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#I wrote this in less than 5 minutes while at work
mixiury · 3 days
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Sunlight knocking outside of your window.
Character(s): Wanderer x GN Reader
Warning(s): Depressive thoughts and in general signs of depression.
Summary: When days seems meaningless, someone is there for you. (OR how he helps you during a depressive episode)
A/N: I wrote this as a comfort for myself a year ago or so. I never meant to publish it but, now that I am in a better place, I thought that it may help anyone who is going through the same, so here it is <3 Requests are open btw!
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Shivers run through your body despite being covered in sheets and blankets. Everything is so cold, the type that numbs out your senses until all you can feel is the freezing sensation taking your body. Just the idea of getting out of the bed is unimaginable, too tired to even move from your position.
All corners in the room sumerge you in their darkness, as if waiting to consume you whole. You don't resist it. There is just not point on it. Instead you close your eyes and let it drive, taking you whatever it wishes. Maybe if you pray hard enough you will be somewhere else. A unreachable place where pain can't find you, far away from your own mind.
Just five more minutes of sleep never hurt anybody, and sometimes resigning is far better than keep fighting an endless war, but when you open your eyes you are still in your room. Motionless. Fixed to the same thoughts that never seem to leave.
Some days are harder than others, they say, but in reality, they are not. They are incredibly easy, and that somehow makes it worse. You have no right to pity yourself when all you do is eat and sleep for hours, if not days, while other people works so hard to get half of what you have. It's shameful, really, but you can't force yourself to care enough to do something about it.
You try not to focus too much in your surroundings, intentionally ignoring all the clothes and papers around your bed. They are in the floor too, memorizing exactly the place of everything just so you don't step on them. It has be getting harder as more and more trash gather around, but everytime you set your mind in cleaning something comes out. You just don't have time for it, you often tell yourself. Maybe, if you say it enough times, one day you will believe it.
Actually, what time is it? The urge to check your phone suddenly overcomes you, although quickly give up on it when you realize it is completely dead. It doesn't even matter, you think. Days are all the same anyways, your shrug it off. You don't even remember the last time you did anything outside of roting in your room. Your memory has gotten worse, or maybe it has gotten better because, when you have nothing to do, everything is a little reminder of it.
How you wish you could just sleep this uncomfortable feeling crawling off your chest as worms eating your flesh, yet, despite how tired you are, your body stubbornly refuse to shut itself off once again. It must have gotten tired of that too, you just hoped it would do the same with you. But as much you would like that to happen, all you can do is stare at the ceiling. In a weird, incomprehensible way, It stares back.
It's impossible to know how long you stay like that, it could have been hours just as it could have been minutes, but what brings you back to reality is a knock on your door, the numbness suddenly replaced with annoyance as you slowly realize it won't stop anytime soon. The person outside of your room must know how stubborn you can be, because at some point they just stop knocking and abruptly break in. Rude. Maybe you should be scared that someone was able to get inside your house that easily, but instead you only burry yourself in your blankets, the light from the outside dazzling you.
Doesn't take you to see his face or hear his voice to know who is the intruder, although the recognition doesn't make it any better nor your annoyance any less.
"How do you even walk in here?"
"Good morning for you too."
"It's 5 pm. In what world is that morning?"
"In mine."
"And in it is this good too?"
"Definitely not after you burst through my door."
You hope that he would finally get the message, turn around and leave you alone, but all he does is huff and start gathering things off the floor, matching your own stubbornness. Although irritating, you know better that try to kick him out, already familiar with this routine between the two of you everytime you or him fall into these "episodes", coming unwelcome to the other's place just to check if they are still alive, most of the time after a week or two of not news or signs of life.
It is an unsaid agreement that you both did when opening to each other for the first time, something you sometimes are grateful of and others regret it, specially when he is the one breaking in and not the other way around. You wonder if he feels the same, but either way, none of you ever talk about it.
"Don't move anything, you are just going to make it worse."
"Stop whining and be grateful I'm doing this in the first place. Your whole room is already a mess, there is literally no way to make it worse."
Your mind screams to tell him how you know the place of every single thing on the floor and how he is just desorginizing your whole complex system you carefully created, but that would just start an argument about how stupid that is and you just don't have the energy for it right now. Yet, with the blankets on top of you to still cover the light, you decide to throw him a dirty petty look, one which once again is matched by him at first and later ignored.
Finally, you give up, fully using the blankets as a shelter and burying yourself in them like before.
Speak feels too much, listen feels too much, eat feels too much, get up feels too much, sleep feels too much, exist feels too much. You can't even continue staring at the ceiling because that would mean uncover your eyes completely and the lights are also too much for your eyes. All you wish is for Wanderer to give up on you just like you gave up in yourself, maybe if he did you wouldn't feel as a burden anymore. Maybe you would finally stop caring at all. But when has Wanderer ever listened to someone besides himself? Just like talking to a rock, or in this case, puppet.
"Stop overthinking. Self pity won't take you anywhere."
His voice guides you out of your thoughts, but not out of the all consuming emptiness and loneliness that usually fallows with them. He knows it all well, the feeling of just wanting to dissapear out of thin air to never be remembered nor found. That should be comforting, yet it isn't. Understanding does nothing against it, pity makes it worse, and help is terrifying, no matter from who it comes.
"All I want is to go back to sleep." Half a truth. You don't need to finish that sentence for him to get it.
"When was the last time you ate anything?"
What were you supposed to answer to that? You don't even know what day is it. It could have been just some hours just as it could have been days. Last time you checked your fridge there was nothing left to eat so you just went back to the bed and haven't bothered of eating anything ever since. You should have ordered something, anything, but you must stink after so many time without showering and you just didn't want to interact with anyone like that.
"Time is relative."
You try to hide it but embarrassment crawl out of your body as the realization kicks in, hands instinctively reaching for your pillow and using it to cover yourself with that too. If seeing your room was bad this was ten times worse. You haven't noticed until now, but your hair is greasy and your clothes sweaty, sticking to your skin in a very uncomfortable way. Although your nose can't catch it, it would be surprising if you don't smell too, for once grateful that your friend doesn't exactly have a human body to notice that.
Now, besides feeling completely useless, you also feel self conscious, isn't this so great?
He sighs and you are so sure he is going to leave. It is weird, all this time everything wanted is for him to get out as soon as possible, but now that feels so degrading, not that you would blame him if he does.
"I'll cook something but first I need you to get out of the bed."
Of course. You almost forgot this is Wanderer.
"I don't want to get up."
He stares at you. You stare back harder. All those stare competitions with the ceiling will have to paid off somehow.
Both of you stay like that until he finally resigns for the first time today, going back to clean around. It is surprising how he did so much in about an hour, actually being able to see the floor now. You will just blame his anemo vision for it, because the alternative is that you are just useless at literally picking stuff from the floor and you aren't really fan of that conclusion.
You must have spaced out because the next thing you feel is the weight of the bed suddenly shifting, Wanderer getting on it too as he ignores all the stuff on top of it. Your mind begs you to push him away, but your body moves a little to the edge, giving him the space to actually fit. Maybe any other day you two would fall into a teasing exchange, mocking each other and trying to get under the skin of the other only to forget how the conversation started in the first place. However, as familiar you are with those conversations, it just doesn't feel right anymore. Not right now.
"Here is what we are going to do; We stay in bed for 15 minutes more, after that we stand up and you go and take a shower while I cook you something. When we are done we can watch a movie, play something or hang out outside, what do you say?"
"Make it twelve minutes, let me pick the movie AND the games. You have terrible taste."
"Fine, but then you agree to open the windows because this place looks like a fucking cave. Also, I refuse to play Animal Crossing."
"Animal Crossing is way better than any other game you play."
"My choice is final. We can still play that stupid cult game where you are a goat or something."
"Is a lamb."
"Whatever, we have a deal?"
"Do I even have any other choice?"
Wanderer smiles slightly, greedy and proud, while you reluctantly accept your final defeat for today. The only difference is that, this time, you don't feel as alone as before, forming a smile of your own too. Maybe a little of light isn't so bad after all.
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physalian · 2 days
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What No One Tells you about Writing #3
Opening this up to writing as a whole, because it turns out I have a lot more to say!
Part 1
Part 2
1. You don’t fall in love with your characters immediately
But when you do, it’s a hit of serotonin like no other. I’d been writing a tight cast of characters for my sci-fi series since 2016 and switched over in a bout of writer’s block this year to my new fantasy book. I made it about ⅓ through writing the book going through the motions, unable to visualize what these new characters look like, sound like, or would behave like without a ‘camera’ on them.
