#ty again quill! i am free now

[kirnet]

i am lending an ear for "do not stand at my grave and weep" pretty please

ty quill!

grave and weep is the thing that ive been kind of cagey abt for a couple of months bc its ... self insert oc anime fanfiction set in the j.jk universe. something that literally nobody would give me grief about im just mentally ill akadjslj

the story follows a necromancer (its written in second person, so no given name) who works at the technical college. they're kind of an outcast, as they were trained by a curse user and serial killer who was a wanted enemy of the school, and they killed a couple other sorcerers (in self defense, but that doesn't help their popularity). The story kicks off as a string of murders targeting sorcerers starts happening, and the necromancer pairs up with nanami to figure out who is doing the killings and why. and maybe they even smooch after another 50k words.

its cringy, but its really fun writing the necromancer! a lot of their conflict comes from their power, as they are a character who really values life and protecting it, but they only ever get power from death. death is also something that is like very addicting to them? it's intoxicating and it gives them an insane power boost, and even as they try to stay true to their ideals, they are constantly toeing the line of succumbing to the draw of power vs keeping themselves purposefully weak to remain true to their values. honestly writing their powers is so fun i forget that there are like other characters in this setting sdsjdhjksa

here's a snippet from a fight scene in chap 9!

You stabbed again, the knife sinking into his trapezius. The killer gasped in pain and phased away before you could pull it out of him. His fist collided with your jaw, sending you flying back into the wall. With a ragged breath, he pulled the knife from his shoulder and waved it mockingly. “How are you going to do without this, hm?”

“Just fine.” A few tethers pulled on your chest. A rat, its fur mangy and torn, launched itself at the killer’s leg and bit down hard. A few more shot out of the darkness and clambered over him, and you took the moment to straighten out and spit a bloody gob of saliva out. Your peripheral vision narrowed as he screamed, dropping the knife as one of the rat corpses latched itself onto his arm. The pain in your jaw was already gone, giving way to elation. You were floating with your feet rooted firmly on the ground as the rat neared the killer’s wrist.

One of you was going to die here. It wasn’t going to be you.

He grabbed the rat and tore it from his arm, his fingers phasing through its decaying skin. They reappeared with some bones and soft entrails in their grasp. The rat went limp and fell to the floor, and the killer shook his hand, the gore splattering on the floor. You took the opportunity to dive for the knife, rolling and sweeping the killer’s legs out from under him for good measure. He warped before he could hit the ground, leaving the rest of the rats that had grasped on to him behind, but you were too quick.

You launched yourself at the charged air, slamming into his back as he surfaced. His already-broken nose cracked against the floor as you fell on top of him, and you threaded your hand through his hair and rammed his face down a second time. You lifted his head up by his hair, the weight of your body on his back pinning him in place, and poked the tip of your blade against his neck tattoo. If you were more coherent, if your body wasn’t drunk on the euphoria of imminent death, you would have thought to question him about his victims, about Yua. But you weren’t. You were impossibly light, and you understood in that moment what it must have felt like for Gojo to fly. All traces of pain, from any of your injuries, from your old scars, or from your troublesome joints had dissolved in the ocean air. It would just take one flick of your wrist to sever the artery in his neck, just as you had done to Henry, just as Sho had done to you, and you could finally quench a thirst that hadn’t been satiated in years.

Death was inevitable, and death was intoxicating.

“Please,” the killer begged, his throat bobbing against the knife. “You don’t want to do this.”

You pressed the knife in deeper.

[pillage-and-lute]

In All that I Have Done

Sad. I recommend listening to Arvo P ärt’s Spiegel im Spiegel while reading. Very, very sad, cannot stress this enough. Non-explicit major character death. (Happens of old age but still)

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More than forty years after the fall of Cintra one Professor Pankratz put down his pen. In the last ten years his hands had lost some of their surety, but his quill didn’t shake when he put it down. 

He ran one hand down his face. His beard had started going silver just after he’d adopted the style, but both it and his hair were now fully steel grey, with not even a hint of their former color. He adjusted his spectacles, tweaked the fashionable, but less than flamboyant hem of his doublet, and began to read what he’d written.

The last will and testament of Professor Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. 

I am writing this, sure and sound of mind, if not of body, in the event of my death. For many years I had a living, de facto will, that is, who ever found me dead by the roadside could loot my body for what they wished. As I got older and my body forced my errant heart to settle down I realized that this could no longer be the case. I fear I have put this off much too long, but happily, it seems I was not too late.

To my remaining family, my baby brother Alfons and his wife Iwona, I leave the rights to my songs and other works, and the royalties to them. Have fun. Alfons, Iwona is a beautiful woman and I would have wooed her, but that you were so in love I couldn’t bring myself to steal her away. I write this with a chuckle, Iwona my dear, because if you’ll remember we met first, and I introduced you to my brother only after you’d hit me in the head with a frying pan for flirting. 

I have also set up a trust, a portion of the royalties will be funneled into it for your son, Mikolaj, although he is a strapping young man who may never need it because he is a fine craftsman, as these spectacles he made me can attest. With luck he may spend it on marriage, should he ever woo that baker lad who made those charming blackberry tarts.

To the grandson of my friend Priscilla, Gaj. You have just been born and are a wonder beyond belief. Your parents are lovely people and you are lucky to have them. They should feel lucky to read this since I fear I shall be long dead before you learn your letters. However; there are times I wish I had fathered children. There are also times I remember what those who do go through and am thankful I did not, but you are a miracle. In the hope that you are given the very best of education, I have put in a word with the university. Should you choose, you will have the best schooling the Continent can offer, free of charge, with the compliments of Oxenfurt. Just, when you are someday a raging young student, sloppy drunk on a night out, think of me, if you can think at all. 

As I have of late stayed in quarters provided for me by the university and their gracious staff, I shall relinquish it all in return, as well as whatever items are held within not listed here. There shall be money in the vase by the fireplace for my funeral, as well as a generous tip for the maids, who have been wonderful and kind to an often forgetful and frail old man who is too much in his feelings.

My wardrobe I leave to whoever wants it, apart from my best blue doublet. (The sky blue one, which brings out my eyes) I should hope to be buried in it.

And finally, to my dearest and truest friend, Geralt of Rivia I leave a note, a song, and a gift.

Jaskier once again scrubbed his hand over his face. His study held a chill, despite the fine summer day, or perhaps it was just him. He got cold so easily these days. His breath rattled a little as he took a deep breath and hauled himself out of his comfortable chair. Melitele’s great gorgeous thighs, but his knees ached today. Jaskier paused at the mirror to tease his hair into place, advancing years never having divested him of his style. He flashed a wink into the mirror and shoveled a little coal into the small fireplace. 

He settled again at his desk, a different paper in hand, separate from the will, and began to look it over. This letter held none of the fine penmanship of the other, instead the letters were blocky and easy to read, better for the eyes that may have gained much in a mutation but skipped lightly over letters and switched them about.

My dear Geralt, it read. In all that I have done, I have had but one masterpiece. Critics may disagree on my greatest work, but I know it exactly, and have since the day of it’s birth. My opus was not Toss a Coin, or even the rehabilitation of yours- and all witchers- reputations. My masterpiece was my relationship with you, a wonderful and awful secret masterpiece of the heart, mind, and soul.

I know you do not dally about with words, but lest you misunderstand this last, most important of missives, we must discuss them. The word awful is now so said as to mean the same as terrible, but this cannot be true at all. Terrible is that which inspires terror or creates fear. Awful, or aweful, if you will, is to inspire awe. To be full of it. Sometimes that awe is fearful, sometimes reverential, perhaps a condemnation and sometimes a blessing. You, my friend, inspire awe. And in me you inspired something much greater than that. In all my years, which are so few compared to yours, nothing has so inspired love in me, as you. It has been my life’s greatest blessing.

When this letter comes to you, regardless of how it comes, it means I am gone from this world. I fear it shall indeed be soon, but I do not fear death. Weep not for me, my friend, instead let me bury in this parchment what there is left for me to say.

More than forty years ago I asked you to come away with me. All these decades later I still dream that you would, yet, I understand why you did not, and why you pushed me away. I offered you my heart that day, but it was the heart of a being you would watch wither away, as I’ll admit I have done. You could not be my forever, knowing that I cannot also be yours. There is no apology, no tears, no explanation needed there. 

Indeed, even for casting me away I need no words, and you have always had few to give, my friend. You didn’t keep me away for long, after all. I am like a magnet, drawn to you. Even now I feel your pull, like the tide to the gentle lady moon, but I cannot follow. 

After the mountain we met up again and again, our lives orbiting eachvother like planets, but we never clung so close as those first twenty years. That is the fault of Dame Time, a tricky mistress, as she collected her dues for twenty years of hard travel and ill care on my body.

I wish I could have given you more of my years. I find I am angry, and yet not so. At once, I could have had more time beside you, had somehow things been otherwise, but I know I had more time with you than might have been, perhaps more than I could reasonably expect. Someone, some goddess, or Life, Time, Destiny, or Fate, gave me enough time to finish the masterpiece that is my love for you, and that is enough.

You read here the ramblings of an old man, but I shall burden you with a few more sentences. 

You may recognize the case to which this letter is attached. Inside is my lute, as given to me by Filavandrel. I wish you to have it. I know you have never been musically inclined, but to me this instrument means so much more than music. This is the physical being of us, and all that may entail. I hope that you keep it, and treasure it how you will. If ever there comes such a person that you wish to play it, for whatever reason, gift it to them, but I beg you, tell them to whom it belonged, and how it came to belong to you. 

And finally, I leave you with a few unsung verses that I feel someone ought to read.

To the edge of the world May this letter be born That it comfort and heals you Although it brings you to mourn

I wrote every song And traveled along For my faith in a witcher and my friend before all

I hope you be blessed and continue your quest To be a friend of humanity As I go to rest

That's our epic tale My champion prevailed Defeated every villain And continues the tale

Toss a coin to my witcher, O valley of plenty...

love, Jaskier.

Professor Pankratz carefully rolled up the parchment and slipped inside a waterproofed tube, tying it with a blue ribbon that would likely only be lost in the parcel’s travels. He did it anyway, then he trailed his fingers over the finest instrument he’d ever played. Hand tremors meant it had sat silent for many months, but he plucked a few, slightly out of tune strings in a familiar tune. Then he put Filavandrel’s lute away, slipping the note in it’s packaging into the outer pocket of the case.

There was a funny feeling, he felt as he sat back in his large desk chair, to completing your greatest work, but he knew at least one being would remember it forever. He took off his spectacles and leaned back in his chair, the fire in the grate convincing him to doze. His eyes slid shut, and Jaskier greeted eternity with open arms.

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

Hot Foot

 Panda’s Notes: I wrote this for the exclusive and express purpose of making @eldritchtickles suffer. So I hope he likes hates it. >w<

Find it on Ao3!

Zagreus was feeling… well, something; he wasn’t sure what to call it. He swirled his fingers slowly in his scrying pool as he narrowed his eyes.

It might have started with Hypnos… Zagreus flinched a bit as the water shimmered to remind him of his own memories.

--------

“Wake up!” Zagreus had said sharply upon approaching the sleeping attendant, quickly moving his hands to scribble on Hypnos’ bare soles.

Hypnos jolted with a squeak, kicking Zagreus’ shoulder and knocking him to the floor. “Oops.” He murmured, not apologetic in the slightest as he chuckled. He let his clipboard and quill hover as he leaned to offer the godling a hand. “You’re back early, Tickles.” He smirked, heaving his brother to his feet as he glanced at his parchment. “Ah, the Wretched Sneak got you this time, huh? You never were good at dodging pokes, you know.” He taunted, quickly lifting Zagreus’ arm to prod his ribs.

“As if you’re any better!” Zagreus argued with a slight smile, covering his side and pulling his arm back. “Those lash marks on your ankles are cute.”

“Huh?!” Hypnos flinched, a gold blush lighting his cheeks as he glanced at his feet. There wasn’t anything there, except for Zagreus’ nails zipping up his soles again before catching both of his ankles. He traced lines around Hypnos’ ankles, seeming to follow a path that had been covered over.

“Heh, I’ll be sure to ask Meg if she knows how much you like feathers on your toes.” Zagreus taunted, about to walk away when Hypnos casually slipped an arm around him.

“Don’t think that just because your feet aren’t ticklish, I can’t get you back.” Hypnos smirked, wiggling his fingers under Zagreus’ chin.

-------

Zagreus jumped slightly, having practically felt the brush of Hypnos’ fingers on his neck as he remembered that conversation. He huffed as he splashed the water to silence it. He didn’t feel any closer to labelling the thoughts running through his head though. He peered hesitantly into the pool again, and the water rippled oddly.

------- 

Orpheus plucked quiet little notes, a rare smile gracing his face as he seemed to look for a rhythm of some kind.

“Tell me, mate,” Zagreus said gently, leaning on the arm of the musician’s chair. “How often do you tune a lyre anyway?”

“As often as you must, my friend.” He shrugged, smiling a bit more as the prince rolled his eyes. “Or as often as you use it. I believe I tuned mine…perhaps every other day when we were performing the most. These days, I’ve come to notice that this lyre your father gave me doesn’t need much tuning; although, I admit I can’t help the urge to adjust the strings in occasion—" Orpheus had glanced up and around, finding Zagreus seated at his feet. “Am I rambling?”

Zagreus chuckled, resting his chin on his hand as his elbow balanced on his knee. “Yes. It’s nice.” He smirked. “You seem so relaxed when you speak freely.”

Orpheus shook his head, crossing one leg onto his opposite knee as he continued to play. “You’re always so kind, my prince. Although now that I’ve given it some thought, why do you ask about tuning? Have you acquired a lyre of your own?”

“Ah, I admit I’ve certainly considered it, but I asked about instrument tuning because a certain someone needs some tuning up.” Zagreus grinned a bit deviously when Orpheus didn’t seem to get it, reaching to pull the musician’s foot into his lap.

“I’m not sure that I—Ah!” Orpheus’ fingers tripped on a foul note as the prince’s knuckles dragged up his sole.

“Was I too subtle for you this time, Orpheus?” He taunted, drawing swirling shapes with his nails. “Or have you not learned to keep your wits about you yet?”

Orpheus cringed, covering his mouth as snickers rattled his frame and as his free hand attempted to find its place on the lyre.

Zagreus chuckled, shaking his head and scribbling his fingers. “See, you’re trying to play while I’m doing this; how am I to take that except as a challenge?” He sneered, watching Orpheus crumble into giggles as he kept a tight grip on his ankle. The prince hummed to himself, feigning an innocent grin as he reached up over his head. Orpheus had barely gotten his bearings when Zagreus presented the Harpy Feather Duster. He yelped softly with a chuckle as the blue plumes were shoved under his chin.

“As promised, mate.” Zagreus joked, his smirk returning. “But if you kick me, you die.”

Orpheus had been pretty unconvinced by his bluff, his leg flailing a bit when the feathers flicked along his sole.

“I’d call it a pity that you’ve yet to sing for us, Orpheus; but at the moment, I admit this is my favorite song of yours.”

-------

Zagreus found himself chuckling. It was still his favorite song, and Orpheus performed it well.

This feeling… What was it? Zagreus stared into the scrying pool, his eyes widening before he stepped back and covered his face.

Actually, maybe it was better he didn’t think about this anymore at all for the rest of time.

The water rippled. His memories called to him. Zagreus sealed his fate with a glance.

-------

Hades was “mad” at Zagreus, which was different from how he was when he was just normal mad. Zagreus had approached his father’s desk with a pair of leather sandals dangling from their broken strings between his fingers; and when Hades looked down at him, the look in his eyes almost seemed like…relief? The boy was puzzled for a moment until his father scooped him up and announced that court was adjourned for now.

“I’m sorry, Father.” The prince murmured as he was carried to his bedroom, earning a soft grunt that he couldn’t decipher. He was set down on his blue bedsheets, and his father seemed careful to let his legs dangle over the side.

Hades simply held out his hand, and Zagreus handed over the sandals to be inspected. At a glance, the soles seemed fine, but the insides were burned black; and the strings that Zagreus always struggled to tie around his ankles had several points where they’d been burned through and hastily tied back together. It was a wonder he’d been able to attempt tying them, let alone struggle with it.

“How many is that now?” Hades asked with a sigh, kneeling beside his son’s bed. “Do you remember?”

Zagreus nodded quickly, and Hades watched him count on his fingers. “Five…?” He said with all the confidence of a pair of burned sandals.

Hades chuckled, but he nodded. “Indeed. Five in half as many months. I won’t be requesting any more pairs if you’re just going to burn them all.”

Zagreus pouted, kicking his feet softly. “I don’t do it on purpose, Father…”

“I’m aware.” Hades hummed, moving his hands to lift Zagreus’ feet by their heels. “You get this from me, I’m afraid, but controlling it requires managing your emotions.”

Zagreus tipped his head, seeming to process that statement.

“You have to be calm, Zagreus.”

“I’m calm!” The child insisted, smiling brightly and bouncing a bit. His soles glowed a bit brighter, and Hades quirked an eyebrow as he felt the heat grow more intense. “…R-Right?”

Hades shook his head, tapping his son’s soles with his fingertips. “I don’t think so. What are you thinking about?”

“Um… I’m thinking about when I was playing with Than and Hypnos, and then Meg came to play even though she hasn’t in a long time, and we were running on the balcony, and that’s when the strings…” He blinked as he looked down; his feet were blazing orange, and red heat radiated up his ankles. “Oh… I see!”

“Do you?” Hades couldn’t seem to resist a smile. “I don’t think you’ve got it yet. What else were you thinking about?”

Zagreus tapped his chin, but he took a breath to steady himself. “I was thinking about Mother and you.” His feet cooled just slightly, and his toes flexed a bit as he watched them curiously. “Mother Nyx was away crafting the night and you…” He seemed to hesitate, almost looking for another thought.

Hades watched him, letting his thumbs rest on the tops of his feet as he found himself understanding. The heat was indeed fading. “You thought of me…” He sighed, moving his fingers slowly. “Because I was busy?”

“Um…maybe.” Zagreus murmured even though he was nodding, and he squirmed a little as he put a hand over his face to hide it. A giggle slipped out of his mouth, and a bit of heat reignited.

“Calm, Zagreus.” Hades tried not to smile, his fingers flexing purposefully. “Control.”

“I’m calm.” The boy insisted again, hardly any more convincing with the giggles falling out of him. “I’m ca—Stop tickling me!” He laughed, hiding his face again, but his reactions grew measured whenever the heat increased.

“I’m not doing anything, boy.”

“Liar…”

Hades paused, glancing up slowly; and Zagreus’s soles blazed brightly again as he covered his mouth. “You would accuse me of lying, boy?”

Zagreus squealed and tried to scramble backwards, only to get caught by one of his ankles and lifted upside down over his father’s shoulder. His hands flailed as Hades’ fingers dug softly into his ribcage, and he laughed brightly and tried to kick.

Hades returned to work with Zagreus zipping past to find his friends again. Small sparks followed after his small footsteps as he laughed excitedly. The burns on Hades’ fingertips were minor, and they were healed within the first hour after court reconvened.

 --------

Zagreus groaned heavily into his pillow, crossing his legs under himself as he sat on the bed.

He was jealous. A little bit at least. Maybe he was nostalgic. He was definitely wishing he could think about something else.

“Prince?”

Zagreus nearly jumped out of his skin when someone’s hand rested on his head. Achilles flinched away from him with a chuckle, setting his spear against the wall.

“Achilles?”

“Are you alright, lad? You seem troubled. We can postpone the exercises you wanted if you need to talk.”

“Ah, no.” Zagreus insisted, standing up suddenly and dropping the pillow on the bed. “I, uh… Sorry, sir. Please, let’s get started; I’ll even give you the first shot this time.”

Achilles watched the prince run out to the balcony, chuckling softly as he followed a moment later.

 “You seem awfully unbalanced today, lad…” Achilles called as Zagreus was looking over his weapons. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I assure you I’m quite certain, sir.” The prince said firmly, taking hold of Varatha and spinning it between his hands. “A knock or two in the head would do me good, so…” He paused as he heard an unfamiliar clatter, spinning around to see Achilles apparently wincing as he flexed Malphon’s fingers over his own. “Sir, what are you—?”

“Ah, well, I figured it’s about time I employ other strategies, prince.” The shade grinned, turning his wrists and getting a feel for the weight of the gauntlets. “You’ve grown so skilled since you were young; I fear you’ve seen all that I’m capable of with my spear.”

“I highly doubt that sir; although, I admit I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested in Malphon.”

“Perhaps I’ll surprise you yet then; hand-to-hand combat and wrestling were quite popular in Greece when I was your age. Or, when I was young, I should say. Now then, I believe you offered to allow me the first strike.”

Zagreus chuckled and shook his head, holding Varatha defensively as Achilles lunged toward him. A sharp punch in the chest stung quite a bit more than he’d expected, stunning him enough that Achilles got ahold of his spear to start a grapple.

Zagreus adjusted his hold, standing his ground and pushing back hard. “Alright, I may have miscalculated. You still have quite a bit of fight for someone who claims to have lost his taste for war.”

Achilles laughed a bit, adjusting his stance to pull Zagreus’ spear. He twisted at the waist, pulling Zagreus across his front leg and wrenching Varatha out of his hands as he fell. “You mustn’t taunt me if you can’t even keep your stance, lad. I hardly regret embarrassing you after a performance like that.”

Zagreus cringed as he lifted himself up. “Embarrassed? I’ve been knocked over befo—Ack!” He had extended a hand, attempting to call Varatha from where Achilles had thrown it, but before the weapon could respond, Zagreus was flinching away from a jab at his waist. “What are you doing?”

“Ah, heh, apologies lad. Consider this… For old times’ sake, perhaps. I like to think I owe you for that arrow you shot at my back a few weeks ago. And more accurately…” Achilles grinned, stepping closer to him again and grabbing at his wrists to attempt to shove him down. “You read like an open book.”

“I-I—You… Sir, wait!” Zagreus cried out, unable to keep from smiling until Achilles swept his legs out from under him.

