with you?” I asked her in turn, tilting my own head in intrigue.

“Studying, of course,” Rowan replied automatically, a proud smile on her face. “Tutoring. But you knew that…”

“But what friends do you spend time with? I’ve been so busy with finding Rakepick, Jacob, and the final Cursed Vault.” I stared down at my hands, a shaky exhale rattling through my body. “And I had to find time for my sister, too.”

“Well, my only friends were really your friends, so…”

“That’s not true, is it?”

Rowan fell silent, her grin faltering. She cast a glance at her shoes and shuffled them over the ground, a clear sign of embarrassment.

“It can’t be that we have nothing to talk about anymore,” I interjected in the awkward silence.

“It’s not unusual to grow out of old friendships when you find new ones. And you’re always making new friends,” Rowan pointed out.

It couldn’t be true, could it? My friends were her friends and being friends with everyone was what brought us all together. It wasn’t like I had anyone exclusive that she didn’t know about, and I thought she was okay with it.

“Well, you are too. You have…”

“I have a lot of wonderful books.”

I recalled every time I entered the dormitory to see Rowan snoring loudly with a large pile of books surrounding her, stacked over the mattress and spilling over the floor. Her glasses were askew over her face as well, the lens slightly smudged. At least I knew she was being honest--the many books she read every night, from school textbooks to miscellaneous ones on trees and wands and cats, never failed to amaze me. But something else nagged at me--did that mean she too had outgrown our friendship? I never forgot the day we coined the term “tree twins” because of her love of trees and the literal translation of my last name--and we bonded over it, too. She couldn’t have forgotten it, could she?

“But I haven’t outgrown our friendship, Rowan,” I told her cautiously. “Unless you’ve outgrown me?”

“Never!” Rowan claimed, a huge grin on her face. “You’re still the only one I can be my weird self around with. And you can always be your weird self with me, too.”

“Thank goodness. Wait, who are you calling weird, Rowan?” I quipped, a small smirk over my face as a wash of relief doused me from head to toe.

“Now we’re talking more like the ‘us’ I remember…”

Us. Of course we would never drift away from each other the further along we went in life. And for one brilliant moment, it seemed to just be us, two best friends talking at the train station like there was no tomorrow, two best friends bound together by the trees that grew around us. All my worries about the Dark Artefacts and Rakepick and protecting my siblings seemed to be at bay as we chatted over everything that happened since our first year, reminisced over the adventures we once had and all the changes that came our way.

“Did you ever cast the Tickling Charm I taught you in that very first duel you had with Merula?” Rowan finally asked me.

It felt like so long ago, the very first duel I had with Merula back in first year. Merula had been picking on Ben in front of other students in the courtyard, and I had to interfere to stop her bullying. Her proclaimed superiority over her peers was what started this never-ending rivalry between us. I shook my head at Rowan’s question--though she taught me the Tickling Charm in preparation for the duel, I never ended up using it.

“No, but perhaps someone needs to cast it on Merula now to make sure she’s still able to laugh,” I responded. “These days, I can’t even think of the last time I saw Merula have a laugh...”

“You haven’t been laughing much either, Clara. I miss your laugh,” Rowan murmured, noticing the frown that was settling over my face.

“Perhaps I’ll crack a smile...if that train with my Powdered Moonstone and Pearl Dust ever arrives.” I turned around to check the clock on the platform. “What time is it now, anyway?”

“Rictusempra!”

In the split second my back was turned, Rowan had cast the Tickling Charm over me. I saw the silver light swirling around me, sparkling and shimmering in the late afternoon light, but that was all my eyes could register as I suddenly doubled over in laughter, wheezing every time I needed more air.

“Rowan--HA HA--Khanna!” I squealed. “This isn’t funny! HAHA!”

Rowan just grinned at the sight of me laughing, a chuckle of her own slipping out. “I needed to make sure you were still able to have a laugh, Clara.”

“Is that...HA-HA...right?” I cried, withdrawing my wand. “Rictusempra! Hahaha!”

And now it was Rowan’s turn to clutch at her stomach, collapsing to the ground in a fit of endless giggles. Anyone at this point could be staring at us like we have become maniacs, but in that moment we couldn’t care less. We were children again, eleven years old and as carefree as could be. I reached over and grasped her hand, pulling her up as we continued to laugh without a care in the world.