Then, all of a sudden, I opened my document to keep on chugging with the first draft, and it clicked. They were no longer faceless elements of my plot, they were my characters and I was excited to see what they could accomplish, rooting for them to succeed. Sometimes, it takes a while, but it does come.
2. Sometimes a smaller edit is better than a massive rewrite
Unless you’re changing the trajectory of your entire plot, or a character’s arc really is unrecoverable, sometimes even a single line of dialogue, a single paragraph of introspection, or a quick exchange between two characters can change everything. If something isn’t working, or your beta readers consistently aren’t jiving with a character you yourself love, try taking a step back, looking at who they are as a person, and boil down what your feedback is telling you and it might demand a simpler fix than you expect.
Tiny details inserted at the right moment can move mountains. Fan theories stand on the backs of these minutiae. One sentence can turn a platonic relationship romantic. One sentence can unravel a fair and just argument. One sentence can fill or open a massive plot hole.
3. Outline? What outline?
Not every book demands weeks upon weeks of prep and worldbuilding. I would argue that jumping right in with only a vague direction in mind gives you a massive advantage: You can’t infodump research you haven’t done. Exposition is forced to come as the plot demands it, because you haven’t designed it yet.
Not every story is simple and straightforward, but even penning the first draft with your vague plan, *then* going back and adding in deeper worldbuilding elements, more thematic details, richer character development, can get you over the writer’s block hurdle and make it far less intimidating to just shut up and write the book.
4. It’s okay to let your characters take the wheel
I’ve seen writing advice that chastises authors who let their characters run wild, off the plan the story has for them. Yeah, doing this can harm your pacing and muddy a strong and consistent arc, but refusing to leave the box of your outline greatly limits your creativity. I do this particularly when writing romantic relationships (and end up like Captain Crunch going Oops! All Gays!).
Did I plan for these two to get together? No, it just happened organically as I wrote them talking, getting closer, getting to know each other better in the circumstances they find themselves in. Was this character meant to be gay? Well, he wasn’t meant to be straight, but you know what, he’d work really well with this other boy over here. None of that would have happened if I was bound and determined to follow my original plan, because my original plan didn’t account for how the story that I want to tell evolves. You aren’t clairvoyant—it’s okay if it didn’t end up where you thought it would.
5. Fight. Scenes. Suck.
Which is crazy because I love fantasy and sci-fi, the actiony-est genres. Some authors love battle scenes and fistfights. It comes naturally to them and I will forever be jealous. I hate fight scenes. I hate blocking and choreographing them. I hate how it doesn’t read like I’m watching a movie. I hate how it could take me hours to write a scene I can read in 5 minutes. I hate that there’s no way around it except to just not write them, or put in the elbow grease and practice.
Whatever your writing kryptonite is, don’t be too hard on yourself. It won’t ever replicate the movie in your head, but our audience isn’t privy to that movie and will be none the wiser of how this didn’t fit your expectations, because it’s probably awesome on its own. It could be a fight scene, sex scene, epic battle, cavalry charge, courtroom argument, car chase—whatever. Be patient, and kind to yourself and it will all come together.
6. Write the scenes you want to write first
And then be prepared to never use them. It can be mighty difficult working backwards from a climax and figuring out how to write the story around it, but if you’re sitting at your laptop staring at your cursor and watching it blink, stuck on a tedious moment that’s necessary but frustrating, go write something exciting. Even if that amazing scene ends up no longer working in the book your story becomes, you still get practice by writing it. Particularly if you hate beginnings or the pressure of a perfect first page is too high, you’re allowed to write any other moment in the book first.
And with that, be prepared to kill your darlings. Not your characters, I mean that one badass line of dialogue living rent free in your head. That epic monologue. That whump scenario for your favorite character. Sometimes it just doesn’t work out anymore, but even if it ends up in the trash, you can always salvage something from it, even if that’s only the knowledge of what not to do in the future.
7. “This is clearly an author insert.” … Yes. It is. Point?
No one likes Mary Sues, because a character who doesn’t struggle or learn to get everything they want in life is uncompelling. The most flagrant author inserts I see aren’t Mary Sues, they’re nerdy, awkward, boring white guys whose world changes to fit their perspective, instead of the other way around—they don’t have anything to say. I’m not the intended audience to relate to these characters and I accept that, but I don’t empathize with the so-called “strong female character” who also doesn’t have flaws or an arc either.
A good author insert? When the author gives their characters pieces of themselves. When the “author insert” struggles and learns and grows and it’s a therapeutic experience just writing these characters thrown into such horrible situations. They feel human when they’re given pieces of a human’s soul. They have real human flaws and idiosyncrasies. I don’t care if the author wrote themselves as the protagonist. I care that this protagonist is entertaining. So if you want to make yourself the hero of your book, go for it! But make sure you look in the mirror and write in your flaws, as much as your strengths.
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ts-witchy-archive · 6 months
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Witchy Self-Care
*pulls out draft from over a year ago* ENJOY
Hi! this is a list of witchy self-care things you can do. Most of these are pretty basic on account that i wrote this ages ago but they definitely still work. Anyways, I hope these help :)
Do the dishes and dedicate it to your house spirit (if you have one) or a deity (if you're religious)
sweep/mop your floor in the shape of sigils
add rosemary (or rosemary water/essential oils) to the water you mop with to set an intention of cleansing
taking ritual a bath/shower
cleansing your energy. it's so basic but I forget more than i'd like to admit
dedicating time to yourself. it's just as important as dedicating time to your deities/other spirits
light shadow work or going to therapy. bettering your mental health also betters your spiritual.
go outside and ground yourself
take a nap (less witchy, more, I love naps. rest is important)
work out/stretch and dedicate it to an entity
do some gratitude
take 5 minutes to just sit and turn off your devices. you can use this time for anything, just take a second to get off screens and connect with the world around you
meditate. if you can't sit still long enough to meditate, just focus on taking 3 deep breathes
when you wash your face, draw sigils on your face with the cleanser and moisturiser
^do the same as above but with your body wash and when you wash your hair
say some affirmations/manifestations while brushing your teeth
just check in with yourself and see how you're feeling spiritually, psychically and emotionally. sometimes we don't actually know how we're feeling until we sit down and actually ask ourselves.
If anyone has any more to add please comment. I'll add them to the list (with credit of course)
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brairslair · 3 months
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more smutty scenarios for monster trio x fem!reader
EVERYONE IS 18+ (minors please dni !)
a/n: sooo, i elaborated… switched it up a little from the original idea but basically just how i think some sleepy sex scenarios w the op men would go (please bear with me i wrote this while sleep deprived and have not touched it since)
don’t forget to like, reblog, and comment to support my work! mwah &lt;3
“good morning”
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luffy
wakes up with his arms wrapped around you, head in your chest, knees brushing yours
his head is all fuzzy with sleep, and you’re scent is surrounding him like a warm blanket
he’s already smiling all dopey and sleepy before he even opens his eyes
just bc he knows you’ll be there when he does
when you’re eyes flutter open he can’t help but stare at you
and maybe you have a little drool at the corner of your mouth, and maybe your hair looks like a total mess, but he couldn’t care less
he thinks you look so beautiful and sweet the way you’re looking at him, and then when you yawn out a soft “good morning” he can’t help but kiss you
because he can’t keep his hands (or his mouth in this instance) off of you for more than like 5 minutes max
he kisses soft little sweet pecks to your lips over and over until you’re both giggling, and he’s kissing all over your face
he’ll genuinely kiss every single inch of your face until he winds up back at your lips
except this time his kisses aren’t little sweet pecks
they’re still gentle and slow, but so much deeper
and then he’s slipping his tongue into your mouth and you guys are fully making out
his hands are slowly roaming up and down the sides of your body
luffy is usually pretty fast paced and straight to the point, so you only really get him at this speed when he’s tired ^^
things will get heated pretty quickly, languid, sloppy kisses paired with you hooking a leg around his waist
he’d firmly grab at your hip, bringing you down against his rapidly growing erection at a steady and slow rhythm, both of you still in your underwear
he’d be so gentle and tender about it
not wanting it to be too much for you
you stay curled up against each other on your side, invading each others space in the beat way
he loves being so close to your face
being able to watch you so closely as your lips part and your eyebrows furrow
he’s all smiley and fucked out already and you’ve barely done anything
but you’re so warm, and you’re soft little whimpers are so pretty, and you feel so good rubbing against him
his arm is wrapped around you, pulling you as close to him as possible, because he just wants to feel all of you
hand under the thin material of your t-shirt, cool against your warmed skin, he flips you so that you’re straddling him
and he’s still moving your hips to grind against him as he lives on you
his already blunt nature would increase tenfold, because he has absolutely no filter when he’s sleepy
he would also be mumbling and slurring his words because talking is too much effort
“feel s’good”
“lips are sooo soft”
“wanna cum together, can y’do that?”
