#you understood the assignment quill

[silverskye13]

the godawful hels-mirror of helsknight being a growing force, fighting with vigor and pale hair and freckles to EB's slowly dimming star. a frustrating reminder that hels would continue once EB did not. a fresh face full of poetry and naive notions of honor. desperate to prove himself in the way of children longing to be taken seriously.

and EB watching, now sure of himself and his place in the world, no longer vying for life, helpless to do any more than return the favor as helsknight's hair dulled and his poetic faded into raging impotence. a burning need to prove himself in the way of dying men clawing at the world desperate to leave a mark of their existence.

And the universe said: I feel nothing for you, for you came from nothing

[confused-stars]

honestly, as much as i detest the mcu, i somehow do find myself drawn in by any Peter Quill content that does not feature the crisp rat playing him

[bartonomy]

RESTLESS SILENCE!

PAIRING Barty Crouch Jr. x quiet!fem!Ravenclaw!Reader

SYNOPSIS Barty Crouch Jr. hated silence. You thrived in it. Being paired together for a Potions project in the library should have been simple—but Barty refuses to let the quiet win.

CONTENT WARNING obsessive! barty, possessive! james, angst, fluff, the boys not asking yn abt her feelings LMFAO lmk if i missed something!

WORD COUNT 5k words

library.

Barty Crouch Jr. prided himself on many things—his sharp mind, his quick reflexes, his ability to get under people’s skin ( much to Regulus’ and Evans dismay) when he wanted to. But patience? That had never been one of them.

And yet, patience was exactly what was required when he found himself sitting across from you in the library, parchment spread between you, potions textbook propped open, the air between you thick with silence.

It wasn’t just any silence. It was a suffocating, calculated quiet, the kind that settled around the you like a second skin. You liked it. Humming in contentment as you flipped through the book to gather enough information for your assignment.

It drove him mental.

You had been partnered up in Slughorn’s class earlier that day, much to Barty’s irritation. You were everything he wasn’t—controlled, meticulous, the sort of person who took diligent notes and never spoke unless you had something of actual substance to say. The worst part? You were no outcast. Despite your quiet nature, you were as well-liked, hovering at the edges of the Marauders’ usual chaos, laughing softly at Pandora Lovegood’s dreamy theories, and using your smart mouth (Gideon insists) to get the Prewett brothers out of trouble from Mcgonnagall. You were… respected.

Barty was tolerated, at best.

Now, in the dim glow of the library’s enchanted lanterns, you sat across from him, quill in hand, completely ignoring him. Well, unintentionally, he had been fussing in his place since you both arrived an hour ago, trying to get you to do merlin knows with him.

Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in his chair. “You could at least pretend to be interested in conversation,” he muttered.

You didn’t look up. “I don’t find unnecessary conversations stimulating.”

He scoffed. “How very Ravenclaw of you.”

You merely hummed in acknowledgment but said nothing more, flipping to another page in his (you lended yours to Peter after he accidentally got soaked by the bucket of water from the black lake intended for Snape) textbook.

Barty’s fingers drummed against the table. He could handle a lot of things—detentions, duels, even his father’s unrelenting scrutiny, but this? This was insufferable.

So, naturally, he decided to make it his mission to ruin the silence.

It started small.

A flick of his wand, and your inkwell slid ever-so-slightly across the table. You caught it before it could spill, shot him a glance, and continued writing.

Next, he nudged your parchment just out of reach. You didn’t even blink, simply shifted your chair forward and carried on.

Fine. If you were going to be stubborn, he’d up the stakes.

With another subtle movement of his wand, your beloved muggle book „The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie“ the one you had tucked beside your Potions text, began to quiver. Slowly at first, then more violently, the pages ruffling as though caught in a windstorm.

you sighed, set your quill down rather roughly, and calmly muttered, “Finite Incantatem.”

The book stilled.

Barty whistled. “Impressive.”

You finally looked up at him, expression unreadable. “It‘s a First Year spell. Are you always this restless?”

He grinned. “Are you always this boring?”

There was no offense in your gaze, only quiet scrutiny. “No. But I also don’t feel the need to fill the silence just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

Barty opened his mouth, then shut it again.

No one had ever called him out so plainly before. Most people either avoided him, tolerated him, or challenged him outright. But you… you understood him in a way that unsettled him.

And worse, he had no idea what to do with that.

The pranks escalated.

By the end of the week, Barty had:

• Transfigured your quill into a small snake (you turned it back with no regard of his presence, only Trelwaney who shrieked in horror).

• Enchanted your book to read aloud in a dramatic voice (you merely bookmarked your page and waited for him to get bored).

• Jinxed your notes to rearrange themselves whenever you tried to read them (you rewrote them without complaint).

Each time, you met his antics with infuriating patience. No anger. No exasperation. Just quiet indifference, as if you knew exactly why he was doing it.

It wasn’t until he charmed your beloved novel to hover just out of reach that you finally had enough.

With a soft Expelliarmus, the book yanked itself free from his spell and slammed down onto the table between you. you met his gaze, eyes burning with guarded anger.

“Why?” you asked, voice level but firm.

Barty leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm. “Why what?”

You exhaled, slow and measured. Merlin, was he testing your already low patience “Why go to such lengths just to get a reaction?”

Barty opened his mouth to fire back something witty, but the words caught. He couldn’t answer.

Because the truth was something he didn’t want to admit. Because silence had never been kind to him. Because silence meant expectation, the weight of his father’s disapproval, the loneliness of never being enough. Because he didn’t know how to exist in a world that didn’t constantly react to him.

You watched as something shifted in his expression—something raw, something unguarded. And for the first time since you had been paired together, you didn’t seem like you were trying to solve him.

You just saw him.

The silence stretched between you once more. But this time, it didn’t feel suffocating. This time, it felt like something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The library had become a battlefield.

Barty didn’t lose. Not at duels, not at arguments, and certainly not at mind games. But after a week of relentless pestering, pranks, and jinxed books, but all he was met with was radio silence.

And Barty hated being ignored.

Tonight was no different.

You were back in your usual spot in the potions section near the back, candlelight flickering over parchment, and you were sure you could hear people snogging in the aisle next to you. Barty wasn’t writing. He was watching, and it pissed you off.

“Fascinating,” he drawled, chin resting on his palm.

You sighed, not even bothered to look up. “What is?”

“You,” he said simply.

At last, you glanced at him, one brow slightly raised. Not surprised, not flattered, only curious and slightly amused. As if he was some interesting tale from Trelawney‘s weekly horoscopes

Barty leaned forward, smirking. “You’re too patient for someone who spends time with the Marauders. They’re reckless. Loud. Gits.”

Your lips twitched in almost a smile. “And yet, I don’t find them insufferable.”

“Lucky them,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, studying him. “You don’t actually hate them, do you?”

Barty scoffed, leaning back. “Tell them that, and I’ll hex you.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “You could have joined them, you know. You’re clever enough. Quick-witted. You keep up with them in class.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I wanted to associate myself with obnoxious Griffins? I have a reputation to uphold ”

You only raised your eyebrow at that. “Oh yes, because being a maniacal, havoc wrecking wizard is soooooo important”

He roared into laughter, clutching his stomach like you have given him the funniest joke in Salazars sake. Tears were dripping out the corner of his eyes with his ropes falling messily over his shoulder.

After his sudden burst of emotions, there was silence, well, as much as you could say from Barty‘s loud wheezing trying to calm himself down and a group of second year Hufflepuffs discussing the use of Mandrakes, the space between you two was peaceful

Then, you shrugged, rolling your shoulders back to ease the growing pain (or the growing tension that is about to engulf you two) “or maybe, its because you’re lonely.”

Barty went still instantly.

For a moment, the pleasant quietness became oppressive, thick with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then,he laughed again. Though, now, it was short, sharp, utterly devoid of humor. “You think you know me?”

“I think,” you started, carefully trying to puck out the right words, “that you spend too much time trying to get people to notice you, y‘know?.”

His smirk returned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “And yet, you’re the one paying attention.”

This time, you didn’t look away.

Checkmate.

Barty wasn’t sure when it started.

When you became the first person he looked for in a room. When silence with you stopped feeling suffocating and started feeling… different.

It was a slow, creeping thing, like poison slipping into his bloodstream.

You weren’t like the Marauders. You didn’t fill space with noise or demand attention. You simply were, an observer, someone who noticed things most people didn’t.

And Barty hated being noticed.

The Slytherin common room was quiet this late at night, with most students crammed at the Hufflepuff quidditch After-party after they had won against Ravenclaw earlier that day. Except for Barty and Regulus.

The younger Black sat in one of the loveseats by the fireplace, posture perfect as always with his messenger bag on his side while across from him, Barty sprawled lazily on the couch, legs stretched out, looking more reckless (or crazy according to Evan) than usual.

Regulus had been watching him for the past ten minutes. The tension in his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his Black-Green hair in agitation or the way his knee bounched when he thought no one was looking.

Finally, as if this thought gave him immense pain, he sighed. „You’re obsessed.“

Barty stilled. „What?“

„With her.“ Regulus arched an eyebrow knowingly

Junior scoffed, throwing his head back against the couch dramatically, flailing his arms „Oh, not you too!

Regulus ignored him. “It’s pathetic.” Barty turned his head, smirking. “Funny. Sirius said the same thing about you once.”

Regulus’ fingers twitched. “Sirius is an idiot.”

“And yet, here you are, acting just like him—concerned about my well-being, giving me the I know best speech.” Barty sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “It’s sweet, really.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t care what you do.” Barty grinned. “Liar.”

Regulus exhaled sharply. “What is this, Barty?”

Barty hummed, considering. “I have no idea what you are talking about, Reggie”

Regulus frowned. “You’re distracting me by talking about my idiotic brother. So spill, what are you afraid of? ”

Barty’s smirk faltered. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared into the flickering fire, expression unreadable. Then, with a slow breath out “Everything.”

Regulus didn’t press. Didn’t have to. He understood better than anyone what Barty really meant. The weight of expectations. The suffocating presence of a father who saw only duty.

Regulus studied him for a moment. “You don’t get attached to people. Especially not to someone like L/N. " Barty’s smirk returned, but it was weaker this time. “Maybe she’s just different.”

Regulus leaned back, unimpressed. “Or maybe you just don’t like that you can’t control her.” Barty exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “And yet, I keep coming back.”

Regulus tilted his head. “That’s called liking someone, Barty.”

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please. I don’t like people.”

“Then why does James Potter look like he wants to murder you?”

His expression darkened. “Because he knows.” the curly haired boy hummed thoughtfully. “Knows what?”

Barty looked him dead in the eyes.

“That she’s mine.”

Regulus sighed, standing up. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

But as he walked away, Barty didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, watching the fire, thinking about you.

It was , like Regulus said, James who noticed first.

Barty had expected it, really. The four eyed boy was too perceptive for his own good, especially when it came to people who operated in the gray spaces between morality.

One evening in the Gryffindor common room, James leaned against the couch where you were reading, arms crossed. “So,” he mused, “are you finally going to tell us why Crouch won’t leave you alone?”

You barely glanced up. “Because we’re Potions partners.”

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair, snorted. “Right. And I’m Minister for Magic.”

Remus, ever the voice of reason, tilted his head. “You do spend an awful lot of time with him.”

Peter nodded, mouth stuffed with fizzing whizzbees. “It’s weird.”

you sighed, closing your book without marking your spot first, which you internally curse. “He’s… frustrating.”

Sirius smirked. “But?”

You hesitated. Just for a moment. “But he’s not as easy to hate as people think.” That was all they needed to hear.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Merlin help us, she’s sympathizing with the enemy.”

Remus grinned knowingly. “This is going to be fun.”

James Potter knew you better than anyone.

He had known you since you two were small—before Hogwarts, before the Marauders, before any of this. You had been his first real friend, little pigtails following him around, who always listened when he rambled about Quidditch, often times playing the referee and giving yellow cards to his imaginary opponents and someone who was there when he needed you.

And now? Now you were spending too much time with Barty bloody Crouch Junior.

James didn’t like it. Not one bit.

At first, he thought nothing of it. A Potions partnership was just that—a school assignment. But then he started noticing things.

The way you lingered in the library after hours.

The way Barty watched you fondly when he thought no one was looking.

The way you didn’t seem nearly as irritated with him as you should have been.

And that was unacceptable.

James wasn’t stupid. He knew who Barty Crouch Jr. was. The arrogant, sharp-tongued Slytherin who played by his own rules, who didn’t care about anyone but himself and his best friend‘s brother. And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your schedule, your attention—things James had always had without question.

He didn’t realize just how much it bothered him until he saw you two together.

It was a late evening in the library, and James had come to find you. Instead, he found your little pest stuck to your side.

Barty was leaning back in his chair, smirking, while you sat across from him, rolling your eyes but not actually telling him to leave you alone. There was something different in the air between them—an ease James didn’t like.

Not one bit.

“Oi.”

You looked up, blinking in surprise. “James?”

Barty groaned. “Oh, fantastic.”

James ignored him, focusing on her. “We were supposed to go over Transfiguration notes, remember? Minnie was bugging me to take lessons with you”

You frowned. “That’s not until—”

“Now,” James said firmly. Barty snorted. “Territorial, aren’t we, Potter?”

James’ jaw clenched. “Just making sure my best friend isn’t wasting her time.” He just grinned, all teeth. “Oh, trust me, she’s not.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples to ease the incoming headache. Is it from Barty‘s constant yapping, the oh so frustrating instructions of the Felix Felicis, or James bickering? Who knows. “James, we’re just working on Potions.”

“Right,” James muttered. “Because that explains why he won’t stop staring at you.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You jealous, Potter?” James hated how his stomach twisted at that. “Of you?” He scoffed. “Hardly.”

“Good,” Barty said smoothly, “because she’s free to spend time with whoever she wants.” The Gryffindor bristled. “And you’re free to bugger off.”

“James.” your voice was sharp now, cutting through the tension. you stood, gathering your books. “I’ll meet you in your common room later, okay?”

James hesitated, then exhaled sharply. “Fine.” But his glare at Barty said this isn’t over.

As he left, Barty chuckled under his breath. “Protective, isn’t he?”

“You love making things worse, don’t you?” you simply glared at him. Barty grinned. “Admit it. You’d be bored otherwise.”

You only shook your head at that, exasperated. But this time, you didn’t argue.

And Barty? He liked that just a little too much.

James Potter wasn’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what he told himself. But this—this infuriating, undeniable thing happening between his best friend and Barty bloody Crouch Jr.—was driving him mad.

It wasn’t just about Barty. It was about you.

You were his best friend. The one person who had always been there before Sirius, before Remus, before Peter. You had an unspoken understanding, a rhythm that no one else could touch.

And yet, somehow, you were slipping out of reach.

Because of that foul git.

Because wherever you were, Barty was not far behind.

Pandora Lovegood was an odd one. Everyone knew it.

She spoke in riddles, saw connections where others didn’t, and had a habit of appearing exactly where she was needed.

So James should have known better than to groan when she plopped down next to him on the bench in the transfiguration courtyard, humming thoughtfully.

“You’re sulking,” she observed. “I don’t sulk,” James muttered.

She smiled, entirely unconvinced. “It’s about her and him, isn’t it?” He scowled, borderline pouted. “There is no her and him.”

Pandora tilted her head. “Not yet.” at that, James sat up straighter. “Yet?”

Pandora just hummed again, her dreamy expression betraying nothing. “I think you’re afraid.”

“Of what? Crouch?” He snorted. “Please.”

“No,” Pandora mused. “Not him. You’re afraid because for the first time, she’s paying attention to someone else.” James didn’t respond. Because that would mean admitting she was right. The Rosier smiled knowingly. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Stop what?”

She simply shrugged, standing as if that answered everything. “The inevitable.”

James groaned. “Merlin, you’re worse than Moony.”

But as she walked away, her words lingered. And James hated that more than anything.

James found Barty alone that evening, leaning against the cobble stone wall just outside the Charms Classroom. He didn’t hesitate.

“Stay away from her.”

Barty turned, raising an eyebrow. “Potter,” he drawled, lips curling into a smirk. “This is getting predictable.” James stepped closer, jaw tight. “I’m serious.”

“Sirius is the loud one,” Barty quipped. “You’re the one with the tragic hero complex.” James hated that he had a point. “Whatever game you’re playing,” he said sharply, “she’s not a part of it.”

Barty’s smirk faltered. Just for a second. “Who says it’s a game?”

James scoffed. “Oh, please. You don’t care about her. You just like getting a rise out of people. And I won’t let you use her to do it.” Barty’s expression darkened.

“Use her?” he repeated, voice low, dangerous. “Funny, coming from you.”

James stiffened. “What the hell does that mean?”

Barty leaned in slightly, voice smooth as silk. “It means you don’t like that she’s spending time with me—not because you think I’ll hurt her, but because you can’t stand the idea of not being the most important person in her life.” James clenched his fists. Barty’s smirk was sharp, knowing. “Hits a nerve, doesn’t it?” James took a slow breath. He would not hex him.Not yet, at least.

“She’s my best friend,” James said coldly. “And I trust her. But I don’t trust you.” Barty’s gaze flickered—just for a moment. Then, with an infuriating grin, he stepped back.

“Well then, Potter.” His voice was almost mocking. “Let’s see who she trusts more.” And with that, he turned and walked away.

James stayed there for a long time, breathing heavily, hands clenched at his sides. Because for the first time, he wasn’t entirely sure who would win.

You were avoided him.

Not subtly. Not carefully. Just completely ignoring his existence

It started the week following the small… confrontation in library. Barty walked into Potions, expecting you to be at their usual table at the back, books already open,quill tapping absently against parchment, asking about his usual trouble with filch and a soft smile gracing your lips. Instead, your lips never opened and gaze never left your paper.

No glance in his direction. No acknowledgment at all.

Barty stared. His fingers curled into fists beneath the desk.

Fine.

But then it kept happening. In the corridors, you veered away when you saw him approaching. In the library, you sat with James, Sirius, even Remus—anyone but him. When he did catch youe eye across the Great Hall, you looked away so quickly it felt like a slap.

It wasn’t anger. It was erasure, like he wasn’t even there.

Barty Crouch Jr. had never been ignored in his life. People watched him. They feared him. They respected him, hated him, wanted to be him. But you—you were acting as though he was nothing.

And he couldn’t stand it.

At first, he played it off. Shrugged, smirked, pretended not to care. But then a week passed. Then another. And with every second of silence, something inside him frayed. He found himself watching you too closely. Waiting for you to look at him. Wanting your attention, even if it was anger, frustration, anything but this emptiness.

And when James Potter threw an arm around your shoulders at the Slytherin party, whispering something that made you laugh—

Something in Barty snapped.

You didn’t know how it had come to this.

One moment, you had been talking with Evan about absolute nonsense, nursing a cup of firewhiskey mixed with something you didn’t want to know, trying to focus on anything other than the tension between James and Barty, the way they seemed to be circling each other like wolves.

And now…

Now you were backed against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, heart pounding as Barty loomed in front of you, eyes blazing with something wild, something dangerous.