“Clara! HA-HA!” Rowan chuckled, wiping the tears away with her sleeve. “Now we’ll..HA-HA...both be...HA-HA...laughing until...HA-HA...it literally hurts!”

If there was any more capacity for me to wheeze even harder, I would have done so at Rowan’s statement. “All...your...HA-HA...fault!”

After some time, when the pain started to register in my stomach from all the laughing and my throat felt dry, we cast the counter-spell on each other, slowly regaining our breath though still breathless from the enchanted laughter.

“It’s ten past ten,” Rowan managed to respond, a big smile on her face.

“What?”

“You’d asked me, ‘what time is it anyway?’ Here, it’s always ten past ten.”

That took me a while to register, but it slowly came back to me, and I nodded just as I heard a distant whistle sound in the distance.

“Please let that be the train whistle I hear…” I murmured, squinting into the distance. Indeed, a train seemed to be coming along like a bullet from afar.

“Can’t we stay frozen in time a little longer?” Rowan asked, another laugh escaping into the sunset.

The train eventually arrived at the station, quelling any thought of staying behind any longer in a different time, a different era. As it rolled to a stop, I saw all the passengers disembark from the doors that slid open, some of them holding heavy crates in their arms and others carrying bulky packages wrapped tightly with brown paper and tied haphazardly with string.

“Lin?” one of the passengers asked, turning to me.

“Yes. I take it Jae Kim has informed you about me?” I asked as I approached the trader who held a case full of rare ingredients, Rowan hot on my heels.

The passenger nodded and opened the case. “Yes, ma’am. Said yeh needed a pinch o’ this, a dash o’ that--so here we are. Powdered Moonstone and Pearl Dust, just enough to make few doses of whatever potion yeh need.”

I quickly fished out the gold and paid up for the trade, taking the case and closing it carefully--one of the clasps was broken from wear--and waved as he took off. Then I turned to Rowan. “Want to help me take this back to the castle?”

“Sure. And after that, I’ll head back to the dorm and rest a bit,” Rowan said. “My sides still hurt from all the laughing.”

I couldn’t blame her for that--my sides also hurt from wheezing and laughing non-stop. Together, we took the case and carried it back to the castle, hearts still as light as a feather floating in the breeze.

The wait may have felt like forever, but forever didn’t feel as long with a true friend close by. And I was more than willing now to protect her with everything I had.

#oh yay we are now at the most feelsy part of year 6 #i deeply apologize if the writing is once again not up to par #but it took a while to figure out how i was going to write this #inspiration: for forever from dear evan hansen #dear evan hansen #etched engraved everlasting #hogwarts mystery year 6 #hphm year 6 #hphm clara lin #hphm rowan khanna #hphm year 6 spoilers

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minervahopebeyond · 4 years ago

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Blood Daffodils.

Hi!!! Oh this was so much fun to write💕 I hope you like it!! Tell me about it in the comments, I love to read your opinions on the characters✨ It’s so much fun!

Ps. I’ve checked but sorry if you find any errors in this one!

Chapter 4: Closeness.

Draco was kind of hating the way that Potter talked to him now. Even when he bursted into the room to call him out on his stupidity and the boy just blushed and agreed that it was his fault.

It happened because, finally Draco found something that could destroy horcruxes without burning the entire house: Basilisk venom.

He entered Potter’s room and found him using the discman. When he saw him, the green-eyed boy took off the headphones and gave him a confused look.

“It’s basilisk venom! It’s so poisonous that it can destroy it! I’ve just read it.”

He, at least, expected surprise in Potter’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah, I know. I destroyed the diary with that in second year.”

‘Show off’. Something clouded his thoughts just then.

“Potter.” He said with an unusual calm.

The boy seemed to notice that his tone was anything but peaceful. Draco saw him pulling his knees to his chest before asking ‘what’ in a really small voice.

“Were you aware of this when we were at Hogwarts?” The prat just nodded. “Didn’t you think that, maybe, passing by the chamber and getting a few Basilisk’s fangs would might come in handy FOR AN HORCRUX HUNT?”