Malphon’s claws dug deep into his sides as Achilles perched himself on his legs, and he quickly found himself regretting the minutes he spent tormenting Orpheus with them. Okay, that wasn’t true, but his conscience was certainly making an argument for it. The Fates had curious ways indeed.

Zagreus clutched at Achilles’ arm, laughing helplessly and writhing as those fingers crawled up and down his stomach.

The shade chuckled, pressing his palms against his student’s sides. “Honestly, lad, you could at least pretend to put up a better fight. Are you sure there’s nothing you need to talk about?”

“It isn’t important!” Zagreus insisted through giggles, resting an arm over his face.

That didn’t mean it was nothing though. Achilles rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Well, if you’re sure. While I have you though…” He hummed, pressing one hand to the stone under them as he turned. He glanced curiously over the prince’s feet, the heat radiating off of them seeming to fluctuate as he settled himself. “You mentioned once that you couldn’t feel the new rug you bought for your room, didn’t you?”

Zagreus blushed a bit at the memory and chuckled. “Yes, hardly a change at all. I could tell the difference by pressure, but I was at least hoping the texture w—Hey!” His voice had escaped as a squeak when one of Malphon’s metal digits pressed firmly into his sole and zipped up toward his toes.

“You felt that, I take it?” Achilles laughed a bit, hooking his fingers into both of his feet and raking them up and down. Zagreus broke immediately, laughing loudly and trying to reach his back with one hand.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit too tall for that one these days, lad.” Achilles taunted when the prince just barely hooked his robes, dragging his fingers up through the prince’s toes until he was squealing.

“I yield; I yield, sir, please!” Zagreus cried out, trying to squirm with a bit more earnest.

Achilles chuckled softly and paused, pushing himself up to stand over him. “I will admit that was quite a bit of fun. It would seem these are more effective as weapons than I originally thought.”

He offered a hand, and Zagreus rolled his eyes and reached to take it, only to scald his hand on the heated metal gauntlets. “Ouch…” He hissed, yanking his hand back and looking it over.

Achilles couldn’t help laughing, removing one gauntlet to offer his bare hand and patting his shoulder before going to place Malphon in its spot. “Apologies, prince. Now, then… Perhaps you’d be interested in more traditional training?”

Zagreus rested his hands on his hips. “Well, sir, that depends.” He reached out, calling Varatha into his hand. “How quickly can you arm yourself?”

The shade smirked, taking a stance and leading his opponent in a short circle. “Energetic as always…”

“As always, indeed. …And thank you, sir.”

[secretlynestaarcheron]

If Hogwarts had Instagram: Cassian Takeover

(It was so hard not adding pretty detailing but I don’t think that’s Cassians vibe)

Part One

“What’s that?” Rhys says, peering over Cassian's shoulder to see what he was typing. Cassian looks back to see his friend shoving his practice jersey over his head. “Have to make your instagram stories all pretty for a certain ravenclaw?” 

Casian shoves his friend before turning back to his phone. “No, I got nominated to do a day in my life,” Cassian says, uploading the picture before tossing his phone on his bed and looking around for his own practice jersey. He finds it shoved under his bed and he lifts it to his nose, grimacing. “Besides, you have an even bigger crush on her sister, so you’re one to talk.” 

“I would hope it’s obvious I have a crush on her, she’s my girlfriend,” Rhysand deadpans. 

Cassian glares at him as he slips the shirt over his head and puts on some shoes. “You’re just jealous that no one cares about your day in life enough to nominate you,” Cassian replies, as they make their way out of the Gryffindor Common room and towards the pitch. 

Rhysand laughs, “Yeah, that’s what I am jealous of,” he retorts with an eyeroll. “I think that they really want to know if you and Nesta are dating, you know everyone thinks you two are. That’s probably the only reason they nominated you.” 

They push their way into the locker room and Cassian spots Azriel sitting on the bench tying his shoes. “Oy, Az, do you think the only reason I was nominated was because-,” 

“People think you and Nesta Archeron are dating because there is no way that two people that act the way you two act with one another can’t be dating? Yeah, I do?” Azriel interrupts, high fiving Rhysand as he walks by. 

Cassian frowns as he shoves his gear in his compartment. “Well, if that’s what they want, that’s what I’ll give them,” he mutters under his breath as he follows his friends out onto the pitch where the rest of the team and their team captain, Amren, were already waiting. 

“Nice of you ladies to finally join us,” Amren shouts as she waves them forward immediately getting into what practice would hold for them today. 

Cassian drops back down to the ground an hour and a half later next to Rhysand. “I don’t know what crawled into her pants but first sunrise practice and then a full hour of conditioning? We’re all going to come off these practices injured,” Cassian grumbles as they make their way to the locker room. 

“I told you to practice over the summer, but you were too busy following your girlfriend around to every book shop in London,” Rhysand chirps as he begins wiping down his broom with broom wax. 

Cassian makes a face at the back of his head as he slips off his shirt and begins dressing in his uniform. “What period do you have first again?” Cas asks as he straightens his tie. 

“Charms,” Rhysand responds. 

 Azriel walks in while saying, “I have a free period, I am heading to the great hall to get some breakfast and then-,” 

“Accidentally finding yourself outside the Hufflepuff common room? Or perhaps down to the herbology greenhouse?” Cas snickers. 

Rhysand reaches over to shove him lightly. “You’re one to talk, who’s your potions partner again?” he replies. 

“That wasn’t because I like her, that’s because she’s smart and “Potionsmaster Amara” already hates my guts. I can’t afford to get anything lower than an A this semester,” Cassian retorts, “It’s just smart thinking.” 

Rhysand smirks as he puts an arm around his friend as they begin making their way up the hill back towards hogwart. “Hopefully you have that smart thinking this weekend, Slytherin has to go down. I can’t take another year of Tamlin and Luciens gloating.” 

“Don’t you worry, Rhys. Those two are going down more ways than one,” Cassian retorts before they go their separate ways. Cassian towards the dungeon for potions and Rhys up to charms. When Cassian walks in everyone is already setting up their equipment. 

He moves through the table until he drops his bag on the stool beside Nes. She crinkles her nose, “Would it kill you to shower?” she murmurs, as she flips through her Potions book, stopping on a certain page before looking up at him. 

“I did take that into consideration, unfortunately I wouldn’t have made it here in time and I couldn’t deprive you of one of the only classes we have together,” Cassian retorts. “I did take your comments into consideration though and start wearing cologne.” 

She frowns, peering up at him with her bright and stern eyes. “Now you just smell like a pine tree and sweat,” she retorts sliding her book in front of him. “We are making Amortentia.” He lifts up his phone and snaps a picture of everything out on the table. “It's a love potion, you smell what you love the most- what are you doing.” 

Cassian pauses and sits back in his seat to add a caption to his phone. “Day in my life,” Cassian responds, when he looks up and sees her annoyed expression he adds, “It’s what the people want.” 

“What I want is for you to pay attention,” she retorts. “Did you listen to anything I said?” 

He sets his phone down after posting the picture. “Amortentia, a strong love potion, makes you smell what you love the most,” he retorts, giving her a half amused smile as he leans in resting his chin on his hand. “How much do you want to bet that you’ll smell my cologne?” 

She shoves his elbow causing him to slip forward, crashing against the table, just as Amara walked into the classroom. She glances over towards the noise and scowls when she sees that it is Cassian. “Mr Valeris, is there a reason for the commotion?” she asks sternly as she begins setting up her instructions. 

“Just excited to learn,” Cassian retorts and Nesta snickers. Amara doesn’t scold him anymore and claps to gain the rest of the class's attention before going into detail on the history of the potion before sending them off to try it on their own. 

Nesta gives him mundane tasks while she does the majority of the work, looking over at him at times to make sure he’s doing it correctly. “Pearl dust, Cas. Not chunks!” she scolds or “Merlin, Cas, let me know there are rose thorns littering the table please.” Or “Light stirring, not pace of a sloth stirring.”

Amara walks down the aisle of tables, critiquing the technique of the students very loudly as if to embarrass them in front of the tables around them. “Mister Velaris and Miss Archeron, how is my star pupil and my-,” she looks at Cassian, “my not so star pupil doing?” 

“I think it’s complete,” Nesta replies, sitting back and looking at the liquid bubbling in the cauldron. Professor Amara leans forward to sniff it, giving Nesta a pleasant smile. “Very good. Both of you smell.” 

Nesta leans forward first and Cassian after her. He smells coffee at first, memories of his mother sitting at the table when he was a child sipping on the dark liquid as she reads the paper, then old books, he’s reminded of the endless bookstores Nesta would drag him into over the summers and the hours they spend hidden between the shelves of the library, and then strawberries and creme, Nesta’s body wash. 

“What do you smell, Miss Archeron?” Amara asks. 

She smiles, “Buttered popcorn,” she says, squinting at the potion as she continues to think. A sad smile, “Lavender and-,” she frowns, realization dawning on her face and she looks up at Amara and sits back. “Forestry or something.” 

Professor Amara nods, “And you?” she asks Cassian, who turns away from Nesta to look at Amara who was staring at him intently. 

Cassian clears his throat, “Oh um-,” he pauses, leaning forward to sniff it once more wondering how he was going to talk himself out of having two scents belong to Nesta. He didn’t even know he was that in love with her. 

There’s a crash across the room and Professor Amara shakes her head. “You both are free to go, homework is 5inches of parchment talking about the effects of Amortenia and what you smelt.” she calls before rushing across the room. 

Cassian lets out a breath, he really got lucky there, he stuffs his supplies back in his bag. “We both have free period next want to head to the library and go ahead and knock this essay out?” he questions. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Can we stop by the kitchens? I am starving,” she asks. 

He's glad she wasn’t suspicious, at least he knew he was better at keeping it cool outside. He swings an arm around her shoulder and is shocked when she doesn’t shove it off. “Anything you want darling,” he retorts. 

She pulls out her phone as they make their way towards the kitchens. “Merlin, did someone die?” she asks, he glances down to see her screen full of notifications. Just as he looks down she shoves him away from her. “In love with you? Me in LOVE with you?” 

He laughs, “It’s what the people want!” he retorts. 

She shakes her head, grumbling something under her breath as she begins texting others. “No one wants your lies,” she replies, stepping away from him to distance herself as she texts wildly. 

She doesn’t speak to him again until they’ve grabbed their snacks from the kitchens, being chased off by house elves, and make their way to their usual spot hidden between the shelves. 

“Take it down,” she says, as she drops her bag on the table loudly. “Or I am switching potions partners. You can say goodbye to your A.” 

He shakes his head. “You are unbelievable, Archeron,” he retorts, grabbing his phone and snapping a picture of her. 

“What are you doing? That’s not taking it down,” she responds, taking a bite of her apple. 

He begins typing out a caption. “If I took it down it would look too suspicious, I am just going to clarify that it was a joke,” he retorts with a mischievous smile. 

“Put that I am not in love with and that I did not smell your cologne,” she says, pulling out a roll of parchment and her quill. “You haven’t even told me what you smelled.” 

He uploads the picture, and slides into the chair in front of her, shuffling through his own bag. “Gotta quill I can borrow?” He asks, ignoring the question.

Her eyes narrow but she reaches into the bag and hands one to him. “Thanks,” he retorts, as they both silently begin their work, he’s glad she’s dropped it now but he knows that won’t be the end of it. 

They work in silence for the remainder of the period. Nesta silently chewing on her apple as her hand moves wildly across the parchment. “Stop staring,” she says, setting her quill down and leaning back in her seat to look at him. He doesn’t have time to reply before she’s changing the subject. “Want me to edit?” 

He looks down at his paper that only talks about the first scent, he doesn’t even know what he will say about the other two. “Uh, no, I’ll have Rhys do it tonight. He’s got some quill that will edit it for you or something,” he retorts which was a flat out lie. 

She smiles and stands up. “Have him do mine too, eh?” she says sliding it over and standing up. “I’ve got herbology, you?” 

“DADA,” he retorts. 

They step out of the library, “See you around, Velaris,” she says with a wave as she makes her way to the path leading to the greenhouse. 

He begins towards the classroom, unrolling Nesta scroll to see her smells. He knew none of them correlated him to him, but he could hope. Buttered popcorn reminded her of the the endless muggle movie marathons she would have with her sisters, each of them snuggled together under a blanket with a large bowl of popcorn.

Lavender for her mother, she would use lavender scented everything. Nesta hated it growing up made her nose feel itchy but now she couldn’t get enough of it. 

Forestry, the woods outside her house where she would get lost for hours. 

All reasonable and very Nesta-like smells. Cassian couldn’t help but feel disappointed as he rolls it up, shoves it in his bag, and stumbles into the classroom with the rest of the students sulking as he makes his way into the back. He’d never know how Nesta Archeron felt about him. 

“Where have you been?” Rhys asks as Cassian comes in that night for dinner. Cassian grumbles as he sits down putting a bunch of food on his plate. 

“Homework,” he says, it appeared every professor wanted to assign a paper or assignment, not to mention he had to proofread Nesta’s paper and read over and over again how she wasn’t in love with him like he was in love with her. 

Rhysand nods, his eyebrows pinching as if he was thinking about all the homework he had to do too. “Amren canceled practices tomorrow, supposed to be an ice storm or something,” he retorts. “Az and I are planning on having a little get together in the common room.” 

“Fire whiskey?” Cas asks. He needed that after today, maybe he will be so hung over he won’t even remember handing in his essay that practically screams ‘I AM IN LOVE WITH NESTA’ 

Rhys chuckles, “Of course,” he retorts, “Why, you need some liquid luck?” 

Cassian rolls his eyes as he takes a bite of a dinner roll. “How’s the day in the life going, Valeris?” Feyre pipes up, sitting in the open seat next to Rhysand, giving him a peck before filling her plate up with food. “Everyone keeps asking me if you and Nes are a thing.” 

“Oh yeah, they all want to know if this is going to end in you two going on a date,” Azriel says, sitting down beside Cassian and knocking him with his shoulder. Cassian frowns. “Is it?” 

Feyre shakes her head as Rhysand says, “He doesn’t have the guts, I think you should let the viewers decide.” He reaches forward and takes a phone from Cassian, snapping a pic of the hall before typing away. 

“Honestly, I just want this day to be over,” Cassian responds. “Should have never let Mor peer pressure me into doing this stupid thing, who put her in charge of student organizations again?” 

“Are you sure that's all?” Feyre asks, raising a quizzical eyebrow as she opens her pumpkin juice. “I heard you guys made Amortenia in potions class.” 

Cassian gives a half hearted shrug. “I mean yeah we did-,” he pauses, “Why do you know about that?” 

Feyre stops midswing. “Oh, um, Nes was telling me about it earlier. Ranting and such, you know how she is,” she replies, fixating her eyes somewhere else. “Rhys said you guys don’t have practice tomorrow, any plans?” 

Cassian shakes a finger at her. “Not so fast,” he retorts, “She smelled something of mind, didn’t she?” 

Feyre blinks at him. “I don’t know what you're talking about.” 

“You are a terrible liar, Feyre Archeron,” he retorts, looking around the room until he saw Nesta walking away with a few of her housemates laughing at something one of them said. He quickly gets up ignoring the protests from Feyre. 

“Nes,” he yells as soon as he gets into the hallway. She pauses looking back at him, her eyes narrowing at him as she thinks about weather to stay or not. He catches up with her before she can decide. “You smelled something of me, didn’t you?” 

She rolls her eyes, shifting the books that were in her arms to the other side, waving off her housemates who linger slightly before moving down the hall. “Does it matter?” Nesta asks, his smile falters. Of course it mattered. “You needed a poll to decide if you should ask me out or not.” 

Cassian eyebrows furrow as she pulls out her phone and holds up the screen to him. “That was Rhys, I didn’t-,” he stops when she shakes her head. He shifts his jaw as he watches her intently. 

“I am sorry, Cas. I didn’t smell anything from you. I think you can see that clearly in the essay I wrote,” she responds. “I am not your dream girl and I never will.” 

He watches as she moves down the hall without a second thought. She doesn’t even look back as she turns the hall disappearing from view. He doesn’t know how long he stood there but then Feyre comes up next to him. 

“What’d she say?” she asks softly. 

“That she didn’t smell me,” he replies, blinking as he looks down at Feyre. “She’s not the one for me.” 

Feyre takes a breath, eyes flickering to the ceiling before back to him. “I wouldn’t say that just yet, Cas,” she says, rubbing his shoulder. “She doesn’t do well with being cornered, you should know that. She doesn’t admit things easily.” 

He gives her a half smile, but his heart wasn’t in it, she lets her hand drop as Az and Rhys come barreling into the hall. Rhysand throws an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t worry, mate. You’ll forget all about your lady troubles in an hour or two,” he says. 

Cassian lets himself be pulled towards the Gryffindor common room, only remembering to snap a view picture to end out the night before becoming succumbed to the fire whisky. The last thing on his mind before he falls asleep is fierce green eyes and long dirty blonde hair.

[clareguilty]

Kinktober Prompt #4

So not only is this prompt late, but its not even the one i said i would have done today because of writers block. Anyways, i hope y’all like weird, magic, tentacle smut.

Witch!Mercy/f!reader Rating: Explicit | Tentacles, magic rituals, dubcon, face sitting… i went HAM y’all Word Count: ~1800

Read it on AO3

You probably should have listened when your friends warned you not to go near the Witch of the Wilds. She was dangerous. Wicked. A powerful sorceress and a master of life and death. She had bewitched many, committed unspeakable evils. And you were intent on seeking her out.

 Her lair was hidden deep in the woods, and it took you quite a while to find it. Still, you strode up to the heavy wooden door with as much confidence as you muster.

 The door opened on its own. Swinging inward slowly with a high creak. Okay. You probably should have expected something like that in all honesty. This was the Witch of the Wilds.

 You tentatively stepped inside, peering around in the dark entry way. The second both of your feet had cross the threshold. You blacked out.

 The first thing you saw when you woke was the most beautiful woman you had ever seen.

 “An angel?” you asked, trying to clear the fog from your head. You couldn’t move, but that would make sense if you were dead.

 She chuckled, a low sound that seemed to fill the air around you. “You’re sweet, but I’m far from holy.”

 She was sitting a little ways away, large book propped open on her crossed knees. A feather quill hovering in the air beside her.

 “You came looking for me? I assume you wanted something.” She closed the book and set it aside. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her. Your initial assumption had been far too innocent. This was no angel. She was a temptress. You dragged your gaze away from her legs and saw the wickedness in her eyes. “I give nothing for free, so I’ve already taken the liberty of arranging my payment. Once I am finished, we can discuss your request.”

 You were bewildered. What was she talking about? You attempted to sit up, but you had hardly moved an inch before you realized that you were tied down. Stripped naked and bound to a large wooden table. The sigils carved in the wood left a pit in your stomach.

 “The Witch of the Wilds,” you breathed.

 “I guess that’s what most call me these days,” she tutted. She was at a long table covered in instruments and vials and parchment. “It has been quite a while since someone sought me out deliberately. I can’t wait to learn what it is you want. Unfortunately, it’s the night of the new moon and I’ve been wanting to perform this ritual for a long time. I hope you don’t mind if I take my end of the deal first.”

 Your confusion was quickly giving way to fear. You may have bitten off more than you could chew.

 “It was very lucky that you showed up when you did. Not many people travel on a waning moon. I just happen to have everything else I need all ready here.” She was mixing some sort of paste in a stone bowl. “It’s amazing how many materials one has to gather just to get yet      another    material.”

 You tensed as she turned to you, carrying the bowl to the table you were fastened to. There was no way in hell you were eating that.

 You didn’t have to. Instead, she began painting sigils across your body. Teasing you when she first slathered the cold substance right across your chest. She was deliberate. Careful. Occasionally taking a thin metal instrument to scrape away at the paste until it was the desired shape. It was a strange sensation, especially as the paste began to harden and darken against your skin.

 “What kind of ritual is this?” you asked, already dreading the answer.

 “A summoning,” she answered simply. “I require materials from a dark world being. The being will not come to this realm without an offering. That’s where you come in.”

 She took in your expression and quickly added, “Of course, you’ll survive the ritual. There’s no need to be worried. Everything should be finished by dawn.”

 You decided you didn’t want to ask any more questions.

 The painstaking process was soon complete, and you had been covered in sigils from your neck to your toes. She even adjusted the bindings on your ankles, spreading your legs wide before tying them back even tighter than before. You were ashamed, embarrassed to be so exposed, but the Witch was unfazed. She procured a large shallow basin and placed it between your thighs.

 You watched her carefully arrange a series of items in the basin. Powders, herbs, stones, and strange things from jars. The last addition was a few drops of glowing blue liquid.

 “Thank you for being so patient with me,” the Witch smiled at you, opening her large book once more. “If you could keep quiet for just a moment longer, I’ve got the incantation and we’ll be all set.”

 She began the incantation. It was a language you had never heard, and it sounded strange and uncomfortable to your ears. Every passing second made you more and more afraid of what was to come.

 It had been nearly a minute of recitation when you felt it. The sigils on your skin began to feel warm and strange. Buzzing like an insects wings. It wasn’t uncomfortable but you opened your mouth to scream anyways. You had barely parted your lips when a palm firmly clamped over your lips. The witch hadn’t finished her incantation.

 Next, the materials in the basin between your legs erupted in bright blue flames. You screamed against the witch’s palm, thrashing in your bonds as the flames began to take shape, opening into some kind of portal.

 The portal was pitch black. The witch watched it with bright, eager eyes, waiting for what would come through. She finished her incantation with a smile, setting the book aside as she watched the flames. They licked at the insides of your thighs, but didn’t burn. Just as the sigils glowed and buzzed against your skin.

 At last, something reach through the portal. A thin, dark tendril snaked its way out, tapping along the wood of the table until it found your thigh. You immediately tried to scream again, but the witch covered your mouth before you could make a sound.

 “Please keep quiet,” she asked, sounding more exasperated than anything. “We wouldn’t want to scare it with your noise.”