“You’re avoiding me.” His voice was low, accusing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You flinched. Not because you were afraid of him, Merlin, no—Barty is lunatic at best—but because there was something desperate in his voice, something fraying at the edges.

“I just needed space,” you said carefully. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Space? From me?”

His fingers twitched at his sides, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you thought he might actually grab you, hold you there like he could force you to listen. “You belong with me.”

The words sent a chill down you spine. Not because of their meaning—but because of how much he believed them. “Barty,” you whispered, voice betrying you slightly, much to your annoyance “you don’t own me.”

His jaw clenched. “I never said I did.”

“But you act like it,” you shot back. “Like I’m something for you to win. Like James and I can’t be close, like I don’t have a choice in who I spend time with.”

Barty exhaled sharply, stepping closer, invading her space. “You do have a choice.” His voice was low now, almost a plea. “So why do you keep running from this?”

This. Whatever this was.

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse racing as he stared at you, expression laced with something desperate.

“This isn’t normal,” you whispered. Barty tilted his head, studying you. “Since when have I ever been normal?”

Your heart ached at that. Because he wasn’t. He was sharp edges and chaos, wildfire wrapped in silk. And you were intrigued.

“Tell me to leave,” Barty murmured, voice softer now, more dangerous. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I will.”

You opened your mouth, words mingling in your head, yet none of them escaped your lips.

Barty’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t triumphant. It was something else—something satisfied yet frustrated, as if he hated how much he needed you to not push him away.

The next day, you felt off-balance. Everything was the same, yet nothing was.

The Great Hall was as loud as ever, filled with students laughing, chattering, passing notes between bites of dinner. James sat beside you, talking animatedly with Sirius about the shenanigans they pulled at last night‘s party. Remus was reading. Pandora was off in her own world, stirring her tea with the wrong end of her spoon.

It was normal.

But you weren’t . Because he was there. Across the room, at the Slytherin table. And he wasn’t acting normal at all.

Barty Crouch Jr. was watching you. His elbow was propped on the table, chin resting against his knuckles, eyes fixed on you with that sharp, playful intensity. Like he was waiting for something. Like he could still feel last night as much as you could—the heat of his breath, the weight of his words, the way he had opened your eyes.

Your stomach twisted but not in the usual dread

You quickly looked down at her plate, poking at the food with the fork, suddenly very aware of every movement, every breath.

It was fine.

You could pretend it hadn’t happened. You could move on, act normal, be the person she had always been. You could-

“You okay?”

James’ voice cut through your thoughts.

You startled, nearly knocking over your pumpkin juice. James frowned, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses.

“You’re jumpy,” he observed. “Weird day?”

Yes. Extremely weird.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

James didn’t look convinced.

Barty was still watching. You could feel it. Your pulse quickened. You needed to get out of here.

With a forced smile, you pushed back from the table. “I just remembered-I have to grab something from the library before class.” James raised an eyebrow. “Now?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

You turned before he could question you further, walking briskly out of the Great Hall, heart pounding.

You should have known he would find you.

It had been inevitable. Barty Crouch Jr. wasn’t the kind of person who let things go. He didn’t believe in backing down, in walking away—especially not from you.

And so, a day after the Slytherin party, after you had spent the night pretending you weren’t looking over your shoulder for him, he found you.

The Astronomy Tower was, to your luck, empty. The moment you stepped onto the stone balcony, the cold air biting at your skin, you felt him before you saw him in your peripheral vision.

He was leaning against the railing, staring out over the darkened grounds, sleeves rolled up, hands tense against the stone. He looked different in the moonlight. Less sharp, less manic, less like the Barty Crouch Jr. the world expected him to be.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“I hate my father.”

His voice was quiet. Hollow. You stiffened, startled by his sudden honesty, by the rawness in his tone.

Still, you didn’t leave. Didn’t move.

Barty exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he murmured. “To be expected to be perfect. To be a reflection of someone else, someone you loathe.”

Your chest ached at the exhaustion in his voice.

You stayed silent, waiting.

Barty let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humor in it. “He thinks he can mold me into whatever he wants. A loyal son. A future politician. A Crouch through and through.” He scoffed. “But I’m not. I never was.”

He turned to look at you then, and for the first time, there was no smirk, no amusement—just something raw and vulnerable, something you had never seen before.

“I think,” he said slowly, voice quieter now, “that’s why I wanted you so much.”

Your breath caught unexpectedly.

Barty’s eyes flickered over your face, unreadable. “You don’t try to make me be something.” His lips twisted. “Even when you hate me, at least it’s real.”

Something heavy settled between you, thick and undeniable.

“And”, he started, face twisting into something uncomfortable, trying to find the right words. For a moment, he said nothing. Just looked at you—like he was fighting a battle you couldn’t see.

Then-

“I hate him too.”

The words were sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence like a blade. Your breath hitched. “Barty—”

“No.” He turned to face you fully, eyes burning. “I hate the way he hovers around you like he owns you. I hate the way he looks at me like I’m something filthy. I hate that no matter what I do, he’s always there.”

Your chest ached at the frustration in his voice, the way his fists clenched like he was barely keeping himself together.

“He’s my best friend,” you said softly. Barty let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No. He’s waiting.”

You frowned at that. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to wake up,” Barty muttered. “For you to realize that he’s the safer choice. The one who won’t make your life complicated. The one who fits neatly into your perfect little world.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You think this is about James?”

Barty scoffed. “It’s always about him.”

Frustration flared in your chest. “Barty, I chose to stay away.”

He stilled.

“I chose to keep my distance,” you continued, voice surprisingly steady despite the inner hurricane you felt. “Not because of James. Not because of anyone else. But because you—”a sharp exhale left your mouth. “You scare me.”

Something flickered in his expression. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s not what I meant.”

Because this, the fire between them, the way he looked at you like he was drowning and you were the only air left—

It was too much. Barty was too much. And you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to handle it.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, Barty stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his warmth, enough that your breath caught in your throat.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he murmured.

Your pulse raced. “Then stop—” “Stop what?” His voice was rough now, almost desperate. “Wanting you? Needing you?”

“Barty—”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to stop.”

And maybe that was the real problem. Because Barty Crouch Jr. had never been good at letting things go.

And neither had you.

So when he reached for you, fingers brushing against your wrist like he wasn’t sure you’d let him, you didn’t pull away.

And when he kissed you, desperate and reckless and full of something sharp and aching,

you kissed him back.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

I think of mc being very protective of her friends being a orphan and all. someone says the gaunts are all dark wizards? they are in the hospital wing for two weeks under strange circumstances. someone starts a nasty rumor about why Anne really left hogwarts? The worst tripping hex gets everyone who repeats the rumor. someone insults sebastian, you better pray that mc didn't hear about it she's coming for you

The Things We Do for Family | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

oh I loooooved this concept!!!! THANK YOU FOR THE ASK, ANON. I really hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!! :')

Words: ~5,200

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House, Humor, Protective MC

There are things that Hogwarts students simply know—unchallenged truths, whispered warnings passed down from year to year.

The Forbidden Forest is dangerous. Peeves is a menace. The best snacks at Honeydukes sell out by Saturday afternoon. Don’t trust the staircases to take you where you actually want to go. Never accept Garreth Weasley’s offer to ‘test something out’.

And, under no circumstances, should anyone fuck with your friends.

It isn’t official, of course. There’s no school decree, no printed rule in the Hogwarts handbook, it's not carved into the walls. It’s just… understood.

It’s not like you’re some fearsome monster or anything.

You’re a model student, by all accounts. Brilliant. Sharp. Precise. A skilled duelist, a quick thinker, someone who turns in their assignments on time, answers when called on, and doesn’t cause disruptions in class.

You don’t start fights. You don’t pick pointless arguments. You don’t openly break the rules—not in ways that can be proven.

You play the part well.

Because that’s what you had to do.

You grew up alone. No parents. No siblings. No one to step in when things got hard, no one to defend you when the world was cruel. When you were small, scared, and helpless.

So you learned.

You learned that no one was coming to save you. You learned that fairness was a lie, that justice only existed when you carved it out with your own hands. You learned that people could be awful for no reason other than that they could get away with it.

But now? Now, you have a family. Not by blood, but by choice.

And when someone speaks against them? Bad things happen.

The Ominis Incident

It started, as most things did, with a careless remark.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw—smart but not particularly bright—thought it would be amusing to make a joke at Ominis Gaunt’s expense. A cruel one. Something about how the Gaunts were all inbred lunatics, how it was only a matter of time before Ominis ended up just like the rest of his family.

The words reached your ears in the library, drifting from a table not far from where you sat.

"You know I hear they torture Muggles for fun—it’s practically a family tradition. Gaunts don’t have hobbies, just a long history of inbreeding and Crucio."

Laughter followed, a few snickers from their table, hushed but not nearly enough. Not nearly enough to keep you from hearing.

Your quill stilled mid-word, ink pooling in place. Across from you, Ominis sat straight-backed, his expression unreadable, but you saw the way his fingers tightened around the book he was holding, knuckles whitening from the force of it.

He wouldn’t say anything.

Ominis had spent years perfecting the art of indifference. Of carefully controlled expressions, of blank politeness that masked far too much. He never reacted to comments like these.

But just because he wouldn’t didn’t mean you wouldn’t.

You exhaled slowly, carefully. Then, without a sound, you closed your book and stood.

Not a word. Not a glare in their direction. Just a smooth, effortless departure, as if you had suddenly decided the library was boring and somewhere else required your attention.

The Ravenclaws barely noticed.

But they would. They absolutely would. Because Potions class was a very dangerous place. Especially for people who talked too much.

The next day, you walked to Potions without a care in the world.

Sebastian and Ominis flanked you, deep in conversation about some essay Sharp had assigned, with Sebastian whining dramatically about how unfairly long it was, while Ominis countered that perhaps he should have started it earlier than the night before it was due.

You weren’t really listening, because you already knew what was coming.

And sure enough—just as you reached the dungeon corridor—

BOOM.

The floor trembled slightly beneath your feet. A deep, echoing explosion, the unmistakable sound of a cauldron detonating mid-brew, followed almost immediately by the frantic shouting of students.

Gasps. Choking coughs. Someone let out a screech of absolute horror.

Sebastian and Ominis startled.

Sebastian’s head snapped up, eyes wide as he looked toward the dungeon doors. “What the hell—”

Ominis twitched beside you, tilting his head, as if straining to listen.

You? Didn’t even blink. You just kept walking, calmly, like nothing was amiss, like you hadn’t been expecting it for the last twenty-four hours.

Sebastian noticed. His gaze sharpened, flicking to you with a knowing squint. “That was—”

He hesitated. Then narrowed his eyes further.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “I know that face.”

You raised a brow. “What face?”

“That’s your I-did-something-but-you’ll-never-prove-it face.”

You tilted your head, feigning confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Sebastian scoffed and Ominis rolled his eyes, deadpan. “Uh-huh.”

Then the dungeon doors burst open.

A thick cloud of green smoke billowed out, sending students stumbling and coughing into the corridor. And in the center of it all, a group of very, very green Ravenclaws.

They clawed at their own skin, staring down at their hands in absolute horror. Their faces were the exact shade of an overripe toadstool, splotchy and uneven, and every time they opened their mouths, their tongues flopped out two inches too long.

Hysteria ensued.

Students gasped, some shrieked, others tried not to laugh. Professor Sharp stormed out after them, looking beyond exhausted, already massaging his temples.

“I told you,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “not to add the peppermint extract.”

“WE DIDN’T!” One Ravenclaw wailed, voice garbled from their too-long tongue. “I—I don’t know what happened! We did everything right!”

Sharp did not look convinced.

Sebastian looked at you, long and slow, a glint of admiration dawning in his eyes.

“Did you—”

“I did nothing.” You walked past him, as if the entire debacle were none of your concern. “I was with you all day, wasn’t I?”

Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Yeah, but—”

“No proof, no crime.” You gave him a cheerful smile before stepping into the classroom.

Sebastian grinned. “Oh, I love you.”

It was offhanded, thoughtless, a casual jest, but it sent a sharp, pleasant warmth down your spine.

You didn’t react, though. Just smirked, settling into your seat. Because the message had been sent.

And Ominis Gaunt would never hear a word against his name again.

The Anne Incident

Rumors at Hogwarts were a force of nature.

They swirled through the halls, slipping between whispered conversations and behind cupped hands, growing more twisted with each retelling.

Some were harmless—who was dating who, which professor had it out for which student, the occasional Did you hear Peeves stole all the ink from the Ravenclaws again? But some? Some were cruel.

And this one... this one was about Anne Sallow.

It started at breakfast, when you overheard a group of Slytherin sixth-years in the Great Hall. You weren’t eavesdropping—not intentionally—but you had a habit of noticing things, of hearing too much when you weren’t meant to.

"Did you hear about Sallow’s sister?"

"Yeah, I heard she went mad."

"Lost it completely. The curse must’ve rotted her brain."

"That’s why she left, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, I heard she tried to hex someone in her sleep—"

Your fork warped in your grasp. A slow, controlled bend beneath your fingers, the metal bending in your grip.

Across from you, Sebastian had gone still.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Didn’t give them the satisfaction.

But you saw the way his jaw clenched. The way his hand curled into a fist against the table. The way his entire body had gone taut, locked in place by sheer force of will.

He wouldn’t do anything.

Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he wasn’t capable of it—because he was.

Sebastian Sallow could be ruthless. You knew that better than anyone. You’d seen it firsthand, the sharp edges of his temper, the way his rage burned hot and all-consuming, leaving nothing but wreckage in its wake. You’d seen what happened when he felt cornered, when he thought he was out of options.

But he wasn’t that boy anymore. Because you and Ominis had dragged him back from the brink. Because you had looked him in the eye, years ago, when the dust had settled and the worst of it was over, and told him:

"You still have a future. Don’t throw it away."

Against all odds, he had listened. And now, this was his last year at Hogwarts and he was going to be an Auror. He was going to start over. Prove that he wasn’t just some reckless, violent delinquent one step away from Azkaban.

So no—he wouldn’t react. He wouldn’t take the bait. Wouldn't defend Anne, no matter how badly he wanted to. Wouldn’t let himself be dragged down into the same pit he’d barely crawled out of.

Sebastian was playing the long game.

But you? You weren’t.

Your revenge on Anne's behalf started small. Almost imperceptible.

The first Slytherin—the one who had started the conversation in the first place—was walking to class when it happened.

A single misstep.

His foot caught on something—thin air, perhaps—and he staggered forward, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to right himself. It didn’t work. His books went flying, parchment scattered across the stone corridor, and a bottle of ink tumbled from his bag, shattering upon impact and staining his robes in an ugly, irreversible mess of black.

A small accident. An unfortunate case of bad luck.

No one thought anything of it—until the second one fell.

In the exact same spot.

And then the third. And the fourth.

By the time lunch rolled around, all four of them had tripped at least half a dozen times each.

It wasn’t just limited to the corridor, either. They stumbled on staircases, barely catching themselves before they could go tumbling down. They walked straight into walls as if the castle itself had turned against them. One even managed to trip over absolutely nothing in the middle of the Great Hall and landed face-first into his own soup.

The snickers started soon after. The sideways glances. The poorly hidden laughter from classmates who found their sudden clumsiness far too entertaining.

It wasn’t enough to be suspicious.

Not yet.

Not until the moving staircase.

The ringleader of the group had spent too much time lingering in the courtyard after lunch, chatting up a group of girls who barely tolerated his presence. He realized too late that he was running behind and bolted toward Charms, racing up the moving staircases with zero grace and even less caution.

And then his foot caught.

There was nothing there. No loose stone or shift in the staircase, nothing at all to explain why he suddenly lost his footing.

But he did.

He stumbled backward, arms flailing wildly, fingers grasping at empty air as the momentum carried him too far—

And he plummeted.

Three flights.

A blur of robes and limbs, a crash of bone against stone, and then a sickening thud as he landed in a groaning, crumpled heap at the bottom.

A hush fell over the corridor.

Then—

Shrieking.

His friends rushed down to him, voices panicked, eyes wide with horrified realization as they took in his bruised, trembling form.

A girl ran to fetch Madam Blainey.

By the time she arrived, he was whimpering, clutching his arm like it might’ve snapped.

Hospital Wing. Immediate bed rest.

No one could explain what happened. No professor could find a cause. Some students claimed the stairs had shifted unexpectedly. Others swore that they saw nothing—no trick step, no loose stones, just an unseen force pulling him down.

It didn’t matter.

The moment he was carried off, you finally allowed yourself to smile.

Not a smirk. Not a grin. Just the smallest, most satisfied twitch of your lips.

Sebastian caught it. Because of course he did. He had been standing beside you the whole time. Silent. Still. Watching from the moment that asshole Slytherin stumbled earlier that morning to the moment he was carted off for medical attention.

And now? Now, he just exhaled, long and slow, shaking his head as his mouth curved into something unreadable.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured, voice low.

You hummed, tilting your head in faux curiosity. “Am I?”

Sebastian turned fully then, facing you. His gaze searched your face, for guilt perhaps. For remorse. For something that might suggest you hadn’t meant for it to happen.

But there was nothing.

No trace of hesitation. No flicker of shame.

You were calm, collected, an completely unapologetic. Because nobody talked about Anne Sallow like that without consequence.

Sebastian blinked. Then, to your absolute delight, he grinned. Wide. Slow. A sharp, wicked thing.

“Yeah. You're very dangerous” he said, almost in awe.

Your stomach twisted. You ignored it. Instead, you just shrugged, voice as casual as ever.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Sebastian’s grin deepened.

The Poppy Incident

Poppy Sweeting was one of the best people you knew.

Kind-hearted, patient, and too good for the world, really. She spent more time in the company of magical creatures than she did with most people, and honestly? You couldn't blame her.

Because people could be cruel.

You first heard it one afternoon in the courtyard. A group of girls whispering amongst themselves, giggling behind their hands. You hadn’t been paying much attention—until you heard her name.

"Honestly, she’s weird."

"I know, right? It’s like she’d rather date a bloody Hippogriff than an actual person."

"Wouldn’t be surprised if she actually has."

Laughter, sharp and mocking. Like Poppy Sweeting was a joke. Like she was less than because she chose kindness over cruelty, creatures over people who didn’t deserve her time in the first place.

You turned your head and watched as one girl—a Hufflepuff, ironically—rolled her eyes, shaking her head in exaggerated exasperation.

"Beast-lover," she muttered, nose wrinkled like the word itself was distasteful. "It's unnatural, really. No wonder she doesn't have any friends outside of her precious Mooncalves."

Something cold and sharp settled in your chest.

You had no doubt Poppy had heard it. She was standing just a few paces away near the fountain, hands clenched tight at her sides.

She didn’t react. Didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything. She just exhaled, slow and quiet, like she was forcing herself to let it go.

You wouldn’t.

The next morning, that very same Hufflepuff woke up covered in fur.

Not all over, just her face.

A thick, fluffy coat of golden-brown fuzz, soft as a Puffskein, sprouting in wild patches across her forehead, cheeks, and chin.