he’ll absolutely melt if you rest your hand on his cheek or his jaw while you let him make you feel good
and he loves it if you litter sleepy kisses on his face and neck
loves when you get all mushy and melt into him, trusting him to take care of you
his hairs a mess, and his voice is scratchy with sleep, and his chest is warm against yours
his eyes stare at you like you built the earth from the ground up
your body feels like a live wire just from the intensity behind his gaze alone
he would just continue to gently manhandle you until you both cum in your underwear together, panting and whining soft little moans into each others mouths and grasping at each other like a lifeline
“good morning”
gets super energized and bubbly like 10 minutes after
probably walks to breakfast shirtless, hair still a mess, and the biggest grin on his face, dragging you along while your kiss bitten lips are still red
everyone knows
zoro
let’s be real, zoro’s always a little sleepy
like 85% of the time he just wants to take a nap
and sometimes his desire to sleep does not line up well with your needs
you’d find him laying down with his arms crossed, clearly trying to get some shut eye after a training session
but you’ve been waiting all day to get him alone
and watching him train does not help with your desires
but now the stars are out, and everyone else has gone off to bed, and you just wan’t the uncomfortable ache to go away
so you curl up beside him, his arm instinctively wrapping around you because he has your body committed to memory
an eye pops open to look at you anyway
he doesn’t say anything, giving you the space to use as you please
he knows you want something the second he looks at you
the way you smile up at him all coy and fiddle your fingers against his chest
“hi”
“hi”
you lay there in silence for a while after that, and he closes his eyes again
then you start kissing him
sweet little pecks across his chest, up his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, his cheek, making your way to his lips-
“did you want to ask me something?”
he’s very straight forward and to the point, and he doesn’t want you to beat around the bush if you have something you want to say
but then your hiding your face in his chest, core pressing ever so subtly against his thigh
and of course he notices, because he’s in tune with every little thing about you
“ohhh, i see. is that what this is about?”
he presses his thigh harder against your clothed cunt, almost like a test, reveling in the little whimper it pulls from your lips
he loves being right, especially when it comes to how well he knows you
he would compete in a trivia all about you if he could and he would probably win by a landslide
he’d reach his hand down, so close to where you need him, but not yet giving you what you want
he likes teasing you and getting you all whiny and eager
“want me to take care of this for you?”
“please-“
no matter how tired he is, he’ll always take care of you when you need him
especially when you ask so nicely
besides, the fact that you’re needy for him is enough to make him a little wound up himself
if he’s really tired he’ll let you ride his thigh, helping your hips move back and forth at a lazy pace
“is that better? does that feel good, hm?”
“thats it, just keep going like that”
“just get yourself there, sweetheart”
“doing such a good job”
but sometimes he’ll even let you ride his dick, relaxing into the pleasure and watching the view as you chase your release
“slow down, sweetheart, it’s not a race”
“yeah, shit- nice and easy, just like that”
“i know, honey, you’re so close”
he’ll leave lazy kisses all across your collar bone and your shoulder, and soothing strokes of his thumb on your hips
eyes lidded and tired
when you’re hips start to stutter and it all feels like too much, he will not let up no matter how tired he is
because all he wants is to make you feel better
and he loves watching you slowly unravel
he’ll grind your hips himself when it all becomes too much, pulling you down harder and watching in awe as you come undone on top of him
definitely a good relaxer before bed
gets both of you warm and fuzzy and ready to fall asleep wrapped up in each other
sanji
you’re already in bed and half asleep when sanji comes in
he curls up into your back, moving your hair aside to leave delicate kisses up your should and neck, landing at the sweet spot behind tour jaw
the action makes you stir, whining a little and shuffling around, a little fruatrated at being woken up
“hello, my darling.”
he greets between kisses, working at your sweet spot until you let out another pretty whine
his hips twitch involuntarily into your ass, and you come to your senses a little bit when you feel how painfully hard he is
“sanji, it’s too late for this”
you go to turn and look at him but he hold you in place
“no need to move, dove. you don’t have to do anything at all”
“just relax, i’ll do all the work”
“just need to be inside you so badly, mon amour”
“please let me feel you”
his desperate words, whiny tone, and sweet kisses are all more than enough to make your panties damp
he’ll pull your panties to the side under your night dress, holding you close to his chest as he slowly eases himself inside you
his mouth presses tender kisses right under your ear, allowing you to hear all of his pretty noises loud and clear
he’s absolutely desperate, having watched you walk around in a pretty little dress all day
his hips move almost on their own, needily rutting into you from behind with strings of “thank you”s flowing from his lips
of course now you’re really needy too
“shit- harder. need it, please-“
and his hips are pressing into you harder before you can even finish your sentence
he can’t last very long, because you’re squeezing him so well, and your so warm and wet, and he’s practically trembling with pleasure from being on edge all day
but he wants to feel you cum first
so he brings he fingers down to gently swirl against your clit, coaxing you towards the edge
“i’m so close, my love”
“you feel so amazing”
“want to feel you cum around me. will you let me feel you, angel?”
“please cum for me, darling”
so you do, and he follows suit seconds after you, eyes rolling back into his skull as he buries his face in your neck
asks open!
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byoldervine · 3 months
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Motivation For Writing
Getting Off Your Butt:
1. Aestheticise it. Let the light in through the curtains, turn on your fairy lights, lay a blanket over your lap, light some candles, whatever you need to do to feel like a writer. The right vibes can go a long way
2. Picture that one scene. There’s almost always a moment you’re super excited about that basically inspired the whole book. Picture it, play it out in your head in full cinematic fanfare, gush to yourself about how cool it is and how everyone will love it, picture a future fanbase going nuts for it. You might get excited enough to go back to writing
3. Set a word count goal. During NaNoWriMo this year I think I wrote more than I ever have in one go. The thing that kept me coming back was the desire to not fall behind. I ended up with ~45K words after some complications irl caused me to drop off in the final few days, and that’s all just because I was adding up the 1667 a day word count goal and realising where I needed to be at to keep up. I definitely can’t stay as rigid as I did with 1667 words every single day, but seeing that you’re only a few hundred words off of a goal is super motivating - just be sure to set realistic, easy to achieve parameters for just general use, like 1000-2000 words per week. I know 200 words per day is a popular one for people trying to establish a writing routine that can’t dedicate forever to the craft
Maintaining Motivation:
1. Writing sprints. Writing sprints are a godsend for me, I like to set myself up in the living room with Abbie Emmons’ writing sprint video on. The video lasts two hours and is broken up into two parts; 25 minutes to write and 5 minutes for breaks between writing, so four 30 minute sprints overall. Having the timer and countdown with peaceful music and an aesthetic background is both relaxing and encouraging, as well as giving me a specific time for how much longer I have to push through. It’s easier for me to say “Okay, only ten more minutes, then you can take a break” then it is to say “Just keep going, we’re not stopping until I say so” which is too arbitrary for my brain to accept
2. Give yourself a choice. If you’re struggling to keep your focus, come up with a finish line and tell yourself you don’t have to do any more work once you’ve reached that point. Finish the paragraph, go for another five or ten minutes, keep it up until your next scheduled break. Whatever sounds realistic and doable without being overwhelming. And once you’ve met this goal, ask yourself if you still want to stop. With any luck, you’ll have gotten back into the zone and will choose to keep going. Maybe you’ll want to take a quick break but you’ll come back later on. And maybe you’ll decide that now actually is a good stopping point. Just remember that, if you do still want to stop, don’t force yourself to keep going. You can’t strike deals with yourself if you know you won’t keep your word and all you’ll end up doing is burning yourself out, which will lead to even less writing getting done
3. Try a new angle. If you can’t be bothered to write anymore, is there anything else you can do for your book? Plotting, editing, worldbuilding, character sheets, one-shots all that sort of thing can still be productive for your book while still being different enough to give your brain a slight respite. It also means less work in that particular area later on
Afterwards:
1. Organise. Clean up your workspace and put everything away so it’s nice and neat for when you come back to it. Or if you don’t need to pack things out the way, set it up in an aesthetically pleasing way so it will tempt you back next time. Let it give you the writer vibe
2. Take care of yourself. Get a drink, have a snack, walk about, stretch your limbs, take a breath, cuddle your pet. Something that gets you away from straining your eyes looking at text for a bit. This is also a good time to reward yourself if positive reinforcement is something you use on yourself. If you always feel shitty after your writing sessions, you won’t want to go back to it
3. Positive reflection. Make sure to tell yourself you did good, even if you didn’t get as much done as you would’ve liked or it isn’t up to a standard of quality you’re aiming for. That can all be fixed later on, and you’re infinitely better off than you would’ve been if you didn’t do it. Be proud of yourself. Tell yourself you’re proud of your hard work and your dedication and your effort. Remind yourself that this is a fun thing you like to do. Marvel over how insane it is that you’ve gotten this far - not many people do - and that you’ve got all this tangible work to prove you’ve accomplished something so many people wish they could pull off. If this isn’t fun overall, there’s no point
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thesuperiorrobin · 8 months
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𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞~
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Pairing: HockeyPlayer!Damian Wayne x Reader
Word count: 1.9k
Warning: mentions of blood, slight cursing, might not be accurate to real ice hockey so I apologize in advance.Damian being a demon on the ice, I wrote Damian OOC, mostly likely, he’s just in love
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Damian looks flawless in ice, I’m just going to put that out there. I know he would.