 The tendril snaked up your leg, tapping along the sigils before coming to the apex of your thighs. Apparently, that was just what it was looking for, because it began rubbing against the sensitive flesh there. You tried to move away, but you were bound too firmly.

 Your panic only increased tenfold when another tendril brushed against your knee. They stroked you between your legs. You felt a wave of shame as you realized that it felt good.  

 And then one of them pressed inside you. Moving back and forth in a familiar motion. Your screams against the witch’s palm turned to moans of pleasure.

 “Ah,” she grinned. “Perfect.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she was watching the creature with rapt fascination. “If only I could have served as the offering myself.”

 She watched you. Watched your mouth fall open as the tendrils worked their way inside of you. Stretching you and filling you. Several more had emerged from the portal, wrapping around your legs and up to your chest. Occasionally, one of the tendrils would fill you with a warm, tingling liquid and retreat back into the portal, only to be replaced by another shortly after.

 “We had best keep you quiet,” she mused. “And I’m feeling a little bit left out of the fun. What if I…?” She chewed her lip. Nodding as she came to a decision.

 She climbed onto the table, pushing her already revealing skirt to the side as she swung her thigh over your head. “Be a good girl for me,” she murmured as she lowered herself to your lips.

 Your tongue met her pussy and you moaned against her. She made an appreciative sound, grinding down to meet you.

 You did the best you could to serve the Witch of the Wilds. The tendrils between your legs made it difficult to stay focused. They brought you to orgasm again and again, never relenting. You wanted to do the same for the witch.

 She rode your face until your jaw was tired; then she freed one of your hands so you could use your fingers. You never backed down until she nearly collapsed, sliding off of the table and disappearing into a heap on the floor. You were a fucked out mess, still subject to the tendrils that never seemed to tire. You were a mess, covered in whatever it was they created and nearly mindless with pleasure.

 The witch recovered after several minutes, gathering up a number of empty jars and collecting the substance that was pooling between your legs.

 And then the portal closed.

 It was abrupt. You were so lost in bliss that you hardly even noticed until the witch was removing you from your bonds.

 “It must be dawn,” she noted as she began wiping off the jars to put them away. “Here.” She lifted you from the table, carrying you with ease to a large basin across the room. “Rest as long as you need to. I’ll bring food and wine in just a bit.”

 The water in the basin – probably enchanted – was soothing. And it eased your aches as you ate a plate of fruit and nuts that the witch brought. Unfortunately, the paste that had created the sigils on your body had stained your skin, and you were still covered in strange markings after it was washed away. It was only after you were wrapped in a soft robe and settled in a large chair by the fireplace that she spoke.

 “Thank you for assisting me with that. It is a great help to me. I will now grant you anything you ask in return.” She smiled warmly. You were still entranced by her beauty, even after all you had been through.

 “Let me stay with you.”

 “Excuse me?” The witch asked.

 “I came all this way because I wished to learn magic. Powerful magic. And after everything that happened last night, I would like to become your student. That ritual was… amazing. And I would gladly be your offering again on the next new moon.” You rushed in your explanation, hoping she wouldn’t turn you away.

 Instead she laughed. “Well, I won’t be needing to perform that particular ritual any time soon. But I can think of many other ways in which you can assist me.” Her lips curled, and your heart began to race at the shine in her eyes. “Very well, you can remain here with me. It would be nice to have a willing subject for my spells and experiments.”

Ko-Fi | Paypal | Masterlist

[fanfictionaries]

Oh So Many Years: Ch. 5 - It Was You

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary:

Just when Hermione thought nothing worse could plague her than her constant nightmare, she has a very different kind of dream. How is she ever going to look Ronald in the face again? All she wanted was to do well in her classes, get S.P.E.W. off the ground, and finally get a good nights sleep.

Fred continues to find himself more than amazed at the infinite facets of Hermione Granger.

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Smut/18+ NSFW

Author’s Note: A second update this week because I like you guys so much! :) 

I will now be updating this story every week before midnight on Sundays (US MST)! Please feel free to like, comment, and reblog! xoxo

Masterlist

<< Chapter 4

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Moments fall like crimson nights Some stick to my skin tonight Take a breath and shake them off Eyes ahead, don't you wait too long

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“If I have to write one more word about the goblin rebellions, I think I might off myself.” Ron threw down his quill, ink splotching across this parchment, and let his head fall into his hands.

“Be careful. If you do, I guarantee Professor Trelawney will say she predicted it all along because Venus was in retrograde and you’re a Pisces,” Harry responded flatly, resulting in a smile from Ron.

Hermione would never admit it, but she secretly agreed with Ron. While not quite as distressed as her ginger friend, she did find the weekly essays assigned by Professor Binns tedious and incredibly lacking in challenge. Perhaps she found the whole thing tiresome because she already knew everything there was to know about the goblin rebellions, but it also didn’t help that the ghostly professor was about as exciting as an old shoe.

“Hermione…” Ron drew out her name like he had just come to an idea. Hermione, very familiar with this tone, knew exactly what his idea was.

“No,” she responded sternly, scribbling away at her own parchment about the various defense tactics utilized by the goblins.

“Pleeeaaase?”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeeaaaaaaase?”

She sighed. “I will edit and revise Ronald Weasley, and nothing more.”

“You’re the best, honestly.” Ron grinned and picked up his quill again, dipping it in his ink and scribbling away with renewed energy. His stupid grin made Hermione smile and roll her eyes before returning to her own essay. While she wished that Ron and Harry could just do their own work themselves, she did realize that not everyone had the discipline that she had. However, that didn’t mean she had to stop trying to get them to work harder. She knew for a fact that their potential far exceeded their marks.

They worked in silence for a while, the scratching of quill on parchment and shuffle of students walking past filling Hermione’s ears as her brain turned over, pulling out fact after fact.

In a blazing sense of pride, she finished her last sentence, tying her conclusion together perfectly, and placed her quill down on the table. At the click, both Ron and Harry looked over to her with wide eyes of disbelief.

“You’re finished already?” gaped Harry.

“I’ve barely gotten three paragraphs written. How can you possibly be finished already?!” exclaimed Ron. Hermione shushed him, glancing over at Madame Pince’s disapproving glare.

“Some of us, Ronald, utilize our time efficiently,” Hermione responded coolly as she placed her things back into her bag. She didn’t bother mentioning that she spent her last three hours in the library as opposed to their meager thirty minutes, or that she took her break after morning Transfiguration to study as well. Her eyes itched from staring at off-white pages and black script and for once she finished all her work and read ahead in all her classes. It probably had something to do with the fact that she was attending five less classes than the previous year.

There was also the small fact that she no longer slept. Nearly a month into school and she still barely slept four hours a night. When panic inducing nightmares weren’t causing her to toss and turn, she was studying. And when she wasn’t studying, she was working on her new endeavor – the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, otherwise known as S.P.E.W. Ever since the Quidditch World Cup and the horrid treatment of Winky, the house elf, she knew she had to do something. This became even more clear when she found out Hogwarts was run almost entirely on house elf labor. In all her years never did she imagine that her beloved school used essentially slavery to cook and clean. It was wrong. It was barbaric. One would assume that in a world filled with magic, where one was only limited to the bounds of one’s imagination, they would be a bit more progressive. Unfortunately, though, it seemed to be the opposite. In fact, Hermione had never met a group of people so routed in their ways as the wizarding world. Of course, it would be foolish to assume that an entire world would be impermeable to prejudices when the muggle world was not.

Therefore, where all of her time was normally spent in the Gryffindor common room with Harry and Ron or watching the Gryffindor quidditch team practice on the pitch, she now spent it nose deep in a book or attempting to recruit new S.P.E.W. members. Her absence had not gone unnoticed – in fact, it became so blatantly clear that Harry confronted her outright between Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures.  

“I don’t understand Hermione, is it something I’ve done?” Harry ran a hand through his unruly locks, distress obvious on his face.

“No, it’s nothing you’ve done Harry,” Hermione picked at her nails, feeling uncomfortable.

“Was it, Ron? I’m sure whatever he said, he didn’t mean it.” Hermione ignored the grating irritation at Harry’s blind defense of Ronald.

“No, it’s not Ron.”

“Then what? Come on Hermione, you know you can tell me anything.”

Hermione looked at her best friend and sighed. His kind eyes shone from behind his round spectacles with sincerity and concern.

“I’m not avoiding you or Ron. I’m just stressed about our O.W.L.s next year—" she paused “—You can never be too prepared, and I need to do well on them.”

Harry looked at her with a confused expression, “Hermione, they’re not for another year! Are you seriously stressing over something so far away?”  

“Yes? No? I guess…I guess I’m just used to studying all the time. You know, what with the time-turner last year and all. And then of course there’s S.P.E.W. No one seems to care at all that these poor elves are being worked day and night without any pay. I mean, it’s horrendous!” Hermione half-lied, feeling stupid as the words left her mouth. She wanted to be honest with Harry, but she didn’t know how. The real reason felt stupid. What was she to say? Sorry I’ve thrust myself into my work more than ever Harry; I just can’t stop having nightmares about something that happened nearly two months ago and I’m trying to distract myself.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, “I get it.”

“You do?” His remark caught her off guard as she wasn’t even sure if she understood it.

“You’re an absolute swot. Don’t get me wrong, we all love that about you, but you need to learn when to relax and have some fun,” Harry finished with a grin.

“You prat—” Hermione hit his arm with the back of her book “—Don’t call me a swot. But you’re right. I need balance.”  

“And I guess as appointed Secretary of S.P.E.W., I could do a bit more for the cause.”

Hermione lit up at the words. “Really? Oh Harry, thank you so much! I’m making more buttons tonight, maybe you could help me? Then tomorrow we can try and canvas some of the other houses for new members!”

“Well, if you’re so efficient, you should be able to help me finish mine!” argued Ron desperately, bringing Hermione back to the present.

“Ronald, I told you before. I’m not doing your assignment for you. You have to learn it on your own,” she whispered.

“When am I ever going to need to know about all the goblin leaders? Besides, you like doing this sort of stuff.”

“Ronald, I said n—”

“Lovers’ quarrel?”

Merlin, Hermione thought at the sound of unified voices. Rolling her eyes, she turned to see Fred and George standing behind her.

“Hey Fred, hey George,” Harry greeted them cheerfully, placing his quill down – happy for an excuse to stop working.

“Hullo Harry,” they responded in unison.

“Any progress on entering our names for the tournament?” Ron asked expectantly. Much to Hermione’s disproval, Fred and George promised him a try at whatever they whipped up as soon as they knew it was successful, and Ron had not stopped talking about it.

“We’re nearly there,” George grinned.

“So, we’ll know in about two days whether it works or not,” said Fred, leaning against a bookshelf casually. Two days? Hermione thought with alarm. Was it really the 29th of October already? That meant the students from Beauxbaton and Durmstrang, the other competing schools, were to arrive tomorrow evening! She needed to go back to her dormitory and rework her schedule. She had no room to pencil in excitement and new student arrival that week. She opened her planner to begin revising.

“How confident are you that it’ll work?” asked Ron, leaning forward in excitement.

“Extremely,” the twins answered.

Hermione let out an indecent snort and rolled her eyes again. Fools.

“Something you’d like to add Granger?” asked George, looking over at her.

“Yes, hullo to you also. So nice of you to acknowledge us in a friendly manner,” accused Fred sarcastically.

“I think some lessons are best learned through experience, rather than lecture,” said Hermione, carefully picking her words before tucking her planner into her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

“But you love to lecture us, are you sure you aren’t raring to tell us how wrong we are?” asked Fred, fluttering his eyelashes sweetly.

Hermione gave a short laugh, “Please. I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“A lost cause? You hear that Georgie? We’re a lost cause.”

“I don’t know…sounds to me like she’s just afraid of a challenge Freddie.”

“It’s not a challenge if all I’m doing is slowly melting my brain trying to reason with the pair of you,” scoffed Hermione.

“Oh, I can melt your brain just fine, if that’s what you’d like,” stated Fred, stepping forward cockily.

“Is your wit really so primitive that you have to resort to sexual innuendo all the time?” Hermione asked, her heart rate picking up in her chest as their conversation turned more heated.

“Sexual innuendo? I have no idea what you’re referring to Granger. I was merely saying I might be smarter than you think. Are you sure you aren’t projecting a bit there?”

“You’re a child,” Hermione bit back, feathers ruffled that Fred seemed to be over his initial shock response to her comebacks and instead was meeting her beat for beat. His eyes held a shine to them as he smiled down at her in excitement.

“Resorting to name-calling now? I thought higher of you,” sighed Fred, tapping the end of her nose condescendingly. Hermione batted his hand away, feeling her hair begin to crackle. She was getting too upset. She needed to calm down and show him that she was better than him.

Taking a small, calming breath, she straightened her posture before replying, “That doesn’t surprise me Frederick. I’m sure it’s easy to think highly of me when your potential is so low.”

Hermione took that moment to make her exit. Turning on her heel, she walked out of the library, not bothering to say goodbye to anyone. A warm flush covered her face and bled down her neck as she scurried through the halls. Adrenaline pumped through her system. Despite his ample fight, she felt quite confident that she won the battle. His lack of biting response as she left, supported as much. Departing before he could speak might have been a cheap way to go about it, but she reasoned there was no clean way to fight when it came to the Weasley twins. A small giggle bubbled up in her chest as she replayed the conversation in her head. Invigorated by the whole event, she ran the rest of the way to the Gryffindor tower. Rounding corners and sprinting up staircases, exhaustion filled her small frame by the time she came upon the portrait of the Fat Lady. Her lungs ached from the exercise and her shoulder and back ached from the heavy books weighing her bag down. She gasped the password through pants and entered as she tried to catch her breath. Fellow Gryffindors cast odd looks in her direction as she scurried up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, but she didn’t care. Her room was empty and for that she was grateful. The last thing she wanted was a forced conversation with Lavender or Pavarti. Perhaps the physical exertion would act as a sleeping agent and she would finally fall into a deep and peaceful sleep. Best to ride the wave and go to bed while I’m still tired¸ she thought. Sluggishly, she changed out of her uniform and crawled into bed. Nagging thoughts tugged at the back of her mind, telling her to brush her teeth, but the exhaustion in her body told her to sleep. Ultimately her body won, and sleep took over.

Hermione’s mind swam the next day as she sat in double potions with the Slytherins. It was nearing the end of class and Professor Snape was taking the time to explain to them why their potions had been improperly brewed in one way or another. Hermione’s hadn’t of course, but that didn’t stop him from berating her for being an ‘insufferable little know-it-all’, and then accusing her of helping any student that didn’t manage to burn a hole in their cauldrons. She diligently took notes as Snape droned on and on, but her mind failed to connect to the words she was writing down on the parchment. All thoughts and worries were currently focused on an embarrassing personal crisis. The dream.

While Hermione thought nightmares were the worst thing, she could possibly endure in her sleeping state, she had to admit she had been wrong. No, apparently there was something much, much worse stewing in her brain waiting for vulnerable unconsciousness to leap out and take form.

She had been in the library, wandering through the sections of towering shelves when she appeared in a section, she was unfamiliar with. Turning a corner her eyes grew wide at the sight of two older students locked in an intimate embrace. Her heart started to race, and her breathing began to pick up as she felt a tingling sensation in the pit of her stomach. She tried to leave but found herself unable to move – her feet glued to the floor. That’s when she felt a pair of arms wrap around her waist and a pair of lips kissing up her neck. Her hands went up, one grabbing at the fingers that dug roughly into her flesh and the other threading itself through long thick hair. She turned her head only to see that the hair between her fingers was a brilliant shade of ginger. The realization was so shocking to her that she awoke from her dream, sitting ramrod straight – heart pounding, sweat-slicked, and breathing heavily.

Her face blushed just thinking about it. Turning her head casually to the right, she spied one of her best friends. Ronald Weasley sat next to Harry, slumped forward in his seat, head resting in his hand. His long hair hung way past his eyes, concealing them completely. Hermione, knowing Ron, would bet on her life that they were closed, and he was verging on sleep. She knew he wasn’t fully asleep though, because if he were there would be loud snores coming from his direction. Him. He was the one her mind decided to fantasize about. Why? She studied him, her eyes tracing the freckles on the bridge of his nose. He wasn’t bad looking; she always quite liked his hair and pale complexion. He had a kind heart and could be quite charming when he wanted to be, the problem was that rarely did he want to be. He could be quite cruel and insensitive without knowing it, and he didn’t care for much other than Quidditch. Is that really what she wanted in a partner? Hermione scoffed at her mental ramblings. Here she was, wondering if Ronald Weasley were her potential first love without considering that he would probably never be interested in her. After all, her hair was a bushy, frizzy mess, her teeth were far too big for her mouth, and her otherwise plain features left much to be desired. Not to mention her overall swotty personality. Still, hadn’t he told her that she was ‘the best��? And he certainly didn’t mind being her friend. What if he did like her?

“Miss Granger, is there something on Mr. Weasley’s face that’s so interesting that you cannot be bothered to pay attention?” The sound of Professor Snape’s voice brought Hermione out of her thoughts, and she looked up to find all eyes on her. The Slytherins snickered around her, and Ron and Harry looked at her in surprise. Hermione felt her face flush with embarrassment.

“No Professor, my apologies,” she mumbled, looking down at her notes.

“Five points from Gryffindor for Miss Granger’s lack of interest. Class dismissed,” snipped Professor Snape as he turned towards his office. Hermione packed her bag and exited the classroom as quickly as possible.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked, him and Ron catching up to her with ease.

“Sorry guys, I got lost in thought and didn’t realize where I was looking. I guess I should have been paying attention,” Hermione stammered, readjusting her bag on her shoulder.

“No problem Hermione. Snape’s a git and no one blames you. I was almost asleep near the end there too,” Ron piped in with a friendly smile. Hermione felt her stomach flip.

“Thanks Ronald.” She smiled back.

“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a couple of love birds, boys,” Draco Malfoy sneered as he came up beside them. “When’s the wedding? I’m sure it’ll be just lovely, or at least as lovely as five knuts’ll get you.”

Hermione scowled at the silver-hair bully, with all his sharp pointed features and disgustingly greasy demeanor, as he laughed along with his goons. She rolled her eyes and grabbed both Harry and Ron by the arm, leading them on towards the front of the castle. Ridiculous. That’s what she was being. It was ridiculous to waste her time worrying about some absurd dream when that’s all it was – a dream. Besides, she didn’t know for certain it was Ron who she dreamed about. There were plenty of red heads in the world.

Outside the main entrance they found Ginny next to Neville in a crowd of students.

“Did we miss anything?” asked Ron, looking excitedly about.

“Nothing yet, you’ve made it just in time I think!” Ginny exclaimed in glee. The castle was in a fit of excitement. Even the Slytherins, who didn’t find much joy in anything school related, seemed to be chomping at the bit for their guests to arrive and the Triwizard Tournament to finally take off. Hermione, too, was excited but more at the thought of getting to meet students from other magical schools. She had taken the liberty of reading as much as she could on the histories of both Durmstrang and Beauxbaton and was informing Ginny on their key similarities and differences when several gasps and shouts erupted around them.

“Look!” Ginny yelled, pointing up at the sky above them. Hermione followed her finger upwards to see a large horse-drawn carriage flying through the clouds, pulled by a dozen flying horses the size of elephants. She watched as they soared through the air, their wings pumping up and down in synchronization. The size of the horses was comparable to what they were pulling, for as it got closer, Hermione estimated the carriage to be at least twice the size of her home back in Hampstead. The carriage floated prettily, a pale cream embellished with pastel blue designs and gold trim. Obviously of French provincial style, she concluded that this was clearly the Beauxbaton students. So enthralled by the ornate and bordering ostentatious carriage and the horses pulling it, Hermione failed to notice heads turning and mouths gaping at the Black Lake. In fact, her gaze only broke away from the magnificent beasts when Ron elbowed her from behind. She turned to scold him, but caught her tongue when she noticed a daunting, black ship floating on the lake. It rocked back and forth, sending large waves crashing away from it on the usually glass-smooth surface. Hermione thought it very much resembled what happened when you dropped a large rock into a pond and wondered how it got there. Someone was sure to tell her later – there were plenty of witnesses.

“Way to make an entrance!” exclaimed Ron, followed by loud whoops and cheers as he clapped.

“A bit flashy, if you ask me,” Pansy Parkinson sniffed from a nearby group of Slytherins.

“She’s one to talk,” Hermione mumbled under her breath.

“Hah!” a boisterous laugh sounded behind her. Hermione swiveled and caught a pair of hazel eyes looking at her.

Fred leaned towards her. “Nice one Granger,” he complimented over the babble of conversation around them. His warm breath fell on her neck, all too reminiscent of her dream. Her body jerked to attention, heat creeping up her face before she smiled politely and turned away from the older boy.

“They’re coming up to the entrance!” Seamus Finnigan announced. Hermione thanked Merlin for the distraction and looked down the path leading to the front of the castle. Sure enough, there was a large group of individuals walking towards them. As they neared, the Hogwarts students cheered and applauded them, trying to welcome the foreign students like Professor Dumbledore advised. Hermione clapped softly as the first students approached. A tall and unsettling man led the group. His dark hair, speckled with bits of silver, sat heavy on his head, slicked back from his angular face. The sharp features and the long, grey goatee gave him an ominous appearance fueled even further by the deep scowl set into his mouth and piercing black eyes. He wore midnight black robes paired with a brilliantly white fur pelt over his shoulders. Igor Karkaroff. Headmaster of Durmstrang. The students behind him wore robes of deep crimson, the color sharing an eerie resemblance to the color of blood. Like their headmaster, they too donned thick furs to fight the crisp cold, only theirs held a rich color of brown. They looked incredibly warm. Subconsciously, Hermione pulled her wool robes closer around her as a strong breeze blew around them.

“Bloody hell! It’s him!” Ron shouted, his voice taking on a hysterical tone.

“Who?” asked Harry.