According to Poppy, the screams started immediately, and the entire girls dormitory had woken up to it.

The girl, who turned out to be a fifth-year, had flown into a hysterical panic, shrieking as she bolted for a mirror, hands frantically scrubbing at her face like she could rub the fur away.

She couldn’t.

It was a very specific hex. One that lasted exactly one week.

Professor Ronen was baffled.

Madam Blainey was thoroughly fascinated.

And Professor Howin, bless her, had cooed over her like she was the most adorable thing she’d ever seen. You had a front row seat to the entire thing during Beasts class.

“This is truly fascinating,” she’d said, holding the girl’s chin and turning her face slightly toward the light. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen transfiguration manifest quite like this! And so soft—feels just like a Kneazle’s coat, doesn’t it?”

The best part? It wasn’t harmful. It wasn’t painful. Just… humiliating.

You considered it a job well done.

When Howin had dismissed you for lunch, Poppy pulled you aside. She didn't say anything at first. Just stared.

You blinked at her, tilting your head. “Everything alright?”

Poppy squinted. Narrowed her eyes slightly. Huffed.

"You did that, didn’t you?"

You blinked again.

Because Poppy—sweet, gentle, pacifist Poppy—did not accuse people of things. Which meant she was completely certain.

You just smiled, giving her your most innocent expression. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Poppy just sighed, shaking her head. But then—just for a moment—she smiled.

Small. Subtle. Grateful.

Like she knew exactly what you’d done. Like she knew there was no use arguing, no point in telling you not to go to such lengths for her.

And then, without a word, she reached out and squeezed your hand.

The Natsai Incident

You had never liked Callum Thorne.

Seventh-year. Gryffindor. Arrogant. Loud-mouthed. The kind of person who had never been told no in his life and walked through Hogwarts like the world owed him something.

You’d tolerated him for years, mostly because you hadn’t needed to interact with him much. But this? This was different.

You were starting the day with Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Hecat had yet to arrive, leaving the class unsupervised and giving Thorne the perfect opportunity to make a scene.

Natty was speaking with Poppy near the front of the room, voice calm as she explained something about the Ministry’s policies on magical creatures in Africa compared to Britain. She wasn’t being loud, wasn’t even arguing, just explaining.

That’s when Thorne scoffed.

“Merlin’s sake, Onai, give it a rest,” he sneered from the back of the room, tossing his quill onto his desk with an exaggerated huff. “Do you ever get tired of standing on that bloody soapbox of yours?”

The room went still.

Natty turned, slow and deliberate, her expression unreadable, regarding him with that same poised, unshaken calm that made her such a force to be reckoned with.

“I was simply having a discussion,” she said smoothly. “No one is forcing you to listen, Thorne.”

“Right,” he drawled. “Except you never shut up about it. Always talking about ‘justice’ and ‘change’ like you think you’re going to fix the whole bloody world.” He smirked. “News flash, Onai—no one cares.”

A few of his friends chuckled.

Your fingernails dug into your palm.

Natty didn’t react—not outwardly, anyway. She just exhaled, slow and measured, and turned back to Poppy like his words had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

You? You were already plotting his downfall, and luckily, Callum Thorne was a creature of habit.

He always stayed out after curfew to flirt with whatever unfortunate girl he had chosen that week, and he always went up to the Astronomy Tower afterwards with his friends to play cards and drink whatever contraband alcohol they’d smuggled into the castle.

Which made him the perfect target.

That night, as the seventh-year tidied up the cards, stretching and yawning, likely already thinking about his warm bed waiting for him—

His legs froze in place. Not a Full Body-Bind. No, this was different.

A soft, subtle hex. A slow, creeping sensation, his feet adhering to the stone beneath him, then his calves, then his thighs.

By the time he realized something was wrong, it was too late.

He tried to step forward—failed. Tried to yank himself free—failed.

And then—with agonizing slowness—his entire body began to lift off the ground. No warning. No control.

He drifted upward, weightless, helpless, arms flailing as the stone ceiling came closer and closer—

And then, with a soft thump, he was stuck. Face-down, body pressed flat against the Astronomy Tower ceiling.

His screaming started immediately.

Loud. Panicked. A complete meltdown.

His friends, who had started their walk down the tower came bolting back up the stairs at the sound of his shouting.

“What the—?” one of them started, eyes wide as they gawked at the ceiling.

“Thorne?” another asked, dumbfounded.

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back laughter as you hid beneath your disillusionment charm.

“GET ME DOWN!” Thorne bellowed, arms and legs flailing uselessly against the stone. “WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS THIS?”

His friends stared, uselessly waving their wands, muttering counterspells that only resulted in Thorne spinning in slow circles, howling in distress.

When they realized they were utterly helpless, panic completely set in.

“What do we do?” one of them asked, looking between the others with wild eyes. “Should we get a professor?”

Thorne snarled. “NO! DO NOT—”

But it was too late. Because at that very moment, the Astronomy Tower door swung open once again, and a very tired, very unimpressed Professor Shah stepped inside.

There was a long, painful beat of silence.

Shah took in the scene.

The stack of contraband firewhiskey bottles on the table. The panicked seventh-years, wands still drawn, looking entirely too guilty. And Callum Thorne, still face-down, circling against the ceiling, hissing every curse word known to wizardkind.

She sighed, long and slow, as if she had simply had enough of this entire generation of students. Then, with an effortless flick of her wand, she cast a single spell.

And gravity returned. All at once. Thorne plummeted like a sack of bricks.

The landing was spectacular. A glorious, sprawling heap, limbs tangled, robes askew, one shoe missing entirely. His friends didn’t even try to catch him.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—

“Hospital Wing,” Shah said simply, rubbing her temples. “Now.”

Thorne was half-carried, half-dragged down the tower steps, groaning the entire way.

And you?

You slept soundly that night.

By morning, half the school had heard the story.

"Did you hear about Thorne? Got stuck to the Astronomy Tower ceiling last night."

"He was crying by the time they got him down."

"Serves him right—bloke’s a complete asshole."

And you? You sat perfectly composed at breakfast, casually stirring your tea, listening as his friends panicked about who could have done it.

Sebastian, of course, knew.

He sat beside you, arms folded, lips pressed together, shaking with the effort not to laugh.

Finally, he exhaled, tilting his head toward you.

“You are actually unhinged,” he murmured, utterly delighted.

You simply sipped your tea. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Across the hall, Natty smiled.

Soft. Knowing.

The Sebastian Incident

You had been careful.

For years, you had woven your revenge into the shadows, never once leaving a trace of your involvement in the strange misfortunes that befell those who dared to insult your friends. You were precise, patient, undetectable.

But everyone has a breaking point. And yours? Yours was Sebastian Sallow.

It happened in the Great Hall when Scorpius Malfoy decided to idiotically open his big fucking mouth.

You hadn’t been paying attention to him at first. Why would you? People like Malfoy had never mattered to you. He was just another spoiled pureblood, another self-important waste of a surname who thought his words carried weight simply because he could afford to say them.

But then his voice cut through the din, and he said Sebastian’s name.

"No family name worth a damn, no money, no influence. Honestly, I don’t even know why the professors still put up with Sallow. And he’s an orphan, isn’t he?"

One of his friends nodded, grinning like this was some kind of joke. Like Sebastian Sallow’s entire life was nothing more than a punchline.

Malfoy snorted. "So he's got dead parents, a dead uncle, and a crippled sister who’ll probably never set foot in the wizarding world again. Wouldn’t be surprised if he ends up rotting in the same gutter he came from."

The words landed like a curse.

Sebastian had been mid-conversation with you, fork in hand, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he teased you about something inconsequential—some throwaway joke that would have normally earned him an eye roll and a shove.

But now? Now, he wasn’t moving. Not speaking. Not breathing. Just silent.

Rigid.

Like the weight of those words had turned him into stone.

And something inside you snapped.

It was almost funny, in retrospect, how much effort you had spent perfecting the art of subtlety.

Every step you had taken over the years had been measured, every spell carefully woven into the fabric of coincidence, every act of vengeance so meticulously placed that no one had ever been able to definitively trace it back to you. You had built a flawless reputation, balancing on the razor’s edge between brilliance and menace, justice and mystery.

But now? Now, as you rose from your seat, you weren’t careful at all.

You didn’t move like a shadow, didn’t cloak yourself in misdirection or the comfort of silence. No. This time, you wanted them to see you.

And the moment you stood, the Great Hall stilled.

Students stopped eating, stopped talking, stopped moving altogether. The clatter of plates and goblets faded into a thick, suffocating silence, as if even the walls of Hogwarts itself were holding their breath.

Your voice came out low. Cold.

"Say that one more time, Malfoy."

Scorpius turned lazily, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Like he hadn’t just spat on Sebastian’s entire existence for no other reason than because he could.

And he smirked. Merlin, he smirked. Like you were some insignificant thing, an insect buzzing too close to his ear.

“Oh?” he drawled, tilting his head. “Touched a nerve, have I? Which part got to you, I wonder? The fact that Sallow’s got no family? Or the part where I pointed out that he’s got no future either?”

You took a step forward. You could hear Ominis hissing at you to stop, to think about what you were doing before you got yourself deep into shit, gut you couldn't. Not when it came to your friends.

Not when it came to Sebastian.

Especially when he still hadn't moved. Hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t so much as breathed.

Your hand tightened around your wand, the weight of it comforting, grounding, an extension of the fury curling in your chest.

"You should tread carefully, Scorpius," you murmured, your voice smooth, edged with something lethal. "I know you think you're clever—that you can say whatever you like without consequence, just because you were born into the right family."

Your head tilted slightly, gaze sharp, cutting straight through him.

"But you should know something about me by now."

Malfoy’s smirk faltered just slightly. And then, before he could open his mouth again—

You flicked your wand.

Hard. Fast.

Malfoy's goblet exploded.

A concussive blast of magic sent shards flying, the remnants of his beverage splattering across his pristine uniform like spilled blood. A jagged edge of glass sliced across his hand, thin but deep, and he flinched, eyes snapping down to it with genuine shock.

"If you're going to run your mouth about my friends," you said coolly, watching him clutch his bleeding hand, "then you should be prepared to suffer for it."

Your next spell came before he could react. Before anyone could stop you.

A sharp twist of your wrist, and his mouth was gone.

Not silenced. Not muffled. Just… gone. Smooth, unbroken skin where lips should be, like his voice had simply been erased from existence.

The realization hit him immediately.

His hands shot to his face, clawing at his skin, a muffled scream—horrified, panicked—rising in his throat. He lurched backward, knocking into one of his friends, fingers digging at face like he could carve his lips back into place.

But you weren’t done. Not yet.

You needed something that would etch itself into the bones of this castle, into the minds of every single person watching in stunned silence. Something that told the whole goddamn school that if they so much as breathed wrong about Sebastian again, you would ruin them.

A simple hex would be too merciful. A standard jinx—something temporary, something easily countered—wouldn’t send the right message.

No, you needed something else. Something only you could undo.

Your wand rose, fingers tightening around the handle.

A familiar thrumming sensation curled through your bones, crackling at your fingertips, humming beneath your skin like a storm about to break. Ancient magic—the power that had followed you since the day you first stepped foot in Hogwarts, the magic that had made you different. You had never used it publicly. Never allowed yourself to tap into it in a room full of hundreds of witnesses.

Until now.

Malfoy’s body lurched.

Not by his own will, but by yours, by the ancient, crackling force curling through your veins.

The entire room gasped as he was wrenched upward, his robes twisting violently around him as though an invisible hand had grabbed him by the throat and hauled him into the sky.

He thrashed, or tried to, but the moment he moved, the spell struck.

A jolt of electricity tore through his body.

Not enough to kill. Not enough to cause permanent harm, but enough to make him scream. Or at least, he would have screamed—if he still had a mouth.

Instead, a choked, garbled sound tore from his throat, half agony, half suffocated panic, his limbs seizing as the current snapped down his spine, through his arms and legs.

And you let them watch, let the entire Great Hall bear witness as he hung there, suspended like some grotesque marionette.

And the moment he tried to move again, tried to scratch at where his mouth should be or flail his limbs, another arc of lightning danced across his body, snapping against his skin like a promise that any attempt to fight this would only make it worse.

And he knew. They all knew. He wasn’t getting down until you allowed it. But your arm didn’t waver, you held your wand high, like an executioner delivering final judgment.

Because this? This was a declaration. A statement. A message carved into the very bones of Hogwarts itself.

You do not speak against Sebastian Sallow.

You wondered if he realized that you would have done this a thousand times over. That you would have burned the entire goddamn world for him if he asked.

But before you could do anything more—before you could decide how far you were willing to take this—

A thunderous voice shattered the moment.

"THAT IS ENOUGH!"

The spell snapped. Malfoy dropped. His body crashed onto the table below, sending plates and goblets scattering, silverware clattering to the stone floor. He lay there, twitching, gasping, pathetically small as the last of the magic flickered out of his limbs.

And then—

"You."

Phineas Nigellus Black’s voice was pure ice.

You turned to face him—not a shred of regret, not a flicker of guilt in your expression.

But the Headmaster was raging. His hands were clenched at his sides, his teeth bared in fury.

The entire room was still. Waiting. Holding its breath.

"My office." His voice was low, lethal, like the words themselves were a curse. "Now."

A sharp inhale from someone at the Ravenclaw table. A hushed whisper from a terrified first-year.

No detention. No points docked. Just a direct order from the highest authority in the school.

But it was worth it, because now they knew. Every single person in this room knew.

And as you turned on your heel, heart still pounding with the remnants of power buzzing in your veins—

You caught Sebastian’s eyes one last time.

Still watching, still frozen in place, yet looking at you like you were the most devastating, impossible, extraordinary thing he had ever seen.

And then? The slightest smirk. The most faint, devastatingly admiring grin.

Like he had never, ever wanted anyone more.

[mirclealignr]

—hard work’s pay off

hermione granger x slytherin!reader

—this was a request from ages ago. lol.

hermione granger—studious, diligent and, supposedly, the brightest witch of her age. but it wasn’t all this glitz and glam that drew you to the frizzy-haired gryffindor.

it started in first year, when you discovered she was so painfully easy to wind up. it could be something as small as whispering when the professor was talking or something as large as deliberately making it seem as if you were trying to copy her work.

it was so easy it almost became addictive. but also as you grew older and your interests changed, it wasn’t solely just about driving her round the bend. it became an excuse to talk to her, to see her flustered and her cheeks glow rosy.

“granger, granger, granger,” you sighed teasingly, sitting in your assignee seat beside her. “i heard you got a ‘poor’ in charms the other week, slacking are we?”

“what?!” hermione was appalled. who would spread such vicious, baseless lies about her? “that’s outrageous!”

“but not an ‘outstanding’. in fact it’s shocking,” you cut in with a smirk before she could carry on.

she was red up to her ears but slowly calming down as she began to realise you were only teasing, as usual. she seethed silently, turning her head away before taking a deep breath—she couldn’t let you get to her.

“whatever.”

you laughed, “you believed me for a moment there, didn’t you, granger?”

“well, in regards to one’s reputation, one can’t be too careful,” hermione said, holding her head high.

“oh don’t get all diplomatic on me. i got you good.”

hermione was now exercising the tried and tested method of the silent treatment. she was particularly well versed in this skill but you knew there was one thing she could not stand—quill scratching. it was the wizard from of clicking a pen incessantly, except it consisted of scratching a dry quill against parchment. hermione hated it.

“will you stop that?!” she groaned, almost catching the attention of professor snape, if it weren’t for seamus finnigan setting fire to half of his essay.

you giggled, carrying on with your assignment, at least for a little while. still, you caught small glances of hermione in the corner of your eye, you were drawn to her and you couldn’t help but to look. she was still scowling, scribbling away furiously, writing every idea that came to mind with perfect fluency.

“don’t frown, granger,” you smirked, stretching your arms. “you’re much prettier when you smile.”

“merlin’s beard, y/n, i’m trying to concentrate.”

“just one smile?” you teased.

hermione looked at you through her peripheral vision, scrunching her eyebrows together. “you’re flirting with me,” she stated, for she was a clever girl and did not need to ask.

you chuckled lightly, “do you want me to stop?”

she tucked her arms into herself, awkwardly looking between you and her work before scribbling away again, refusing to answer and play into such schemes. she didn’t say another word for the rest of the lesson and you didn’t bother her again, sensing she was better left alone.

when professor snape dismissed the lot of you, hermione found herself desperate to respond to your previous question but too nervous to give a definitive answer, even if she already knew what that answer was.

“i haven’t decided,” she stated plainly, hugging her books to her chest.

“haven’t decided what?” you asked.

“if i want you to stop flirting,” she rushed, cheeks glowing with blush.

“well that’s not a no.”

“it’s not a yes,” she countered, turning on her heels and storming away.

“still not a no!” you shouted after her, smirking.

all your years of hard work were finally paying off. hermione was finally giving into you. it didn’t matter if no one else understood your infatuation with her, it didn’t bother you in the slightest. you hadn’t a care, but for hermione granger.

“i don’t know why you bother with her,” pansy shook her head, walking with you to lunch.

“the same way i don’t know why you bother with malfoy. we have our reasons,” you rolled your eyes, linking arms with your friend. “she’s coming around,” you winked.

i don’t have a tag list but if you’d like to be notified when i post, follow @mirclesjournal and turn post notifications on!

[rosesareredrosa]

Show You How Much I Care

Lorenzo Berkshire x fem reader

Summary: Little things Lorenzo does to show y/n how much he cares

w/c: 1069

Lorenzo Berkshire, the charming and enigmatic member of the Slytherin crew, had always had a knack for reading people. Yet, when it came to Y/N, a girl who seemed to shine with an inner light, he found himself captivated. Unlike many others at Hogwarts, Y/N was genuine and kind, navigating the social landscape with refreshing authenticity. Lorenzo admired her from afar and, over time, felt a growing desire to show her how much he cared.

The Care Package

One day, after overhearing Y/N mention her struggles with schoolwork, Lorenzo decided to help. He discreetly gathered a selection of books and notes that could aid her studies. Alongside these, he added a few of her favorite snacks—a small detail he had picked up from observing her during meals.

That evening, Y/N returned to her dormitory to find a basket waiting for her. Inside was a note written in Lorenzo's neat handwriting:

"For the times when things get tough. Take care, Y/N. - Enzo"

Y/N felt a warm flush spread across her cheeks as she read the note. She had always seen Lorenzo as the laid-back, cool member of his group, but this thoughtful gesture revealed a depth she hadn't expected. It was a small act, but it showed that he had been paying attention and cared about her well-being.

The Potions Class Incident

During a challenging Potions class, Professor Snape assigned the students a complex potion requiring precise timing and careful handling. Y/N, who generally enjoyed Potions, found herself unusually nervous, fumbling with the ingredients. She glanced at her notes, trying to recall the exact sequence, but her anxiety clouded her memory.

Lorenzo, at the next table, noticed her distress. He watched as she hesitated, holding a vial of powdered unicorn horn uncertainly. Understanding the importance of timing, Lorenzo quietly tapped his quill on the edge of her table, a subtle signal they had developed for moments like this.