He yelled that last part, that much was obvious. He half expected for the golden boy to say that he had other things in mind at that moment... Like fantasies about the she-weasel and other non-essential things. You can imagine his astonishment when Potter just blushed like a tomato and stuttered an apology.

“I- You’re right. I-I mean-“ The boy cleared his throat. “I didn’t think about that. Sorry.”

Draco wanted to smack him. He had prepared for that since the moment Harry said that he already knew. But, now, looking at this boy with guilty green eyes he just couldn’t.

“I can’t believe Granger, Dumbledore, didn’t think of this. They also knew about the diary, right?”

The dark-haired boy seemed to light up at the mention of the events not being, exclusively, his fault.

“Yes, they knew.”

“I blame your house. You always choose to make everything more difficult. Now we have to infiltrate the school.” Draco said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Potter only frowned and looked at him with indignant eyes.

“Are you bloody insane? Dumbledore is dead, the minute we put a foot on the grounds they are going to catch us.”

“Do you have a better idea, Potty?” He asked with that bickering tone that he loved to use with him. He needed normal, he needed to hear the boy to get riled up as usual. At least, as they did, back then, before their bloody fight. Or fights in plural, he couldn’t quite decide if they had fought for something in particular or for everything during those awful months.

“ Any idea is better, Malfoy.” He replied with a groan. “If we need to do that, the bare minimum request, would be to have all the horcruxes. That way, we destroy everything before they catch us.”

“Or they catch us and get all our horcruxes, to hide away in other places, before they kill us.”

“We are not going back to the school. I fucked up, I get it, but we are not giving ourselves in like that.”

His voice sounded so final, so commanding. Potter had always been a natural leader... it made Draco blush as he thought about unrealistic things, like how much he wanted to snog those determined lips until they were swollen.

The daffodils seemed so exited by his brilliant idea that they started to slam themselves against the walls of his lungs. It wasn’t quite hurtful as one would have imagine... after a year living this, having this symptoms, everything seemed more normal or smooth than before. After Draco had almost been chocked by a daffodil, everything else seemed simple in comparison.

He couldn’t help but to cough a few petals,though. The flowers seemed to reach out to the boy, jumping out of his mouth. Potter’s eyes saddened almost instantly and then looked away.

“I know you must miss him... I just can’t risk you being dragged back to the manor. I don’t know how your family would react but...” Something was strangling his voice, he could hear it, even if Harry was trying for it to come out as normal as possible. “If you want to go and be with him, I would understand. Maybe we would had to obliviate you, because you’ve been here and you know stuff... but I get that being away from him hurts you.”

Oh boy, this lie was getting a little out of hand, wasn’t it? Potter was actually offering him to go and be with Theodore. Even after what happened, after everything. He could not tell him that it wasn’t him, Draco had this feeling, in his guts, that the boy would put two and two together the second he did that.

He didn’t want to lie either, not again, so he just responded:

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Potter? I don’t want to leave.”

The boy raised his eyes to meet Draco’s. Soft blush on his cheeks and nose. He thought that he had, not ever, been so close to kissing him. Their faces were barely apart, he could close the distance in only seconds. The daffodils seemed to realize that this was not the moment to make him cough, they just kept dancing around, inside of him, giving him this amazing feeling of anticipation.

Potter lowered his eyes and focused for fleeting moment in Draco’s lips. Anyone would had missed it... Everyone but him, he dreamed about this too many times for it to pass unnoticed.

They weren’t moving, the moment seemed to stretch out, time was much more dense, the air was so enchanting, and Draco could swear that Potter’s magic was calling for him.

This wasn’t something that happened with a straight man. He knew that Theo and Hermione had already pointed out that he stood a chance, but experiencing it? That was quite another thing. He thought he was going to die from the tickles in his lungs. And he needed to do something because as much time as the daffodils were giving him, if he kept on feeling them dancing, he was bound to cough a few petals... And he couldn’t have that: Potter would get awkward and scared.

Pansy’s voice telling him to try was echoing in his ears.

He tilted his head a little and closed the distance between them, planting a soft kiss on Harry’s cheek.