“Victor Krum! It’s Victor Krum! Right there in the front!” Ron pushed himself forward and past Hermione to get a better look at the famous Quidditch player coming towards them. With Ron’s tall figure in front of her, she failed to confirm whether the Bulgarian seeker truly lead the group of Durmstrang students. Ron’s excitement only increased as the visiting students got closer and then passed them into the castle.

“Ronald! I can’t see!” Hermione pounded lightly on Ron’s back with her fists until he snapped out of his star struck trance. The ginger boy turned around, a sheepish grin across his face.

“Sorry about that Hermione. Here.” Awkwardly, Ron shifted over and led Hermione to the front by her waist. For the second time that afternoon a Weasley boy reminded her of her dream, Ron’s touch all too like the arms that held her sensually the night before. She took a small step forward, putting distance between herself and Ron’s grasp. The students from Beauxbaton were the next to make their way down the path. The crowd gawked at the elegant French students as they walked poised and beautiful down the cobblestone in their blue silk uniforms. Hermione, on the other hand couldn’t help but find them annoying. They shivered and chattered their teeth in such an exaggerated manner and looked up at the castle with such disgust and judgement that she immediately took a disliking to them.

“For Merlin’s sake! It’s not that cold,” Hermione groaned as the boys and girls huddled together for warmth. Hermione thought them incredibly rude and found it idiotic that they did not think to wear warmer robes. However, someone in their party evidently had sense, as their headmistress sauntered up the path in a heavy shawl, completely unbothered by the cold. Although, Hermione wasn’t sure anything could bother the woman as she stood twelve feet tall and sturdy. A neutral expression, bored some might even call it, covered her face and despite her size, she too glided gracefully across the ground. As they walked past, Hermione could hear little bits and pieces of snide remarks from the Beauxbaton students. Apparently, they thought Hogwarts would be much nicer than it was. Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. She assumed that as guests, they would have much better manners.

“Honestly, can you believe that rubbish?” Hermione exclaimed, turning to Ron and Harry behind her. Instead of meeting commiserating sentiments like she expected, the pair continued to stare at the Beauxbaton students until they disappeared completely into the castle. Their mouths hung open widely, making them look quite dumb, and Hermione turned to Ginny with a questioning look. Ginny shrugged, also confused over her brother and Harry’s behavior.

Hermione waved her hand in front of the pairs’ faces.

“Hullo! Are you two listening to me?” she asked, frowning.

“Bloody hell, did you see her?” Ron asked, in more of a trance than when he saw Krum.

“Yeah…” Harry said dreamily.

“See who?” Hermione questioned. What was wrong with them? They hadn’t acted like this since…oh goodness. Not since the Veelas at the Quidditch World Cup.

“Ahhhh it seems our poor baby brother has fallen victim,” George stated woefully, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. She looked up at him and then back down at his hand.

“Why are you fine?” she asked, shrugging off his hand.

“Oh, Alicia and Angelina were sure to snap us out of it,” Fred stated, then placing his hand on her shoulder.

“And how exactly did they do that?” She raised an eyebrow, shrugging off his hand as well.

“Like this!” the twins shouted before reeling back and smacking both Harry and Ron in the back of the head. The two fourth year Gryffindors yelled out in pain, grasping at their heads before spinning around and glaring at Fred and George.

“What the hell was that for?!” Harry barked.

“You were drooling mates,” George smirked.

“And it’s time to go back in,” Fred pointed behind them at the entrance to the castle where most of the students were filing through already.

They followed the crowd back into the castle and through the corridor into the Great Hall. It seemed the Durmstrang students took a special liking to the Slytherins as almost all of them were seated at their table. The Beauxbaton students seated themselves at the Ravenclaw table, much to Ronald’s disdain. And it was Ronald’s unhappiness that also fueled Hermione’s sore mood as well. Silently she ate her dinner and watched as Ron fawned and drooled and ogled the girls from Beauxbaton for the entirety of the night. When a particularly pretty one approached their table asking him for the bouillabaisse, Ron was left speechless.

“Honestly, Ronald. She’s just a girl. You know, like every other girl in this school. Including myself,” Hermione tried to reason with him.

Eyes still trained on the French beauty, Ron responded with incredulity, “That’s ridiculous Hermione. She’s no girl. That right there is a woman. Leagues above any girl here at Hogwarts.”

A woman? What did that even mean? She was only a few years older than Hermione. She didn’t even look that much older. Hermione turned her attention back to the food on her plate and found that she had lost her appetite. So instead, she pulled a book from her bag and buried herself behind it, slowly sinking lower into her seat as the night went on. She missed the moment they revealed the cup that competitors were to put their name in, too engrossed in the words on the page, and when dinner was over, she was the first to leave the Great Hall. Only, she didn’t head straight for the common room like she usually did. Instead, her feet carried her through the castle until she found herself in the library once again. As she seated herself in her favorite corner, she was reminded of something Professor Trelawney had said her third year. ‘Oh you may be young in years, but the heart that beats beneath your bosom is as shriveled as an old maid’s, your soul as dry as the pages of the books to which you so desperately cleave.’

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

“Another potion successfully made brother.” Fred grinned, stretching the muscles in his neck and back.

Fred and George Weasley currently sat in an abandoned classroom as they finished the answer to all their problems. Well past curfew, the pair had just filled two vials with the clear aging potion and capped them triumphantly.

“I’d say that one was particularly easy, wouldn’t you?” George replied, standing up.

“As easy as beating Percy in a game of wits.”

“Off to bed then?”

“Actually, I think I may pop down to the kitchen and grab myself a bite to eat. Clean up here?” Fred asked, motioning around the room. The classroom was their own personal haven; tucked away in an old corner of the castle that few ventured it was their go-to space for all their inventing and brewing needs. It was only thanks to their time with the Marauder’s Map that they knew about it.

“Yeah. See you in the morning Freddie.” George waved goodbye as Fred exited the classroom and headed down towards the kitchens. The low light of the hallway candles washed the castle in a soft glow that contrasted with the icy chill of nighttime. The castle was always cold at night. However, the frigid temperature didn’t bother Fred Weasley as much as usual that night. He was far too excited to be bothered by much of anything, really. Tomorrow was the big day. They were going to enter their names into the Goblet of Fire, and it was going to be glorious. Fred had no idea if one of them would even be picked to compete, but just the idea of winning the prize money was enough to keep a spring in his step and a surge of determination coursing through his veins.

He kept quiet as he tip-toed through the halls, just in case Filch was lurking around corners. Turning down the last corridor he was surprised to see, not the scraggly old Mr. Filch, but the familiar figure of a bushy-haired fourth year. Hermione Granger stood in front of a picture on the wall, the torches in front of her illuminating her and making her hair glow like an ethereal halo.

“Hermione?”

She spun around, glancing back and forth, looking like a frightened animal. Fred stepped closer, out of the shadows so she could see him more clearly. He watched her relax, her shoulders dropping from her ears and slumping forward. She laughed lightly.

“Merlin’s beard, Frederick! You scared me!” Hermione exclaimed with an edge of relief in her voice.

“Shhhh!” Fred hushed her, rushing forward, and covering her mouth with his hand. “Do you want to wake the whole castle with your yelling or just Filch in particular?”

Hermione’s eyes widened in alarm. She stiffened beneath him, the two of them silently listening for any signs of Filch or his wretched cat, Mrs. Norris. When Fred failed to hear anything, he let out a breath of relief and looked down at the little witch in his arms. Suddenly he was awash with the memory of the last time the two of them had been that close. The night in the forest when they were hiding for their lives. He removed his hand and stepped back.

“I didn’t realize it was so late. I was coming back from the library and decided to go for a bit of a walk,” whispered Hermione, looking up at him under the glowing light of the torches. “How are we going to get back to the tower without being seen?”  

“Simple. I know a shortcut. Come on.” Fred grabbed Hermione’s hand, pulling her along with him down the corridor. Her hand was small and cold but fit surprisingly well in his own. His stomach growled, and mournfully he thought of the late-night snack he originally set out to get. He continued down the halls at a quick pace until they reached the tapestry he had been looking for. Tapping his wand five times at its center, he pulled back the tapestry to reveal a hidden passageway. He let go of Hermione’s hand and the two slipped behind the tapestry, letting it fall back into place behind them.

“Lumos,” Fred spoke softly, lighting the dark space with the tip of his wand.

“Amazing, this must be one of the secret passageways on the Marauders’ Map,” marveled Hermione.

They made their way down the narrow passage, taking up a leisurely pace, not feeling the pressure of getting caught by Filch or his cat. The shuffling of their feet on the cold stone filled the silent space around them as they climbed up stairways and weaved around corners. As they walked, a nagging thought pricked at the back of Fred’s mind until he couldn’t help but voice it.

“So, walks about the castle past curfew. I didn’t take you for the type Granger,” Fred teased. Hermione let out a loud and vulgar scoff. Fred turned, looking down at her incredulously, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The young witch lifted her chin in indignation, “What sort of type did you take me for?”

Fred shrugged, “You know, the good girl type. Doesn’t get into trouble. Doesn’t break rules. Perfect Prefect material.”

“I’ll have you know I break plenty of rules.”

“Yeah, but only when it’s Harry or Ron’s idea,” pressed Fred, hoping to goad her into revealing something he didn’t already know.

“That’s not true!” She turned her head and glared at him.

“No, don’t believe it.” Fred shook his head.

“Well, believe it because it’s true.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it?”

“Yeah, tell me one rule that you’ve broken that wasn’t Harry or Ron’s idea.” He glanced at the younger witch out of the corner of his eye. Her brows were scrunched together, her pink lips pouting as she thought. Then her face opened in excitement, eyebrows lifting and mouth opening, revealing her large front teeth below her upper lip.

“In first year, it was my idea for Harry to sneak into the restricted section of the library over Christmas holiday,” she stated proudly.

“That doesn’t count! You only thought of the idea; you made Harry do all the dirty work,” countered Fred.

“Alright, in second year I brewed Polyjuice in the girl’s lavatory and nicked lacewing flies from Professor Snape’s office to do it,” said Hermione triumphantly as they reached the end of the passageway, coming out the other side right next to the portrait of the Fat Lady. Hermione spun around, crossing her arms in front of her as she waited for his response.

“Who’d have thought that the Hermione Granger was such a delinquent,” praised Fred, grinning widely. He was truly impressed. He had no idea that the bright little witch had it in her to steal from a teacher.

Hermione sniffed haughtily. “That’ll teach you to underestimate me, Frederick Weasley,” she stated coolly, but her golden brown eyes shown with flee, like he had just given her the best compliment in the world. He then watched in awe as she turned around, mutter the password, and disappeared through the portrait into Gryffindor tower.

“It sure will Granger, it sure will.”

Chapter 6 >>

Taglist: 

@theworldisugly-22

[everlastingcaptainswan]

Contractual Attraction (11/?)

Enchanted Forest AU 

Summary: The war had raged on for many years, the people of Misthaven would say too many, and there was only one way to end it, only one way to quiet talks of rebellion. Princess Emma of Misthaven would have to marry the enemy, Prince Killian of Montave.

Notes: It’s finals week and let me tell you online school is terrible, but I’m almost done with my bachelors! It’s exciting and exhausting. Hopefully you guys enjoy the chapter! 

FF        Ao3

Chapter Eleven: Imminent Danger 

Emma gathered her parents and Leo the next morning deciding that she should tell them about Killian’s plan without him. Let them be angry at her then bring him in later, after cooler heads prevailed. 

“This is what he wanted his ship for?” Snow asked, truly stumped. 

“But why not ask for something in the treaty?” David wondered out loud. 

“Cause the brothers are used to using their military minds, not being diplomats,” Emma sighed. 

“What do you want to do?” Snow raised an eyebrow at her daughter, unsure of what she will ask for. 

“I want to help them. We can’t let their people starve. How much can we afford to give them?” Emma began pacing in their war room, worrying running throughout her entire body. 

“Depends on what they could give us in return.” Emma stopped pacing and looked at her mother. 

“But-” 

“No buts, Emma. Nothing is free in this world. I’m willing to help, but they viciously attacked our farmers in the war, we have less than I would like, in case of god knows what. If they could propose a trade, something for our people then I’d be willing to give more.” Snow gave her daughter a stern look. Emma was about to plead their case when David stood, “Why don’t you go get the prince, he can help negotiate a trade.” Her father almost pushed her out of the room. When the door shut behind her Emma glared at it. She stomped her way up to Killian’s room, knocking on his door. 

Killian opened his door in a hurry, worry on his face, “what have they decided?” Emma pushed past him into his room. Killian stood cautiously in the doorway, looking back at her. 

“They- ugh my mother. I-” Emma shook her head. Killian stalked over to Emma, placing his hands on her shoulders. 

“Take a deep breath. Gather yourself.” Emma closed her eyes and sucked in a deep breath. When she opened them, his blue ones were staring deeply into hers. 

“What happened?” he asked her with all the calm he could muster. 

“Mom wants a trade. Whatever you could give, I wanted to just help. She can hold a grudge and didn’t take kindly to the fact that your men burned our farmer’s fields.” Killian dropped his hold on her and shook his head. 

“I never felt right about doing that. Our father always initiated that move and our generals continued it after his death. Anyway, we can trade the sins of the father and all that.”  He nodded solemnly. Emma wanted to say something, but knew they didn’t have time. 

Emma turned and held out her hand to him, he took it without hesitation. Killian followed her down to the war room, hell he’d probably follow her to the ends of the realm, maybe even time itself. 

Emma let go of his hand once they reached the door of the war room. Killian opened the door for her and waited for her to go through. Emma began to pace again, watching the interaction between Killian and Snow. The door shut behind Killian, who strode up to the table. 

“I hear a trade is in order.” 

“Our people need to eat too; I can’t abandon them for yours.” Snow quirked an eyebrow at him. 

“I understand. When we came into port, I noticed there weren’t many fishing boats in the harbor. We have plenty of fish, we could trade fish for some grain, seeds.” 

“We have a deal. Emma write down the details.” Emma glared at her mother and gathered a scroll and quill. As Killian and Snow talked Emma scribbled down the details of their agreement. Leo left to sit as proxy in a meeting Snow was supposed to be in. David chimed in occasionally, never taking his eyes off the prince. 

“Your ship should be here next week. We will quietly begin to gather what you need, and you can meet your men in the safe house to give them the details.” Snow straightened her back 

“Where is the safe house?” Killian asked. 

“Emma can show you later. Now, I have other matters to attend to. Make sure that paperwork gets to Doc and we’ll sign it,” Snow addressed the last part to Emma. Snow and David left swiftly. Emma gathered the papers off the table. As she moved toward the door, Killian reached out and grazed her hand with his. 

“Thank you, love.” Emma nodded, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“At dusk we’ll go down to the safe house. Meet me at the stables.” Emma shut the door behind her and Killian sighed. He felt like they were back at square one. 

      Killian does as he was told and went to the stables at dusk. He wore his black vest, pants, and his long leather jacket. Killian was trying to blend in tonight, and it didn’t hurt that he always caught Emma eyeing his chest hair when he wore his vests. 

      Killian chose Orion again when Emma came in wearing a plain grey dress and dark green cloak. Aside from her beauty she could almost pass for a villager. Emma goes to Buttercup, uttering soothing words. 

      “How long will it take to get there, love?” Emma flicked up the hood of her cloak and tucked her blonde curls into it. 

      “About an hour more or less. We’re taking the back roads into town.” She told him. He caught her eye and she quickly looked away. They rode out of the stables in silence, Killian supposed he had earned her distance and silent treatment, but it hurt, nonetheless. They made their way swiftly through the countryside and into the village. They took the back roads as Emma said and ended up tying up their horses in the back of a house that was close to the harbor. Killian paid attention to every twist and turn they had taken through town in case he ever had to come alone. Neither of them said a word until Emma unlocked the back door and shut it behind them. 

      The house was pitch black and Emma deftly moved her way around the house lighting a couple candles so they could see. 

      “You’ve been here a lot?” Killian glanced around the house, taking in the cozy surroundings. Emma was moving toward the fireplace when Killian stopped her. 

      “You’re going to have to look at me at some point, love.” Her jaw clenched when he called her that. She sighed and turned her head in his direction. Emma opened her mouth then shut it again. 

      “Are you going to be mad at me forever?” 

      “Perhaps, I hadn’t decided yet,” she mumbled, “After my parents forbade me from being on the battlefield, I was a nurse. Eventually that was too hard for me to be so close to the battlefield and not be out there with my men. I was held back several times, eventually I had to leave. I had to do something however I was never much for sitting still. So, we ran spies from this house. They would get their assignments from me, come back, and debrief here.” 

      “Did you live here the whole time?” He asked, noting her ease and knowledge of the house as she began looking through cabinets. 

      “Mostly yes, occasionally I went home. Ruby joined me here more often than not to bring supplies and whatnot.”

      “What are you looking for?” 

      “I was just seeing what food stores we left here, if any. The house was cleaned out of anything.” Emma sighed, flopping into a chair tired after the events of the day. Killian pulled out a flask and handed it to her. 

      “Not dinner, but will keep you warm while I get this fire started.” Her hand brushed his as she accepted the flask. Killian turned his back on her and found some flint, kindling, and logs beside the fireplace. Emma took a big gulp, knowing they weren’t going anywhere tonight. 

      “Rum?” 

      “Never far without it, doesn’t hurt to have it in a pinch.” Emma hummed, taking another swig. 

      “I know you feel like I betrayed you by not telling you about my intentions. I am sorry about that, but I was doing so to protect and save my people. Can you tell me you wouldn’t do the same?” Killian turned back to her after the fire was started. She blinked a few times. 

      “No, I suppose I can’t.” Killian stood at her side, the fire roaring behind him. His hand rested on her shoulder. Her jade eyes caught his blue ones. 

      “It won’t happen again. You’re right we’re partners, that being said there’s one last thing I have to tell you.” His tone and demeanor were serious. It caught her attention. He pulled a chair out from the table she was sitting at. 

      “What is it?” 

      “Liam and I have been looking for a way to end this war for five years now.” The words hit Emma like a brick wall. 

      “What?” 

      “This war was our father’s idea, his ultimate legacy he used to say. He was right in that sense, he died before it was over, and it lasted even when he was gone. Liam and I spent most of our formative years training and leading our men, we spent time on the front lines. Our father never did. He didn’t see the carnage, the true horrors of war. He didn’t see what it did to our villages, our people. He just cared about the land gained, resources that were now his. My father was a harsh man and didn’t take well to our dissent, so eventually we stopped voicing it and found little ways to ruin his plans that could never be brought back on us. We thought that when he died that we could end it and bring peace back to the realm.” He said steadily, as if he had practiced this speech before. 

      “Your father died five years ago…” 

      “Yes, then the problem was his generals after years of being under his rule they were just as hungry for war as he was and had grievances of their own by then. Our people were mad too, their King dead, everyone still wanted the war to be a victorious win. Otherwise if we ended this war a coup would’ve taken place. Liam and I decided to bide our time. Liam wanted to insure one final victory before ultimately leading to stalemate.”

“The capture of Arendelle..” Emma was in shock and he kept talking, kept telling her everything. 

“Aye, our advisors were also urging him to pick a bride and soon. They wanted to secure the line of succession.” He barreled on. Emma stood up at this point. Killian’s eyes widened; he was watching her every move. 

“I lost my magic six years ago…” She trailed off. All the scenarios running through her head. Maybe if the brothers were successful and Montave was seen to be surrendering Emma wouldn’t have lost her magic. Regina wouldn’t have been as big of a threat. Her family could’ve come together to defeat Regina, not just Emma. The plan would’ve been different, everything would’ve been different. All of the maybes and what ifs were making her head spin. 

“Emma, I-” She cut him off with a glare. 

“No, you really should stop talking now. You’re telling me that war has been pointless for years now, that we were always headed here. That our men died for nothing, all because you two didn’t have the support to end it. Don’t get me wrong, I get it you couldn’t come out against your father, but Killian everything I’ve done has been for nothing! That the curse was for nothing! That losing my magic was for nothing!” She practically yelled at him. 

“I-” Killian stuttered. He was just trying to be honest with her and have her understand that he was on her side. He opened his mouth and stuck his own damn foot in it. 

“Why now? Why have Elsa propose the treaty?” She snapped. 

“The people’s opinion turned on the war, there were talks of riots and rebellions. With that we were able to change our general’s minds.” He answered not sure of what she would ask next. Emma curled her hand into a ball. What she wanted to do was to lash out and use her magic, she wanted that familiar warmth back in her body. His revelation gave her a flicker of hope and she hated herself for feeling it. 

“Emma, I’m sorry I never thought- I didn’t want another secret to come out and hurt you, hurt us.” Killian stood up once more and moved to her. Emma stepped out of his reach, backing away towards the door. Every step she took hurt his heart. 

“I understand, I need a minute.” Emma so badly wanted to run away, but they couldn’t reveal their location. Instead she left the room and went upstairs to the room she used while running the house. Emma slammed the door behind her. She paced in front of the window, trying to calm down. For the first time since Killian placed the ring on her finger, she wanted to rip it off. Her hand traced over it, but she couldn’t do it and she didn’t know why. 

Emma couldn’t change the past even if she wanted to, even if she had her magic. It was one of those things that was part of dark magic that Emma never dared to touch or even consider. She just longed for a world that wasn’t consumed and torn apart by war. Emma wanted her magic back. A sob ripped through her, she had never admitted those words to herself because what was the point, she couldn’t have it back, why want it?

Emma kicked her boots off and climbed into the bed, letting the warm blankets envelope her. Her tears soaking the pillow beneath her, sleep overcoming her. 

Killian sighed when he heard a door somewhere slam shut. He just rocked her world and he knew it. He never imagined how this news would change everything for her. He can’t seem to get it right with her. He took several swigs of rum and decided to roam about the house and become familiar with it. If his men would be stationed here for the time being, then he would have to be here too. Killian wandered through several bedrooms on the ground floor, an office, and the kitchen once more. The office had been cleared of any materials or documents. Killian found some paper and ink with a quill. He snatched it up and wrote out a letter to Liam. His brother could reason with him better than anyone, he would know what to do about this predicament with Emma. Liam would have the best advice for him because Killian watched Liam struggle with his feelings for Elsa for many years now. 