Y/N looked over, catching his eye. Lorenzo gave a slight nod, glancing at the clock. She understood and added the powder just as the potion turned the right shade of blue. Lorenzo continued to help subtly, passing her a vial of powdered moonstone when she realized she was running low and mouthing a reminder about the temperature adjustment.

As the class ended, Professor Snape evaluated their potions. He paused at Y/N's cauldron, inspecting the brew with his usual critical eye. "Adequate," he muttered, a rare compliment from him.

Relieved, Y/N turned to Lorenzo as they packed up. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes filled with gratitude. "I was so nervous."

Lorenzo smiled, a warm, reassuring look in his eyes. "You had it. Just needed a bit of confidence."

Y/N couldn't help but smile back. His quiet support had been comforting, making her feel seen and valued.

The Herbology Lesson

Later, during a particularly tricky Herbology lesson, Y/N struggled with a difficult plant. Lorenzo, who had a surprising knack for Herbology, noticed her frustration and stayed behind after class.

"Need a hand?" he asked, offering a friendly smile.

Surprised, Y/N nodded. Lorenzo patiently guided her through the process, showing her the correct technique. Under his calm guidance, the plant responded, and Y/N felt a wave of relief and accomplishment.

"Thanks, Lorenzo," she said, grateful for his help.

He shrugged modestly. "Anytime. Can't let you struggle alone."

As the days passed, Y/N couldn't help but notice all the little things Lorenzo did for her. He'd save her a seat in the library, offer to carry her books when they were headed in the same direction, and even conjured a small bouquet of flowers during a particularly rough day. These small acts of kindness were so thoughtful and consistent that she found herself wondering why he was doing them. Was it just his nature, or was there something more?

The Astronomy Night

Knowing Y/N's love for the stars, Lorenzo planned a special surprise. One clear night, he invited her for a walk. They ended up at the Astronomy Tower, where he had set up a blanket and a small telescope.

As they lay under the stars, Lorenzo pointed out constellations and shared stories. His effort to create this moment touched Y/N deeply, revealing a thoughtful and caring side she had come to cherish.

"Lorenzo, this is wonderful," Y/N said, moved by his gesture. "Thank you."

He smiled, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "I wanted to do something special for you. You deserve it."

Y/N felt warmth spread through her. She hesitated, then asked the question that had been on her mind. "Why do you do all these things for me, Lorenzo?" she asked softly, turning to look at him directly. "You've been so kind and attentive... it's more than anyone's ever done for me."

Lorenzo paused, his expression thoughtful. He met her gaze, his eyes sincere. "Because you matter to me, Y/N," he began, his voice gentle but firm. "I've seen how kind and genuine you are, and I admire that. I wanted to show you that someone appreciates you for who you are, not just for what you do or what house you're in. And... because I care about you. A lot."

He paused, gathering his thoughts. "I know I'm not the best with words or grand gestures, but I believe in showing my feelings through actions. That's why I wanted to show you how much I care, in my own way. Whether it's helping you in Potions, making sure you have what you need, or just spending time together like this. It's all because I want you to know you're special to me."

Y/N's heart fluttered at his words. There was a sincerity in his voice that made her believe every word. She felt a mix of emotions—surprise, joy, and a deep warmth she couldn't quite describe.

She reached out, taking his hand. "I had no idea," she admitted, her voice soft. "But... I'm glad. I appreciate everything you've done. It means more than you know."

They sat there, hand in hand, under the vast night sky. Lorenzo's quiet, thoughtful actions had finally come to light, revealing the depth of his feelings. It wasn't about grand declarations or dramatic actions; it was about the little things that showed he genuinely cared. And in that moment, under the stars, Y/N realized just how much Lorenzo meant to her, too.

[nerdy-and-dedicated]

Come And Get Your Love (Roquill Fanfic)

So this came about after a conversation I had with my bestie @inubaki91. It does contain spoilers for GOTG3, so keep that in mind. Anyway, I hope you like it.

Rating: Teen

Peter sat on the roof, staring up at the night sky. He found himself doing this a lot lately, hoping that a certain someone would land in the yard. Each time Quill would wait until one in the morning and be met with the same disappointment. The man understood that his super hot boyfriend was busy saving the galaxy but still wished he had found the time to visit. It was approaching eleven, and Peter considered calling it an early night. Rocket hadn’t shown up for the past two months, so why should this time be any different? Still, Peter waited, despite his gut telling him it was pointless. Quill remained for two more hours before making his way down the ladder. After putting it away, he headed back towards the house and saw the most heavenly sight. Leaning against the sliding backdoor was his boyfriend dressed in his guardians’ uniform. The man couldn’t contain himself as he ran up to Rocket and scooped him up in his arms. As tears fell from his eyes, Peter kissed the raccoon deeply. When they pulled away, Quill rested their foreheads together and smiled.

  “Take it you missed me, Baby Boo?”

 “You have no idea.”

 “I’m sorry. I wanted to visit sooner, but our latest assignment was a pain in the ass.”

 “I get it, Rocky. It just means you have to make it up to me.” Pete flirted.

 “Oh~ And how can I do that?”

  Peter just smirked as he carried his fluffy raccoon to his room. He closed the door before laying Rocket down on the bed. He leaned over him and passionately kissed his boyfriend. Quill wanted to take this lovingly slow as he didn’t know when Rocket would return. Despite how impatient he knew the raccoon could be, the man wanted to savour the moment. Peter moaned softly, feeling Rocket claw at his scalp and grind against him. The man looked down at his boyfriend and smiled wider. The racoon looked so adorable underneath him. He honestly couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have Rocket in his life. Peter never thought he would experience this kind of happiness, especially after Gamora. Yet here he was, making out with the most amazing person ever. Rocket was there for him during his darkest moment and cared for him during so many drunken nights. He really didn’t deserve him.

  “Petey, you’re staring again.” Rocket moaned.

 “Can’t help it. You’re just that handsome.”

 “If you think I’m that handsome, why don’t you hurry up and fuck me?”

 Peter gave Rocket a quick kiss. “With pleasure.”

 🦝💕🌟

 To say Peter was sore would be a bit of an understatement. While it was definitely the good kind, he had to remind Rocket to file down his claws for next time. Quill didn’t need to see his back to know what kind of state it was in. The man honestly forgot how wild the raccoon could get in bed and was surprised they didn’t wake his grandpa from the amount of noise they made. The man turned to the sleeping Rocket and watched him for a few minutes. It was honestly nice to see the raccoon so peaceful and relaxed. Peter stroked his boyfriend’s cheek and kissed his forehead before collecting his pyjamas and showering. After getting cleaned up, Pete examined the damage done to him. As suspected, his upper back was covered in scratches, with his shoulders and neck littered with bites and hickeys. Getting dressed in his clothes, Pete hoped that his grandpa didn’t notice the state of his exposed skin. He headed towards the kitchen and was greeted by said man in the small dining area. Jason had already gotten out all he needed for his usual breakfast.

  “Mornin’ Pete. Sleep well?”

 “I guess so….”

 “Another late night?”

 Peter nodded as he sat down and poured himself a bowl of Corn Pops.

 “I know you’re a grown man, but please try to go to bed earlier. I don’t like seein’ the bags under your eyes.”

 “I’ll try, but no guarantees.”

  Peter appreciated his grandpa’s concern for his well-being, but it was necessary. The man had more pressing matters to worry about, especially with his old age. Still, it was great that he cared. The two men sat in comfortable silence for a bit, just enjoying each other presence. Quill took a few bites of his cereal before Jason spoke.

  “Shirley from next door wants to know if you can mow her lawn today.”

 “I can, but why can’t Michael do it?”

 “Don’t know, didn’t ask.”

 “I mean, if she needs help mowing her lawn, I’ll do it, but I kinda feel like her son should help.”

 “Don’t get me started, okay?”

 Peter put another spoonful in his mouth. “Well, now I kinda want to know…”

 “Know about what, Baby Boo?”

  Quill froze as he watched his boyfriend climb onto the third chair and steal his breakfast. Rocket was dressed in nothing but Peter’s grey T-shirt. Well, it was more like a nightgown than a shirt on the raccoon, but still adorable regardless. When his brain started working again, he turned towards his grandpa, who was just staring at the anthropomorphic animal across from him.

 “Take a picture. It’ll last longer, old man.”

 “Rocket, be nice.”

 “Hard to be when it’s morning and your cereal sucks.”

 “There’s a trash can outside if you’d prefer that,” Jason mumbled.

 “Sorry, the only trash I like to eat is your grandson.”

 “Oh my god, Rocket!!” Peter exclaimed. “Stop!!”

  Quill really didn’t want to have this kind of conversation so early in the morning. Or in front of his grandfather. Yet the old man had remained entirely calm throughout the whole interaction. At least it seemed that way when Jason folded his paper and left the table. Peter thought that was the end of it until he heard his grandfather call out from the living room.

  “Just make sure the sheet are clean by midday. I don’t want this house smelling like sex.”

 “You heard us?”

 “Pete, the whole neighbourhood heard you. I just wished you had introduced me to your weird boyfriend before I did.”

 The younger man chuckled nervously. “We were trying to be quiet.”

 “Didn’t sound like it,” Jason stated.

 Rocket started laughing.

 “Next time, we’re doing it on the ship.”

[i-drew-a-dog]

More Doctor Who confusion I guess

There's a lot in the last few episodes of Doctor Who that I don't really get?

The dust? Everyone gets dusted in 2024. They go to 2046 everyone is STILL dusted but now there's DNA data. How did they gather the DNA if everyone was killed in 2024??? Did Sutek dust everyone simultaneously?? Like all throughout time?? What???

The time window? We are told it's rudimentary and they "only saw the colour of the quill that signed the declaration of independence" but it's monochrome? You didn't see the colour of it?? Also it's all holograms and yet they treat it as if it's real? Why do they have guns?? Why is everyone afraid?

The snow? Why does Ruby have this power? I know we've established that her mum is some Eldrich being through the power of believing in her or some shit but why can Ruby do that? Also can every foster kid do that? If so that's really funny.

Suteks death? Why did dragging him around behind the TARDIS and smashing him into space potholes like some mafia hit kill him when literally sending him through time to the moment of his death didn't work?

Idk if these are pointless questions but the writing recently has just been overall baffling to me. Out of this whole season, I think the only episode I genuinely enjoyed was Rogue because it was just taking the piss out of Bridgerton the style of that big brother episode back in 2004. It was fun and understood the assignment of a silly villain that still posed a threat.

I know the vibe in the fandom is always "the worst Dr who writer is the current Dr who writer" but I haven't really enjoyed this season as much as I thought I would when they announced Russel was coming back.

Rewatching Bad Wolf is just a slap in the face after this like what happened??

Sorry for the rambles but idk I just have a lot of thoughts about this season but the fandom seems to be in the "look at all the references to old who" phase

[amberlynnmurdock]

New Love, New Haven

Chapter Fourteen: The First Time

Pairing: Benjamin Tallmadge x Original Female Character

Summary: Upon realizing Ben's letter never got to Sadie, he pays her a visit before Thanksgiving break.

A/N: WOW it's been too long since I've updated this fic! I love writing this fic so much, I haven't forgotten it <3 next chapter will have a huge time jump! Thank you for reading!! <3

WARNINGS: 18+ content, smut, losing virginity, eating out

Wethersfield 1773 

Ben sat patiently at the large wooden desk in his classroom, waiting for his students to arrive. Sometimes a student or two came early but most of the time they walked in late. Ben wasn’t hard on them—he remembers very fondly arriving late to class with Nathan and feeling the glares from his professors. He didn’t want his students to feel the way he did. He wanted them to feel welcomed. He didn’t want them to feel defined by tardiness. And he especially didn’t want to rush any of his lessons.

It was a brisk fall day. Leaves were starting to fall. Today was the last day of the semester, and next week he’d be leaving for Thanksgiving. He organized today’s assignment and wrote on the chalkboard. Friday, November 19th, 1773. Today’s lesson: Latin. As Ben finished writing on the board, he smiled to himself. Latin. A memory flashed in his mind: the very first night he met Sadie and she spoke Latin to him: nemo saltat sobrius. He chuckled softly, played with the piece of chalk in his hand. He missed her. 

And upon realization, Ben’s gaze fell—it had been a while since he heard from Sadie. Concern settled over him, until the door to his classroom opened abruptly, and in came one of his students, named Joel. 

“Good morning, Mr. Joel. How are we today?” Ben clapped his hands together and looked at the young boy. Joel straightened in his chair and brought out a book from his bag. 

“Ready for today’s lesson, Mistah Tallmadge,” Joel’s high-pitched voice spoke. He placed his hands on top of his book. 

“Very well,” Ben smiled, holding his hands behind his back. More students trickled in, each finding their respective seats. Ben waited as each of them settled down and brought their books out. Each desk was lined with a pot of ink and a quill. When everyone was finally settled, Ben cleared his throat. 

“How many of you are familiar with the Latin language?” Ben proposed to the class, hands behind his back. He paced back and forth slowly, waiting for a lucky duck to raise his hand. 

A small boy in the back of the classroom raised his hand. It was Charles. He had tousled brown hair and freckles on his cheeks. 

“Yes, Charles,” Ben encouraged him as he walked down the aisle to Charles’ desk. Charles cleared his throat and sat up more straight in his chair.

“Isn’t it a dead language, Mistah Tallmadge?” Charles asked. 

“It is, but it’s not dead if we bring it to life by speaking it!” Ben exclaimed, looking at the other young men in the class. “It’s quite a beautiful language if you take the time to study it.”

“Is it goin’ to be hard, Mistah Tallmadge?” Another boy asked, named Daniel. 

“No,” Ben smiled as he made his way back to the front of the class. “Not if you take your notes and pay attention.” 

Some boys dipped their quills in the ink, while others groaned in despair. Ben laughed at the mixed reactions. It wasn’t easy teaching young boys but it sure was worth it. He made sure by the end of each lesson everyone understood what was taught and left with a better attitude than when they came into class. 

Of course, his lesson plan today reminded him of Sadie. When he recited the verb forms and wrote them on the chalkboard, it was hard to ignore the pull on his heart. Another moment of realization slowly dawned on Ben at that moment—when was the last time he received a letter from Sadie? Well, he couldn’t ponder on that too long right now. He’d have to wait until the end of the day. 

“Amo, amat, amos,” Ben recited aloud. The boys repeated after him in tandem. And despite carrying on with the lesson, he was anxious to get home and check the post. 

When class ended, Ben wished them all a wonderful holiday. Normally, he’d stay and talk to them before closing up for the day, but even they were in a rush to enjoy the break. Ben quickly packed up his things and headed home. 

☆☆☆☆

He walked home after school ended. Satchel on his shoulder, tricorn on his head. He tipped his hat whenever he passed by a local town person to greet them. Horses trodded by him in their carriages. With each step, a sinking feeling grew deeper in Ben’s chest. 

When he arrived at his small abode, he checked the post box immediately. 

Nothing. 

Ben furrowed his brows at the empty box and shut it. How much time had passed since his last letter? About a couple of weeks? 

Entering his home, Ben locked the door and placed his brown leather satchel on a chair. He threw his tricorn on his bed and ran his hand through his golden brown hair, exasperated. His mind was racing—was Sadie okay? Did something happen in New Haven? Surely, he'd hear about it if it had to do with any redcoats. 

To distract himself from his worry, Ben started a fire in his fireplace to warm his home a little. The closer it got to the end of November, the colder it was getting. At least, that meant he could go on holiday and visit Sadie, before trekking up to Setauket. It would be a short visit in New Haven, but a necessary one. 

Ben sat in front of the fireplace for a few more moments, staring at the yellow and orange flames as they warmed his face. It was moments like this when he realized how alone and far away he was from everyone he loved. 

Perhaps instead of worrying, he could get a head start on grading papers. Yes, he’ll do that, he thought. He lit a candle and placed it on his desk. He reached into his satchel and brought out all the papers stuffed inside. Ben spread them out. He flipped through the pages and organized them by subject. And then, something fell into his lap.

“Hm?” Ben hummed aloud. 

Oh, dear. 

It was a thick envelope, with a red wax seal. This was the last letter he was supposed to send to Sadie! 

Ben pushed himself out of his chair and ran outside. It was nearly evening—there wouldn’t be anyone to collect the mail until tomorrow morning. Then Ben clutched the letter to his chest in realization: on Saturdays, Wethersfield didn’t collect mail. He’d have to go into town and physically drop it in the general store for it to be mailed out on Monday. Even more of a delay! Christ, Tallmadge. No wonder you haven’t heard from Sadie! 

But why wait for the postage when Ben could just head back to New Haven now, instead of waiting until Monday?It didn’t take him long to finalize his decision. He’d be on his way to New Haven at the crack of dawn and deliver his letter to Sadie himself. 

☆☆☆☆

Sunday

Sadie walked down the cobblestone path, basket in her arm. It was finally cold enough for her to bring out her favorite velvet cloak. She threw the hood over her head and continued to walk down the road, smiling at anyone who walked by: a mother and her child, an old man waiting for a customer in front of his steps, two young boys running around, wreaking havoc. Many faces passed her by, and none of them were who she wanted to see. 

Her first stop was the market. She needed to stock up on apples and cheese for the bar guests—and then some for her to sneak for herself. The bell chimed in the doorway and she was greeted by Mack, the old man who ran the shop.

“Hello, Sadies,” Mack greeted. He always added an “s” at the end of her name. He trotted from behind the counter and leaned on his elbow. “How’s your father?” 

“He’s good, Mack,” Sadie smiled, taking the cloth off her basket. “Says you’re due for a pint of ale.”

Mack laughed, “I don’t drink like I used to.” 

“He can do a soft pour,” Sadie chided. 

“Maybe sometime this week.” He said this every time but never came by. Sadie smiled warmly at the older man. 

“I’m here for—“

“Apples and cheese, I know, I’ve got it ready,” Mack held a finger up in the air as he spoke and rounded the corner again, bringing a fresh basket from behind the counter. Sadie carefully picked the apples with the cloth from her basket. Mack had the cheese already wrapped. 

“Thank you very much, Mack,” Sadie smiled. 

“Where are you off to next?” 

A pang hit Sadie’s heart. “The tavern I suppose. I’ve got to do some cleaning before the holiday week.” 

“Your brother will be back this week, right?” Mack inquired. At the mention of Nathan, Sadie’s chest suddenly felt lighter. 

“Yes,” Sadie smiled, “of course.” 

“When?”

“Monday,” Sadie answered, “he’ll be home for a week. After that, a shorter term begins and he won’t be home until the long break again.” 

“Ahh,” Mack said, “busy boy he is. I’m sure he’s loving being a teacher.” 

“He definitely is,” Sadie smiled. She couldn’t wait to hear his stories when he came back. She knew of some of his experience from his letters, but knowing Nathan, he loved to save the details for in person. 