He felt the boy tense next to him, and the heat that was increasing under his lips, burning them, because of Potter’s blush.

He force himself to separate from him, if he were to keep on kissing his cheek, he might start tracing that jaw he loved so much with his kisses. That image promptly reminded him that they were alone in the room and that maybe he needed some private time quite urgently for himself.

Draco blushed horribly as he stood up. Getting turned on by kissing Potter on the cheek, how utterly desperate.

When he turned to look at the boy, he saw him as red as the Gryffindor flag, looking at him with wide eyes, expectant. But it was too much, at least for him, right now.

“I- I’ll go see if your- if your dad needs help with dinner.”

He said before he left the room and closed the door behind him. He went to his room before anything else, clearly.

��————————

Draco was reading again, he could not even close his eyes after that little moment he lived with Potter, the one that alternated between being the best thing that he ever did and the most embarrassing.

The flowers couldn’t leave him alone, they were making him cough, trying to get him to knock on Potter’s door in the middle of the night and finish what he started hours prior.

He didn’t even kissed him. It was on the cheek, it didn’t count. He kept repeating that like a mantra, trying to restrict himself from listening to the stupid daffodils.

He casted a tempus: 3.10 A.M... The Witching hour had barely started when he he heard Potter’s screams from the room next to his.

The daffodils reacted instantly, scratching their way out, suffering from hearing the boy. Draco leap off the bed, coughing the yellow petals as he walked across the bedroom, quickly as he could.

He opened the door of the boy’s room and ran towards his bed, where Harry was moving restlessly and making pained noises.

“Potter!” He called, shaking him a little. They boy didn’t wake up so he sat on the bed and shook him harder. “Potter, it’s a nighmare. Wake up! Potter!” When that didn’t work either, Draco leaned in, trying to be as close to his ear as possible, considering that he just kept moving. “Harry, you are safe. It’s not real. Wake up, Harry.” He said softly.

The boy seemed to cease his restless moving, although he didn’t open his eyes until Draco committed the huge mistake of brushing his hand through his black messy hair. He blames the stupid flowers, they always took down his inhibitions.

“Draco..?” Potter asked with his eyes half-opened. The green in them seemed to shine even in the darkness of the room.

“You were having a nightmare. It’s late, go back to sleep.” He whispered, in a lame attempt of getting the boy to close his eyes and forget that anything even happened.

He was standing up to leave the room when Potter spoke softly.

“Can you stay?”

The flowers twirled inside of him, enchanted by the whole thing. Draco blushed.

A lot of ways to respond to Potter flashed through his mind.

’No. There is only one bed Potty.’

‘Are you high?’

‘YES’

‘I think I might not control myself, Potter.’

‘You realize that I’m a queer seventeen year old boy? Hormones.’

‘Why?’

He took so much time to answer, only looking at the boy who was lying on the bed, that Harry interpreted it as if Draco were to agree. He saw him moving to a side to make a little more room on the bed for him. The blond boy just kept staring at him, one would think that he was confunded.

“I just dreamed something horrible. Please.”

He sounded so pleading... How could he ever say no to this gorgeous boy? The flowers kept moving, thrilled, inside of him. He was just glad that he didn’t cough as he laid besides Potter. The boy just frowned.

“Isn’t it uncomfortable over the covers?” He whispered and Draco blushed even more.

“I imagine that it would be uncomfortable if I were to sleep inside of them, Potter. It’s a single bed.”

A silence stretched between them, the blond boy thought that maybe Harry had fallen sleep until he talked.

“There are single beds at Hogwarts...”

And what was that supposed to mean? “...Did you sleep over the covers there as well?”

It sounded so naive, he couldn’t help to let out a soft chuckle. Well if he wanted to make comments about his live life, it was only fair that Draco got to do the same.

“Did you slept over the covers with Ginevra, Potty?”

The boy pulled a face, his cheeks darkened, he supposed that it was from blushing but with how dark the room was, it was hard to tell. Harry looked away from his eyes.

“I didn’t sleep with Ginny.” Draco frowned.

“She couldn’t stay over? Nobody covered for you two?” Potter sighed exasperated.

“No. I mean that we didn’t sleep together at all. Like... we just snogged. Only that.”