He gets a bit carried away, ramming people up against the walls. That’s what he’s known for when he’s on the ice so the other team tries to stay far away from him, but also try to take the puck from him. Never really works out.
Always get penalized for it too and put in penalty for 2-5 minutes. Is pissed off at that for no reason.
The MAIN reason why his team wins. (Most of the time)
Really loyal to his team. If the opposite side ‘accidentally’ hurts his teammates he’s the first one to skate over to them. Might throw the first punch but it depends 🤷‍♀️ (100% will throw the punch no matter what :))
He gets hurt a lot. Whether it’s him digging with other or simply ramming into thing to hard , theres bound to be blood, a lots of it sometimes. But he always comes back with bandages around the wounds or maybe stitches.
If he does get hurt he puts out a little signal that only you know telling you he’s okay.
His signal in telling you that he’s going to make a goalie and dedicate it to you is literally stopping right in front of you and placing his gloved fist on the clear barricade, giving you a grin.
Buys you the tickets to go to his game. You never miss one. That’s because he says your his lucky charm during the games. That’s why his team wins all the time.
First row right next to his team where he can keep an eye one you and hold small conversations before it’s his time to go back on the ice
Likes to show off.
A lot. Only does it to impress you 
Gives you the puck he made a goalie and won with (is that allowed?)
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The crowds get louder and louder as the seconds count down. You're anxious and you don't know why. Damian’s team and the opposing team are tied with points. You’ve noticed Damian’s actions get more violent as time goes on. The more violent he got the more penalties he got which is a time out on the benches. Which means the other team gets a chance at scoring a point without Damian roughly ramming them against the wall. You’re cheering him on as he glides against the ice, but soon find yourself taking a break from the yelling.
Your eyes follow his figure as he glides against the ice, hockey stick in hand as he moves the puck back and forth against the base of the stick. There’s another figure coming for him, one from the opposing team. You cringe, knowing what’s about to happen to the poor person.
Lucky it wasn’t another penalty, but you would hear the crowd gasp witnessing the sight for what seemed like the nth time in less than twenty minutes. But, every time he did get a penalty and put in the penalty box, or as you call it the time out box, you can’t help but laugh. Knowing that Damian was put out for being rough much like how a small toddler would be put in the corner for not listening at all. It was always such a funny sight. Damian rams into the person hard, knocking him down.
“OH!” Dick says from behind you “that’s gotta hurt!” You know he wasn’t talking to you but you hum and nod. Dick and the others know first hand how rough he can be, having been practicing with him last time it didn’t end will with. “I think he gave him a concussion” Tim was also behind you sitting next to Dick, while Jason was no where to be seen.
‘Probably went to go shove his face with food’
Despite being on the other team you feel bad for them and the bruises they’ll be getting the following day. Not to mention the sore body’s they’ll have to work through. You’ve been sitting in the same spot for more than an hour with each game period being at least twenty minutes long, with fifteen minute breaks. Maybe they were shorter but you really couldn’t tell.
Damian misses his shot by a few inches away from the goalie, not being able to stop in time he slams himself up against the wall, the people behind it cover their mouths out of shock and you slap your forehead, shaking your head as you watch him brush it off and continue to play. However, his coach calls him out to replace him with another teammate. He compiles but has a sour look on his face, once he reaches the dry ground he throws his stick. Clearly angry and frustrated all you could do is watch for a while as he takes off his helmet, hair slightly damp from the sweat—giving him helmet hair, all messy and pointing in different directions. It makes you laugh a little. But your sudden mood changes quickly as he sits down head in his hands—running over his sweaty black locks. You don’t think twice as you tap on the screen that keeps his and your row apart.
Damian has good hearing with a small sound so it wasn’t hard to hear you tapping away. He turns to your directions, giving you a small nod. You frown and tilt your head down a little and he rolls his eyes knowing what you're implying and gives you a forced smile. You give him a thumbs up as he scoffs, he watches carefully as you pull out your phone and type away. His eyes never leave you until you place your phone, screen side up against the clear glass divider. Green eyes squinting as he reads away:
‘don’t worry. You got the next goal. I know it!’
That sentence alone makes his heart swell. Damian takes off his right gloves and pats his chest—right where his heart would be two times. A way of saying he appreciate the small gesture.
You take your phone off the glass and erase the previous sentence replacing it with a new one—placing it back on the glass: ‘Have a plan for when you get back on the ice? He quickly reads and nods his head. At least he has a plan, you thought and place your phone back in your pocket. Hands shaking for the cold and lack of warmth you had for them considering the fact that you had forgotten your mittens at home. You focus your attention back on the game. The opposite team ahead by one point— but Damian’s team can do good without him for a while.
He’s out for about half of the game until his coach decides to replace him with another one of his teammates. He taps on the glass to get your attention and once he has it, he Winks at you before making his way back on the ice.
“So are they losing or what?” A familiar voice says beside you and you turn your head, Jason takes his seat next to you with two cups in his hand. “Where the hell have you been?”
“The line for hot chocolate got long” he hands you one “I got you one too, know you stressing over the Demon playing Disney on ice right now” the warm drink warms up your hands a little.
“Thanks. That’s nice of you Jason” You ignore the comment and he hums before he takes a sip of his one drink, eyes scanning the ice before he yells out with the audience. Someone from the Damian team made a shot and they’re tied with the other team.
You go back to cheering him on, the warm drink soothing your throat from all the yelling earlier. It’s later forgotten as you place the half empty cup on the ground right beside your foot— watching the minutes pass by quickly like seconds.
Your heart skips a beat, and not in a good way when the other team shoots their shot but thankfully they fail. With time becoming shorter and shorter it was only a matter of time before Damian took matters into his own hands and his teammates are quick to learn to stay out of it when the time was cutting short and they were off by a point or two, or in this case tied, They had faith in him and so did you.
The seat is now cold from your absence, you’re up on your feet cheering and screaming right along with his brothers who seem to be cheering louder than you. Your eyes glued to Damian as you try to keep up with his figure. He has the puck, sliding it back and forth against the curve of his stick once more.
You don’t have time to think—especially when his helmet makes a horrible sound right up against the clear barrier as one of the players from the opposite team slams into him harshly. Right in front of you as you flinch back. Cheering can be heard from the opposite side of the ice rink which is where the other team supporters were.
Your side falls silent, few gasps and murmurs could be heard. Damian’s back up on his feet, his gloved fist pressed up against the clear barrier. His eyes locked on yours with a glint of mischief and something else. One of those grins grace his lips, one that makes you smile as he waved at you before he leaves.
He’s much faster this time and it makes you think if he was slacking off all this time—or maybe it was the adrenaline that runs high in his veins with these last few minutes. He was going to make a goal, dedicating it to you. Your body feels warm and your heart skips.
“ Ohh~ I know that look” Jason teases from beside you, Dick and Tim are leaning down giving you cheeky grins.
You roll your eyes trying to hide the smile that tries to form itself on your lips “I don’t know what you mean.” You play stupid as you glance back at the game.
fifty seconds left of the last game, everyone seemed to be cheering and calling out those who were on the ice. Damian pays no mind to his teammates as they let him do what he needs to do. You cheer for him, calling out his name. Despite there being hundreds of others yelling out at the same time his mind blocks them out, every single one of them but you. they get louder the minute he gets ahold of the puck swiftly, quickly making his way to the goalie.