After Sadie gave Mack a few coins for the food she picked up, she was on her way back to the tavern. Hood over her head, she walked slowly down the path, counting her steps. She heard the normal hustle of the town around her, but Sadie paid no mind to it. She focused her gaze on the cobblestone, wishing this sinking feeling would just go away already. The lack of communication between her and Ben was taking a toll on her, and she wondered if he received her most recent letter, the one in which she told him about her plans for the Spring with Genny. 

Sadie pushed her hood off her head when she approached the tavern. It was a sunny morning—very bright for a rather autumnal Sunday in November. When the sun warmed Sadie’s face, she squinted her eyes at the brightness and nearly missed the figure that stood at the corner of the Tavern with a familiar-looking horse. 

She nearly dropped her basket on the cold hard ground when she realized who was waiting at the corner. 

Benjamin.

“Oh my,” Sadie whispered, her heart in her throat, “B-Ben—what—“ All the words she wanted to say left her at that moment as Ben, it really was him, finished tying his horse, Willow, to the pillar and made his way to Sadie. 

And perhaps it was a bit forward, or inappropriate, but Ben didn’t care—he stalked his way over to Sadie and placed his hands on either side of her face, and slowly leaned down to give Sadie the longest and warmest kiss he could. He shut his eyes tight as his lips began to remember the feeling of hers on his, a comforting, familiar feeling that he’d been so deprived of. Sadie reached up to touch his face and deepened the kiss, running her fingers over his skin, as if the movement said Is it really you, here? This is real? 

When Ben pulled back, he was breathing hard, but he locked his blue eyes with Sadie’s warm ones. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Sadie, I’m so sorry.” 

“I thought you forgot about me,” Sadie smiled, despite herself. She blinked away tears and Ben looked at her as if she just accused him of a terrible crime.

“Forget about you? Sadie, I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I left this town,” Ben now was holding both of Sadie’s hands, caressing her knuckles with his thumbs. “I’m a bloody idiot and mixed the letter I wrote for you weeks ago with my students’ papers.”

“Oh,” Sadie said, her worries washing away instantly. “Oh, Ben, I can’t believe I jumped to conclusions so quickly,” Sadie closed her eyes and scrunched her brows in frustration, thinking of how sad she was when she didn’t receive any letters from Ben.

“It’s okay,” Ben hushed and kissed her forehead. “When I saw I still had my letter, I knew I had to get it to you sooner than later. I left Wethersfield yesterday morning.”

“How long will you be in New Haven for?” 

“Just tonight, I’m afraid,” Ben smiled sadly, “I have to go back to Setauket for Thanksgiving.”

“Right,” Sadie nodded, “of course. Well, I’m so happy you’re here now, Ben. It’s been so long.”

“I know, my Sadie,” Ben whispered and pulled Sadie in for another embrace. When he pulled back, he met Sadie’s eyes with concern. “I was hoping you’d be able to have me tonight.”

“Of course,” she said without a second thought. “Come to the back door, at night. Like old times.”

Ben smiled and wiped a tear from Sadie’s cheek. “I’ll be there.”

☆☆☆☆

All day, Sadie anticipated the tavern to close early so she could prepare to see Ben tonight. Even though people knew of their relationship, it was still funny they had to sneak around to see each other.

Sadie looked at herself in her small mirror in her room. She took down her hair from her bun and let it fall to one side. Her white shift dress was buttoned to the top, but Sadie decided to undo a few of the buttons so some more skin peeked through. When she heard tiny pebbles hit her window, Sadie knew Ben arrived. 

After sneaking him in from the back door and quietly tip-toeing up the stairs, so as to not wake Richard, Ben was finally in Sadie’s room again. She shut the door quietly and locked it. When she turned around, Ben had his arms open for her. She squealed softly and walked into his strong arms. He wrapped them around her frame, picked her up, and squeezed her before gently putting her down again. Ben buried his face in the crook of her neck and breathed in her sweet scent. 

“Christ, I’ve missed you,” Ben breathed. “So much, Sadie.”

“I missed you more,” Sadie smiled.

“Impossible.”

She took his hand and gestured for him to sit on her bed. Sadie didn’t even know what to say, but the look on Ben’s face told her he had something to say first. He smiled, a bit embarrassingly, and felt for something in his pocket. When he pulled out an envelope with a red waxed seal, Sadie looked confused. 

“This is the letter that got mixed up in my papers. You should have received it if not for my misplacement,” Ben put the crinkled letter in Sadie’s palm. 

“Do you want me to read it?” Sadie asked, already tearing open the wax seal. Ben laughed, nodded his head to gently urge her. 

“Of course,” Ben whispered. “But I can’t look at you as you read it.” 

“Why not?” Sadie said amused. 

“It’s different when you’re in the same room as the person you wrote the letter for,” Ben chuckled. 

“Oh, please, Ben,” Sadie hushed, “you’ve seen me nearly naked and you’re a little embarrassed by a letter you wrote me?” 

“If it’s the letter I remember, then yes,” Ben blushed. Without prying further, Sadie took a moment to read it by candlelight. Contrary to what Ben said before, he couldn’t keep his eyes off Sadie as she read. 

It was about a dream Ben had about Sadie, by the beach and a constellation he hadn’t seen before. It was adorable—romantic, and adorable. Sadie tried not to giggle but couldn’t help it. 

“You think I’m silly, don’t you?” Ben asked. Sadie shook her head and placed the letter on her nightstand. When she looked at Ben again, she took his hands in hers and squeezed them.

“Not at all, Ben,” Sadie assured him. “I thought that was very sweet. Imagine, a constellation named after me?”

Ben laughed, “It would surely be the most beautiful constellation in the sky.”

“Now that was silly,” Sadie playfully teased. Ben digressed and kissed Sadie’s knuckles.

“Sadie, how are you? Really?” He asked. “It’s been a few months since I’ve seen you. There’s so much to catch each other up on.”

“I know,” she agreed and took a deep breath. Since Ben was here early, it was possible he hadn’t received her last letter yet. “Well, nothing about the tavern has changed. Not many Yale kids come by. It’s the regular town folk.”

“But what about you?” He asked again. 

“What about me? Hm,” Sadie tried to deflect the attention, but it was no use. “Well, in the spring, I’m going to be learning about herbs and healing with Genny in Middletown. Ben… I wrote you a letter before I knew what happened. I really thought you forgot about me or met someone, or whatever…” Sadie trailed off. “If my letter seems to have an air of finality to it, please disregard it. In fact, don’t even read it, just toss it. But I’m glad I’m telling you this in person now.”

Ben nodded as he listened in understanding. 

“So… yes. Next spring, I’ll be in Middletown. I’m not sure for how long, but I’ll be learning.”

“That’s amazing, Sadie,” Ben said honestly. “I’m so happy for you to be getting to experience something like that.”

“Really?” Sadie asked with surprise, “I thought you’d be upset.”

“Upset? Sadie, why upset? No, I’m happy for you,” Ben said with gentle urgency. “You deserve to learn new things and visit new places. Why would I ever be upset?”

“Well, because it’s not really anything to do with us. You know, I’m not moving to Wethersfield to be with you.”

Ben shook his head, “Sadie, as much as I would love to come to you, I’m not one to stop you from being able to experience things, even if it means without me. No, I encourage it. I would never be upset because you didn’t make a decision for us.”

“But I want to be with you,” Sadie argued gently, “no matter where I am.”

“I want to be with you too,” Ben said, “and I will. So as long as you’ll have me.” 

"So when I go to Middletown, and you’re in Wethersfield, we can still write letters and be together that way, right?” Sadie asked. 

“Of course,” Ben said like it was the most obvious answer in the world. In a way, it was the only correct answer for him. “And if you don’t hear from me or I from you, let’s not assume the worst. Okay?” 

Sadie laughed, “I’ll try not to get my papers on herbs mixed up with my letters.” Ben chuckled in response. 

“Besides,” Ben said in a low voice, “Middletown is not that far from Wethersfield. In fact, it’s only a few hours by horse. I’ll come to you,” Ben promised. “When you have a free weekend and can sneak around.”

“I can’t wait until we don’t have to sneak around,” Sadie gently ran her thumb over Ben’s jaw. Ben turned his face into the palm of her hand and kissed her. 

“I know,” he whispered, “me too.”

“So, how have you been? How’s teaching? Your students?”

“My students are a riot, but they are eager to learn, and I’m grateful for that. The most recent lesson I taught them was on Latin. I thought of you the entire time.”

“They’re lucky to have an amazing teacher like you,” Sadie said. 

“Thank you,” Ben smiled. “It’s been rewarding, teaching them.”

“I’m sure they love you,” Sadie sighed with content. “As.. as I do.”

“Wh—“

“I love you, Ben,” Sadie said, and she thought it was strange that she hadn’t said it before. Maybe it was one of those things that was so true, it didn't need to be said. 

“Sadie, I love you,” Ben whispered, bringing Sadie’s hands in his lap. He closed the short distance between their faces and gently pressed his lips to Sadie’s, before deepening the kiss. Sadie opened her mouth to invite his tongue. It was a sensation Ben hadn’t felt since the last time he was in her room. He placed his hand on the back of Sadie’s neck and caressed his fingers through her hair, gently tugging to lay her flat on her back. 

Sadie traced her fingers along Ben’s back and stopped when she reached his low ponytail. She untied the ribbon and threw it on the floor, letting his golden brown locks free. Ben gently kicked his boots off so they wouldn’t make a loud thud. For a moment, Ben pulled back to look at Sadie in the soft glow of the candlelight by her bed. She looked so soft and ethereal in such a light, he leaned over her and pushed a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“What is it?” Sadie asked. 

“You’re just beautiful,” Ben whispered. He leaned down again to kiss her. To remember this moment, Ben truly lost himself in the kiss as he tried to memorize the curve of Sadie’s lips on his, how soft her face felt, and how delicate she felt underneath him. When he pulled back to breathe, Sadie gestured to her night dress. 

“Please unbutton the rest,” she whispered. 

Without a word, Ben did as he was told and spread the thin white linen across so Sadie’s breasts were exposed. He took a shaky breath, mouth agape, as he took in this sight of Sadie. 

“Ben,” she gently urged. “I want you.” Her heart was pounding so fast and hard, she began to shake a little. Ben placed a warm hand on her neck and ran it down the length of her arm. 

“Okay,” Ben nodded. 

“Wait!” Sadie shout-whispered out of nerves, startling Ben. “I—oh dear God, I’m sorry. I—I’m not sure what I mean by I want you. I mean, I want you, but this is—I’ve never been bed before, obviously—"

“Sadie,” Ben interjected, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. I’d never want you to feel uncomfortable, especially with me.”

“No,” Sadie argued, “I—I want to. It has to happen now, before it will be a while until we see each other again. I want this.”

“As long as you want this,” Ben restated, wanting to be sure. “Is it—special enough? I should have brought—“

“It’s special enough because it’s with you,” Sadie interrupted him. “I don’t need thousands of roses and wine from France, Ben,” she laughed. “I just need you.”

Ben smiled in return, his blue eyes bright even in the dim lighting. Sadie laid down on her back again and took a deep breath as Ben took off his shirt and pants. He kissed her again, slowly this time, and gently placed his right hand on her breast, her nipple fitting in the middle of his palm. Ben took a deep breath as he felt his cock harden already. Sadie spread her legs and turned her face to the side. Ben began to kiss her neck, gently, all the way along her collarbone and chest. 

Sadie watched as he kissed her skin, still slightly shaking underneath him. She closed her eyes and felt her heartbeat quicken again. The more she thought about what was about to happen, the more nervous it made her feel, even though losing her virginity to Ben was all she wanted. She wanted this, she knew it. 

“I’ve got you,” Ben assured her as he pulled back from kissing her breasts. He could hear how fast her heart was beating. When he lost his virginity, his heart was beating fast too. He absolutely hated the experience—it was on a dare, and it was neither enjoyable for him nor the girl. He wanted Sadie’s first time to be more special, more comfortable, more enjoyable, and unforgettable. This was about her, it wasn’t about him. 

“Okay,” Sadie whispered. 

They both knew that after tonight, their relationship would never be the same—in a good way, of course. But what they say about intercourse, must be true. The sharing of bodies and becoming one. 

Ben gently tugged the rest of Sadie’s dress down so she was completely naked on her bed. Still shaking, Ben leaned his body weight on her to warm her. He kissed her from her lips to her chin, to her throat, to the middle of her chest, all the way down her stomach, and finally, to where he knew she needed it most. Her warm sex, her slick folds wet and sensitive. Ben kissed the top of her private and heard Sadie lightly moan as she pressed her head into her pillow. Ben took this as a good sign and gently ran his tongue over her wet folds, which caused Sadie to suppress another moan. Ben breathed in her sweet scent, and nearly almost finished just at the sight of Sadie like this. But he persevered and focused on her pleasure. He licked her wet folds again, and again, and Sadie felt a strange but delicious knot of pleasure in the pit of her stomach, something she remembered she felt before when Ben put his fingers inside her, but this was a different sensation because her hips bucked each time as if to say more, more, more… 

Ben held her thighs in place and continued to lap at her wetness, just enough until he heard Sadie gasp and pull on his locks of hair. She came over his face and was breathing heavily against her bed, her chest heaving. 

“Good lord, Ben,” Sadie said exasperated. 

“I enjoyed that very much,” Ben licked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Sadie’s scent lingering on his skin. When she finally caught her breath, Ben took off the last of his breeches. Finally, they were both exposed together. Sadie looked at Ben’s hard cock and realized he’d be inside her soon, and she anticipated the feeling at first wouldn’t be pleasurable. 

Ben leaned down to kiss Sadie again, holding her tightly between his arms, another gesture to make sure she knew she was safe in his care. He closed his eyes and kissed her neck again, gently rocking his hard cock between her wet folds, covering his cock with her wetness. 

He hummed in pleasure as he felt the sensation become more slippery with each thrust. His cock was throbbing with pleasure, aching for relief. 

“I’m ready,” Sadie whispered as she caught Ben’s half-moon eyes. He clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. Sadie spread her legs wider and he aligned his cock with her opening. 

He was so, so very gentle and moved agonizingly slow as he attempted to push his cock into her tight cunt. Sadie held her breath and closed her eyes, and Ben watched as her face contorted with at first pain. Ben wanted to stop and pull out, even though only the tip of his cock managed to push in, but Sadie fluttered her eyes open and shook her head. 

“Keep going,” she breathed in an airy voice Ben wished he could play on repeat. He nodded and very tensely, continued to push his way inside her tight wetness, that feeling of relief slowly washing over his cock the further he went inside. Ben huffed a breath into her neck and Sadie cried out in pain at his hard cock stretching her so painfully but so sensually. It was nothing she ever expected it to be, this feeling of being full inside her cunt. She wanted more, so she spread her legs even more and Ben thrust inside her slowly, then all at once. 

They both moaned in tandem, Sadie in Ben’s ear and Ben resting his forehead on Sadie as he began to thrust slowly in her wet cunt. Goosebumps formed on his chest and Ben saw Sadie’s nipples harden, a sight that might’ve made him finish there but he quickly shut his eyes and opened them again to see Sadie’s face flushed, mouth open. 

“Mm,” she moaned lightly. Ben felt relief all over his throbbing cock now as he spread Sadie’s tightness and was coated with her wetness. He kept thrusting, slowly and then faster, pulling his hard cock completely out of her before pushing himself inside her again, this time much easier but still, her cunt clenched his cock in the most delicious way, he felt a knot form in his stomach, too. 

“Sadie,” Ben breathed, “you feel lovely.” He continued to thrust into her. Sadie couldn’t form a coherent thought because of how good Ben felt inside her—inside her. She arched her back to feel more of his hard cock hit a certain spot she didn’t know could be touched. She bit her lip and shut her eyes as Ben continued to hit the same spot over and over again. She hummed as his thrusts became faster, and the pain was no longer felt. 

“I love you,” Ben whispered as he felt Sadie’s orgasm about to come. He could tell by the way her cunt clenched him so tightly and her wetness was surely all over her bed now. Sadie opened her mouth and meant to speak, but instead, a light moan escaped her lips that again, almost made Ben combust but he wanted so badly for her to come first. 

“I love you,” Sadie squeaked as felt something burst in her cunt, a million different feelings of pleasure rolled and bucked her hips against Ben’s thrusting, and she shivered underneath him. Soon after her high, Ben thrust once more all the way inside her cunt before pulling all the way out, and she felt his warm seed pool over her stomach. 

Ben expertly reached into his jacket over the bed and found a random handkerchief to wipe his seed from Sadie’s stomach. She was still breathing heavily, as was Ben. She turned on her side and Ben kissed her shoulder, her arm, back and forth. When she finally caught her breath, Sadie spoke. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Sadie whispered. “I—I just feel good. In pain, slightly, but a good pain. I didn’t even know a good pain was such a thing.”

Ben chuckled and caressed Sadie’s face with the back of his hand. “I know.”

Sadie turned around to face him in bed. Ben brought her blankets over the both of them and waited for whatever it was Sadie was going to say. 

“Was that… was that your first, as well?” She asked. 

Ben felt a pang in his heart. No, it wasn’t his first. 

“No,” he answered truthfully. And in a matter of moments, a look of betrayal fell over Sadie’s face. Confusion. 

“No?” She asked. 

“I gave up my virginity a long, long time ago. Before I ever met you, Sadie. It was on a dare, and it was a terrible, terrible experience. It’s the reason why I wanted to wait for you—to touch you, to be with you like this. I didn’t want you to have a terrible experience and I wanted you to feel special. I wanted it to be meaningful. For how meaningful this was for me, it felt like it should’ve been my first.” 

Sadie listened carefully as he spoke—it wasn’t fair to be upset. She understood. 

“Okay,” Sadie said. “It was certainly special to me.” 

“This means so much to me,” Ben said, “you won’t ever understand the weight of this situation for me. God, Sadie, I love you. I can assure you that’s the first time I’ve ever said those words to anybody.”  

“You’re my first, and I certainly hope you’ll be my last, Ben.” 

Ben reached over Sadie’s shoulder and blew out the candle. Sadie’s room instantly filled with darkness, but no amount of darkness could keep out the light that was Sadie to Ben. She nuzzled closer to his chest and closed her eyes to sleep. Ben rested his chin on top of her head, and waited for her to fall asleep before he eventually let his eyes rest and fell asleep, too. 

[sharksscripting]

Amorentia || Severus Snape x F!Hufflepuff Reader

Chapter Four || Prey

Word Count: 1393

Includes: Masturbation

The next morning you wake up dizzy and confused, when standing you tumble over. Instantly Cedric runs over to your side of the dorm and helps you up.

"[First Name]? What happened?" He gazes over your body checking for some kind of injury, yet, he can't see under your night robes where the stitches are.

"I'm fine, Cedric, thank you." You say then try to pry his hands off your shoulder but fail.

"You don seem fine. You just fell over!" Cedric exclaims.

"I am fine." You snap, his hands fall from your shoulder blades.

"Alright, just be careful, yeah?" He asks and you can see the concern on his face.

You nod then pick up your bag to leave for class, that is when you got an owl. You recognize it as Professor Snape's owl so you take the letter from the birds talons and read it.