For the love of Merlin, it was the most precious thing that he had heard in months. Clearly, Potter could do what he wanted... he didn’t owe anything to him, Draco certainly did what he pleased with Theodore...

But Draco was an only child, one that was used to have all the things for himself, he didn’t share well, he hadn’t learned how. And now the love of his life was telling him that he only kissed the she-weasel and he asked him to stay with him after a nightmare...

It felt like a dream, maybe it was but he didn’t care. The flowers had never been so tamed, so relaxed, dancing around quietly in a haze of pure love.

Draco’s heart was beating so fast... He forced himself to ask the only questions in his mind right then.

“Why...? Did she want to wait or something?”

Potter’s eyes locked with his; filled with questions and demanding the truth. Draco thought that his gorgeous green eyes were worse than veritaserum for him.

“I didn’t want to... Do you remember the conversation we had? About relationships?” He just nodded. “It had to do with that, I thought it had to feel different... How did you know? With Nott?”

Draco wanted to go back to New Year’s Eve and punch himself on the face. This would be so much easier to explain if he hadn’t made everyone believe that his Hanahaki was caused for Theodore. He tried to be as ambiguous as he could.

“I just needed him. Didn’t plan it... everything sort of happened and I didn’t regret it.”

“Makes sense...” the boy whispered with a very vulnerable tone in his voice.

Draco couldn’t figure out why suddenly Potter was sad again but the flowers started to get anxious, begging him to put a smile on the boy’s face. He didn’t think much as he got off the bed and pulled the covers to get inside of the bed. His heart hammering against his chest to the beat of the daffodils slamming themselves against his lungs.

When he was covered, he looked at Potter who had this amazed look in his green eyes that clashed with the astonishment of his face.

“You offered, Potty. You can’t take it back.”

A soft smile appeared on Harry’s lips and Draco could almost hear the flowers roaring in triumph. Then, the boy snuggled a little closer and the smell of his hair invaded the blond boy’s nostrils. The flowers jumped a little.

“Close your eyes, Malfoy.” He replied with a fake annoyed tone.

Draco did as he was told. That night he slept and dreamed about Potter, as usual... The only difference was that, when he woke up, he found Harry resting his head on his chest, cuddling him.

Draco could not contain the big, beaming, smile that appeared in his face.

#drarry #fanfic #fanfiction #prongsfoot

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astoriias · 4 years ago

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{ cisgender woman, she/her } ❝ Thank god women learned to whisper / though I crave a megaphone. ❞ huh, who’s CAITRIONA BALFE? no, you’re mistaken, that’s actually ASTORIA MALFOY (NEÉ GREENGRASS). she is a 47 year old PUREBLOOD witch who is CHIEF WARLOCK OF THE WIZENGAMOT. she is known for being JUDGEMENTAL, DISHONEST, COLD, RIGID, and CALLOUS but also PRACTICAL, DRIVEN, INNOVATIVE, STEADFAST and DISCIPLINED, so that must be why she always reminds me of the song TOMORROW - MINER and BLACK LEATHER BRIEFCASES, THE CLICK OF HIGH HEELS ON TILE FLOORS, THE LINGERING TASTE OF FAIRY FLOSS, BURGUNDY NAIL POLISH, AND PEARL HAIR PINS. i hear she is aligned with NO ONE so be sure to keep an eye on her.

BIO

Cursed with a blood malediction that left her and her parents preoccupied with maintaining her health throughout early childhood, Astoria grew up without direction, without passion, and without much to do or think about other than staying alive. She did what she was told and completed what was asked of her by her parents: mostly swallowing thick potions that made her head spin and remaining in bed when all she wanted to do was tumble through the lush gardens of the Greengrass estate and scrape her knees like other children. As she grew older and defied Healers’ expectations — making it past 5, then 10, then 15 — Astoria grew weary of the half-life she’d been prescribed. At Hogwarts, she followed her sister Daphne into Slytherin because she didn’t know where else to go.