His main priority was to get the puck around the goaltender and into the net. He was doing this all for you and you knew that. Those fifty seconds go by quickly, as if you’ve blinked and when you open your eyes ten seconds we’re now left. Everyone counted down, even you. It felt like time went slower once it hit that five second mark, you’ve quiet yourself down and the only thing you can hear is the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. You watch Damian has he left up his stick and takes a hit.
Pointing and loud gasp could be seen and heard, half of the ice rink goes quiet—as if the loudness would mess up his plan. Right as the Puck glides under the goaltender and into the net the timer makes a sound—indicating that the game is now over and Damian scores a point, officially breaking the tie. Relief washes over you, hands thrown in the air as a yell of excitement leaves you as Damian’s brothers cheer alongside you. The other side slouches, defeated as your side basically rubs it in their fasts by how loud they were being, but you didn’t care.
A win is a win.
You can see Damian, as he is pulled into a group hug by the rest of his team, some patting his pack and some patting his helmet and shoving it gently as a gesture. The part you don’t notice is him escaping from the group and skating to the Net where he had thrown the puck before he picked it up, waving it in the air like some sort of trophy—however, in this context, it was. He shows it off with pride, making his way towards you.
With a loud yelp you’re picked up by the others, Jason, Dick, and Tim, as they lift you up until you're basically above the spectating glass. Your lover stands below on the other side with his arm stretched out high, he waits. With the help of the others, they hold on to you as you lean done and over the glass.
Your own arm stretches down as you grasp the puck in your hand. His gloves are now off and so is his helmet, his hair pointing in all directions much like earlier when he was away on a penalty, his warm hand grasping yours with the puck still in your hand
“I did that just for you, habibti!” Eyes glistening, you Can’t really tell if it’s from his sweat or his love for you.
“I know!” You laugh “I love you!”
“And I too, love you!” The crowd fills itself with loud cheers and small ‘awes’, watching the sight of the son that belonged to billionaire Bruce Wayne was a rare sight to see, considering how he would rather keep private about his relationship with you.
His warm lips connected to the coldness of your knuckles , making a mental note to bring an extra pair of gloves just for you in the future.
“If you lean down further you’re going to eat shit”
“shush I’m having a moment here”
“just saying”
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Tried to make it as accurate as possible bc, again I know nothing about ice hockey. I had googled the rules and watched videos
And god knows how many references pictures I tried to find about hockey. Probably spend like an hour trying to find them just to draw Damian :|
I will be taking a short break from writing requests just bc school is starting in like a few days or so. So I can get my life together and actually have time to mentally prepare myself and fix my schedule seeing as I’ve been up most night until 6 am and waking up at 2pm.
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nhlclover · 11 months
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just give me a reason | quinn hughes
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summary: your relationship hits a rocky patch and a fight tests your love.
warnings: angst, cursing, mentions of alcohol
note: based on 'just give me a reason' by p!nk. wrote this between the hours of 1 and 5 am, peak night owl behaviour. also I left the ending up for interpretation so you can imagine your own :)
word count: 2.0k
Right from the moment you met, Quinn had your heart.
With your mothers having been teammates once upon a time they decided to reunite. You were invited to the Hughes’s home and introduced to Ellen’s sons; Quinn, Jack, and Luke. You were drawn to the eldest Hughes boy immediately. Quinn was different than his brothers. While Jack and Luke were quite rambunctious, Quinn was reserved. His darker features attracted you quickly.
You guys connected that day, exchanging numbers. Quinn asked you on a date not a while later and the two of you began dating not long after that. The pair of you worked well together, your odds and ends balancing together.
You let yourself be vulnerable with Quinn. He saw the parts of you that weren’t all that pretty, the parts of you that you’d always desperately wished could be fixed. But with every touch, he fixed them.
It was your mom that warned you about being in a relationship with someone with such a profession, something she knew from first-hand experience. A profession that requires late nights, weeks out of town, and endless dedication. You assured her, and in turn, yourself, that you knew what you were getting into. You knew what dating Quinn meant, and you were willing to sacrifice a lot for him.
You had yourself convinced that it was fine. That you were okay with the “system” you and Quinn had set up.
When it began to change between the two of you, neither of you was sure of it. It was gradual and took a minute for both of you to see, but when you did it was painstakingly obvious. Empty sheets now lay between you, cold. Quinn’s loving words were now few and far between. Deep and meaningful conversations were replaced by the painfully dull small talk you’d had a million times.
Quinn’s practices began to run late as he worked on perfecting his game, followed by time at the gym spent becoming more agile and lean. Plans for date nights fizzled out, and boy's nights became more of a priority for him.
It was now painfully obvious what had happened. Somewhere along the way, hockey had become his main priority. It sits far above you. Somewhere along the way, hockey became less of his passion and more of a soul-sucking, energy-consuming task that leaves the stressed and unhappy version of Quinn behind for you to deal with. Something you can no longer withstand.
It was starting to take effect on you now and your friends noticed. It didn’t take much convincing for you to send your boyfriend a quick text while he was at a game letting him know you’d gone out for the night. You left no indication of when you’d be home because truly you didn’t know, nor did you have a plan.
Out at a downtown Vancouver bar, one you knew Quinn and his teammates would never step foot in following a game, you spilled all your repressed emotions out to your friends. You told them every detail. You weren’t sure whether you wanted advice or not but you got some anyways.
“Listen, none of these boys know you’re taken and I’m sure any one of them would be happy to take you to the men's bathroom and give you what you’ve been needing.” Your friend Alicia says.
“Absolutely not, do not cheat on him.” Your other friend Georgia says. “I think you guys just need to talk it out. I don’t think this is the end of you guys. Y’know… you’re not broken just bent.”
You contemplate Georgia’s words the rest of the night, your first drink coincidentally becoming your last. You spend the rest of the night listening to your friends' woes, babysitting them as they got drunker and drunker.
It was well past three when you sent them on their way and headed back to yours and Quinn’s.
You shoved your key in the lock, attempting to unlock an already open lock. He had left it unlocked, not knowing when you would come home. Quinn, trying to stay awake until he knew you were home safe, had only just drifted off to sleep on the couch. He jolted awake at the sound of your keys jingling around.
Eventually, you discover that the lock was already open, cursing when you enter the home. Quinn watches you take off your heeled boots, cursing once more when you roll your ankle after stumbling out of your shoes.
Quinn glances at the clock on the wall which reads quarter to four in the morning. He rubs his eyes, gets up from the couch and comes to the hall. You stay oblivious to your boyfriend, tossing your keys in the dish, and shrugging off your leather jacket onto the floor. You suddenly spot Quinn in your dark living room, leaning against the back of a lounge chair.
“Christ, Quinn. You scared me.” You say, setting your purse down on the table in the front hall.
“Where the hell were you?” He asks, his tired voice scratching your ears. You can sense the anger in his voice, but you’re slightly confused as to why.
“I was at the bar… with the girls… you knew that, Quinn.” You say, your voice coming out slightly condescending.
“Yeah, but the bars close at 3 in Vancouver.” He says, pointing to the clock. “It’s almost 4 in the goddamn morning, y/n.”
“We went out after, walked around.” You tell him. That was true. You and your friends, after getting kicked out of the bar at closing time, went walking in downtown Vancouver, before finding a park and sitting down in the play structure to vent about your problems.
Quinn groans, rubbing his face. His exhaustion is noticeable in his dark circles and drooping eyes.
“Quinn you could’ve checked my location, it’s still on for you.” You tell him.
“That’s not the point, y/n!” He exclaims. “You didn’t call, you didn't text… nothing! I didn’t know if you were safe or not or when you were gonna come home.”
A pang of guilt washes over you. You could only imagine the roles being reversed, not knowing where he was and whether or not you were going to get to sleep next to him that night or not.
“Y/n, I’ve been up all night waiting for you. And I have practice tomorrow.” He says.
The guilt that was just there washes away as he says those words. “God, enough with the fucking hockey.” You groan, walking into the bedroom.
“What the fuck did you just say?” Quinn asks, following you down the hall.
You begin to change out of your ‘going out outfit’, discarding your skirt and flimsy top to the floor. Under any other circumstance, Quinn would love to see you like this. But the anger was clouding over any other emotion he would possibly be feeling right now.