'Ms. [Last Name], you missed your class yesterday afternoon so I would like you to come now to make it up. -S.S'

The letter made it very apparent that he needed you to appear almost instantly, you sigh at the letter then grab you bag and leave the Hufflepuff dorms for his classroom.

Eventually you reach the room in the dungeons, it's a long walk from the high tower that holds the Hufflepuff's but since the hallways aren't as crowded as they usually are you were able to make it there in just under 7 minutes.

You know on the door then open it.

"Professor? I got your letter." You say as you enter the room. Instantly his eyes connect with yours, his dark and emotionless eyes staring at you with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Sit." He motions to the chair you were in when you got the stitches just days ago.

You obey his command instantly as you sit on the other side of his desk, he then hands you the paper that you missed yesterday.

"Notes on the Anti-Paralysis potion the class brewed, write how you made it and what was used." He instructs.

You nod then begin to write on the parchment he gave you, now the only sounds in the room was the occasional sound of the rain outside and the scratch of your quill connected with the ink jar then paper.

Around 20 minutes later you've completed the small assignment and you pass it back to him.

"I'm done, Professor."

He nods and takes the paper, his eyes quickly scans over the words before he nods approvingly.

"Outstanding once again, Ms. [Last Name]." He states then uses a quill to mark the paper.

You instantly smile then feel the sudden rush of desire again, you can't help but push your thighs together tightly to surpress the feeling. In the process your skirt flares up and you swear he saw your black laced underwear.

"I knew it was right to put you in the double excelled class." He says, his gaze completely hyper focused on the paper you submitted to him. You can't help but notice a bit of pink tinting his cheeks. He clears his throat then speaks again.

"Would you like to get started on your classwork for later today?"

"To get ahead of everyone, sir?" You blurt out.

His face deadpans but nods, "If that's how you wish to phrase it, Ms. [Last Name]."

"Oh! Yes, I would then.. sir.." You smile weakly.

He nods then opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a piece of the paper and hands it to you.

"Were learning about the wolfsbane potion for the double advanced class. Start it now, you have 20 minutes before you have to leave, understood?"

You begin the work and through the work you can't help but to glance up at Professor Severus Snape—ever since you realized what the potion has done you've been wanting to be closer and closer to him. And now is just perfect. You're alone with him in his classroom.

You lock eyes with him for a slim second, you instantly feel the wetness rush back to your core again, you squirm slightly in the seat across from him, pushing your thighs together again. You continue to work on the piece of parchment before you in an attempt to distract yourself when he speaks.

"20 minutes are up, Ms. [Last Name]." He says, his voice making you snap out of your distracting thoughts.

"Would you like me to hold onto the paper for you?"

You nod then hand him the paper, when he reaches for it your hands brush for a slim second. You flush then quickly turn your heel.

"I'll see you later, Professor." You mumble as you leave the room, you swear he didn't hear you but when you look back you see his eyes following you as you exit.

Once you're out of the room you realize it's still early in the morning—around 6am. You still have around 30 minutes before your first class starts. So, of course you decide to run to the same bathroom as you did the day prior.

Rushing to the last stall again you check the stalls—making sure no one else was there you grin successfully as you do. Once you lock the stall door you place your bag on the small hook on the door then take out your wand. Once the wand is out you use a quick spell on the toilet paper, transferring it into a black vibrator. It had a smaller part that rubs against your clit, the larger side that slides deep into your folds. You grin widely, the wetness that had been building up since you saw him—the absolute pressure that has been building since then needs to release. You grab another role from the toilet paper holder and transfigure it into a small lube bottle, you quickly uncap the bottle then pour some onto your hand, lathering it on the toy your smirk grows, the anticipation brewing deep within you. Throwing your laced panties down a cold gush of wind flows through your folds, it makes you whimper. Sliding the toy into your tight heat you let out a loud moan. Clicking the small button on the end of the toy it begins to move, sending waves of pleasure ringing throughout your entire body, moans practically flood out of your mouth as you increase the speed on the vibrator. Your thighs and legs quiver as you continue to stand whilst the toy rubs against you fast, throwing your hands to the side of the stall walls to support yourself your thighs shake. You look around in a sex-haze for another object you can transfigure to truly satisfy yourself. Your eyes land on an empty roll of toilet paper, you shrug then use your wand to transform it into nipple clamps connected by a chain.

Quickly you clamp the toy to your hard nubs and moan.

"Severus!" You shout as you release in your panties. The vibrator keeps moving, overstimulating your used clit. You tighten the clamps around your nipples as you push the vibrator to the maximum speed, desperate to cum again.

As you moan you finally sit back down on the toilet, your legs quaking as you feel the sensation building in your core again. With the very thought of your teacher you squirt again, your liquids starts flooding down your shaking thighs. Your moans ring throughout the stall, filling your ears with the sounds of your squelching cunt and whimpers.

"O-Oh god!" You shout as the feeling of the vibrator makes you feel more pleasure, quickly you push the toy deeper into your tight pussy, moaning louder than before.

Finally you finish for a third time, unclasping the nipple clamps you grunt, they're still hard. You slide the vibrator out of your folds then use a spell to return it back to the toilet paper it was before, you do the same with the lube bottle and clamps before cleaning yourself with a flick of your wand.

Glancing at the watch on your arm you see you've skipped your first class of the day! You've never missed a class before, let alone for something like masturbating to your teacher. Quickly you leave the stall and begin to run to your next class—Ancient Runes.

Chapter Five:

[atiredsalmon]

To be Grey and Blue

Connecting the timelines once more, this time with my Warden!

___

Leverette flinched, first, at the crash that sounded from the annex of the upper library, and sighed, second, at the thought of what had been knocked over now. Once upon a time the chaos that came of loud noises and explosive messes would have sent him slinking to the closest corner. He could be hidden there, shaking, for any amount of time until armored hands pulled him away. Later in his years it was more often he was the course of the loud noises and explosive messes, and his reminiscing almost made him smile as he put his quill down and stood from his desk in the main room.

A lot could change in all the years he’d lived. The chaos could become a comfort, when it meant the young mages causing it felt safe enough to be loud and careless. It could bring enjoyment to his day, when it meant Leverette could find his love already beginning to bring order as he stepped around the corner. It could bring unease, too, when it meant that one day, possibly soon - he would have no more messes to think of.

It wouldn’t be today, at least, Leverette thought. Twice now he had been interrupted from his duties assigned by the First Warden to break up another argument between new recruits. He could admit it made him feel young and invigorated again to see them so lively and energetic about their futures, but it made him feel old and frail to know what such futures had in store for them.

It made him scared, more so, to know these latest recruits were his own adoptive children.

“How come Davrin got to go but-“

“He was commanded, mimma. It is no less honorable to take over his orders as it is to take up new ones, no?”

“They’re not orders - they’re chores. And they’re not new, either! I’ve been doing them for over a year now and the best I get is a ‘you’re not grounded anymore but we need you to keep doing them because we decided someone else got to go on the big grand adventure-“

It was a conversation Leverette heard run itself in circles over the previous days and he was grateful for Zevran’s patience. The first time their children had dragged their feet and pouted sour faces at them, Leverette had been at a loss for words. They’d spoiled them too much he said. They’d told them too much, Zevran said. Growing up on stories of legends and heroics would make dreams of more legends and heroics he supposed. It was only natural, especially in the rebuilding Order. Dreams were necessary to combat the filth and ichor they both worked under and now walked through after their reputation’s crash during the time of the Inquisition. Leverette only wished they understood what it took to go beyond that. Time may have separated the Hero of the Fereldan from the Blight, but the scars could never be removed.

A twisted smile crossed his face as his prosthetic leg thumped against the old stone floors of the library to break up the brewing argument. It was a small room considering the size of the main library in Weisshaupt’s lower floors. Whereas that expanse of shelves and briefing rooms took up two floors, the upper library barely covered half of one. But it had the benefit of sitting nearly at the top of the fortress to overlook the entire expanse of the Anderfels mountain range. The large windows made it drafty and frigid in the winter months, but with Levy’s assignment to the room after his promotion to High Constable it had been renovated into a living space. In between the towering bookcases were curtains and scones, and what had once been an archival room now housed a small kitchenette and a bed. He moved towards it, sighing almost fondly when the words thrown back and forth softened into stressed whispers.

“If anyone should be going on grand adventures, shouldn’t it be people who have experience with them? Or people related to those experienced?”

“I’m getting old, but I’m not deaf,” Leverette chuckled as he rounded the corner and leaned against the wall. Brown eyes were grey with haze as age and the taint got to them, but Zevran was no worse off. He was a fraction of a second slower to react than he was twenty years ago and wrinkles framed his mouth, especially so when he smiled as he did now. Besides him were flashes of tunnels. Dark, dank things, riddled with broken stone walls stained red with old blood. When Leverette blinked, Ariane was standing in the kitchen with only the ruddy glow of the sunset from the windows illuminating them. Leverette raised a hand to his temple. Whatever his daughter said was lost beneath a wavering hum.

“Amor-“

Zevran’s purr was never lost on him, and Leverette quieted him with a wave of his hand. He only needed the tone of his voice, not his expression, to understand. Worry wasn’t part of the current situation and Leverette wouldn’t let it become it just yet. He knew the elf too well - if he speak up soon, the point of Arianne’s argument would be lost to them all.

“Histories, in a way, are the same as stories,” Leverette began. He gave Arianne a pointed look when he caught the roll of her eyes. “They’re told by those who made it out alive, but the living have seen only half the story. There’s more than just victories in adventures.”

“You’ve told me that before,” Arianne said. “You’ve told me everything!”

Leverette smiled as she jumped from her place in the kitchen and into his arms and he let sher slip her hands into his. She was a thin elven woman, only a head shorter than him which made her tower over Zevran. She was born in the Circle Tower of Rivain long with her brother and her wiry build and straight red hair was anything unlike Leverette’s reedy frame and blond curls. But her palms were scarred and her grip strong like his. With each pulse in her wrist, he could feel the Fade pounding strongly in her veins - the same as he. She was a strong mage. A strong Warden. She was a far cry from the trembling, starving child he and Zevran had stumbled upon in their search for apostates on the trek to Weisshaupt, but as she looked up at him with round eyes he couldn’t see anything else.

“I’m not afraid, I promise,” she continued, resolute. “I want to fight for the world, just like you did, and see all the things you’ve told me for myself. You two saved me and I know it was for something bigger than just sweeping the stables!”

Leverette turned his smile on Zevran and the corners curled up with a hint of deviousness. “She might just have convinced me.”

Zevran groaned halfheartedly and rested a palm against his forehead. “She knows you weakness, dear Warden. Do not let it fool you.”

Leverette hummed, pretending to think. “I wonder who taught her that.” Arianne laughed and he traded her embrace for Zevran’s. The rogue tugged him close and he let himself fall forward to rest his chin on the top of the elf’s head. His leg ached and he was grateful for the support. His eyes ached, too, and he closed them in a soft sigh as Zevran traced a hand down his back. All he felt was the claws of darkspawn drag across his spine.

“Amor,” Zevran repeated, and there was less worry and more certainty. Unaccepted certainty from the tremble in his voice, but they had talked about this before. Many times in fact - three nights ago being the most recent, in fact. The same night Zevran had found a splotch of black on his knee as he undressed Leverette. There had always been whispers of a plan of what to do when the Calling came, but that night there had been shouts and tears. Of where to go. Of when to make the final descent. Of what to do with the mages they’d brought under their wings and the ones they’d taken into their family. Leverette did not want to see Zevran without him, but he did not want the children to see him go.

“They will not,” Zevran said, stern, and Leverette didn’t realize he had spoken it out loud. “I have recieved word from Varric last night. Arianne and Arlan will be welcomed.”

Leverette was thankful again for Zevran’s arms around him as relief made his knees weak. Time truly did change him. Years ago he had welcomed the idea of death. If the Templars struck him down he could no longer be haunted by their threats or the demons they claimed to protect him from. His duty as Warden Commander could be lifted from his shoulders if his spell got to the Archdemon first. Now? Now Leverette was sure he had never once suffered in his life, not at the Circle, not at the Wardens, not during the war, but only now after seeing the first blackened ulcer that ate at the stump of his knee while Arianne and Arlan had yet to barely fulfill their oaths.

He should have been happy. They were both grown now. One an accomplished made researching the newly revived griffons whether she saw the position in the stables as a punishment or not while the other was a swordsman soon to be without equal. It was true they’d been raised on legends and had big shadows to fill, but it was only a matter of time. It was Leverette and Zevran’s job to pave those first steps for them, and Varric’s acceptance of them into the chase for the Dreadwolf was just that.

But Leverette was afraid, and he heaved a choked breath that tasted of blood and sorrow. He was afraid that his story was to end. And in the bowels of the Deep Roads, too.

He only hoped Zevran wouldn’t try to end his story as well.

“You will be taking Squawksberry,” Zevran said, when Leverette was silent a moment longer. He could smile, however, when he caught Arianne throw her hands.

“That old lady?”

Leverette coughed out a chuckle. “That old lady will at least keep an eye on you.” He heard her stomp a foot.

“Is Arlan coming, too?”

Leverette laughed, louder this time, and he straightened to look Zevran in the eye. “Funny, that. He asked the same thing about you this morning.”

[juicydangler]

cut for length but the text this illustration accompanies is unhinged and weirdly horny, Doré absolutely understood the assignment

Excerpt from Les Travailleurs de la Mer by Victor Hugo (1866), tr. Isabel Florence Hapgood:

--

Suddenly a large, round, flat, slimy mass emerged from the lower part of the crevice.

It was the centre; the five thongs were attached to it like spokes to a hub; on the opposite side of this foul disk could be distinguished the beginnings of three other tentacles, which remained under the slope of the rock. In the middle of this sliminess there were two eyes gazing.

The eyes were fixed on Gilliatt.

Gilliatt recognized the octopus (devil-fish).

II TO believe in the octopus, one must have seen it.

Compared with it, the hydras of old are laughable.

At certain moments one is tempted to think that the intangible forms which float through our vision encounter in the realm of the possible, certain magnetic centres to which their lineaments cling, and that from these obscure fixations of the living dream, beings spring forth. The unknown has the marvelous at its disposal, and it makes use of it to compose the monster. Orpheus, Homer, and Hesiod were only able to make the Chimæra: God made the octopus.

When God wills it, he excels in the execrable….

All ideals being admitted, if terror be an object, the octopus is a masterpiece.

The whale has enormous size, the octopus is small; the hippopotamus has a cuirass, the octopus is naked; the jararoca hisses, the octopus is dumb; the rhinoceros has a horn, the octopus has no horn; the scorpion has a sting, the octopus has no sting; the buthus has claws, the octopus has no claws; the ape has a prehensile tail, the octopus has no tail; the shark has sharp fins, the octopus has no fins; the vespertilio vampire has wings armed with barbs, the octopus has no barbs; the hedgehog has quills, the octopus has no quills; the sword-fish has a sword, the octopus has no sword; the torpedo-fish has an electric shock, the octopus has none; the toad has a virus, the octopus has no virus; the viper has a venom, the octopus has no venom; the lion has claws, the octopus has no claws; the hawk has a beak, the octopus has no beak; the crocodile has jaws, the octopus has no teeth.

The octopus has no muscular organization, no menacing cry, no breastplate, no horn, no dart, no pincers, no prehensile or bruising tail, no cutting pectoral fins, no barbed wings, no quills, no sword, no electric discharge, no virus, no venom, no claws, no beak, no teeth. Of all creatures, the octopus is the most formidably armed.

What then is the octopus? It is the cupping-glass.

In open sea reefs, where the water displays and hides all its splendors, in the hollows of unvisited rocks, in the unknown caves where vegetations, crustaceans, and shell-fish abound, beneath the deep portals of the ocean,—the swimmer who hazards himself there, led on by the beauty of the place, runs the risk of an encounter. If you have this encounter, be not curious but fly. One enters there dazzled, one emerges from thence terrified.

This is the nature of the encounter always possible among rocks in the open sea.

A grayish form undulates in the water: it is as thick as a man’s arm, and about half an ell long; it is a rag; its form resembles a closed umbrella without a handle. This rag gradually advances towards you, suddenly it opens: eight radii spread out abruptly around a face which has two eyes; these radii are alive; there is something of the flame in their undulation; it is a sort of wheel; unfolded, it is four or five feet in diameter. Frightful expansion. This flings itself upon you.

The hydra harpoons its victim.

This creature applies itself to its prey; covers it, and knots its long bands about it. Underneath, it is yellowish; on top, earth-colored: nothing can represent this inexplicable hue of dust; one would pronounce it a creature made of ashes, living in the water. In form it is spider-like, and like a chameleon in its coloring. When irritated it becomes violet in hue. Its most terrible quality is its softness.

Its folds strangle; its contact paralyzes.

It has an aspect of scurvy and gangrene. It is disease embodied in monstrosity.

It is not to be torn away. It adheres closely to its prey. How? By a vacuum. Its eight antennæ, large at the root, gradually taper off and end in needles. Underneath each one of them are arranged two rows of decreasing pustules, the largest near the head, the smallest ones at the tip. Each row consists of twenty-five; there are fifty pustules to each antenna, and the whole creature has four hundred of them. These pustules are cupping-glasses.

These cupping-glasses are cylindrical, horny, livid cartilages. On the large species they gradually diminish from the diameter of a five-franc piece to the size of a lentil. These fragments of tubes are thrust out from the animal and retire into it. They can be inserted into the prey for more than an inch.

This sucking apparatus has all the delicacy of a key-board. It rises, then retreats. It obeys the slightest wish of the animal. The most exquisite sensibilities cannot equal the contractibility of these suckers, always proportioned to the internal movements of the creature and to the external circumstances. This dragon is like a sensitive-plant.

This is the monster which mariners call the poulp, which science calls the cephalopod, and which legend calls the kraken. English sailors call it the “devil-fish.” They also call it the “blood-sucker.” In the Channel Islands it is called the pieuvre.

It is very rare in Guernsey, very small in Jersey, very large and quite frequent in Sark.

A print from Sonnini’s edition of Buffon represents an octopus crushing a frigate. Denis Montfort thinks that the octopus of the high latitudes is really strong enough to sink a ship. Bory Saint Vincent denies this, but admits that in our latitudes it does attack man. Go to Sark and they will show you, near Brecq-Hou, the hollow in the rock where, a few years ago, an octopus seized and drowned a lobster-fisher.

Péron and Lamarck are mistaken when they doubt whether the octopus can swim, since it has no fins.

He who writes these lines has seen with his own eyes at Sark, in the cave called the Shops, an octopus swimming and chasing a bather. When killed and measured it was found to be four English feet in spread, and four hundred suckers could be counted. The dying monster thrust them out convulsively.

According to Denis Montfort, one of those observers whose strong gift of intuition causes them to descend or to ascend even to magianism, the octopus has almost the passions of a man; the octopus hates. In fact, in the absolute, to be hideous is to hate.

The misshapen struggles under a necessity of elimination, and this consequently renders it hostile.