Killian left the cold dark office to pen his letter next to the light and warmth of the fire. It took him a while to find the right words to explain what had happened between him and Emma. He was so absorbed in the letter he didn’t hear her descend the stairs. 

Emma was barefoot with a blanket wrapped around her, her eyes slightly puffy and red. Killian hadn’t dared go up the stairs where she had gone. He wanted to give her the appropriate space to process everything. 

“Just grabbing some water.” Emma went to her pack and grabbed her canteen. She took a swig and gave him a sheepish look. 

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier.”

“No, love I understand completely why you did. I should’ve- honestly, I don’t know what I should’ve done. Not telling you meant it could’ve come out later and telling you seemed to have hurt you too.” Killian shook his head. 

“A double-edged sword.” He blinked a few times before nodding. 

“Aye, it was. Do you miss your magic?” He watched her as she took the chair across from him. 

“Every day, it was like losing a limb. My magic manifested when I was five, scared my parents to death,” when he gave her a questioning look, she continued on, “I didn’t want to play with Leo, so I put an invisible barrier between the two of us.” Killian laughed at that. 

“I can’t deny that sounds like something you would do...you barely ever mention it.” 

“It seemed pointless to want or hope for such things when it’s not possible,” she shrugged. Her hand ghosting over the scars on her right arm. 

“There’s no hope you could ever get it back?” Emma shook her head. 

“We searched for a way to reverse the spell for a couple years. Nothing ever came of it, I eventually told them to give up. The glimmer of hope just to be let down again was too painful.” Killian reached out for her hand and she let him have it. 

“I’m sorry, love.” She gave him a faint, weak smile. 

“It’s okay there’s nothing you can do about it. See you found the office, who’s the letter to?” She nodded toward the paper scattered on the table. 

“If I could do something I would. And ah Liam, just ramblings of a younger brother who has few friends in a strange kingdom.” He smirked as did she. Killian gathered up the papers and folded them to place in an envelope he took from the desk. 

“I’m going to bed; you can pick any of the rooms to sleep in. We’ll head back to the castle before sunrise.” Her hand slipped out of his hold as she stood up, adjusting her grip on the blanket. 

“Aye goodnight, love.” 

“Goodnight.” She brushed her lips across his cheek, a blush rising in his cheeks after realizing what she had done. Maybe there was hope for them after all. With her body so close to his Killian clenched his fist, he wanted so badly to reach up to her hip and hold her close to his side. He had to reign in those feelings. 

Emma gave him one last lingering look before heading back up the stairs. When she looked at him like that his heart would stop, it’s like she saw him. Killian sighed and placed the letter in his pack before heading up to get some shut eye as well. 

They reached the castle just as the sun was rising in the morning. Neither of them got much sleep last night and Emma desperately wanted to slip into her bed and sleep for a couple more hours. Ruby met them at the door, her arms crossed. Never a good sign. 

“Rubs not that I don’t love you, but why the hell are you up and waiting for us?” Emma approached her. 

“Emergency council meeting, everyone is waiting for you two actually.” Ruby told them, a nervous glint in her eye. 

“Any hint to what this is about?” Killian asked, looking from Emma to Ruby then to Emma again. 

“It’s urgent, Snow didn’t say more than that.” Ruby shook her head. 

“Great, well let’s not keep them waiting.” Emma said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. Ruby gave her a sympathetic smile and led the way. Without thinking about it Emma fumbled for Killian’s hand. He grabbed it and squeezed it tightly. Emma looked at him with worry in her eyes. He knew whatever was coming wasn’t good if she was looking at him like that. Ruby didn’t miss their connected hands or the looks they exchanged, she simply smiled and kept her mouth shut, for once. 

They entered the war room and Leo, David, Snow, Graham, and August were sitting there waiting for them. August straightened up when they entered. Ruby, Emma, and Killian took their seats quickly. 

“You may begin,” Snow nodded. Graham looked to August. 

“This was more your quest than mine. Tell them what you found.” 

“I guess it was. In Arendelle the Dark One’s visit bothered me, it seemed odd that he would just show up. How did he even know Emma used magic for mere seconds, from far away? It didn’t add up, he couldn’t be watching her at all times. So, when we were there, I asked around seeing if maybe he had another reason to visit, really to find out if anything out of the ordinary had happened. The same day he was there a magical vase went missing. I didn’t think this was a coincidence, so his visit had two purposes and his proximity might explain how he knew Emma used magic. The vase apparently can hold people indefinitely. It got me thinking what he was up to, so I started looking around more to see if there were other stolen objects. There were, a wand hidden in a mountain cave that vanished last week, a gauntlet that is supposed to give the user courage was taken, the mirror in the Evil Queen’s castle is now gone, and I’m sure there are more I don’t know about.” David leaned forward on the table,

“What do you think all this means?” 

“That he’s planning something big and we need to be prepared.” August concluded. Emma stood up from her seat and went to the frosted window, her hands gripping the windowsill. If she still had her magic this wouldn’t be a problem. It almost made her blood boil, it was so frustrating to have it close, but not be able to use it. 

“We still have the protections from the fairies, or do you mean something more?” Leo asked, looking around the room. 

“More. We need Emma to have her magic.” August said nervously. Emma spun around at this point. 

“I would like that too, but we explored all the options last time it’s not possible.” Emma crossed her arms. Snow and David exchanged a guilty look. 

“Emma, it is. We just never…” Snow shuddered. 

“None of us could stomach it. There’s a difference,” Emma snapped. 

“The Dark One is gearing up for a fight or some big terrible plan of his. We don’t have a choice. He’s not just a threat to everyone in this room, but also the kingdom,” Graham told her sternly. Emma narrowed her gaze at him. They hadn’t spoken since the ball, he needed space and time to get over her. His tone told her that Graham was still upset with her. 

“Will someone please tell me what is going on? I thought there wasn’t a way to get it back.” Killian only has eyes for Emma. Sometimes she thought that those piercing blue eyes could stare straight through to her soul, like he could see her heart. The rest of the world would melt away when he did that, like nothing else mattered. 

“There isn’t.” 

“There is, technically the spell can be reversed if the spell is not actively holding someone anymore,” David explained, “If the Evil Queen is dead the curse won’t have anything to hold onto, Emma’s magic will come back.” 

“In theory it’s never been confirmed, we think that’s what will happen,” Emma added, shaking her head. 

“Why didn’t this happen?” Killian’s brow furrows, confusion on his face. 

“Snow was almost raised by the woman, and couldn’t. The rest of us…” David trailed off. 

“Didn’t feel right killing someone who was defenseless,” Leo finished for his father. Killian’s gaze snapped toward Emma. 

“You have plenty of loyal knights who I’m sure would do it for you…”

“We don’t do that here,” Snow started, “If the royal family can’t carry out the execution then it doesn’t happen. We can’t ask our men to do what we aren’t willing to do.” Emma was perched on the windowsill, her hands gripping the edge. 

“I’ll do it.” Emma’s gaze snapped to Killian. 

“No!” 

“Emma, I told you last night I would do anything to help you with your magic, those weren’t empty words. I have no qualms about killing her, she’s caused you enough pain.” He stood from his spot at the table, turning toward her. 

“It’s too dangerous, the cave she’s kept in has traps all over it. You’ll be lucky to get out alive,” she argued. He can’t be this stupid, this reckless, not for her. 

“I can manage just fine; I have my wits about me.” He dismissed her concerns. 

“I don’t want anyone risking their life for my mistake!” Killian walked over to her at this point, tilting her chin up. 

“I don’t want that bloody Dark One near anyone I care about. I don’t want you defenseless.” 

“I don’t want you dead!” She practically shouted at him, to make him understand. This wasn’t some simple mission, everything with this damn curse had consequences. This would not be the exception.

David cleared his throat and Emma and Killian jumped apart. Emma hadn’t realized how close they were. Killian scratched his ear, a blush evident in his cheeks. 

“I’m serious, Killian. Nothing good will come from going after her. This damn curse has already taken something precious from me, I won’t let it take you too. Please, don’t do it.” Emma wasn’t sure if her pleas were falling on deaf ears, but she couldn’t stand here anymore. She needed a minute to breathe. This man couldn't be ready to go headfirst into danger for her. Emma stalked out of the war room and slammed the door behind her.

[pikapeppa]

Cullen/Lavellan and FenHawke pirate AU: Wake Up

Chapter 36 of @schoute and my love project Where The Winds Of Fortune Take Me is up on AO3! 

In which Fenris tries to cope with the outcome of the old elven temple. ~5700 words; read here on AO3 instead.

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- FENRIS - 

Fenris went to his cabin as quickly as his aching legs could carry him. His calves were trembling from the nearly non-stop running and his stomach was almost hurting from hunger, but that didn’t matter.

All that mattered was Hawke. She was alive, and she needed to stay that way. If there was a chance to undo what that cursed orb had done, she had to stay alive. She had to stay alive and breathing and warm to the touch, because if she – if Hawke– 

His gut twisted with nausea at the thought. He gritted his teeth and stumbled toward his cabin, then shoved open the door. 

Hawke was laid out on the bed. Her shirt was unlaced down to her bustier, and Anders was resting the side of his face against her chest. 

“What are you doing?” Fenris demanded. 

“Shh. I’m listening to her heart,” he replied. He shot Fenris a baleful look. “What do you think I’m doing? Testing the unconscious woman’s bosom for a new pillow? I’m not that bad of a doctor.” 

Fenris scowled as he closed the door. He stood tensely at the foot of the bed until Anders lifted his head. 

He sighed and nodded. “Sounds good. Slow but steady. It really is like she’s just asleep and won’t wake up.” He rubbed his stubbled chin. “It’s odd. None of them are reacting to anything. Sternal rub, trapezius pinch–”

“We tried all of that,” Fenris interrupted. 

Anders raised an eyebrow. “Don’t snap at me. I’m just thinking out loud.” He reached for a basin on the floor beside his stool and lifted a cloth from the bowl, then squeezed it out and began wiping Hawke’s sweat-and-dirt-streaked face.  

Fenris stepped around the bed and held out his hand. “Let me do that,” he said. 

Anders gave him another exasperated look. “You look terrible, you know. You need fluids and food, too. You should go to the galley.”

Fenris looked around his cabin, then picked up the nearest cup and drank the contents – a stale and stone-cold infusion of elfroot, as it so happened. He put the cup down and held out his hand. “Give me the cloth. I will do that.”

Anders sighed loudly, then slapped the cloth into his hand and stood up. “Fine. Knock yourself out. I can set up the fluids in the meantime.” He left Fenris’s cabin, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

Fenris glared at his departing back, then turned to Hawke. She really did just look like she was sleeping; her face was so relaxed and still. But even unconscious, the corners of her lips were turned up in the slightest hint of a curl, like she was smiling at him even in her sleep… 

His eyes were burning. He sniffed hard, then moistened the cloth in the basin and carefully brushed her bangs back from her forehead before wiping her forehead in soft and careful strokes. 

The sweat and dirt wiped away easily, revealing the pale golden smoothness of her skin, and a memory suddenly jumped to the front of his mind: the time that she had cleaned his skin in just this careful way, right after that terrible altercation with his sister in Afsaana. He’d been covered in blood and dirt, and Hawke had wafted into his room with her doctor’s kit and that damned unshakable smile on her face. She’d helped him to clean the dirt from his shoulders and his back, her tender fingers sluicing the water away from the waistband of his breeches as it carried away the evidence of his ordeal… 

A tear streaked its way down his cheek. He finished cleaning the left side of her face, then squeezed out the rag before moving on to clean the delicate dips around her eyes and nose. 

She’d been so kind to him that day – and every day, truly. Kind without being pitying, funny and maddeningly flirtatious, full of hope and optimism, and… and now she was silent and still, all because Fenris had been incautious. He’d known in his gut that this trip into the forest boded poorly. He knew it was a bad idea, but Hawke wanted so badly to go on her adventure with Piper, and he only wanted to make Hawke as happy as she made him. 

But now this had happened, and she wasn’t waking up. What if – what would he do if…? 

His vision blurred with tears, and he impatiently wiped them away. He dampened the cloth once more and wrung it out, and by the time Hawke’s face was clean, his own cheeks were wet and stiff with salt. 

He took a deep breath to ease the ache in his throat, then rinsed the cloth again and began cleaning her neck. He cradled her nape carefully as he wiped the streaks of sweat from her throat and her collarbones, and the longer he spent cleaning the perfect column of her neck, the more the contrast between this moment and the other moments they’d spent on this bed began to torture him. The thought of Hawke stretched out beneath him with his hand cradling her neck just so, her eyes closed like they were now, but her lips parted in rapture as they moved together in perfect time… 

A fresh rush of tears burned his eyes. He dropped the cloth in the basin and stroked her face. “Hawke, open your eyes. You must open your eyes.” 

She didn’t move. Her eyelids remained stubbornly shut, her dusky eyelashes dark and still against her cheeks without even the telltale flutter of a dream.

He took her hand. “You said I didn’t need to be alone,” he whispered. “You promised you would stay with me. I… I need you to stay with me.” 

She didn’t move. She didn’t speak or blink or squeeze his hand, and his breath left him on a sudden sob. He bowed his head and clenched his free hand in his hair, gripping the roots until they hurt, but even the pain that rippled across his scalp wasn’t enough to distract him from the horrible lung-crushing ache in his chest. 

He needed her. He didn’t know quite when it had happened, but at some point in the last few months, Hawke had twined herself so thoroughly in every part of his life that he couldn’t imagine living without her anymore. She was everywhere and in everything, in his job as the master-at-arms and in his bed, in his arms and his closely guarded heart, and he couldn’t remember what his life was like before she’d come bursting into it. 

If she didn’t wake up, Fenris would be alone again. But it wouldn’t be like before, because now he would know what he was missing. He would know what it felt like to have someone see him, to truly see even the ugliest parts of him and to want him anyway. He knew what it was like to have someone light up his life like a flaming beacon calling forth the happiness he’d never believed he could have. If Hawke didn’t wake up, he would know what he was missing, and that knowledge would torture him more than anything Danarius or any other slaver had ever done. 

He lifted his head. “Rynne,” he rasped. “Don’t leave me. I am begging you.” 

She didn’t reply. Her chest rose and fell very slowly with her breaths, and Fenris just held her hand and stared at her in rising misery.

“Can I come in?” Anders said quietly. 

Fenris flinched, then hastily wiped his face and shot Anders a glare. “Are you incapable of knocking?”

Anders huffed. “Sorry for announcing my presence in the usual manner,” he muttered. He sidled into the room with a tray of ominous-looking items: two glass bottles of clear liquid, a strip of cloth, a looped length of narrow rubber tubing, and something that looked like a slender and very sharp silver quill without the feather.

Fenris frowned. “What is all of that?”

“This is boiled water with a special mixture of salts,” Anders said. “It’s going to keep her hydrated. And no, I’m not going to try and feed it to her.”

“Saltwater?” Fenris said archly. “You think saltwater is going to keep her alive?”

“I know saltwater is going to keep her alive,” Anders retorted. “Now move, will you? I need her arm.”

“Why?” Fenris asked.

“Because I’m going to inject the saltwater directly into her blood.”

Fenris gaped at him in horror. “You’re going to do what?”

He sighed loudly. “Fenris, it’s safe. I have done this at least a dozen times for various members of the crew. Sutherland and Shayle and Marie all had fluids injected today, and they’re fine.” He raised his eyebrows. “In fact, you should go to the infirmary and see how–”

“I am not leaving,” Fenris said loudly.

“Worth a try,” Anders muttered. In a louder voice he said, “Either way, you need to move, or you can explain to Piper how your stubbornness killed the assistant doctor on the Lady Luck.”

Fenris scowled at him, but finally moved aside.

“Thank you,” Anders said, slightly acidly. He picked up the larger bottle of fluid and removed the cork. He affixed the rubber tubing to the mouth of the bottle, then looked around vaguely. “Have you got any rope here?”

“What for?” Fenris said suspiciously. Anders wasn’t going to tie Hawke down, was he? If he even suggested tying her down… 

“To tie the intravenous fluids to that wall sconce,” Anders said.

 Fenris raised his eyebrows. “The intra…?”

“Fenris, just find some rope, will you?” Anders snapped. “Maker’s breath, are you going to be like this all night? Let me know now, and I’ll fetch some cotton balls to plug my ears.”

Fenris shot him a glare, but found some rope and handed it to Anders. Anders quickly formed a makeshift harness for the bottle, then hung it upside-down from the wall sconce so the tubing was hanging down. 

He held out the tubing to Fenris. “Take this. Pinch the end, or the fluid will leak out.”

Fenris did as he was told. He watched warily as Anders sat on the stool beside the bed and wiped the back of Hawke’s wrist with the contents of the smaller bottle – hard rum, if the heady vapours were anything to go by. He wiped his own hands with the rum as well, then wiped the silver quill nib. 

Then he took Hawke’s hand and lowered the sharpened tip of the nib toward the back of her wrist.

“Stop!” Fenris blurted. “What are you doing?”

“I’m inserting the needle into her vein,” Anders said. “Then I’ll attach the tube to the needle, and the fluids will go into her blood.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I’ve never seen you do this. How did you learn to do this?”

“A medical tome from Tevinter, as it so happens,” Anders replied. “It’s very modern medicine. Not many doctors–”

“Tevinter?” Fenris interrupted. “They likely gained that knowledge through the torture of slaves! You would benefit from the torture of slaves?”

Anders gave him a hard look. “Are you going to shout at me, or are you going to let me save Hawke’s life?”

Fenris glared venomously at him, then waved bad-temperedly at Hawke’s arm. Anders turned back to Hawke and swiftly slid the tip of the needle into the back of her hand near her wrist. 

Fenris winced, but he gave the rubber tube to Anders when he reached for it. Anders swiftly attached the tube to the needle, then jerked his chin at the tray. “Hand me that strip of cloth.”

Fenris silently handed him the cloth. Anders tied the needle flush to her wrist to keep it in place, then sat back with a sigh. “All right. Now I’ll just watch her for a bit to make sure she doesn’t have an adverse reaction to the treatment.”

“Adverse reaction?” Fenris said in horror. “You said you’d done this a dozen times! You said this would save–”

“Fenris, stop this!” Anders complained. “There’s a risk involved in any medical treatment! Elfroot salve holds a risk if someone is allergic. Even those stitches that Hawke sewed into your skin could become infected.” He gave Fenris a pointed look. “Every treatment holds an element of risk. You have to accept it if you want the problem to get better.”

Fenris closed his mouth and glared at Anders. This talk about risks, the benefits and payoffs of taking risks… Anders might be talking about medicine, but his words were uncannily like something that Hawke would say. 

A horrible pang of longing swelled in his chest, and he rubbed his face roughly to ward it off. Then Anders’s sardonic voice pierced his thoughts. “You know, you might want to try being nicer to the man who’s keeping your girlfriend alive.”

 Fenris lowered his hands and glared at him. “Is that a threat, doctor?”

“No!” Anders exclaimed. “It’s a reasonable suggestion. Don’t be so bloody touchy. Maker only knows what she sees in you.” He rose from the stool and waved impatiently at it. “Just sit down, all right? You look like you’re about to fall over. Looking at you is making me tired.” 

Fenris shot him a resentful look, but he sat in the stool that Anders had vacated. He reached for Hawke’s hand, then stopped himself; the evil-looking needle and tube protruding from her skin made his stomach roil. 

“You can hold her hand,” Anders said in a gentler tone. “Just don’t touch the equipment.”

Fenris gingerly took her hand. He stared breathlessly at her face, waiting and hoping for her eyelids to flutter or her lips to part on a sleepy murmur…

He waited and watched her face, but she didn’t move. Her chest rose and fell in time with her slow breaths, but she was otherwise completely still.

Behind him, Anders slowly took a seat on the chest where Fenris kept his clothes. Fenris ignored him and continued to watch Hawke’s sleeping face. 

“This won’t wake her up, you know,” Anders said quietly. “It’s just to keep her from dehydrating.”

“And from starving,” Fenris said. “Right?”

Anders hesitated for a moment. “Not… no, it won’t stop her from starving.”

Fenris whipped around in alarm. “What do you – then what’s the point?”

“You die sooner of dehydration than starvation,” Anders said. “This gives her more time.”

“How much more time?”

Anders paused again, and Fenris scowled at him. “How much?”

He made a little face. “It’s hard to say exactly. Seven to ten days, maybe.”

“You’re not sure?” Fenris demanded. “How are you not sure?”

“Intravenous fluids are a new science,” Anders said. He shot Fenris a baleful look. “I’m one of the few doctors outside of Tevinter who performs it, you know. You should be grateful.”

Fenris glared at him for a moment longer, then turned back to Hawke. “Vishante kaffas,” he muttered. 

They sat in a rancorous silence for a moment. Then Anders spoke again. “As I was saying, this won’t wake her up. You should go get something to eat. You won’t do her any good just sitting here.”

“I am not leaving her side,” Fenris insisted.

Anders tsked. “Do you think she’d want you to starve?”

“Don’t talk to me about what Hawke wants,” Fenris snapped. “You don’t know what she wants.”

Anders scoffed. “Oh, of course. Because you’re the only one who knows her, right? Wrong. Everyone on the ship knows her. She’s friends with everyone.” He jerked his head at the door. “Everyone out there is worried about her, you know. And about you.”

“Me?” Fenris said in surprise. 

Anders grunted. “Half of them heard your little diatribe at the captain. They’re worried about how you’re doing since Hawke was, er, attacked. Seriously, you should go to the galley. Have a drink and something to eat with the others. They’ll want to know you’re okay.”

Fenris stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Hawke again. “I don’t need their pity. Or yours.” 

“Nobody pities you, you miserable grouch,” Anders said in exasperation. “They respect you as the master-at-arms. And they like you for some weird reason.” He shot Fenris a sardonic look. “Most people enjoy having their friends around when someone they love is sick.”

Fenris curled his lip. “That hasn’t been my experience,” he muttered.

“What part?” Anders said. 