“It’s always about hockey with you Quinn!” You shout slipping into sweat shorts and a t-shirt, purposefully not putting on one of the many ones you stole from Quinn. “That’s your main fucking priority.”
“Well yeah, it’s kind of my job.” He says.
Before you can counter him, he speaks again. “You know what, I’m too fucking tired and you’re too fucking drunk for us to be arguing right now.” He says, heading over to his side of the bed.
“I am not fucking drunk.” You hiss.
“You’ve been out at a bar for the past six hours, y/n.” Quinn reminds you.
“I wasn’t drinking the whole time, dick.” You say. “I need a drink.”
You head out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. You can hear Quinns’ bare feet padding on the wooden floor, hot on your trail. “Are you serious?” He asks. You ignore him, going into your liquor cabinet, and pulling out a bottle of white wine.
“Is this a game to you?” Quinn asks, leaning on the counter.
You pause from unscrewing the cap and look up at your boyfriend. “No Quinn it’s quite the fucking opposite, I’m sick of playing fucking games.” You say.
Quinns’ brows furrow together, not understanding what you mean. Your pent-up rage, the rage that had been forming over the past few months, now was finally bubbling to the surface. It makes it hard for words to form, your little squeaks coming out with no words as you search for the right ones.
“You don’t love me anymore.” You finally manage out.
Quinns’ expression is even more confused now, but now contains a note of hurt. “What are you talking about y/n?” He asks softly. “Of course I still love you.”
Quinn reaches out for your hands but you pull away. “Quinn…when you’re not at practice or a game, you’re out with the boys. I actually cannot remember the last time we had a proper date. And- and when’s the last time you called me dreamgirl?” You ask, mentioning the pet name he would call you. “And I don’t want to break up-”
“Woah, who said anything about breaking up?” Quinn interrupts, stepping towards you.
“Quinn I feel like I’m living with a stranger!” You shout, your hands flying up. “When’s the last time you held me? Hm? When’s the last time you came home after a roadie and instantly scooped me up, carrying me to the bed? I mean, fuck, when was the last time you kissed me? And I mean really kissed me and not the sorry excuses of a peck you give me before you leave me again?”
This renders Quinn speechless as he actually tries to remember the last time you two were intimate. His teeth are grinding together, his chest going up and down with every heavy breath he takes.
“I just can’t do this anymore.” You tell him softly.
“Then tell me what you want.” He responds, matching your tone. “Do you want this to end?”
“No, god no, I already said I don’t—”
“Then what do you want, y/n?” Quinn asks, his anger reappearing. “Because I am trying so fucking hard right now. With everything! With hockey, the entire fate of the fucking franchise is on my shoulders right now. So please, tell me what it is that you want.”
“I want my boyfriend back!” You scream. Tears spill over your waterline. They stain streaks on your cheeks, landing on the hardwood beneath your feet. You step over to Quinn, standing right in front of him. He doesn’t back down like you expect him to. “I want to feel loved by the person that’s supposed to love me.”
You’re jabbing at his chest, and looking into his eyes, you notice tears beginning to form.
“I want to come home and know that you’re happy to see me. That I am a source of joy. I don’t want to have to worry about it being awkward between the two of us.” You continue, now pounding your fists on Quinns’ chest. He takes every hit allowing your anger to spill out. “I just want you to love me, that’s all I want. All I fucking want is to be loved. Please just…”
Your words melt in sobs, Quinn gripping your hands and pulling you into his chest. He holds you tightly, sobs wracking your entire body. You grip onto Quinns’ t-shirt, holding yourself steady as your knees threaten to give way. He keeps you steady, placing soft kisses on the top of your head.
The sun now started to raise on the two of you. The morning sun paints the sky a pale orange, a stark contrast to the energy within the walls of your home.
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Note
Hi, I wanted to ask if you have any tips on how to put together a time schedule for writing a book. I tried to create one several times but always ended up with task paralysis since I didn't know what to do and how to time it. Do you have any advice? One of my goals is to at least write one book next year and without a schedule, I'm afraid I will lose sight of what I should do.
Schedule for Writing a Book
There's no universal timetable for writing a book. There are a million variables that play a role into how fast someone can write a book. Their personal writing speed, their level of experience, what they're writing and how long it will be, how much time they can put toward writing, and what they're aiming for (finished first draft, polished final draft, published book...) That said, there's really no way to come up with a timetable that will be reasonable for everyone.
Plot and structure are more important than a timetable. Even if there was a reasonable timetable for writing a book, that wouldn't really help you if you don't understand how stories work. If you were trying to build a house, I could say it will take a week to lay the foundation, and another month to frame the house and install the roof, and another month to install plumbing and electrical, and another month for insulation and drywall, but if you don't know how to do any of those things, that timetable doesn't help you. You need to learn how to actually lay a foundation, frame a house, install a roof, etc. if you want to actually build the house. Writing a novel is the same way. Before you can worry about a timetable, you have to learn how stories work.
Consider utilizing a book that will teach you plot and story structure while also helping you to plot out and structure your novel. There are all different ideas about how stories work and how to best plot and structure a novel, so there are a lot of really great books and workbooks out there that will help you do this. I'm a big fan of Save the Cat! Writes a Novel by Jessica Brody. Structuring Your Novel by K.M. Weiland is another good one, and it has an accompanying workbook. The Plot Whisperer by Martha Alderson is another one and it also has a workbook. You can also find printable novel planners on Etsy, often for less than 10 or 20 dollars.
If I had to give you a ballpark, totally arbitrary timetable, and assuming you have at least 3-5 hours a day to spend on writing, I would say you should probably plan to spend about a month plotting and planning, another month or two writing a zero draft or rough draft, another month or two reading through and revising that draft, another month or so with betas, another month or so revising, and another month or so editing and polishing. That gives you some wiggle room if you overshoot any of those estimates.
You can also "Weird Science" a timetable for yourself by taking a week or two to time yourself on various stages of story planning and writing. Start by finding a writing prompt that really inspires you. Then, time how long it takes (how many minutes spent) planning what you're going to write. Then, time how many minutes you spend actually writing. Finally, time how many minutes you spend editing and polishing. Now, math that out in conjunction with the length of your story. So, let's say you wrote a 5k word story and it took you 180 minutes to plot, 240 minutes to write, and 120 minutes to edit. So, for example, you plotted at 28 words per minute, so it would take you roughly 2500 minutes (41 hours) to plot a 70k word story. You wrote 21 words per minute, so it would take you roughly 3,333 minutes (56 hours) to write a 70k word story. And again, this is super rough, super ballpark but it can help give you a general idea of how long it might take you to actually do these things. But, again, it also depends a lot on what you're actually writing, what your level of experience is, etc.
My biggest tip for getting the work done is to use time blocking to help make sure you get the writing done. Essentially, each week you'll look at all your waking hours each day and block out the ones when you know you won't be able to write, such as the hours when you're at work or school. Then, schedule yourself for writing time in the available hours and make sure you stick to it. You may find yourself having to be really honest with yourself and do some serious prioritizing. For example, if you normally spend 2-3 hours a night playing video games, but you only have 3 hours of free time each night, you're not going to be able to spend 2-3 hours playing video games AND an hour or two writing.
Above all else, be gentle with yourself. Probably one of my biggest writing-related takeaways of 2023 was the brain science behind being overwhelmed by writing. So often, we put so much pressure on ourselves to meet goals, and get so frustrated with ourselves when we fail, that we end up making writing time something that fills us with anxiety. So our brains perceive that activity as a threat, which makes us want to avoid it. That said, make reasonable goals and set a reasonable timetable, but be very gentle with yourself if you struggle to stick to the timetable or meet your goals. Focus on the things you did accomplish, no matter how small and celebrate those accomplishments. Know that every little thing you do helps to move the needle forward a bit.
Happy writing and best wishes!
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I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!
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inkbyajm · 5 months
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of kindling sparks
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masterlist: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
tropes: fluff, slow-burn
warnings: 11 year age-gap (reader is 23, joel is 34)
word count: ~6000
author’s note: so this chapter as well as the next one basically serve as one long exposition before the main story (aka the prequel). i realise this is lengthy as hell but i needed to flesh out the relationship between joel and the reader for the upcoming chapters to hurt, you know?