THE OCTOPUS when swimming remains, so to speak, in its sheath. It swims with all its folds held close. Let the reader picture to himself a sewed-up sleeve with a closed fist inside of it. This fist, which is the head, pushes through the water, and advances with a vague, undulating movement. Its two eyes, though large, are not very distinct, being the color of the water.

The octopus on the chase or lying in wait, hides; it contracts, it condenses itself; it reduces itself to the simplest possible expression. It confounds itself with the shadow. It looks like a ripple of the waves. It resembles everything except something living.

The octopus is a hypocrite. When one pays no heed to it, suddenly it opens.

A glutinous mass possessed of a will—what more frightful? Glue filled with hatred.

It is in the most beautiful azure of the limpid water that this hideous, voracious star of the sea arises.

It gives no warning of its approach, which renders it more terrible. Almost always, when one sees it, one is already caught.

At night, however, and in breeding season, it is phosphorescent. This terror has its passions. It awaits the nuptial hour. It adorns itself, it lights up, it illuminates itself; and from the summit of a rock one can see it beneath, in the shadowy depths, spread out in a pallid irradiation,—a spectre sun.

It has no bones, it has no blood, it has no flesh. It is flabby. There is nothing in it. It is a skin. One can turn its eight tentacles wrong side out, like the fingers of a glove.

It has a single orifice in the centre of its radiation. Is this one hole the vent? Is it the mouth? It is both.

The same aperture fulfills both functions. The entrance is the exit.

The whole creature is cold.

The carnarius of the Mediterranean is repulsive. An odious contact has this animated gelatine, which envelops the swimmer, into which the hands sink, where the nails scratch, which one rends without killing and tears off without pulling away, a sort of flowing and tenacious being which slips between one’s fingers; but no horror equals the sudden appearance of the octopus,—Medusa served by eight serpents.

No grasp equals the embrace of the cephalopod.

It is the pneumatic machine attacking you. You have to deal with a vacuum furnished with paws. Neither scratches nor bites; an indescribable scarification. A bite is formidable, but less so than a suction. A claw is nothing beside the cupping-glass. The claw means the beast entering into your flesh; the cupping-glass means yourself entering into the beast.

Your muscles swell, your fibres writhe, your skin cracks under the foul weight, your blood spurts forth and mingles frightfully with the lymph of the mollusk. The creature superimposes itself upon you by a thousand mouths; the hydra incorporates itself with the man; the man amalgamates himself with the hydra. You form but one. This dream is upon you. The tiger can only devour you; the octopus, oh horror! breathes you in. It draws you to it, and into it; and bound, ensnared, powerless, you feel yourself slowly emptied into that frightful pond, which is the monster itself.

Beyond the terrible, being devoured alive, is the inexpressible, being drunk alive….

SUCH was the creature in whose power Gilliatt had been for several moments.

--

fuck it. post gustave doré octopus blowjob

[assbutt-writes]

A Heart Of Iron Chapter 12

Chapter below cut

LOKI

Shit. Why did it have to be right then? Loki sighed and then teleported outside, instantly appearing face-to-face with a gray man that seemed to be entirely covered in some sort of red tattoos. Maybe they were scars? Whatever they were, the man was standing extremely still, staring at Loki.

"Drax, get over here. We've gone over this, standing still doesn't make you invisible, it makes you look like an idiot," a raccoon said, and, wait a second, why was the raccoon standing up? And why could it talk?

"Did that raccoon just talk?" Clint said, bemused.

"i'm not a raccoon!" the raccoon yelled, a look of anger crossing it's face.

"I am Groot," the tree said smugly, and the raccoon looked insulted.

"Hey!" the raccoon said, and he started to shoot the tree with his blasters. The tree just stood there, and wait, was it laughing? A talking tree and talking raccoon. Surely this day couldn't get any weirder.

"Rocket! Groot! Break it up!" a man behind them said, trying to break up the fight, and yeah, apparently it could get weirder.

"Stay out of this, Quill!" Rocket hissed.

"Okay, what's going on?" Clint cut in, "Why are you here?"

"My father was here on Earth, and we're trying to stop him from wiping out half of all of the life on this planet," a green woman explained, and Loki's eyes went wide. He knew that someone was playing God and wiping out half of all life on each planet they went to, but if they were Thanos, they didn't stand a chance. Nobody stood a chance. He was called the Mad Titan for a reason, after all. His race practically were gods, and races far greater than his were no match for him. And if that was the case, then the woman had to be–

"Loki?" Clint asked, looking over at him with a concerned look crossing his face, breaking Loki out of his thoughts.

"You–You're Gamora, right? I–I've heard of this. I just never knew it was Thanos. If it is him, we're doomed," Loki said, starting to panic.

"Maybe you could've broken it to them a little easier, Gamora?" a man said from behind the group, and Gamora spun around to face him.

"Cut it, Quill. They needed it hear it, and I don't sugarcoat things. You know that," Gamora said, giving Quill a terrifying look. Quill backed off immediately, looking appropriately scared.

"Okay," Clint said slowly, wanting to make sure he understood, "So we're all about to die, and you guys are here to try and stop it?"

"Pretty much," Quill said, shrugging. Gamora rolled her eyes at him.

Clint let out a long sigh.

"I guess you guys can come on in, then. We can use all the help we can get," he said.

"Wait a second. How did you know who I am?" Gamora asked, spinning on Loki.

"You and your sister are common knowledge where I come from. Gamora and Nebula, two children, the last of their races, taken in by the Mad Titan and raised to be warriors," Loki said.

"And where exactly do you come from?" Gamora asked, her guard obviously going up.

"Asgard," he said simply, and she nodded, accepting his answer.

They all walked back inside, Jarvis assigned the aliens a floor, and Loki went back up to Tony to fill him in on what happened. He told Tony the story, the other man's eyes going wide.

"So let me get this straight, a bunch of aliens came down in a spaceship and said that, what, we're doomed?" Tony said exasperatedly, running a hand down his face.

"Pretty much," Loki said, and Tony let out a groan.

"Why can't I have one normal day?" he complained.

Just then, Rocket entered the room, as if to punctuate Tony's sentence.

"Wheres the bathroom?" he asks, and Tony looks disgusted.

"Why is there a raccoon in my room? Get it out of here!" Tony said as Loki tried to stop him.

Rocket looked offended. "I'm going to ignore that, seeing as you're in a hospital bed right now, but if you ever call me a raccoon again," he said, leaving the threat unfinished, "I'm not an it, either. My name is Rocket."

"N–Nice to meet you, Rocket," Tony said hesitantly.

"Yeah, yeah, now where's the toilet?"

"Down the hall," Loki said, trying not to laugh.

After he was gone, Tony turned on Loki.

"You ass! Why didn't you tell me one of them was a raccoon?"

"I thought it would be funny?" Loki said hesitantly, his face breaking out in a grin.

Tony threw a book at him.

"Ow," Loki said completely deadpan, and they both broke out into laughter at how completely absurd the situation was.

Clint came in, grinning from ear to ear.

"Strange says you can get a wheelchair now!" he said, and a similar grin broke out on Tony's face. He threw his fist in the air and whooped happily.

"Mobility!" he cheered, making Loki laugh.

Clint brought in a StarkTech wheelchair, and, after 4 failed tries, they got him into the wheelchair. Tony gave it a few experimental spins, and attempted to pop a wheelie, which ended up with him on the floor.

"Tony!" Loki shouted, while Clint laughed.

"Hey! Don't laugh at my pain!" he shouted, and then, noticing the look of concern on Loki's face, he said, "I'm fine, Lokes,"

Loki helped him get back up, and they went into the common room. Tony froze when he saw the group in the living room, watching Star Wars and talking about how inaccurate it was.

"Holy shit there's a tree in my living room."

"I am Groot!" Groot said, crossing his arms.

"Okay, then," Tony said, taken aback, "It talks."

"I am Groot!" Groot yelled, obviously offended. Gamora rolled her eyes and stepped in before another fight could break out.

"Guys, I think we have bigger problems right now, like Thanos," Gamora said, turning off the TV.

"Right, so what are we going to do about that?" Tony said, getting straight to business.

"There are 3 Infinity Stones on Earth right now, the Time, Space, and Mind Stones. We don't know where the others are, bit if we can stop Thanos from getting those Stones, we can stop him from destroying half of all life in the universe," Gamora said.

Tony nodded, "We already know where they are: the scepter, the Tesseract, and with the Ancient One. We already have the scepter and Tesseract. "

"Good. We're going to need to go to this 'Ancient One' and get the stone from them," Quill said, and the others nodded. They did a bit more planning, but when they started talking about going right then, Steve cut in, indicating the clock.

"I vote we do that in the morning," Steve said, yawning, "It's already 11:58."

"Fine, old man," Tony said, and Steve throws a pillow at him.

"I agree," Rocket said, "You have no idea how hard flying a ship is."

"Wait, he flies the– You know what? Why not," Tony said resignedly.

They all went back to their rooms, Tony wheeling excitedly to his, talking about his "first time in a real bed in forever". Loki fell asleep right when he got to his bed, and, for the first time in a while, he didn't dream.

[between-the-realms]

"Understood," he said then, whether or not he truly believed Alfred, though, was up in the air. He took a quill and sighed the paper, before stating, "that was all the reason u had for summoning you. To go over this agreement. So, if you wish you can be off." He then looked at the soldier, "Jackson, you can be off as well. I'm sure you're still grieving. You'll have your new assignment by the morning." He then waved the man off.

Jackson, keeping that neutral face, bored and said, "Yes, sire." Before turning, wrinkling his nose and grimacing, before turning and walking out the door, though would spare Alfred a quick glance.

Past times

@the-mysticandmodern-world

The holy wars had been brutal for Abaddon. He had enlisted five years prior and almost immediately was thrust into a war to secure land for nation of Sunray Province. They needed more space for their wheat production... more space to build a grand cathedral to their goddess... more space for the goddess to bless. Abaddon was still young. Still impressionable. He believed whatever the arch bishop told their troops.

Now it was the final battle of the holywar, Abaddon had proved himself throughout it, surviving every battle... killing hundreds of men at this point. But now? Now... he laid on the scarred earth. Blood leaked out of a wound as he stared up at blue sky... at the sun that stared back at his tanned skin. The fighting had died down long ago, but Abaddon was still alive. Gravely wounded with no ability to move, but alive.

[snapeaddict]

Dearest friend

It was late, but not as late as it was when she usually looked up from her desk to notice how many hours had passed since she had started grading papers. The clock had not even struck half-past ten, she gave it a perplexed look, trying to understand why she felt as if she had just been pulled out of her routine despite sitting alone and undisturbed in the silence of her living room. Perhaps it was the silence itself; she had always graded her papers in the staff room on Saturday nights, and students, ghosts and paintings formed a familiar, soothing jabber she was used to hearing there. There was nothing like that in her tower, which she used to enjoy very much; but now, alone with the ticking of her clock, she found herself longing for that never-ending chatter. It was why she had deserted the staff room. Now, no matter the hour, no matter how many children were roaming the corridors, all was always terribly silent, and that silence was only ever broken by the consistent ringing of the bell and military-like footsteps. This sounded nothing like Hogwarts; she felt alienated. It was like looking at a beloved, familiar face and seeing nothing but foreign traits, being unable to understand why and how the muscles of that face moved, to decipher any kind of feeling behind the once friendly eyes – to see nothing at all. 

No need for metaphors. Severus carried out the task very well: he personified that silence with formidable charisma.

She looked down at her papers again. She had been grading them inattentively, with the kind of automatic skills that years of practice and a recurring lesson within the curriculum could afford a teacher – thank Merlin for small mercies. However, the paragraph she was now reading, written in shaky handwriting by a first-year student who clearly had not used many quills in the past, was absolutely mind-boggling. She could not quite pinpoint what had been going on in that boy’s brain, most likely he hadn’t had the time to proofread his essay, but that spelling mistake was unfortunate, especially in that context, and it was only because he was a first-year that she was ready to believe it was an innocent error. 

So she understood. That was why everything had felt so out of place all of a sudden: this right here was funny, and a part of her must have felt like laughing, but that too felt foreign, so here she was, wondering what was wrong. And it was as simple as that. Something was triggering a long-forgotten instinct, that of laughing, and she could not entirely process it, because she usually shared the funny student mistakes with someone. And they laughed about it together, in the staff room, on Saturday nights.

She felt that the stream of her thoughts was about to continue. She feared what reason would tell her; she precipitately took out her wand, duplicated the essay, put it aside, sat down again, went on to the next paper. At the end of the school year, there was a good chunk of assignments on that pile – all hilarious or terrible mistakes, answers and witty remarks from her students. That pile of papers only existed for those moments of timeless nostalgia she desperately needed to indulge in, and she kept on adding to it, arranging it in a neat stack, hiding it in one of her drawers. She could never open it without feeling the simultaneous burn of shame, guilt, anger, and past friendship.

-

There was a thin line between demonstrations of power and vulnerability. If you gave the impression that you were never around, if people started thinking perhaps all power had been relegated to your right hands, then you and the entire fragile ecosystem you were the centre of would be targeted by reinvigorated rebels; if, on the contrary, you were seen too often, you would become just as much of a target, and risk exposure. Severus was not meant to lead – in fact, his whole life had been spent creating a persona that could fake an innate sense of authority with simple but masterly use of demeanour and voice. Suddenly all that careful work fell into pieces, and he was thrown into a new system of hierarchy on whose preservation countless lives, and the outcome of the war, depended. There would be no use in trying to depict the mental state of the newly appointed headmaster; the dichotomy between inner and outer selves was such that doing so would certainly spark a literary debate on the theme of vraisemblance. Severus thus proceeded as he usually did in times of crisis, shutting down all emotions, putting on a familiar mask of indifference, scheduling his appearances in the corridors and Great Hall with care and repressed anxiety. His face became accustomed to the tension; it grew around his facial muscles as quickly as warm water freezes in the cold of winter.

Strangely, it was not the moments of intense pressure and unspeakable horrors that had, more than once, endangered his carefully crafted composure. It was, in fact, his rounds in the corridors: he sometimes crossed paths with unfortunate students who, because he was especially skilled at moving quietly, never heard him coming. There were a few seconds during which they kept on talking – even in situations of crisis, teenagers can be insouciant, if only to cope with reality. Thus Severus found himself interrupting many a conversation which were not of the highest intellectual standard. Many times he felt the shadow of an ironic smile on his lips, the taste of a sarcastic remark on his tongue: these were always followed by a vertiginous sense of estrangement from everything that surrounded him. By this time the students had spotted him and deserted the place, or they were waiting, terror-stricken, wondering what would come next. There Severus would have to compose himself, and the effort drained him in a way he could never fully explain. Often, when the students had left, he felt the urge to look over his shoulder, ready to mock the conversation he had overhead once more; then he was very still; and, finally, painfully, he kept on walking.

So he kept a list. It was cathartic, and he enjoyed the puzzled look on Albus’ painted face when he responded to him that this was a ‘private matter’. Very neatly, in the manner of the Domesday book, which is to say in a very organized fashion, he wrote down the silliest bits of conversations and remarks from students, sometimes adding comments in the margin such as ‘typical’, ‘6 years of education wasted. Glad I am not the one having to meet them for their orientation session’ or the occasional ‘colourful. To keep on hand in case of a meeting with the minister.’ In contrast to every other aspect of his life, from material matters to the most existential ones, he did not plan what to do with this parchment; he filled it carefree; it sat in one of his desk’s drawers that May evening.

It only left its place to be covered in remorseful tears, but the pile of essays in Minerva’s drawer remained desperately still.

[arrantsnowdrop]

Dementors - Fred Weasley x Reader

Summary: Takes place during Prisoner of Azkaban. Reader is in her fourth year (one below Fred/George) and has been having a rough year because of the Dementors. Fred steps in to help.

Warnings: mentions of anxiety and stress

Word Count: 4,500

A/N: I’ve had this fic idea for a few months now, and finally got around to writing it! Fred is genuinely the love of my life and I hope you enjoy reading! :)

The Hogwarts Library was your favorite place to study. It wasn’t necessarily because you enjoyed the silence more than anyone else, but rather stemmed from your inability to work when other people were around. The moment you broke off from your group of friends’ “study sessions” and started studying by yourself in the library, you fell in love with its quiet yet comforting ambience.

Studying alone didn’t necessarily mean you were lonely while studying. There was an unspoken sense of camaraderie between the regulars who frequented the library most nights of the week. Hermione, for example, had become your unofficial “study buddy” during your second year, with the two of you sharing a table or a couch to do your work on every time you were in the library together. Despite her being a year younger than you, she was one of your closest friends.

Even on nights like tonight, with buckets of rain falling down outside and the wind howling louder than a banshee, the library remained one of the coziest spots in the castle.

It was Saturday, one of the few nights Hermione didn’t come down to join you, and so you’d abandoned your normal desk near the windows in favor of a cushioned armchair near the fireplace (which Madam Pince only lit on nights like this).

You relished the warmth radiating from the fire in front of you, admiring the soft, flickering light it cast on the piece of parchment in your lap. You were taking a break from your half-finished potions essay, transfixed by the rain cascading down the tall library windows like a small waterfall.

You squinted as a dark figure floated into view, brows furrowing as you recognized it as one of the many dementors assigned to Hogwarts’ ground this year. You shuddered, quickly reverting your eyes to your essay.

How ironic, you thought, that you were writing about the Calming Drought when you hadn’t felt calm once all year.

You came from a muggle family, and while many creatures of the wizarding world were still unfamiliar to you, dementors were one aspect you wish had remained secret. They terrified you, to put it plainly.

You hadn’t slept soundly since the first day of the semester when one of them had just floated into the train compartment you were sharing with Harry, Hermione, and Ron. You’d almost passed out right then and there, and you weren’t even the person it was interested in.

You understood why they were there, but you still hated them. You could hardly go anywhere without seeing one hovering lifelessly through a window or lurking slowly over the Quidditch Pitch. As Hermione had said herself, you didn’t need to be near one for it to make you feel absolutely awful.

And while you didn’t like to think of yourself as an anxious person, the dementors’ presence this year had completely degraded your mental state. You were sleeping less, eating less, and trying to cope by putting all your effort into your schoolwork. At least when you were preoccupied with an essay or studying, you’d get a small distraction from the horrible creatures that permeated your everyday life.

“Oi, (Y/n)!”

You jumped about five feet in the air at the sudden noise, essay and quill falling unceremoniously to the floor. You groaned, twisting in your seat and eyes widening at the sight of Fred Weasley approaching you, a concerned look on his face.

“Sorry, love, didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologized sincerely. You gulped, ignoring the term of endearment, and shook your head dismissively.

“It’s alright,” you replied with a wave of your hand. “Just caught me off guard is all.” You reached down to pick up the items you’d launched off your lap. When you sat back up, Fred was walking over with a chair he’d grabbed from a nearby desk. You gave him a small smile as he sat down next to you.

“I’m assuming you’d like help with something?” you teased knowingly. He grinned and nodded.

“Hermione said you were in the middle of writing a potions essay, and seeing as Georgie and I have spent the last week studying for our potions OWL, I figured I’d come ask you all the questions Hermione couldn’t answer for us,” he explained. “If that’s okay with you, that is.”