Fenris shrugged irritably. “Any of it. Having… company when you’re ill. I was left alone to heal when I was ill.”

“Your parents left you alone when you were sick?” Anders said.

“My parents are dead,” Fenris said harshly. “They died when… when I was young.” He shot Anders a scathing look. “I spent most of my life as a slave in Minrathous. I never had the luxury of companionship when I was ill.”

Anders raised his eyebrows, then folded his arms. “How was I supposed to know that?”

Fenris frowned. “What?”

“That you were a slave in Minrathous before Piper freed you from that slave ship. You never talk about yourself,” Anders said. “No one knows anything about your life before you joined the crew.” He gave Fenris a careful look. “Actually, this is the most you’ve ever said about your life before the Lady Luck.”

Fenris eyed him mistrustfully. “Why do you want to know about my life before the Lady Luck?”

Anders rolled his eyes. “Maker’s mercy, you’re so suspicious. It’s hardly unusual to know things about the people you share a ship with.”

Fenris scowled at him, then turned to face Hawke again. He ran his thumb slowly over the back of her hand and watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and for a while, he and Anders were silent.

“I was taken from the alienage when I was twelve,” Fenris finally said. “I was forced to become a fighter. A personal bodyguard for a wealthy merchant.”

Anders was quiet for a moment. “What about before that?”

He shrugged and traced Hawke’s knuckles with his thumb. “Before that… I suppose my life was better. It is difficult to remember when what came after was…when it made such an impression.”

Anders hummed a soft acknowledgement. “And the, er… tattoos?”

Fenris clenched his jaw for a moment before replying. “They are lyrium and ink. Markings meant to strengthen me and to intimidate.” He shot Anders a pointed look. “A medical experiment, forced on me by Tevinter doctors. A failed one, I should add.”

Anders’s face fell into a look of unguarded surprise. “Oh. Well, now it makes sense.”

Fenris pursed his lips, then turned back to Hawke. 

Anders shifted slightly on the chest of clothes. “You could have said something earlier,” he said. “It would have made both our lives easier if I knew.”

Fenris shot him a sharp look. “Forgive me for not sharing my life story with you, a stranger, in order to ease your discomfort.”

“I’m trying to be nice, you ass,” Anders said loudly. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry you had a hard time of it. If it makes you feel any better, my life wasn’t exactly sunshine and daisies before I joined the Lady Luck.” He shot Fenris a resentful look. “Not that you would know anything about that either.”

Fenris frowned. It was true; Fenris knew very little of Anders, aside from the fact that he was from somewhere in Ferelden and he was unnervingly lax in his medical practices.

He shrugged. “You have no reason to be sorry. Not to me, at least.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Anders said sarcastically. “I was incredibly choked up that I might not have your forgiveness for something I didn’t do.”

Fenris glared at him. “You are an ass.”

Anders huffed. “We have something in common after all, then.”

There was another tense and loaded pause. Fenris pointedly turned away and ran his thumb over a tiny birthmark on the back of Hawke’s hand. 

“What happened out there?” Anders asked quietly. “Out in the forest?”

Fenris took a deep breath. “We found an ancient elven temple,” he said. “It turns out that Fen’Harel is real. That is what – well, Merrill thinks that’s what attacked Hawke and the other humans. A curse laid by the Dread Wolf of elven legend.”

Anders raised his eyebrows. “That’s… no. That’s ludicrous.”

“I would agree if I hadn’t witnessed it myself,” Fenris said flatly. 

Anders released a heavy sigh. “How are we supposed to undo an elven curse?”

“We were hoping you might undo this and wake her up,” Fenris said tensely.

Anders let out a mirthless little laugh. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or horrified that you thought I could.”

Fenris didn’t reply. He was loathe to admit it, but he really had been hoping that Anders’s medical training would bring Hawke out of this intractable sleep. Knowing now that the best they could hope for was to keep her alive for more than a week, alive but trapped in the silent and unmoving shell of her body… 

 His eyes were prickling again. He hunched his shoulders self-consciously and blinked hard.

Anders shifted on the chest again. “Look, if anyone will undo this, it’s Piper,” he said. “You know her: she’s like a mabari with a bone. She won’t let this go until Hawke and the others are awake.”

 Fenris nodded silently. His throat was swollen, and he couldn’t risk opening his mouth right now for fear of what might come out.

Anders was quiet for a moment longer. Then he stood up. “No adverse reaction,” he said. “Hawke is doing fine. I’ll get you a biscuit or something. You really should eat.” He made his way toward the door.

Fenris subtly cleared his throat. “You have my thanks,” he said gruffly.

Anders paused by the door and eyed him for a moment. “You’re welcome,” he said. Then he left, closing the door softly behind him.

Fenris drew a deep breath, then released it in a sigh and bowed his head. Venhedis fasta vass, he truly was exhausted. His entire body was aching, and his stomach was cramping from hunger in a way that it hadn’t done since before he’d joined the Lady Luck. 

He slowly rose from the stool and trudged around to the other side of the bed. Carefully, so as not to disturb Hawke, he crawled onto the bed beside her. 

Then he remembered that no amount of jostling was going to disturb her from the cursed sleep that had taken her. 

The lump in his throat swelled once more, and he swallowed hard to force it down as he stretched out beside her. He lay still for a moment, his eyes tracing over the curves and lines of her sleeping face, but the longer he lay beside her, the more the ache in his chest seemed to swell. 

This was so unnatural – lying beside her without touching her. If she was awake, she would never permit the lack of touch. Hawke was constantly touching him when she was awake or asleep, her hands stroking his arms and her fingers on his neck and her naked chest pressed to his back when they slept, and the easy intimacy of her touch had somehow sunk so deeply into his everyday routine that he could practically feel the chill that her missing touch had left behind. 

Carefully so as not to jostle the needle and tubing in her arm, Fenris shifted closer to her and slid his arm around her waist. He tucked himself as closely against her side as he could without disturbing her arm, then inhaled the scent of her hair. 

She smelled like dirt and rain and the sweat that he’d wiped away from her beloved face, but underneath the rougher scents of their ordeal was her scent: the warm smell of sandalwood that always seemed to linger faintly in her hair and skin, like some sort of permanent perfume. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, but to no avail; the tears were already coming, trickling along his temple to drip onto his folded arm. He took a breath to try and calm himself, but instead he gasped out a sob. 

I love you, he thought. Please wake up. He needed Hawke to wake up. If she didn’t wake, nothing would ever be right again. 

He pressed his lips to her hair. “Hawke,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

****************************

“Fenris, wake up.”

His eyes snapped open at the first syllable of his name. He sat up suddenly, already reaching for his dagger before he could even register the time of day. But the intruder spoke before he could pull out the weapon. 

“Easy, Fen. It’s just me.”

“Piper?” he croaked. He released the handle of his dagger and rubbed his face. 

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Sorry to wake you. It’s urgent.”

“What?” he said blearily. Then he belatedly remembered what had happened yesterday. The temple, the orb, the insidious fog that sank into Hawke’s open mouth–

He frantically looked down at her, torn between hope and terror. Was it possible she’d woken…? But no, she was still silent and unmoving but for the rise and fall of her ribs.

He slumped in disappointment. The needle and rubber tube were removed from her hand, however, and the fluid equipment was tidily stacked on top of the chest where Fenris kept his clothes, so he decided to take this as a sign that she didn’t need more fluids for now.

He looked at Piper, who was sitting on the stool near Hawke’s head. “What is it?” he said.

“I have to go back to the temple,” she said.

He frowned as she went on. “Merrill translated more of the rubbings. The curse in the orb… apparently it’s some kind of transference thing. It stays dormant in the orb until someone touches it – an elf, I mean – and then it transfers to that person and takes out any humans in the area until you put it back.”

He frowned more deeply. “Put it back…?” Suddenly he realized something. He looked at her with wide eyes. “Those dead men outside the temple. A previous iteration of the curse?”

She nodded. “We’re thinking the last time the curse was active was when that qunari-Tevinter treaty was signed. The one that Merrill found with no date? The elf that touched it was probably a slave, unfortunately. Someone probably forced them to return the curse to the orb, and then they made that treaty to keep any humans out of the danger zone, including the human converts among the qunari.”

“So if you put back the curse, Hawke will be cured?” he said hopefully.

 She hesitated just long enough to drop his hopes once more. “Not… no,” she said apologetically. “If I just put the curse back, Merrill and Cole think that the curse won’t strike anyone else, but it also won’t be lifted from Rynne or the others.”

He dragged a hand through his hair. “But then–”

“We’re going to figure something else out,” Piper interrupted. “We’ll find a way to break the curse when we get back to the temple.” She raised her eyebrows at him.  “I’m going to get her back, Fen. I mean it.”

He swallowed hard. “I know you do,” he said. But just because she meant it didn’t mean it was possible.

She frowned. “You believe me, right?”

For a moment, he didn’t reply. His life had held too many disappointments for him to believe the best of anything, especially since the best thing in his life had been stolen from him by some ineffable evil fog. But Piper was determined, and expressing his doubts would only make her more belligerent.

He nodded silently, but his response didn’t seem to satisfy her. She sat back on the stool and folded her arms. “I’m going to get her back,” she said confidently. “I’ll outwit the Dread Wolf, you’ll see. That’ll make for a good tavern story. Watch me get free drinks at the Hanged Man next time we go to Rialto.”

“Better yet, you’ll finally have a story to tell at the Hanged Man that’s true,” he retorted.

She snorted with laughter. “Fuck you too, Fen.”

He gave her a feeble smile, then shifted into a cross-legged position on the bed. Hawke’s head was tilted slightly to the side, and Fenris carefully repositioned her head on the pillow. 

Piper cleared her throat. “Listen, I, um… I swear I didn’t think there really was a Fen’Harel.”

He shrugged wearily. “I didn’t either. But that voice we were hearing was undeniably ominous. Even you must admit that.” He cut her a sharp look. “I know you had your doubts about the temple and that orb. Why did you touch it?”

She sighed and looked away, and they were both silent for a moment. Then she turned back to him with a determined scowl. “I’m the captain, okay? I’m the captain of the Lady Luck. It’s my job to look after you bunch of salty assholes and make sure everyone’s happy. I just… wanted to…” She shrugged irritably. “I didn’t want it to be for nothing.”

He eyed her sternly. “You look after the crew well enough by listening to your instincts. You should listen to them next time.”

“Thanks,” she muttered. “I think.”

They fell silent again, and Fenris gazed sadly at Hawke’s beautiful unconscious face. Then Piper broke the silence again. “Cole was right, you know. This wasn’t your fault.”

He clenched his jaw before replying. “I should have protected her.”

Piper scoffed softly. “There was no way to protect her from that fucking fog shit.”

“There was,” he retorted. “We should have stayed here on the ship.”

Piper gave him a skeptical look. “So what, you’re going to keep Rynne locked away on the Lady Luck just in case anything bad ever happens to her?”

He glared at her. “I won’t be doing anything with Rynne unless she wakes up.”

“She will,” Piper said fiercely. “I’ll make sure of it. And when she does, she’s going to be pissed if you try to be all ‘we’re staying on the ship forever’ with her. No one ever has any fun by just staying put.”

He scowled and hunched his shoulders. An awkward moment later, Piper tapped her palms on her knees. “Okay, well. Now that I’m done arguing with your stubborn ass…” She smoothed a hand over the braids at her temple before rising from the stool.

Fenris slid off of the bed as well. He suddenly felt strange for the informality of sitting on his bed while Piper was here. “When are you going back to the forest?” he asked.

“Now,” she said, to his mild surprise. “I just wanted to, um, check in on Rynne first.”

He met her hazel eyes in silence. Her arms were folded, and there was something about her defensive posture that made him realize why she was really here.

She was trying to apologize. 

He tugged his ear. “I’m not… I am remaining here with Hawke. You are aware–”

“I know,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t even going to ask. If it was Cullen who got hit, I…” She trailed off, then waved her hand vaguely. “Seriously, don’t even think about it. You’re right where you should be.”

He nodded, and they stood there in an increasingly awkward silence.  

Finally he spoke. “There is a saying in Tevinter: na via lerno victoria.”

She cocked her head. “What’s that mean?”

“‘Only the living know glory’,” he said. “Be careful, Captain.” He extended his hand to her.

Piper eyed him silently for a moment. Then she hugged him. 

He froze, startled by the hold of her wiry arms and the ticklish cloud of her hair in his face. A second later, before he could speak or move or hug her back, she released him and gently punched his shoulder, then left his cabin without looking back. 

He slowly made his way over to the stool and sat down, then noticed the plate that someone – likely Anders – had placed on the bedside table. It held a hardtack biscuit, an orange, and a generous slice of salted beef. 

His stomach clenched eagerly at the sight. He picked up the orange and dug his nails into the peel, and when the heady citrus scent burst from the peeled skin, he held the fruit over Hawke’s nose. 

“It is your favourite,” he said softly. “Can you smell it? I would share it with you if you woke.”

She didn’t wake. Fenris gazed longingly at her, then began to listlessly eat the fruit.

Piper will fix this, he told himself. It was a hope more than a plan and he knew it, but he had no choice now but to cling to it and to pray that Piper would bring Hawke back to him. 

He swallowed the last segment of orange along with the lump of misery in his throat, then went on to eat the dried meat. He would need to regain his strength in case Piper’s plan failed. 

If Piper’s plan failed, Fenris would be returning to the elven temple. And he would burn that fucking temple down until it was nothing more than ash.

[shadowedlamplight]

Lily’s Worst Memory

Fandom: Harry Potter Words: 3,034 Warnings: None that I can think of

I wrote this for a class and decided I’d post it. Snape’s Worst Memory from Lily’s perspective.

AO3 Link

Story under the cut

The Knockback Jinx, the Tongue-Tying Curse, any form of Verdimillious, though Tria would probably be best…

Lily tapped her quill against her desk, wracking her brains for spells she was certain she knew. She just needed to breathe and focus. She started counting on her fingers:

Knockback, Tongue-Tie, Ver, Duo, Tria… Rictusempra, might work… a well-placed Conjunctivitis Curse too, if–

“Five more minutes!”

Lily jumped at Professor Flitwick’s voice and glanced up at the large clock at the front of the hall. It read that there were five minutes left of the exam period, just as Flitwick had said. She cursed under her breath. Merlin, she hated timed essays. She took a slow, deep breath. She could do this.

If a witch or wizard is facing an opponent of greater magical skill than they, using simple spells to prevent their opponents from casting is best. Such spells may include the Knockback Jinx, the Tongue-Tying Curse, or the Conjunctivitis Curse. Other spells, such as Verdimillious or Rictusempra could work, but will do less to inhibit an opponent than those previously mentioned. In the case of such spells being blocked, however…

As Lily started putting the words to parchment, she found that the rest were ready to follow, and she wrote as quickly as she could without smearing the wet ink. Perhaps this essay wouldn’t turn out as terrible as she had feared. She only needed one or two more sentences to finish this paragraph, and then–

“Quills down, please!” Lily froze, her quill in the middle of a word, and closed her eyes. Damn. “That means you too, Stebbins! Please remain seated while I collect your parchment! Accio!” Lily set down her quill and watched forlornly as her exam flew to the front of the hall.

The rolls of parchment knocked Professor Flitwick to the floor and Lily snorted. From what Alice had told her it was not the first time it had happened, and Lily guessed that it would not be the last. She glanced in the direction of where she knew Severus sat, behind Adrian Vane, but he was absorbed in the question sheet, likely critiquing the questions rather than his own answers. She would find him later to ask how he had done—Severus was good company, but his frustration with professors’ expectations (low, in his opinion) got old rather quickly. Lily sighed softly and began tucking away her quills, parchment, and ink while Flitwick was brought back to his feet.

“Thank you . . . thank you. Very well, everybody, you’re free to go!”

Lily rose from her seat and slung her bag over her shoulder. She tried not to focus too much on the final question. It was only question, on one exam, and she still had her practical to make up points. This was not the end of the world! It just felt like it…

“Hey, Evans!”

Lily jumped half a foot in the air and turned, about to pull her wand on Potter and whatever flirtation or prank he had planned next, then scowled when she saw Marlene McKinnon’s laughing face and Potter nowhere to be found.

“Y-your face!” Marlene cackled. “Merlin, I’ve been waiting to do that, and you–” She broke off in another peal of laughter, almost doubling over.

Lily rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, walking again towards the Entrance Hall.

“Hey, wait, c’mon– Lily!” Lily couldn’t help smirking slightly at the sound of Marlene running to catch up to her; longer legs were a definite advantage. “Jeez, can’t you give a girl a break?” Marlene looped her arm through Lily’s and pushed her black bangs out of her eyes.

“Hm. I’m not quite sure you deserve one after that.”

“Oh please, it was funny. Besides, you have to admit, that was a good Potter impression, right?” Lily stared resolutely ahead. She wouldn’t give Marlene the satisfaction. “Right?” Marlene tugged a bit on her arm, but Lily ignored her still. “Right?” Marlene careened into her and the two of them nearly found themselves on the ground—Lily couldn’t help but laugh.

“All right, all right, yes! I thought it was him for a second.” Marlene made an exclamatory sound. “But only for a second!”

“A second still counts, Lily, my dear!”

Lily rolled her eyes again—but she was smiling now—and unhooked her arm from Marlene’s.

Marlene looked at her curiously. “Where are you off to?”

“The library. I want to just brush up on some of the spells that might come up in the–”

“Nope.”

“I– What?” Lily raised an eyebrow in Marlene’s direction. The other girl was staring back at her defiantly, hands on her hips.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘Nope.’”

“I heard you, but I don’t–”

“You are not going back into that musty old library to study spells that you already know, that we all know you’re going to cast perfectly.”

“Don’t let Mr. Pennifold hear you calling his library musty.”

Marlene ignored her deflection. “Lily, come on! It’s still early, the sun is shining, the birds are singing–”

“Marlene, I really need to study.”

“You do not!” Marlene drew herself to her full height (which was not particularly high, all things considered) and looked Lily fiercely in the eye. “Lilian Evans–”

“It’s just Lily, you know that.”

“–I will not rest until you see the sun on this day!”

“Look, the sun is right there through that window. See, I've seen it, now– Marlene!”

Marlene was now dragging Lily by the hand through the Entrance Hall toward the main doors.

“You and I,” she said grandly, “are going down to the lake, and we’re going to see Dorcas, and you are going to relax—yes, I know!” She gasped when Lily made a sound of protest. “Relaxation, what is that? It’s been so long, you’ve forgotten. Well, not to worry, love, we’ll have you fixed up quick as a flash.”

Lily groaned, but Marlene was not to be argued with when she was this determined. Hopefully if Lily sat with them by the lake for a few minutes she would be able to sneak off and get some extra practice in.

When they met Dorcas, she was lying down by the lakeside with her eyes closed, practically sunbathing but for her robes, more than happy to ignore the rest of the world. As they approached, Lily glanced at Marlene, and to no great surprise she was grinning rather deviously. Lily stifled a smile.

“Are yo–” she started, but as quickly as she started speaking, Marlene had dropped her hand and was rushing toward Dorcas. Lily shook her head fondly and followed more slowly behind. Marlene ran up and dropped abruptly to her knees at Dorcas’ side, and Lily burst out laughing at what could only be described as a squawk from Dorcas.

“Horrid,” Dorcas spat as she sat up, glaring at Marlene and Lily in turn. Lily sat down on her other side. “Absolutely horrid, the both of you.”

“And what am I horrid for?” Lily asked in mock-indignation.

“You let it happen, didn’t you?”

Lily hummed. “Maybe I did.” Dorcas shoved her, and Lily laughed. “I’m sorry, Dorcas, but you’re so funny when you’re startled.”

Dorcas grumbled, even if Lily knew that she wasn’t really upset. “Yeah, sure, funny my ars–”

“It’s so hot out!” Marlene cut her off, and Lily had to cover her mouth with her hand lest she receive Dorcas’ glare as well. Marlene simply smiled in the face of it. Braver than an Auror, that one. “Can you believe it’s already June?”

“I certainly can’t,” Lily said, jumping on this new topic and trying not to giggle at the expression on Dorcas’ face.

“Come on, let’s cool off.” Marlene was already taking off her socks and shoes as she said it, and Dorcas and Lily quickly followed her example. The cool water of the lake was a shock to their sweaty feet, but it felt lovely in all the warmth. It wasn’t an oppressive heat, but Spring was certainly ending, and it was hot enough that Dorcas had tied her long blonde hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. Lily thought it was lovely. Perhaps Marlene had been right—she shouldn’t put so much stress on herself.

Lily told her so and Marlene grinned widely.

“You see? That big brain of yours needs to breathe every once in a while, Lils. You can’t just keep it stifled up in that castle or you’ll go bonkers.”

Lily snorted. “Maybe,” she said, “but I could never get to be as bonkers as you.”

“Oh really?” Marlene asked, suddenly haughty. For all that she liked to tease them, Marlene could learn to take a bit of her own medicine.

“Oh yeah, she’s right,” Dorcas said seriously. Marlene turned to her. “You’re certifiably mad, got the report from the Healer myself.”

“You–” Marlene started, but she was drowned out briefly by the sound of loud laughter behind them. The three girls turned around to see that something of a crowd had formed closer to the castle.

Dorcas groaned. “What in hell is going on now?” She flopped back on the grass. “Does there always have to be something going on? Can’t we exist for an hour without some other sort of drama? Half an hour at least!”

Lily didn’t disagree with her that there was a lot of drama, but it kept things interesting at the least. Something to focus on other than classes and the bitter cold that plagued the castle for much of the year.

Marlene craned her neck to see between the students that made up the slowly growing crowd. Whatever it was, it seemed to be entertaining.

“Looks like it’s just Black and Potter up to their usual nonsense.” Lily made a disinterested noise. Scratch that entertainment idea, the crowd must simply be drawn by their stupidity. “And… oh.”

“What?” Lily looked curiously at Marlene. She wasn’t a gossip per say, but Marlene was always interested in what had caught their classmates’ attention.