(p.s. there's mention of joel carrying the reader. i know some people might be put off by this, but joel is quite buff. i mean the man works in construction, i promise he can handle carrying an adult for less than a minute)
————- ❈ ————-
The air was getting chillier, the change of seasons not going unnoticed. (Y/N)'s focus was razor-sharp as she drove through the streets of Austin, making sure to take in the ever-changing leaves on the trees she passed by. As an exchange student, it wasn't cheap to be renting a car, and the money her parents were generously providing her could only last for so long. She desperately needed another source of income. Her prayers were answered the week prior when she stumbled upon an advertisement near the exit to her university. It was for a babysitting job with a decent pay and convenient working hours. She wrote an email to the address written on the poster:
Dear Mr. Miller, Is the babysitting job still available? I'm a student currently on an exchange program at the University of Texas. And while I haven't had prior experience in babysitting, I used to be an assistant teacher in a kindergarten. I'm very good with children and at keeping them alive (this is a joke, but I am pretty responsible, my mother can attest to this). If there is any need for it, I can also cook and clean up after each visit. Thank you for your consideration and I hope to hear from you soon!
Sincerely, (Y/N) (L/N)
To which, much to her surprise, she received an answer shortly after:
Dear Ms. (L/N), Yes, the babysitting job is still available. It's for my 12-year-old daughter Sarah. And while I appreciate all that you have to offer, there's nothing much to do but keep her alive, so your skill would be useful here. You can come by our house on 1411 Sullivan DR any day of the week after 5pm, we'll go over the details then. If you're still interested, you'll be able to start right away. See you soon!
Best regards, Joel Miller
After half-an-hour of driving, the house finally came into view. Just as she parked the car in the vacant driveway, and before she went to meet some stranger she hoped wouldn't turn out to be a creep, the girl gathered her wits and courage with a clasp of her hands, a deep breath, and a firm nod as if to say 'There's no going back now, and if I die, it is what it is'.
Her three knocks on the door were followed by a long pause which made her believe she had arrived either at the wrong time or the wrong house. But as she was about to turn around and flee in embarrassment, out came a middle-aged man with disheveled hair.
"Hello. Is this the Miller's house?"
"Yes, hi! I am so sorry I kept you waiting. (Y/N), right?" he said, wiping his hands on a rag.
"That's me."
"Great. I'd shake your hand, but mine are a bit dirty. Please, come in." he stepped out of the way to let her walk further into his home.
It was decently spacious and cozy, which temporarily put her at ease. They walked through the living room into the dimly lit kitchen. It smelled of spices and garlic.
He gestured around, "Welcome to our humble abode. Pardon the mess, I didn't exactly have time to tidy up," While it wasn't exactly messy, they could benefit from an extra set of hands. "You said you weren't from around here?"
"No, I'm quite a long way from home," (Y/N) said, taking a seat at the dining table. "I wanted to see other places, gain a bit of independence. Austin was one of the first to accept me, and since it seemed like a fine city to live in, I packed up my things and arrived at the beginning of summer."
"I'm Texas born and raised myself. Wouldn't dream of living anywhere else. How old are you exactly?"
"Twenty-three, sir."
He proceeded to rummage through the fridge that was almost full. "Alright. Would you like a beer, then? And please, call me Joel. You're making me feel old."
"Right, Joel. And sure, I'll have one if you do."
Joel handed her a cold bottle as he sat down across from her. She was familiar with the brand, they served it at the bar she worked at part-time on weekends. For the next hour-and-a-half, the two discussed (Y/N)'s life, her studies, Joel's job as a contractor, and Sarah. At some point, the attacks on 9/11 came up, unpacking the nation-wide terror they had brought. She recalled the panicked calls she received from her parents, begging her to come home. She had to explain that she was alright, that there was nothing to do about it now, and that she couldn't leave the city when she had already formed ties and taken on responsibilities.
Just as Joel was getting into another anecdote from Sarah's childhood, they heard keys jangling in the front door as it opened and shut.
"Speak of the devil. Done playing already?"
A soft voice rang through the house, "Yeah, I'm really tired." Then a pigtailed girl stopped abruptly at the entrance to the kitchen. She was wearing a soccer kit, carrying both a purple backpack as well as a blue duffel bag.
"Sarah, this is (Y/N). She's gonna be your nanny from now on."
The little girl hesitated at first, then gently approached the table and extended her small hand for her to shake. "Nice to meet you." she said with as much courage as she could muster, earning a smile in return.
Getting up from his seat, Joel kissed his daughter's head and told her food was ready, which prompted the child to run upstairs to her room. Feeling like it was her cue to leave, (Y/N) followed suit and slung her bag on her shoulder.
"Would you like to stay for dinner? I'm not much of a chef, but I have to admit I make a mean chili." said the man, pointing at the steaming pot on the stovetop.
The smell of a homemade meal was making her mouth water, but she hadn't known them for long enough to get comfortable. "Thank you for your hospitality, but I should really get going. I have some reading to finish before morning."
The two made their way back to the front door. "Alright, then. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, yeah?"
"See you tomorrow, Mr. Miller- Joel, sorry." she corrected herself, waving him goodbye as she swiftly got into her car and began the drive back to her apartment. She hadn't even begun the job, yet (Y/N) couldn't help but feel giddy about her small success.
————- ❈ ————-
A couple of months had passed and (Y/N) was really enjoying her new gig. Sarah turned out to be the sweetest girl the young woman had ever had the pleasure of knowing. She wasn't fussy or troublesome, was very well-mannered, oh-so-friendly and kind, and a fan of using sarcasm here and there, which seemed to be something she picked up from her father. Joel, too, was accommodating to the new addition of their little family. (Y/N) could sense, however, that he was somewhat more reserved - closed, even. It was harder to get to know her employer, but she didn't mind, these things took time.
Leaning against her car, the young woman read her copy of 'Pride and Prejudice' for the 4th or 5th time. Something about it brought her great comfort, especially during the colder months. The festive season was quickly approaching and she wasn't sure if gifts would be appropriate so early-on in her employment. She had zoned out for so long, she didn't have time to register her name being called nor a pair of arms swiftly wrapping around her waist.
"Hey, kiddo." she laughed, hugging the curly-haired girl back.
She let go and stared up at her babysitter with her big round eyes. "Did daddy send you to pick me up?"
"No, I just finished classes and thought I'd swing by."
"What are you reading?"
(Y/N) turned the book to show the cover, "Pride and Prejudice. It's an old book."
"What's it about?"
"Uh- well, it's about a lot of things, but mainly it's the story of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy who have to overcome their differences to end up together. Hence the title."
"That sounds kind of interesting."
"Yeah, but it takes a lot of hatred and pettiness to get there."
The little girl shook her head in disapproval, "Adults. Why do they have to complicate things?"
"Alright, wise one. Get in before you get cold."
The car ride gave them more time to bond. They sang to Sarah's favourite songs and talked about whatever was on the little genius's mind. It was a unique experience for both of them, two feminine energies collided, something each of them longed for dearly.
At home, (Y/N) spent a significant amount of time helping Sarah with her homework: a bunch of English grammar exercises, essay writing, as well as some algebra. Following their arduous work, the girls decided they deserved some fun and made creamy pasta (one of Sarah's favourites) for dinner. Whilst waiting for the patriarch to come home, they got comfortable on the couch to watch 'Mrs. Doubtfire'.
Unsure if she should speak during the movie, Sarah poked her babysitter's arm. "Do you have siblings?"
"I don't, no. Why do you ask?"
"I don't have any either. Do you ever get lonely?"
(Y/N) wasn't sure where these questions were coming from, but she decided to entertain them anyway. "I used to, growing up. Though my parents did a very good job at making sure I felt loved at home. I miss them a lot, but I'm happy here too."
There was a long pause as Sarah was visibly deep in her thoughts. "I never knew my mom," It shouldn't have shocked the young woman, she assumed Joel and his wife had separated after noting the absence of a maternal presence in their home, but it still came as a surprise. "Daddy said she had her own reasons and that they both agreed for me to live with him."
"Adults always have their own reasons for things, even if it may seem dumb. I'm sure it was a very difficult decision to make for her and that she loves you very much."
"I don't think about her often anymore. My dad can be busy, but he does a good job. He comes to every game, takes me to fairs and carnivals, helps me with school projects. He's also extra cool on vacation."
Something about her remark pulled at (Y/N)'s heart. "I see. He seems like a really great dad." The girls went right back to watching Robin Williams dance around while doing chores, as if they hadn't just touched on a thought-provoking subject.
It was almost 11pm and Joel was nowhere to be seen. Instead of letting the girl pass out on the couch, (Y/N) let her hold onto her back as she carried the sleepy child all the way to her room. Making sure all was right, she put her to bed, closed the window, turned on the night-light, then made her way towards the door.