You feigned offense. “Wow, Hermione first then me? I see how it is, Weasley.”

He rolled his eyes, pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothing it out on his thigh.

“These are our areas of concern,” he said, handing the paper to you.

“Areas of concern?” You raised an eyebrow as you scanned over the paper, chewing your bottom lip lightly as you tried to figure out what topics you could actually help him with. You glanced up at him, cheeks flushing at the sight of him watching you intently with a small smile on his face.

You’d always been a bit infatuated with Fred Weasley, but then again, who wasn’t? Fred and George were Quidditch legends, insanely popular (but in the truly social way, not the stuck up “I’m better than everyone” way), and quite smart. They were funny but caring, and stood up for anyone who needed it. He was also a year older than you, and thus you regarded him as completely unattainable.

“I understand everything up until this here,” you said finally, pointing at where ‘Draught of Peace’ was written. “I think this is where the fifth year curriculum begins, and obviously I’m not there yet.”

“I will gladly accept whatever help you can give,” Fred replied, grimacing as Madam Pince interrupted him with a loud “Shh!”

You startled again, exhaling quickly and glaring at Fred for causing the reprimand.

“Someone’s jumpy today,” he said, brows furrowing slightly. “You alright, (Y/n)?”

“I’m good, thank you,” you replied, looking down at Fred’s list once again. You went to hand it back to him, only to find him staring at you with an apprehensive look. “What?” you asked defensively.

“Have you been sleeping lately?” he asked quietly. You gulped, realizing you hadn’t concealed the dark purple bags under your eyes before you’d left your dorm.

“It’s just been a tough week,” you replied firmly, shoving the list into his hands and reaching down to gather your things.

“(Y/n)-”

“It’s late,” you stated, cutting him off before he could interrogate you further. “How about we get together to study sometime this week? That way I can find all my essays from this year for reference.”

“That works fine for me,” he replied hesitantly. “Are you-”

“I’m free any day except Wednesday, and Thursday morning because I have a Charms test,” you interrupted again, standing up quickly. “Just let me know whenever.”

He nodded slowly, pushing himself out of his seat as well, concern still etched across his face. You tried to give him a reassuring smile.

“How about tomorrow in the Great Hall? After my Quidditch practice,” he finally suggested. You nodded eagerly.

“Sounds perfect, I’ll see you then.” You gave him a small wave and rushed towards the doors, trying to ignore your heart beating ten times faster than normal and the memory of Fred’s worried gaze.

• • •

When you woke up from yet another night of hardly any sleep, you realized you had absolutely no idea when Quidditch practice was. You had walked down to the common room looking for Harry, but lo and behold, Oliver Wood was already up and annotating a book on Quidditch strategies at nine in the morning.

Practice was from three to five on Sundays, as you quickly found out, meaning you had a whole eight hours to stress about studying with Fred before it actually happened.

You spent an hour trying to fall back asleep and another working on your potions essay, then decided you’d had enough of your own room and went to bother Hermione in her dorm. You found her sitting on the carpet surrounded by a copious amount of notes, with Lavender and Parvati helping her sort through them.

“Transfiguration,” Parvati explained as you sat down to help them. “We have a test on Friday.”

“A bloody hard one, too,” Lavender said, slightly exasperated. “Four chapters worth of short ended questions and two essays.”

“Where’s Kellah?” you asked, realizing the fourth inhabitant of the dorm was missing.

“Interrogating McGonagall about all this.” Lavender jabbed a figure at a stack of notes spitefully.

“Maybe Kellah will convince her to give us all bonus points,” Parvati suggested. Hermione laughed softly, head still bowed over a lengthy piece of parchment in front of her.

“I hear you’ve got a study date with Fred Weasley this afternoon,” Hermione said, glancing up to give you a grin and an eyebrow wiggle. You groaned, blushing as Lavender and Parvati squealed.

“It’s really not that serious-”

“Except that it is!” Lavender all but shrieked. “You’ve liked him for forever!”

“Sweet Merlin, this is your chance!” Parvati gushed, grabbing your hand and squeezing it tightly. “I’m genuinely so excited about this.”

You laughed and shook your head. “I’ll be sure to give you all updates tomorrow, though I can’t promise they’ll be all that interesting.”

The four of you continued to talk about your looming study session with Fred as you combed through Hermione’s notes.

“This’ll be good for you, (Y/n),” Parvati said thoughtfully. “I mean, Fred’s a great guy, he’s always cared about you-”

“Maybe hanging out with him more will help with the whole, y’know, anxiety situation,” Lavender added. You shrugged.

“I mean, I saw him for literally five minutes yesterday and he’s already figured out that I’m not sleeping,” you said, chewing your bottom lip. “And I don’t why but the thought of him knowing everything makes me nervous.”

“Why?” Hermione asked curiously. You shrugged again.

“I guess I just don’t want him to be upset, or worried.”

“(Y/n), Fred would never be upset with you,” she said reassuringly.

“I think it’s romantic that he’s all in-tune with your emotions,” Parvati said wistfully.

“And he cares,” Lavender sighed, staring at the carpet emotionally. You rolled your eyes.

“Thanks, guys.”

• • •

At 2:30, you tried to convince yourself that you were heading down to the common room to relax, not to catch a glimpse of your favorite Weasley twin on his way to practice. That was a lie.

Fifteen minutes later, Fred Weasley ambled down the steps with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, laughing loudly with George while Oliver trailed behind them muttering something about maturity. Fred’s face lit up as he caught sight of you curled up on the couch and smiled at you brightly. You gave him a small wave in return, hoping he wouldn’t be able to see the faint blush on your cheeks.

“I’ll see you later!” he called on his way out of the room. George paused in the doorway to give you an exaggerated wink, giggling when you glared at him before turning to catch up with the rest of the team.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, cursing your quickened pulse and sweaty palms - he’d only been in the same room as you, for Merlin’s sake, there was no need to get so worked up.

And yet Fred had all your nerves on edge as the clock on the wall ticked closer and closer to five o’clock. You pulled out your potions textbook and a spare piece of parchment, deciding to make a few notes for later.

At some point you dozed off, your lack of sleep catching up with you as it often did in the middle of the afternoon. You’d become a frequent napper in the last month or so, finding it easier to fall asleep when it was still light out. Today, however, was not the best day for one of your four hour recovery naps.

You woke up with half an hour to spare before you needed to be in the Great Hall. You went back up to your room, gathered your typical study things and changed out of the pajamas you’d been in all day, opting for a sweater and a new pair of sweatpants instead. This time, you made sure to dab concealer under your eyes, erasing all evidence of your insomnia before you left Gryffindor Tower.

There were only a few students sitting in the Great Hall when you got there. You took a seat in the middle of the Gryffindor table and inspected the baskets of assorted snacks in front of you as you set your bag down.

One of the first years, a girl named Amara, pushed a basket of pumpkin pasties towards you from her seat across the table. She gave you a shy smile. “I know you like them.”

“Thank you, Amara,” you said, grinning at the young Gryffindor and grabbing two of the pasties.

“What’s that about?” she asked as you pulled your textbook out of your bag.

“Potions,” you said, setting the book on the table in front of you. “I’m helping Fred study for his exams.”

“Fred Weasley?” Amara asked with wide eyes. You chuckled.

“The one and only.”

As if on cue, Fred made his way through the doors of the Great Hall, head turning as he scanned the room for you. He grinned as his eyes met yours and hastened his pace just a little bit. Your heart skipped a beat, admiring the way his sweatpants hugged his legs and the slight flush to his face.

“Hello, love,” he said, sliding into the seat next to you. You gave him a small smile, eyes widening as he wrapped an arm around your waist. If he noticed the blush tickling your cheeks he ignored it.

“And hello to you, too, Amara,” he continued, giving her a wave. “You look lovely today.”

She squeaked, face turning a bright shade of red as she scampered down the bench towards her classmates. You rolled your eyes, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder.

“You’re a menace,” you scolded.

“Sure am,” he replied proudly, removing his arm from your waist and clasping his hands together on the table in front of him. “So, potions.”

You nodded, flipping open your textbook to the Wit-Sharpening Potion (which you’d bookmarked earlier). “This is the first thing in the fourth year curriculum.”

“Which is where Hermione left off,” he added with a nod.

“I’ve already read it over,” you explained, pointing at some of the annotations you’d made earlier. “So we can review it together and then you can copy down all the important bits to study later.”

He looked down at himself and then gave you a sheepish look. “Do you by chance have something I could write on?” he asked. You sighed, reaching into your bag to grab a piece of parchment and a quill.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Weasley,” you said sarcastically.

“Oh, I hope so,” he replied cheekily, giving you a heart-melting grin.

You spent the next hour or so guiding him through the effects and recipes of each potion. He actually did a surprisingly good job at paying attention, taking detailed notes and only interrupting every once in a while to point out Amara staring at the two of you from a distance.

“She’s so cute,” you remarked softly, watching her gossip energetically with her friends.

“She reminds me of you when you were a first year,” Fred said. You gave him a confused glance.

“What do you mean?”

“Very enthusiastic, easy to rile up,” he explained.

“Now I understand why you and George pulled so many pranks on me,” you groaned, turning the page to the chapter on Skele-Gro.

“It’s was our job to terrorize the new students,” he said, raising his hands in defense. “Peeves’ orders.”

“Uhuh,” you said sarcastically, unable to keep the grin off your face.

“This is the stuff Madam Pomfrey gave to Harry last year!” Fred said excitedly, pointing at the book. You grinned and nodded.

“Yes! Now what’s it made of?” you asked, covering the ingredient list with your hand.

Fred’s nose scrunched as he concentrated. “Erm, puffer fish, and an arm bone, and…spiders?”

“One spider,” you corrected, lifting your hand off the page. “And a bunch of other things.”

“Chinese chomping cabbage, five Scarab beetles…” he mumbled, scribbling onto his parchment as he squinted at the list.

“Invented by Linfred of Stinchcombe,” you added.

“Funny name,” Fred chuckled.

“Which one?” you asked. “Linfred, or Stinchcombe?”

“Both.”

You giggled softly, gaze trailing upwards as the light emitting from the ceiling changed from a pale yellow to a deep blue. The floating candles gleamed brightly against the dark night sky. Despite the change, there was still enough light shining on the tables for you to be able to work.

“Lovely nighttime ambience,” Fred remarked from beside you.

“You sound like you work in real estate,” you replied, gaze moving from the ceiling to the large window at the front of the hall.

You inhaled sharply, noticing the all-too familiar silhouette of a dementor floating just beyond the glass.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Fred asked softly from behind you. You hardly noticed the hand he rested gently on your arm, focused entirely on the dementor hanging in the air like a twisted puppet.

“Dumbledore said they weren’t going to come on the school grounds,” you muttered.

Fred followed your gaze to the window, and you felt him stiffen behind you. “Ah.”

You turned back around in your seat, knocking his hand off you, and cleared your throat as you looked back at your notes.

“I think we can move on, yea?” you said, flipping to the next chapter.

“(Y/n)-”

“Antidotes,” you announced, clapping your hands together dismissively. “Very specific healing potions-”

“(Y/n)!” Fred interrupted, reaching out and covering your hand with his own. You sighed, finding yourself feeling oddly uncomfortable under his concerned gaze. “What, Fred?”

“Exactly, what the bloody hell was that?” he asked, a bit harshly.

“What are you talking about?”

“The dementor!” he said exasperatedly, frown deepening as you shivered. “(Y/n)?” His voice was much softer this time.

“I don’t like talking about them,” you said finally, shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath. “They scare the shit out of me.”

“Are the dementors why you haven’t been sleeping?”

Your eyes snapped open, giving Fred an incredulous look. “I’ve been sleeping just fine, thank you.”

“I hope you don’t think last night in the library was the first time I’ve noticed,” he said softly. Your heart skipped a beat. “All year you’ve seemed…more reserved. Tired. You yawn all the time, I hardly see you eat.”

“I’m just…stressed,” you managed, glancing at the pumpkin pasties you’d set aside earlier. The dementor had taken your appetite away completely.

“It seems more serious than that,” Fred muttered, placing his hand on top of yours and squeezing gently. 

You sighed, glancing down the table to where Amara and her friends were staring at you intently. “Could we continue this conversation elsewhere?” you asked quietly. Fred nodded, helping you put your things in your bag.

“When did it start?” he asked as the two of you walked towards the doors at the end of the Great Hall.

“It’s been all year,” you admitted, cringing at the way Fred exhaled sharply. “I didn’t know you noticed.”

“Of course I noticed,” Fred said, pushing the door open for you. “You’re worth watching.”

You blushed and followed him down the corridor. “Where are we going?”

“I was thinking the kitchens?” he said. “It’s warm there, plus the house-elves are just starting dinner.”

Fred stayed by your side as you walked down the stairs, hand brushing against the back of yours lightly every time he took another step down. You bit your lip, imagining how it would feel to get to hold his hand.

“How was Quidditch practice?” you asked softly, breaking the silence. Fred looked down at you and gave you a small grin.

“You really want to know?”

You nodded.

“Absolute shit,” he replied, emphasizing every syllable. You stifled a laugh as his brows furrowed in frustration. “Wood has been up in everyone’s business for weeks trying to get us to learn this new play. You know who invented it?”

“Who?” you asked curiously.

“The Pride of Portree!” he said exasperatedly. “They’re bloody professionals, and Wood can’t seem to understand how we’re not performing as well as they are.”

“Wood’s a bit of a lunatic when it comes to Quidditch,” you agreed.

“A bit is an understatement,” Fred snorted, stopping at the fruit bowl painting that concealed the entrance to the kitchens. “Do you want to tickle the pear or should I?” “Don’t think I’ve ever been asked that before,” you laughed. “You can do it.”

Fred reached out and gave the two dimensional fruit a tickle, grinning as it turned into a door handle. He pulled it open. “After you, m’lady.”

“(Y/n)!”

You grinned and waved hello to Krafty, one of your favorite house-elves.

“Hello, Krafty,” Fred called, pulling the door shut and coming to stand beside you.

“Mr. Weasley,” Krafty said, giving a slight bow. “Krafty must go help work on dinner!”

You glanced up at Fred as the house-elf scurried off. “I didn’t know you knew Krafty.”

“George and I come here all the time to steal food before bed,” he explained, grabbing your hand and tugging you towards one of the tables. “We know quite a few of these guys.”

He sat down and patted the bench next to him, grinning as you followed suit and rested your head against his arm.

“Comfortable?” he asked. You nodded.

“Your mother’s sweaters are always so cozy,” you mumbled. “I stole one of Ginny’s old ones to sleep in.”

Fred chuckled. “I’ll just ask her to make you one.”

“I don’t want to burden her,” you whined.

“She loves you, she won’t mind.”

“I miss your mum,” you said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen her.” “You should come visit,” Fred suggested. You shrugged, sitting up straight. “Maybe.”

Fred reached around your back and grabbed a roll out of a basket behind you. You gave him a confused look as he forced it into your hands.

“Would you please eat this,” he said. “I haven’t seen you eat a full meal in weeks and it’s starting to make me nervous.”

“Sorry,” you mumbled, taking a small bite of the bread.

“I don’t mean to make you feel bad,” Fred said softly, “it’s just that you have to eat.”

“It’s not like I’m trying not to,” you explained. “I want to eat, but I get so…so nervous that I stop being hungry.”

“Because of the dementors?” he asked.

“Yea.” You cringed at how small your voice sounded.

“Why do they freak you out so much?” he asked genuinely. “I mean, they’re creepy and all, but you seem more affected by them than most other people.”

“You remember how one came into our compartment on the Hogwarts Express?” you asked. “At the beginning of the year?”

Fred frowned and nodded. “Don’t think Ron slept for two weeks.”

“Yea, well, I haven’t really slept since then,” you muttered.

“(Y/n), it’s been months,” Fred said incredulously, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. “I genuinely have no idea how you’ve been functioning this whole time.”

“I know it’s bad,” you sighed, leaning into his chest and trying to ignore the way his caring tugged at your emotions. “But it’s just…so dark in my room at night. And I’m always the last one awake and I feel so alone, and then I’m just reminded of how lonely and terrified and cold the dementor made me feel.”

“You have to sleep sometimes,” Fred said, pulling you in closer to him. “I read somewhere that you’ll die if you don’t sleep at all, and you’re clearly alive.” He pulled back and gave you a once-over. “Well, kind of.”

You snorted. “I take a lot of naps.”

“Is it easier to fall asleep during the day?”

“Yea, and I can hear people moving around and talking and stuff, so I don’t feel as isolated I guess,” you said.  Fred hummed, thinking to himself.

“Would it be okay if I proposed a rather outlandish and potentially polarizing solution,” he said finally.

“Uh, sure,” you replied, motioning for him to speak.

Fred cleared his throat. “You could, y’know, if you wanted to, come sleep with me. Only if you were okay with it, of course.”

You were sure you’d heard him wrong, eyes bulging as a faint blush appeared on his cheeks.

“Jesus, (Y/n), don’t look at me like that,” he teased with a nervous chuckle. You blinked, trying to force your face into a more normal expression.

“You…you want me to sleep with you?” you asked.

“Not sexually!” he clarified quickly. “Just like physical sleeping, and I could keep you company so you wouldn’t feel lonely.” A pause. “Unless you’d prefer sexually.”

You felt your face turn increasing shades of bright red, stuttering for an answer as he grinned at you adoringly. Your eyes widened as he reached out and grasped your thigh gently, staring down at his hand and then back up at him.

“Would this be a bad time to tell you I fancy you?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours for any trace of an answer.

“No,” you managed breathlessly. “This is a perfect time.” His lips were on yours in an instant, your eyes fluttering closed as one of his hands came up to cup your jaw, the other resting on the small of your back, coaxing you closer to him.

You sighed, wrapping your arms around his neck as he slipped his tongue into your mouth, kissing you senseless and caressing your face with his thumb.

And suddenly you remembered you were still in the kitchens. In the kitchens snogging Fred Weasley.

“Fred,” you murmured, pulling back and taking a deep breath. You opened your eyes, relishing in the sight of Fred panting, his eyes still closed. “Fred, we have an audience.”

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the small crowd of house-elves watching you from a distance, all donning shocked expressions. “Krafty! Doesn’t (Y/n) look ravishing this evening?”

Krafty blushed furiously, turning around and hurrying away with the platter he was carrying.

“Fred Weasley!” you scolded.

“I wasn’t completely joking, you know,” he muttered, looking back at you. “You look gorgeous. Absolutely stunning, inside and out.”

You blushed. “I, erm, fancy you too,” you said, realizing you hadn’t said it back before. “In case you were wondering.”

Fred grinned, pushing himself to his feet and reaching down to help you stand up. “Let’s take this back up to my dorm, yea? We can make tea and look at that potions book a little more, and then maybe you can spend the night?”

You looked up at him, beaming at the thought of spending a night in Fred Weasley’s arms, and potentially sleeping well for the first time in months. “That sounds marvelous, Freddie.”