“Nothing, it’s just…” Lily stared at her. She seemed reluctant to say. Marlene grimaced. “It looks like they’re pestering Snape again.”

Lily’s eyes went wide. “Sev’s up there?” She scrambled to get her feet under her and pulled out her wand. Fury was swelling in her like a hot air balloon. Who did those… those arseholes think they were?!

Marlene looked quickly between the scene and Lily, biting her lip. “Lily, maybe you shouldn’t…”

Lily paid her no mind though, and she saw Dorcas waving Marlene off from the corner of her eye. “Let her go. It’s not like you’d stop her.”

She wasn’t wrong. Lily had already crossed half the distance to the crowd. She was close enough now that she could see Severus on the ground, spitting up some pink substance, and Potter, Black, and Pettigrew looming over him like vultures. Lily grit her teeth and increased her speed.

“Leave him ALONE!”

Potter and Black immediately looked around, Potter already mussing up his stupid hair. Lily was coming right for him and the few people who were in her way moved quickly out of it.

“All right, Evans?” Potter asked pleasantly, as though he weren’t torturing her best friend in front of their entire year.

“Leave him alone,” Lily repeated, aiming for calm. Potter only ever seemed encouraged when she was angry at him. “What’s he done to you?”

“Well,” Potter said—slowly, as though he were actually thinking, “it’s more the fact that he exists, if you know what I mean…”

Her classmates laughed, especially Black and Pettigrew, but Lily only glared more fiercely, eyes narrowed.

“You think you’re funny,” she said coldly. “But you’re just an arrogant, bullying toerag, Potter. Leave him alone.”

“I will if you go out with me, Evans,” Potter said quickly. “Go on… Go out with me, and I’ll never lay a wand on old Snivelly again.”

A wave of disgust rolled through Lily, and it took all she could not to spit in his face. How could anyone stand to be around him?

“I wouldn’t go out with you if it was a choice between you and the giant squid,” she said firmly.

“Bad luck, Prongs,” said Black, as he had so many times before, and he turned swiftly, wand out. “OY!”

Lily turned just in time to see that Severus had broken out of whatever jinx Potter had placed to hex him back, drawing blood. It might have even been one he had made up himself. He hadn’t shown her all of them, but she knew he was always thinking, always coming up with ways to improve their spells—or to harm, as had been the case since he started spending time with Mulciber and his lot.

Potter responded just as quickly, and in a moment and a flash of light, Severus was hanging upside down by his ankle, and his robes fell over his head, Sev’s legs and underwear hanging out for the world to see. Everyone around her laughed.

Lily almost, almost smiled, only because that spell was a particular favorite of hers to see—but not when it was done this cruelly. She schooled her expression.

“Let him down!”

“Certainly,” Potter said, and with a quick jerk, Severus had fallen back on the ground.

Severus worked to get to his feet, held his wand aloft, but the moment he was off the ground Black hit him with the Body-Bind Curse, and he had fallen again.

Lily saw red. She drew her wand on them. “LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Potter and Black looked warily at her wand. The only time they showed her any sort of respect, it seemed, was when she had them at wandpoint.

“Ah, Evans, don’t make me hex you.” Potter seemed to mean it, too. As if. But at least it would give her an edge.

“Take the curse off him, then!”

Potter sighed—much like a child who’d had his dessert privileges taken away—and quietly muttered the countercurse in Snape’s direction.

“There you go,” Potter said mockingly, as Snape struggled to stand. “You’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus–”

“I don’t need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!”

Lily blinked, staring frozen at Severus. Had he really…?

“Fine,” she said coolly. “I won’t bother in future. And I’d wash your pants if I were you, Snivellus.” She blinked again, more rapidly, but she wouldn’t react in public. She should have known, from the way he’d been acting–

“Apologize to Evans!” Potter screamed, and Lily was so done with stupid boys and their stupid egos.

“I don’t want you to make him apologize,” she shouted, turning on him. “You’re as bad as he is…”

“What?” Potter asked, and he seemed truly startled by her reaction, idiot that he was. “I’d NEVER call you a—you-know-what!”

“Messing up your hair because you think it looks cool to look like you’ve just got off your broomstick, showing off with that stupid Snitch, walking down corridors and hexing anyone who annoys you just because you can–” Lily shook her head in disgust– “I’m surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK.”

She turned sharply around and started briskly away from them—all of them.

“Evans!” Potter shouted behind her. “Hey, EVANS!”

Lily refused to turn around, refused to give him the satisfaction, and soon enough he’d stopped calling after her.

She hurried back to their spot on the lake and grabbed her shoes and socks, almost falling over in her haste to put them on.

“Lily?” said a quiet voice. Lily looked up and both Dorcas and Marlene were looking at her, their faces drawn. By the expressions on their faces she knew that they had heard. She looked down again. Dorcas continued, “Are you–”

“I’m going to find a classroom,” Lily said swiftly, still not looking at them. She fumbled once, twice with the laces of her shoes before she’d tied them. “To work in, that is. I still need–” Her voice wavered for a moment and she paused before trying again. “I still need to practice the spells for the practical exam, and I’d rather do it inside.”

“Do you… want some company?” Marlene asked tentatively.

“No, I think I’d really rather be alone,” Lily said. She looked up briefly to smile without humor, and the look on Marlene’s face made her ache. She averted her gaze again. How many times had they told her that Sev was no good? How many times had they tried to convince her to stay away from him, the same as she had warned him away from Avery and Mulciber. She should have expected this. Marlene and Dorcas clearly had.

“All right… If you’re certain…” Marlene said. Lily didn’t bother meeting their eyes again. She didn’t think she would be able to bear it. She started stuffing the few things she had pulled out back into her bag

“I am. I really am, thank you, girls, but I’m fine.” She gave that little smile again and felt her eyes burn at the corners. Lily steeled herself. Not until she was safe within the castle walls where no one else would see. She didn’t know which was worse, the shame or the hurt. At this point they seemed to have melded together.

“Okay…” Marlene said softly.

“Should we come find you before the exam?” Dorcas asked.

Lily shook her head firmly. “No, I’ll– I’ll meet you in the Great Hall. Wouldn’t want you to be late, trying to look for me. I’ll be all right.”

“Okay…”

Lily straightened up and placed her bag her shoulder. She smiled tightly at Dorcas and Marlene. “See you two at the practical, all right?”

“All right,” Marlene said.

“We’re here if you need anything,” Dorcas said pointedly.

Lily nodded stiffly and turned around, walking swiftly toward the castle. She took the long way around just to avoid Potter and his little crowd. Besides, this way was quieter, more peaceful. And, if she had to wipe at her face for any reason, well, there was no one there to see it.

[renae-writes]

Time Travel (Part 2)

Summary: Y/N somehow finds herself in Hamiltime and struggles to keep her secret.

Pairing: eventual Philip x reader

Warnings: language, unedited, talk of slavery and religion (Christianity)

Word count: 1,876 words

A/N: Part 2. I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m trying to make this as historically accurate as I can so I’m doing hella research and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore. I don’t know if I like this part, but here it is.

Part 1

Philip was trying.

You were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, but he made sure not to show it. Your hair was shorter than most girls kept it and he couldn’t stop thinking about your big [Y/E/C] eyes. Everything about you hit him like a brick wall. The way you were dressed, the way you acted, how clueless you seemed to be about everything. After all, you had walked into his home not having any idea whose it was.

He tried to ignore how small and cold you hand seemed in his when you offered it to him. He tried to avoid looking at your exposed chest and legs. In a time where showing as much as an ankle was considered risqué, here you stood with your calves and forearms completely uncovered, the area between your breasts out on full display as well. He couldn’t look at you long without thinking about how little you were covered and feeling the need to look away before you caught him.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he said lamely. You looked at him incredulously.

“I’m sitting here in pants and you’re worried because I’m not wearing shoes?”

“I’m wondering why you’re wearing breeches without stockings. You should be happy I’m not asking why you’re wearing men’s clothing in the first place.”

You were about to tell him that what you were wearing was in no way men’s clothing, but then you remembered.

Eighteenth century.

“Right. I, uh, ran away,” you lied, trying to put this in a way poor Philip would understand. “I had to dress like a man in order to get out and I lost my shoes and stockings along the way.” You almost cringed at how bad your bullshit lie was.

Philip sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“I’ll go find you some proper clothing. Wait here and don’t touch anything,” he commanded before turning and leaving his room, securely closing the door behind him.

You smirked. Like hell you weren’t going to touch anything. You looked around, your attention falling on the dark cedar desk shoved under one of the windows and between two bookshelves. Examining the contents littering the top, your hand reached for the quill laying on top of a mass of papers. You’d never seen a real quill before, only ever recreations. The metal tip gleamed in the sun and you found yourself wondering how you would ever survive without the ball point pens of your time. Dipping a quill in ink every ten seconds seemed like a hassle.

Then your eyes fell on the journal. It was small and dark brown with a P.H. inscribed on it; you could only assume it was Philip’s. You placed the quill down as close to how it was when you found it and picked up the journal. The leather was soft and worn down in places, and you could see splotches of ink littering the outside as well as some of the pages. You knew you shouldn’t open it, but it was too inviting. You desperately wanted to know what was written on the ink stained pages. All of Philip Hamilton’s most private thoughts. You glanced at the door. You probably still had time to read a bit and put it back and Philip would be none the wiser. You opened the journal, the pages naturally flipping open to the latest entry, Philip’s beautiful, scrawling handwriting filling the page.

I have found myself thinking quite a lot about death.

What is death like?

Does one feel anything once they have passed?

I imagine it to be like falling asleep. Closing your eyes to find an angel carrying you to Heaven.

Father describes it to be much more violent. He believes that the soul never truly leaves the body but is kept prisoner there until it is ready to move on.

Mother believes that the souls of our loved ones stay with us. They care for us and watch over us. That we are never truly alone.

Angie harbors more poetic beliefs.

She believes that every soul occupies a star in the night sky. That once a person dies, a new star is created and that each star is some person, looking down on their loved ones and keeping them safe every night. That Jesus is the sun, lighting our way, and God is the moon; always there, watching over us day and night.

I do not know if I agree with her, but it is a beautiful sentiment, and it comforts me that my sister finds solace in the night sky.

I wonder about death.

Is it a person, a type of entity that carries souls and delivers them to their designated resting places?

Or is it merely an idea, a figment of our imaginations that we as humans have created in order to comfort ourselves?

Either way, I believe it to be selfish.

It takes and it takes, and no one is safe.

Death doesn’t discriminate between races, sexes, or beliefs. It does not care if you are a sinner or a saint. It will take you anyway.

  “Dying is easy, son,” my father always told me. “Living is harder.”

No matter what kind of death one believes in, there is always one thing in common.

It must be earned.

“What are you doing?” You snapped the journal closed before turning to face an angry Philip, hiding the journal behind your back as you did, your cheeks burning red with the embarrassment of being caught.

“Nothing!” you lied.

“You were reading my journal?”

“I was curious. I’m sorry.”

Philip heaved a deep sigh.

“Don’t do it again, alright?” You nodded in agreement before placing the journal back onto his desk.

“I found you a dress,” was all Philip said before placing the clothing down onto his bed. It was a light ashy grey color with beautiful dark embroidery lacing up the middle of the bodice. “It was the only one my sister might not miss, so it may be a little small on you.”

You eyed the plain shift dress and various undergarments, wanting to ask Philip what they were, but you were trying to convince him that you were a lady of that time and he would know something was wrong if you asked.

“I’ll leave you to dress. A maid should be up shortly to help you.” With that, he closed the door.

Well, shit.

You first stripped out of your clothes, debating whether or not to leave your underwear on before deciding that going commando was not something you wanted to do today. You first put on the plain white shift dress that was laying under the rest of the clothing. It was loose enough, the sleeves stopping just above your elbows and the dress itself falling just below your knees. You then put on the plain black socks, tying them up with two lengths of leather when they kept falling down every time you stood up. Looking around, you had no idea what to do next. Sighing, you grabbed the long, pleated skirt from the bed, sliding the plain cream fabric up over the shift to sit on your waist.

Before you could get much farther, there was a knock at the door. You muttered a “come in” and not long after, a woman with beautiful dark skin opened the door and surveyed you.

“Good. You have not gotten to the hard part yet,” she said before picking up what looked like a corset.

“You’re…”

“A black woman, yes.” She said, helping you into the corset before beginning to lace up the back.

“You’re free, right?” The woman hesitated before lacing you up once again.

“I have been free for three years,” she said with pride, but you could hear the pain hidden underneath it. “Mister Hamilton has given me a place to stay and enough money to keep me free and in return, I work as his maid.”

“What’s your name?”

“Nyawara,” was all she said before tugging on the bottom half of the corset, making you fall back in surprise.

“That’s a beautiful name,” you said, trying to catch your breath again, already feeling lightheaded from being sucked into a corset.

“It is a traditional name from my country.”

“Would you ever go back?” you asked and she stopped tugging, leaving you to wonder if you crossed a line or not. She tugged once, twice, three more times before tying the corset off with expert fingers and motioning for you to sit down.

“You must understand, miss,” she started, her dark eyes searching yours, “in my country, people are still getting taken as slaves. I would not be safe.” You could see the tears threatening to fall down her round cheeks, her lips trembling. “If I could go back, I would. My family is there. I was the only one taken. But I can never go back.” You hugged her, cutting her off before more tears could fall. After a couple of seconds, she wrapped her arms around you as well and you ignored how much you couldn’t move in the corset, more worried about comforting the woman in your arms.

“I’m sorry,” was all you could say.

“It is not your fault, miss.” Nyawara said before leaning out of your embrace and standing up. “Now let’s get you dressed.”

“Thank you,” was all you could say after she had laced up the back of the grey dress and helped you put the polished black heeled shoes on.

“I shall fetch Mister Philip for you,” was all she said before closing the door once again.

You sighed and wiped your eyes, making sure all evidence of your emotions were gone. You walked over to one of his bookshelves, reading the names on the spines of the books. Most of the books on this shelf were Shakespeare, a rose-embossed copy of Romeo and Juliet catching your eye. You were about to pull it out of the shelf when Philip’s voice startled you.

“It must feel good to be in a dress again.”

“I could do without the corset,” you said, your voice sounding breathy. He laughed. It was a warm sound, like wood crackling in a fire, and you desperately wanted to hear it again.

“I’ve never heard a girl talk so openly about her undergarments,” he said, still chuckling.

“Oh, am I not supposed to talk about that?” you wondered if you had just messed up.

“As long as you don’t do it in public, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” You blushed. Was Philip Hamilton flirting with you?

“Then what am I supposed to talk about in public?” you asked in a joking manner, but you actually didn’t know the answer.

“Oh, just all the usual things like clothes and hair and men,” Philip said, only half joking.

“I’d rather talk about politics and equality.”

“I can’t seem to get away from politicians,” Philip laughed, even though he was secretly overjoyed you weren’t one of those girls that gossiped about nothing but beauty and men.

“And is there something wrong with that?” you questioned, turning fully to face him. Philip took a step closer to you.

“Not at all.”

Tags: @pearltheartist

[readbookywooks]