It took Astoria almost a year at Hogwarts before she would speak up in class or acknowledge anyone with more than a handful of words — and each time she did her heartbeat would quicken, her face would flush. If she was called on by a professor and — Merlin forbid — got the answer wrong, her eyes would fill with tears, her gaze would shift to the floor, and she wouldn’t be able to breathe. One day, outside her second-year Transfiguration class, an annoying boy named Colin saw her heavy breathing and told her about panic attacks — Astoria’s irrational fear of social situations and new people now made sense.

That same annoying boy became her close friend not long after. It was a month into study sessions by the Black Lake that Astoria Greengrass learned that her Colin, the boy who kept a camera slung around his neck at all times and was so nice to her, was Colin Creevey, yes, that Colin Creevey, who was petrified by a Basilisk a year prior for being MUGGLEBORN. Astoria found that didn’t bother her very much. Sure, she never advertised that they were friends and didn’t freely associate with Colin in public places, but he understood her position or in the very least, didn’t protest it. She even got him to join Herbology club — though she insisted that they enter and exit the greenhouse at different times and never spoke directly, his presence was a comforting balm.

Colin tried to get her to join up with the student resistance that was brewing in her third year — but Astoria knew she wasn’t the type to stir up such trouble. She couldn’t stand with the muggleborns and blood traitors no matter how right they were; she couldn’t risk losing her family. Unlike those in Dumbledore’s Army, Astoria didn’t see this conflict in terms of black and white, good vs. evil — there were plenty of others like her, struggling to find themselves in the midst of conflict, battling tradition and family expectations. She kept out of Umbridge’s way during that time. Kept out of her father’s way during that time — while he had no Dark Mark to speak of, his entrepreneurial hands passed cursed objects and ingredients for poisons to any Dark Lord-aligned wix who wanted them.

Through her friendship with Colin and her time in Herbology Club, Astoria learned she was a talented witch in her own right. Formed an identity outside of being the sick girl everyone doted on. Quietly realized that her muggleborn classmates — despite what her pureblood indoctrination taught her — were fully-fledged human beings. To someone who didn’t grow up feeling trapped in the (sometimes socially constructed) confines of a blood illness, perhaps her time in Herbology Club wouldn’t seem so transformative. But for Astoria, it was everything.

Nowadays, Astoria is still defying life expectancy estimations and is perhaps best known for her robust political career. She joined the Ministry as a pupil/intern in its Wizengamot Instruction in Magical Law Program (W.I.M.P.), and in the span of twenty-five years has climbed the ranks to barrister’s assistant, barrister, then Wizengamot member, and finally, the youngest Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot in the last hundred years. She is extremely opinionated about the runnings of the legislature and judiciary, and her past two years as Chief Warlock have been marked by her love for procedure, due process, and fairness -- essentially meaning trials are very thorough and very focused on making sure the Ministry doesn’t overstep its bounds.

BLOOD MALEDICTION

i’m truly on my bullshit and this needs its own section..........,,,,, i’m sorry

I originally started writing Astoria out of pure spite — it enraged and continues to enrage me that all we’re given about this woman is a few lines about her and an off-page (or off-stage, I guess, but Cursed Child is its own beast) death. It makes me mad that she is only defined by her role as a mother and wife to Scorpius and Draco, that she doesn’t get her own ambitions and a life of her own. The racist and sexist underpinnings of the blood malediction/Maledictus concept are par the course for JK but still, bad!

And while I can’t choose for Astoria to have this particular chronic illness and completely divorce it from those origins, I can at least eschew parts of it I don’t like and give a Astoria a rich and fulfilling life with a chronic/potentially terminal illness — not in spite of the blood curse, but because those of us with illnesses and disabilities are people with rich and fulfilling lives, wants, desires, and ambitions.

AN IMPORTANT NOTE: I try to be really careful about ableist language when I describe this blood malediction and its effects on Astoria’s life — I think that there is so much to explore regarding chronic illness and what, exactly, we constitute as ‘health’ — but I know that I can fall into the traps of my own internalized ableism. If there are terms or concepts here that make players uncomfortable and/or have harmful effects, let me know! I’m happy to make changes.

So anyway!

— origins of the blood malediction

I don’t have this fully worked out, but I think the Greengrass blood malediction stretches back a good ten generations to a very vindictive-in-her-righteous-cause-Muggleborn-witch cursing the family for their refusal to let her marry their son. It’s not limited to just the girls in the family, because I hate that, but it does affect at least one child per generation, so long as the family continues to marry exclusively purebloods — which they have continued to do, not knowing that their bigotry (though in some cases, real love!) is the reason for the curse’s spread. Astoria’s parents mistakenly believed that since the last few cases of the curse had cropped up in different branches of the Greengrass family — distant cousins living on the Continent — that their children would be spared.

— astoria’s symptoms and treatment

Since it’s a blood curse, I figure Astoria’s symptoms manifest as issues both with her blood and with her cardiovascular system at large. I’d compare it to haemophilia. Her blood itself is thin and cannot clot without healing spells and thickening potions, meaning that nosebleeds are frequent, bruising is easy, and bad cuts can be fatal. She’s at high risk for internal bleeding in her joints, and a big — though often unvoiced fear — of hers is a brain aneurysm that ruptures into a haemorrhage.

(miscarriage tw) These symptoms have waxed and waned her entire life, with particular incidents that have brought her close to death; an accident falling from the garden wall at five, a wayward spell hitting her across the face in second-year DADA, trying for a child. She doesn’t regret that last one — not at all — though it was five weeks after her miscarriage before she was able to stand unassisted, and her Healer’s face when she said “I strongly advise you to not have any more children” haunts her to this day. Scorpius’s birth, possible due to a wonderful surrogate, was alternatively the happiest day of her life. (end miscarriage tw)

Then there come the potions — a barrage of them, to be taken at specific times of day, with extras if she’s bleeding externally or feeling pain in particular areas — that come with side effects like exhaustion, headaches, and nausea. She visits St. Mungo’s once every three months to ensure that the potions are working as intended and has learned to accept her Healers chastising her for the times she skips parts of the regimen or pushes herself too far physically.

PERSONALITY

astoria!!! my love. clearly i have a lot of thoughts and Feelings about her lol,,,,,,,

there isn’t any world or timeline in which astoria would be rushing to join the death eaters -- lol, i’ve always envisioned her being extremely inquisitive and Critical of other people, their motivations, their methods -- this makes her extremely Good at Lawyering and Suspicious of Bullshit. i also have always thought that it was important for her to make a muggleborn friend or two just to really hammer the point home that pureblood nonsense is just that.

still, again, she’s not really motivated by niceness, she doesn’t have a bleeding-heart-sense-of-empathy, she’s kind of snarky and mean. her friends describe her as an acquired taste.

has a massive sweet tooth. her family is regularly concerned she does not eat enough vegetables.

adores her son. just, absolutely thinks he can do no wrong. she and draco agree that most parents think their child is the most perfect and amazing child in the world, but scorpius actually is the most perfect and amazing child in the world, so.

a note on astoria and draco: i think draco doesn’t treat her with pity or kid gloves, and has never underestimated her capacity to get shit done in light of her blood curse. and they have an honesty and rapport with each other that astoria hasn’t been able to cultivate with anyone else. they may not be very great people but they’re great partners and great parents. i luv them ok bye

STATS

GENERAL

name. astoria céline malfoy (née greengrass)

nickname. aster (reserved for use by her sister only!)

birthdate. 1 january 1982

place of birth. greengrass residence via midwifery

family. daphne greengrass (sister), draco malfoy (husband), scorpius malfoy (son)

residence. malfoy manor, wiltshire

occupation. chief warlock of the wizengamot

gender identity. woman

romantic orientation. biromantic

sexuality. bisexual

blood status. pureblood

relationship status. married

pets. a scottish terrier named hades

HOGWARTS / MAGIC

house. slytherin

extracurriculars/leadership. herbology club

allegiance. neutral/no one

n.e.w.t. grades charms (o), transfiguration (o), herbology (o), d.a.d.a (a), potions (a), arithmancy, astronomy (o), history of magic (a), ancient runes (e).

wand. willow, nine inches, unicorn hair core

boggart. tbd

patronus. also tbd! my brain hurts

magical strengths. nonverbal casting, herbology, transfiguration, ancient runes

magical weaknesses. flying, defensive spells, domestic spells

#potterintro #////this is so long #i regret nothing

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