The Weighing of the Wands

When Harry woke up on Sunday morning, it took him a moment to remember why he felt so miserable and worried. Then the memory of the previous night rolled over him. He sat up and ripped back the curtains of his own four-poster, intending to talk to Ron, to force Ron to believe him - only to find that Ron's bed was empty; he had obviously gone down to breakfast. Harry dressed and went down the spiral staircase into the common room. The moment he appeared, the people who had already finished breakfast broke into applause again. The prospect of going down into the Great Hall and facing the rest of the Gryffindors, all treating him like some sort of hero, was not inviting; it was that, however, or stay here and allow himself to be cornered by the Creevey brothers, who were both beckoning frantically to him to join them. He walked resolutely over to the portrait hole, pushed it open, climbed out of it, and found himself face-to-face with Hermione. "Hello," she said, holding up a stack of toast, which she was carrying in a napkin. "I brought you this....Want to go for a walk?" "Good idea," said Harry gratefully. They went downstairs, crossed the entrance hall quickly without looking in at the Great Hall, and were soon striding across the lawn toward the lake, where the Durmstrang ship was moored, reflected blackly in the water. It was a chilly morning, and they kept moving, munching their toast, as Harry told Hermione exactly what had happened after he had left the Gryffindor table the night before. To his immense relief, Hermione accepted his story without question. "Well, of course I knew you hadn't entered yourself," she said when he'd finished telling her about the scene in the chamber off the Hall. "The look on your face when Dumbledore read out your name! But the question is, who did put it in? Because Moody's right, Harry...I don't think any student could have done it...they'd never be able to fool the Goblet, or get over Dumbledore's -" "Have you seen Ron?" Harry interrupted. Hermione hesitated. "Erm...yes...he was at breakfast," she said. "Does he still think I entered myself?" "Well...no, I don't think so...not really," said Hermione awkwardly. "What's that supposed to mean, 'not really'?" "Oh Harry, isn't it obvious?" Hermione said despairingly. "He's jealous!" "Jealous?" Harry said incredulously. "Jealous of what? He wants to make a prat of himself in front of the whole school, does he?" "Look," said Hermione patiently, "it's always you who gets all the attention, you know it is. I know it's not your fault," she added quickly, seeing Harry open his mouth furiously. "I know you don't ask for it...but - well - you know, Ron's got all those brothers to compete against at home, and you're his best friend, and you're really famous - he's always shunted to one side whenever people see you, and he puts up with it, and he never mentions it, but I suppose this is just one time too many..." "Great," said Harry bitterly. "Really great. Tell him from me I'll swap any time he wants. Tell him from me he's welcome to it....People gawping at my forehead everywhere I go..." "I'm not teiling him anything," Hermione said shortly. "Tell him yourself. It's the only way to sort this out." "I'm not running around after him trying to make him grow up!" Harry said, so loudly that several owls in a nearby tree took flight in alarm. "Maybe he'll believe I'm not enjoying myself once I've got my neck broken or -" "That's not funny," said Hermione quietly. "That's not funny at all." She looked extremely anxious. "Harry, I've been thinking - you know what we've got to do, don't you? Straight away, the moment we get back to the castle?" "Yeah, give Ron a good kick up the -" "Write to Sirius. You've got to tell him what's happened. He asked you to keep him posted on everything that's going on at Hogwarts....It's almost as if he expected something like this to happen. I brought some parchment and a quill out with me -" "Come off it," said Harry, looking around to check that they couldn't be overheard, but the grounds were quite deserted. "He came back to the country just because my scar twinged. He'll probably come bursting right into the castle if I tell him someone's entered me in the Triwizard Tournament -" "He'd want you to tell him," said Hermione sternly. "He's going to find out anyway." "How?" "Harry, this isn't going to be kept quiet," said Hermione, very seriously. "This tournament's famous, and you're famous. I'll be really surprised if there isn't anything in the Daily Prophet about you competing....You're already in half the books about You-Know-Who, you know...and Sirius would rather hear it from you, I know he would." "Okay, okay, I'll write to him," said Harry, throwing his last piece of toast into the lake. They both stood and watched it floating there for a moment, before a large tentacle rose out of the water and scooped it beneath the surface. Then they returned to the castle. "Whose owl am I going to use?" Harry said as they climbed the stairs. "He told me not to use Hedwig again." "Ask Ron if you can borrow -" "I'm not asking Ron for anything," Harry said flatly. "Well, borrow one of the school owls, then, anyone can use them," said Hermione. They went up to the Owlery. Hermione gave Harry a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink, then strolled around the long lines of perches, looking at all the different owls, while Harry sat down against a wall and wrote his letter. Dear Sirius, You told me to keep you posted on what's happening at Hogwarts, so here goes - I don't know if you've heard, but the Triwizard Tournament's happening this year and on Saturday night I got picked as a fourth champion. I don't who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, because I didn't. The other Hogwarts champion is Cedric Diggory, from Hufflepuff. He paused at this point, thinking. He had an urge to say something about the large weight of anxiety that seemed to have settled inside his chest since last night, but he couldn't think how to translate this into words, so he simply dipped his quill back into the ink bottle and wrote, Hope you're okay, and Buckbeak - Harry "Finished," he told Hermione, getting to his feet and brushing straw off his robes. At this, Hedwig fluttered down onto his shoulder and held out her leg. "I can't use you," Harry told her, looking around for the school owls. "I've got to use one of these." Hedwig gave a very loud hoot and took off so suddenly that her talons cut into his shoulder. She kept her back to Harry all the time he was tying his letter to the leg of a large barn owl. When the barn owl had flown off, Harry reached out to stroke Hedwig, but she clicked her beak furiously and soared up into the rafters out of reach. "First Ron, then you," Harry said angrily. "This isn't my fault." If Harry had thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the idea of him being champion, the following day showed him how mistaken he was. He could no longer avoid the rest of the school once he was back at lessons - and it was clear that the rest of the school, just like the Gryffindors, thought Harry had entered himself for the tournament. Unlike the Gryffindors, however, they did not seem impressed. The Hufflepuffs, who were usually on excellent terms with the Gryffindors, had turned remarkably cold toward the whole lot of them. One Herbology lesson was enough to demonstrate this. It was plain that the Hufflepuffs felt that Harry had stolen their champion's glory; a feeling exacerbated, perhaps, by the fact that Hufflepuff House very rarely got any glory, and that Cedric was one of the few who had ever given them any, having beaten Gryffindor once at Quidditch. Ernie Macmillan and Justin FinchFletchley, with whom Harry normally got on very well, did not talk to him even though they were repotting Bouncing Bulbs at the same tray - though they did laugh rather unpleasantly when one of the Bouncing Bulbs wriggled free from Harry's grip and smacked him hard in the face. Ron wasn't talking to Harry either. Hermione sat between them, making very forced conversation, but though both answered her normally, they avoided making eye contact with each other. Harry thought even Professor Sprout seemed distant with him - but then, she was Head of Hufflepuff House. He would have been looking forward to seeing Hagrid under normal circumstances, but Care of Magical Creatures meant seeing the Slytherins too - the first time he would come face-to-face with them since becoming champion. Predictably, Malfoy arrived at Hagrid's cabin with his familiar sneer firmly in place. "Ah, look, boys, it's the champion," he said to Crabbe and Goyle the moment he got within earshot of Harry. "Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he's going to be around much longer....Half the Triwizard champions have died...how long d'you reckon you're going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task's my bet." Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically, but Malfoy had to stop there, because Hagrid emerged from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the class's horror, Hagrid proceeded to explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and that the solution would be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The only good thing about this plan was that it distracted Malfoy completely. "Take this thing for a walk?" he repeated in disgust, staring into one of the boxes. "And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end, or the sucker?" "Roun' the middle," said Hagrid, demonstrating. "Er - yeh might want ter put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus' as an extra precaution, like. Harry - you come here an' help me with this big one...." Hagrid's real intention, however, was totalk to Harry away from the rest of the class. He waited until everyone else had set off with their skrewts, then turned to Harry and said, very seriously, "So - yer competin', Harry. In the tournament. School champion." "One of the champions," Harry corrected him. Hagrid's beetle-black eyes looked very anxious under his wild eyebrows. "No idea who put yeh in fer it, Harry?" "You believe I didn't do it, then?" said Harry, concealing with difficulty the rush of gratitude he felt at Hagrid's words. "Course I do," Hagrid grunted. "Yeh say it wasn' you, an' I believe yeh - an' Dumbledore believes yer, an' all." "Wish I knew who did do it," said Harry bitterly. The pair of them looked out over the lawn; the class was widely scattered now, and all in great difficulty. The skrewts were now over three feet long, and extremely powerful. No longer shell-less and colorless, they had developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny armor. They looked like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs- but still without recognizable heads or eyes. They had become immensely strong and very hard to control. "Look like they're havin' fun, don' they?" Hagrid said happily. Harry assumed he was talking about the skrewts, because his classmates certainly weren't; every now and then, with an alarming bang, one of the skrewts' ends would explode, causing it to shoot forward several yards, and more than one person was being dragged along on their stomach, trying desperately to get back on their feet. "Ah, I don' know, Harry," Hagrid sighed suddenly, looking back down at him with a worried expression on his face. "School champion...everythin' seems ter happen ter you, doesn' it?" Harry didn't answer. Yes, everything did seem to happen to him...that was more or less what Hermione had said as they had walked around the lake, and that was the reason, according to her, that Ron was no longer talking to him. The next few days were some of Harry's worst at Hogwarts. The closest he had ever come to feeling like this had been during those months, in his second year, when a large part of the school had suspected him of attacking his fellow students. But Ron had been on his side then. He thought he could have coped with the rest of the school's behavior if he could just have had Ron back as a friend, but he wasn't going to try and persuade Ron to talk to him if Ron didn't want to. Nevertheless, it was lonely with dislike pouring in on him from all sides. He could understand the Hufflepuffs' attitude, even if he didn't like it; they had their own champion to support. He expected nothing less than vicious insults from the Slytherins - he was highly unpopular there and always had been, because he had helped Gryffindor beat them so often, both at Quidditch and in the Inter-House Championship. But he had hoped the Ravenclaws might have found it in their hearts to support him as much as Cedric. He was wrong, however. Most Ravenclaws seemed to think that he had been desperate to earn himself a bit more fame by tricking the goblet into accepting his name. Then there was the fact that Cedric looked the part of a champion so much more than he did. Exceptionally handsome, with his straight nose, dark hair, and gray eyes, it was hard to say who was receiving more admiration these days, Cedric or Viktor Krum. Harry actually saw the same sixth-year girls who had been so keen to get Krum's autograph begging Cedric to sign their school bags one lunchtime. Meanwhile there was no reply from Sirius, Hedwig was refusing to come anywhere near him, Professor Trelawney was predicting his death with even more certainty than usual, and he did so badly at Summoning Charms in Professor Flitwick's class that he was given extra homework - the only person to get any, apart from Neville. "It's really not that difficult, Harry," Hermione tried to reassure him as they left Flitwick's class - she had been making objects zoom across the room to her all lesson, as though she were some sort of weird magnet for board dusters, wastepaper baskets, and lunascopes. "You just weren't concentrating properly -" "Wonder why that was," said Harry darkly as Cedric Diggory walked past, surrounded by a large group of simpering girls, all of whom looked at Harry as though he were a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Still - never mind, eh? Double Potions to look forward to this afternoon..." Double Potions was always a horrible experience, but these days it was nothing short of torture. Being shut in a dungeon for an hour and a half with Snape and the Slytherins, all of whom seemed determined to punish Harry as much as possible for daring to become school champion, was about the most unpleasant thing Harry could imagine. He had already struggled through one Friday's worth, with Hermione sitting next to him intoning "ignore them, ignore them, ignore them" under her breath, and he couldn't see why today should be any better. When he and Hermione arrived at Snape's dungeon after lunch, they found the Slytherins waiting outside, each and every one of them wearing a large badge on the front of his or her robes. For one wild moment Harry thought they were S.P.E.W. badges - then he saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burnt brightly in the dimly lit underground passage: SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY- THE REAL HOGWARTS CHAMPION! "Like them, Potter?" said Malfoy loudly as Harry approached. "And this isn't all they do - look!" He pressed his badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green: POTTER STINKS! The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their badges too, until the message POTTER STINKS was shining brightly all around Harry. He felt the heat rise in his face and neck. "Oh very funny," Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson and her gang of Slytherin girls, who were laughing harder than anyone, "really witty." Ron was standing against the wall with Dean and Seamus. He wasn't laughing, but he wasn't sticking up for Harry either. "Want one, Granger?" said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. "I've got loads. But don't touch my hand, now. I've just washed it, you see; don't want a Mudblood sliming it up." Some of the anger Harry had been feeling for days and days seemed to burst through a dam in his chest. He had reached for his wand before he'd thought what he was doing. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor. "Harry!" Hermione said warningly. "Go on, then, Potter," Malfoy said quietly, drawing out his own wand. "Moody's not here to look after you now - do it, if you've got the guts -" For a split second, they looked into each other's eyes, then, at exactly the same time, both acted. "Funnunculus!" Harry yelled. "Densaugeo!" screamed Malfoy. Jets of light shot from both wands, hit each other in midair, and ricocheted off at angles - Harry's hit Goyle in the face, and Malfoy's hit Hermione. Goyle bellowed and put his hands to his nose, where great ugly boils were springing up - Hermione, whimpering in panic, was clutching her mouth. "Hermione!" Ron had hurried forward to see what was wrong with her; Harry turned and saw Ron dragging Hermione's hand away from her face. It wasn't a pretty sight. Hermione's front teeth - already larger than average - were now growing at an alarming rate; she was looking more and more like a beaver as her teeth elongated, past her bottom lip, toward her chin - panic-stricken, she felt them and let out a terrified cry. "And what is all this noise about?" said a soft, deadly voice. Snape had arrived. The Slytherins clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a long yellow finger at Malfoy and said, "Explain." "Potter attacked me, sir -" "We attacked each other at the same time!" Harry shouted. "- and he hit Goyle - look -" Snape examined Goyle, whose face now resembled something that would have been at home in a book on poisonous fungi. "Hospital wing, Goyle," Snape said calmly. "Malfoy got Hermione!" Ron said. "Look!" He forced Hermione to show Snape her teeth - she was doing her best to hide them with her hands, though this was difficult as they had now grown down past her collar. Pansy Parkinson and the other Slytherin girls were doubled up with silent giggles, pointing at Hermione from behind Snape's back. Snape looked coldly at Hermione, then said, "I see no difference." Hermione let out a whimper; her eyes filled with tears, she turned on her heel and ran, ran all the way up the corridor and out of sight. It was lucky, perhaps, that both Harry and Ron started shouting at Snape at the same time; lucky their voices echoed so much in the stone corridor, for in the confused din, it was impossible for him to hear exactly what they were calling him. He got the gist, however. "Let's see," he said, in his silkiest voice. "Fifty points from Gryffindor and a detention each for Potter and Weasley. Now get inside, or it'll be a week's worth of detentions." Harry's ears were ringing. The injustice of it made him want to curse Snape into a thousand slimy pieces. He passed Snape, walked with Ron to the back of the dungeon, and slammed his bag down onto the table. Ron was shaking with anger too - for a moment, it felt as though everything was back to normal between them, but then Ron turned and sat down with Dean and Seamus instead, leaving Harry alone at his table. On the other side of the dungeon, Malfoy turned his back on Snape and pressed his badge, smirking. POTTER STINKS flashed once more across the room. Harry sat there staring at Snape as the lesson began, picturing horrific things happening to him....If only he knew how to do the Cruciatus Curse...he'd have Snape flat on his back like that spider, jerking and twitching.... "Antidotes!" said Snape, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. "You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one..." Snape's eyes met Harry's, and Harry knew what was coming. Snape was going to poison him. Harry imagined picking up his cauldron, and sprinting to the front of the class, and bringing it down on Snape's greasy head - And then a knock on the dungeon door burst in on Harry's thoughts. It was Colin Creevey; he edged into the room, beaming at Harry, and walked up to Snape's desk at the front of the room. "Yes?" said Snape curtly. "Please, sir, I'm supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs." Snape stared down his hooked nose at Colin, whose smile faded from his eager face. "Potter has another hour of Potions to complete," said Snape coldly. "He will come upstairs when this class is finished." Colin went pink. "Sir - sir, Mr. Bagman wants him," he said nervously. "All the champions have got to go, I think they want to take photographs..." Harry would have given anything he owned to have stopped Colin saying those last few words. He chanced half a glance at Ron, but Ron was staring determinedly at the ceiling. "Very well, very well," Snape snapped. "Potter, leave your things here, I want you back down here later to test your antidote." "Please, sir - he's got to take his things with him," squeaked Cohn. "All the champions..." "Very well!" said Snape. "Potter - take your bag and get out of my sight!" Harry swung his bag over his shoulder, got up, and headed for the door. As he walked through the Slytherin desks, POTTER STINKS flashed at him from every direction. "It's amazing, isn't it, Harry?" said Colin, starting to speak the moment Harry had closed the dungeon door behind him. "Isn't it, though? You being champion?" "Yeah, really amazing," said Harry heavily as they set off toward the steps into the entrance hall. "What do they want photos for, Colin?" "The Daily Prophet, I think!" "Great," said Harry dully. "Exactly what I need. More publicity." "Good luck!" said Colin when they had reached the right room. Harry knocked on the door and entered. He was in a fairly small classroom; most of the desks had been pushed away to the back of the room, leaving a large space in the middle; three of them, however, had been placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been set behind the velvet-covered desks, and Ludo Bagman was sitting in one of them, talking to a witch Harry had never seen before, who was wearing magenta robes. Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a corner as usual and not talking to anybody. Cedric and Fheur were in conversation. Fheur looked a good deal happier than Harry had seen her so far; she kept throwing back her head so that her long silvery hair caught the light. A paunchy man, holding a large black camera that was smoking slightly, was watching Fleur out of the corner of his eye. Bagman suddenly spotted Harry, got up quickly, and bounded forward. "Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come...nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment -" "Wand weighing?" Harry repeated nervously. "We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead," said Bagman. "The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter," he added, gesturing toward the witch in magenta robes. "She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet...." "Maybe not that small, Ludo," said Rita Skeeter, her eyes on Harry. Her hair was set in elaborate and curiously rigid curls that contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face. She wore jeweled spectacles. The thick fingers clutching her crocodile-skin handbag ended in two-inch nails, painted crimson. "I wonder if I could have a little word with Harry before we start?" she said to Bagman, but still gazing fixedly at Harry. "The youngest champion, you know...to add a bit of color?" "Certainly!" cried Bagman. "That is - if Harry has no objection?" "Er -" said Harry. "Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had Harry's upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip, and she was steering him out of the room again and opening a nearby door. "We don't want to be in there with all that noise," she said. "Let's see...ah, yes, this is nice and cozy." It was a broom cupboard. Harry stared at her. "Come along, dear - that's right - lovely," said Rita Skeeter again, perching herself precariously upon an upturned bucket, pushing Harry down onto a cardboard box, and closing the door, throwing them into darkness. "Let's see now..." She unsnapped her crocodile-skin handbag and pulled out a handful of candles, which she lit with a wave of her wand and magicked into midair, so that they could see what they were doing. "You won't mind, Harry, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill? It leaves me free to talk to you normally..." "A what?" said Harry. Rita Skeeter's smile widened. Harry counted three gold teeth. She reached again into her crocodile bag and drew out a long acid-green quill and a roll of parchment, which she stretched out between them on a crate of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover. She put the tip of the green quill into her mouth, sucked it for a moment with apparent relish, then placed it upright on the parchment, where it stood balanced on its point, quivering slightly. "Testing...my name is Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet reporter." Harry hooked down quickly at the quill. The moment Rita Skeeter had spoken, the green quill had started to scribble, skidding across the parchment: Attractive blonde Rita Skeeter, forty-three, who's savage quill has punctured many inflated reputations - "Lovely," said Rita Skeeter, yet again, and she ripped the top piece of parchment off, crumpled it up, and stuffed it into her handbag. Now she leaned toward Harry and said, "So, Harry...what made you decide to enter the Triwizard Tournament?" "Er -" said Harry again, but he was distracted by the quill. Even though he wasn't speaking, it was dashing across the parchment, and in its wake he could make out a fresh sentence: An ugly scar, souvenier of a tragic past, disfigures the otherwise charming face of Harry Potter, whose eyes - "Ignore the quill, Harry," said Rita Skeeter firmly. Reluctantly Harry looked up at her instead. "Now - why did you decide to enter the tournament, Harry?" "I didn't," said Harry. "I don't know how my name got into the Goblet of Fire. I didn't put it in there." Rita Skeeter raised one heavily penciled eyebrow. "Come now, Harry, there's no need to be scared of getting into trouble. We all know you shouldn't really have entered at all. But don't worry about that. Our readers hove a rebel." "But I didn't enter," Harry repeated. "I don't know who -" "How do you feel about the tasks ahead?" said Rita Skeeter. "Excited? Nervous?" "I haven't really thought...yeah, nervous, I suppose," said Harry. His insides squirmed uncomfortably as he spoke. "Champions have died in the past, haven't they?" said Rita Skeeter briskly. "Have you thought about that at all?" "Well...they say it's going to be a lot safer this year," said Harry. The quill whizzed across the parchment between them, back and forward as though it were skating. "Of course, you've looked death in the face before, haven't you?" said Rita Skeeter, watching him closely. "How would you say that's affected you?" "Er," said Harry, yet again. "Do you think that the trauma in your past might have made you keen to prove yourself? To live up to your name? Do you think that perhaps you were tempted to enter the Triwizard Tournament because -" "I didn't enter," said Harry, starting to feel irritated. "Can you remember your parents at all?" said Rita Skeeter, talking over him. "No," said Harry. "How do you think they'd feel if they knew you were competing in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud? Worried? Angry?" Harry was feeling really annoyed now. How on earth was he to know how his parents would feel if they were alive? He could feel Rita Skeeter watching him very intently. Frowning, he avoided her gaze and hooked down at words the quill had just written: Tears fill those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember. "I have NOT got tears in my eyes!" said Harry loudly. Before Rita Skeeter could say a word, the door of the broom cupboard was pulled open. Harry looked around, blinking in the bright light. Albus Dumbledore stood there, looking down at both of them, squashed into the cupboard. "Dumbledore!" cried Rita Skeeter, with every appearance of delight - but Harry noticed that her quill and the parchment had suddenly vanished from the box of Magical Mess Remover, and Rita's clawed fingers were hastily snapping shut the clasp of her crocodile-skin bag. "How are you?" she said, standing up and holding out one of her large, mannish hands to Dumbledore. "I hope you saw my piece over the summer about the International Confederation of Wizards' Conference?" "Enchantingly nasty," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "I particularly enjoyed your description of me as an obsolete dingbat." Rita Skeeter didn't look remotely abashed. "I was just making the point that some of your ideas are a little old-fashioned, Dumbhedore, and that many wizards in the street -" "I will be delighted to hear the reasoning behind the rudeness, Rita," said Dumbledore, with a courteous bow and a smile, "but I'm afraid we will have to discuss the matter later. The Weighing of the Wands is about to start, and it cannot take place if one of our champions is hidden in a broom cupboard." Very glad to get away from Rita Skeeter, Harry hurried back into the room. The other champions were now sitting in chairs near the door, and he sat down quickly next to Cedric, hooking up at the velvet-covered table, where four of the five judges were now sitting - Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr. Crouch, and Ludo Bagman. Rita Skeeter settled herself down in a corner; Harry saw her slip the parchment out of her bag again, spread it on her knee, suck the end of the Quick-Quotes Quill, and place it once more on the parchment. "May I introduce Mr. Ollivander?" said Dumbledore, taking his place at the judges' table and talking to the champions. "He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the tournament." Harry hooked around, and with a jolt of surprise saw an old wizard with large, pale eyes standing quietly by the window. Harry had met Mr. Ollivander before - he was the wand-maker from whom Harry had bought his own wand over three years ago in Diagon Alley. "Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room. Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr. Olhivander and handed him her wand. "Hmm..." he said. He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it chose to his eyes and examined it carefully. "Yes," he said quietly, "nine and a half inches...inflexible...rosewood...and containing...dear me..." "An 'air from ze 'ead of a veela," said Fleur. "One of my grandmuzzer's." So Fleur was part veela, thought Harry, making a mental note to tell Ron...then he remembered that Ron wasn't speaking to him. "Yes," said Mr. Ollivander, "yes, I've never used veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands...however, to each his own, and if this suits you..." Mr. Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, "Orchideous!" and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip. "Very well, very well, it's in fine working order," said Mr. Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur with her wand. "Mr. Diggory, you next." Fleur glided back to her seat, smiling at Cedric as he passed her. "Ah, now, this is one of mine, isn't it?" said Mr. Ollivander, with much more enthusiasm, as Cedric handed over his wand. "Yes, I remember it well. Containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly fine male unicorn...must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail. Twelve and a quarter inches...ash...pleasantly springy. It's in fine condition...You treat it regularly?" "Polished it last night," said Cedric, grinning. Harry hooked down at his own wand. He could see finger marks all over it. He gathered a fistful of robe from his knee and tried to rub it clean surreptitiously. Several gold sparks shot out of the end of it. Fleur Delacour gave him a very patronizing look, and he desisted. Mr. Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke rings across the room from the tip of Cedric's wand, pronounced himself satisfied, and then said, "Mr. Krum, if you please." Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, toward Mr. Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes. "Hmm," said Mr. Olhivander, "this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I...however..." He lifted the wand and examined it minutely, turning it over and over before his eyes. "Yes...hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Krum, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one usually sees...quite rigid...ten and a quarter inches...Avis!" The hornbeam wand let off a blast hike a gun, and a number of small, twittering birds flew out of the end and through the open window into the watery sunlight. "Good," said Mr. Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. "Which leaves...Mr. Potter." Harry got to his feet and walked past Krum to Mr. Ollivander. He handed over his wand. "Aaaah, yes," said Mr. Ohlivander, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming. "Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember." Harry could remember too. He could remember it as though it had happened yesterday.... Four summers ago, on his eleventh birthday, he had entered Mr. Ollivander's shop with Hagrid to buy a wand. Mr. Ollivander had taken his measurements and then started handing him wands to try. Harry had waved what felt like every wand in the shop, until at last he had found the one that suited him - this one, which was made of holly, eleven inches long, and contained a single feather from the tail of a phoenix. Mr. Ollivander had been very surprised that Harry had been so compatible with this wand. "Curious," he had said, "curious," and not until Harry asked what was curious had Mr. Olhivander explained that the phoenix feather in Harry's wand had come from the same bird that had supplied the core of Lord Voldemort's. Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort's wand was something it couldn't help - rather as he couldn't help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn't about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter's Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did. Mr. Ollivander spent much longer examining Harry's wand than anyone else's. Eventually, however, he made a fountain of wine shoot out of it, and handed it back to Harry, announcing that it was still in perfect condition. "Thank you all," said Dumbledore, standing up at the judges' table. "You may go back to your lessons now - or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end -" Feeling that at last something had gone right today, Harry got up to leave, but the man with the black camera jumped up and cleared his throat. "Photos, Dumbledore, photos!" cried Bagman excitedly. "All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?" "Er - yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, whose eyes were upon Harry again. "And then perhaps some individual shots." The photographs took a long time. Madame Maxime cast everyone else into shadow wherever she stood, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame; eventually she had to sit while everyone else stood around her. Karkaroff kept twirling his goatee around his finger to give it an extra curl; Krum, whom Harry would have thought would have been used to this sort of thing, skulked, half-hidden, at the back of the group. The photographer seemed keenest to get Fleur at the front, but Rita Skeeter kept hurrying forward and dragging Harry into greater prominence. Then she insisted on separate shots of all the champions. At last, they were free to go. Harry went down to dinner. Hermione wasn't there - he supposed she was still in the hospital wing having her teeth fixed. He ate alone at the end of the table, then returned to Gryffindor Tower, thinking of all the extra work on Summoning Charms that he had to do. Up in the dormitory, he came across Ron. "You've had an owl," said Ron brusquely the moment he walked in. He was pointing at Harry's pillow. The school barn owl was waiting for him there. "Oh - right," said Harry. "And we've got to do our detentions tomorrow night, Snape's dungeon," said Ron. He then walked straight out of the room, not looking at Harry. For a moment, Harry considered going after him - he wasn't sure whether he wanted to talk to him or hit him, both seemed quite appealing - but the lure of Sirius's answer was too strong. Harry strode over to the barn owl, took the letter off its leg, and unrolled it. Harry - I can't say everything I would like to in a letter, it's too risky in case the owl is intercepted - we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o'clock in the morning on the 22nd ofNovember? I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself and while you're around Dumbledore and Moody I don't think anyone will be able to hurt you. However, someone seems to be having a good try. Entering you in that tournament would have been very risky, especially right under Dumbkdore's nose. Be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Let me know about the 22nd ofNovember as quickly as you can. Sirius