"You're really cool," Sarah said sleepily with her eyes closed. "I hope you stay for a long time."
No compliment in the world could compare to a kid's heartfelt approval. "I hope so too, sweetie. Good night and good dreams."
Walking back downstairs, the young woman took one look around the house and decided she could pass the time cleaning up here and there. She started by tidying up the living room: folding the throws, fluffing up the pillows, putting the board games back on the bookshelf. Then she moved onto the kitchen where she took the trash out, scrubbed the surfaces clean as silently as she could, put the leftover pasta away, and washed the dishes. Satisfied with her work, she went back up to Sarah's room to leave a glass of water by her bed in case she got thirsty in the middle of the night.
In a house that was dead silent, she heard heavy footsteps. In a short panic, she grabbed a pair of scissors that were lying on the desk and crept up closer to the door. The steps were agonisingly slow and calculated. The woman felt like she was in a slasher movie. Babysitters always die first. The only indication she had of the intruder's whereabouts was from the shadow that was created by the light from the kitchen. This is what you get for not turning on every single light in a house where you're all by yourself. One of the most important rules in horror movies, she thought. The shadow approached closer and closer to the door, and just when she hoped the distance was close enough, she leapt out of the room and went straight for the stranger. Unfortunately, her blow was blocked and her body pushed up against the wall. In a blink, she realised what had happened.
"What the hell, Joel?" she whisper-shouted.
"(Y/N)? What are you still doing here?"
"Doing my job. Couldn't let Sarah stay all by herself with no indication of when you'd be back. That would be irresponsible of me."
He let go of her arms, lazily rubbing his face. "You're right, I'm sorry. I got held up and my cellphone died. I'm so exhausted, I completely forgot you were here."
"It's all good, I didn't hear you arrive either," she paused, noticing the blood running down his left hand. "Oh my God, Joel, you're bleeding!"
He looked at the wound like he hadn't even felt it until then, "Oh, this is nothin'. I had worse accidents at work."
"Still, it could get infected. Please, take a seat in the kitchen, I'll be right back."
She went straight to the bathroom to fetch the first-aid kit. It was essential to know where it was, what it had and how to use everything as someone who had to watch a small human being. She went back downstairs to start working on Joel's injury.
"I'm so sorry. I was so caught up in my own mind, I thought you were an intruder, and it was the only weapon at hand-"
"Please don't apologise. It was my bad, really. I should have announced myself," he spoke as he watched her gently clean the cut with a saline cleansing wipe. "Can't blame you for doing your best to defend yourself. Takes courage."
(Y/N) realised that upon closer inspection, her employer was quite handsome. Dark messy hair, a somewhat upkept beard, broad build, crow's feet that indicated how often he smiled, as well as nose wrinkles that indicated how often he frowned. She carefully applied medical tape to close-off the wound and went to put the kit back where it belonged. On her way down, she noticed him looking around in slight confusion.
"Did you…clean the house?"
"Oh, you know, just lightly tidied up. I'm not a fan of leaving the places I stay at messy. Kind of a habit," she noted the silence and her hands instantly became cold. "God, I'm sorry. Again. I- I didn't even ask if you were okay with me touching your belongings, I got-"
"No, you're good. You're good. Don't sweat it. It's just that," Joel chuckled at her need to be so polite after months of working together. "You didn't have to do this. I can't ask you do to things that aren't part of your job description."
"I know. And I don't mind. Really. It's not like I'm playing Cinderella day and night," she said as they shared a laugh. "My job is to take care of a kid and the environment plays a big role."
(Y/N) picked up her bag, ready to leave for the night, "See you on Monday, Joel."
He reached out to touch her shoulder, then just as quickly removed his hand as if she had burned him. "Uh- do you- are you- um," She looked at him with furrowed brows, it's almost as if he was…flustered? "What are your plans for Christmas? Or, you know, holiday season? If you celebrate anything at all-"
"I won't be able to fly out to see my family this year, so I haven't made any other plans yet. Why do you ask?"
The man scratched his neck sheepishly, only then realising how long he had kept her standing on his porch when it wasn't exactly warm outside. "Would you like to celebrate with us? Sarah would be ecstatic to have you."
Warmth blossomed in her chest at the sudden invitation. So gifts are appropriate. Noted.
"I would love to celebrate the holidays with you guys. But only if you don't mind."
"I don't mind."
"Excellent, then I'll be here."
"Great."
"Good."
They stared at each other for way too long, the nanny realised, bearing the slightest of smiles. "Well, then. Good night, Mr. Miller."
He shook his head at her teasing tactic, "Drive safe, Ms. (L/N)."
There she was again, driving back to her apartment, giggling to herself like a maniac and for what? They invited her to celebrate a holiday. People did that all the time. Office workers, family members, casual friends, new and old lovers, it was truly nothing exceptional. But to her it felt different and she couldn't tell if it was because Sarah liked her enough to want her there or if it was because it came from him. Christmas was three weeks away. Three. Weeks. Away. Gifts. She needed gifts. What would she give them? What did they like? It came to her that she didn't know them that well, which meant she had some investigating to do in the little time she had left for shopping.
————- ❈ ————-
When Christmas finally came, (Y/N) simply could not contain her excitement. She thought long and hard about the presents she would give the Millers, and while they may have appeared simple, she hoped that they would be appreciated. She personally wrapped them up in brown paper and decorated them with stamps, ribbons, and tags, firmly believing in the art of gift-wrapping. Austin had yet to see snow, she didn't think it would ever happen, yet the city was nevertheless bursting with festive spirit. Various lights decorated the trees and bushes in public parks. People hosted diverse markets in the streets where they sold artisanal goods and delicious foods. (Y/N) had gone ice-skating with the Millers a couple of weeks prior. Joel was as bad as she thought he would be; Sarah, however, was a natural. They enjoyed a lively Christmas parade that same day.
After parking in front of the house that was very tastefully decorated with her help, the young woman made her way towards the door, her homemade chocolate tarte in hand, and knocked, taking a second to register a male voice she did not recognise. The door swung open to reveal a man not much older than her, wearing a plaid shirt and dark blue jeans.
Looking her up and down, the stranger gave her a smirk, "And who might you be?"
"Hands off the babysitter, Tommy!" she heard Joel yell from deep inside the house.
"Ah, the famous babysitter!" he exclaimed, opening the door further. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
It smelled of oven-roasted turkey, of cigarette smoke, and of pine from the christmas tree. She found all of them moving about the kitchen: cutting vegetables, setting the table, washing the dishes. She felt like she'd arrived a tad too late.
"Can I help with anything?" she said, awkwardly standing in the middle of the room.
"Nah, everything's good to go," Joel replied as he scrubbed the remaining pots, "(Y/N), this is Tommy, my brother."
Said brother took her hand and placed a tender kiss on the back of it, "Very nice to meet you." Sarah couldn't hide her look of disgust if she tried.
"I didn't know Joel had a brother."
"You didn't tell her about me?" Tommy asked in exaggerated disbelief.
"Was I supposed to? Didn't know I was running a datin' agency."
"Thought that was part of the deal when we agreed to be each other's wingmen."
"Mm, don't recall us ever doing that."
"Well, we did. Spiritually. When we went to Buddy's Place? It was just around the time when Cat-" Tommy's monologue cut short with one sharp glare from Joel. (Y/N) could practically taste the tension emanating from him. Not a big fan of reminiscing the past, she noted.
"You know what, it's no problem. It's the perfect occasion to get to know each other, eh?" the younger brother flashed her a smile. They sure had impressive genes in this family.
Once the eldest Miller was done cleaning, all three adults cracked open a few cold ones to start off the evening. Tommy had the brilliant idea to teach Sarah a few card tricks, peaking their guest's interest.
"What are you teaching a 12-year-old cards for?" (Y/N) amusedly asked. Sarah seemed excited, she was one of those kids who loved to learn, it didn't matter what it was.
"First of all, every member of the Miller family knows how to play cards, we start young. And second, if not me, then who?" He made a good point. Tommy was, after all, the fun brother. "Wanna join in? I'm told I'm a great teacher."
She caught onto the subtle flirt and found herself wanting to return the energy. He was tall, he was dark, he was handsome. He smelled of cigarettes and beer with a hint of citrus notes. Not bad with kids but he wouldn't want any of his own anytime soon; very friendly, which for him also meant outgoing, ballsy, and prone to getting into trouble; charming to the point that he might seduce a few dozen women in one night; funny enough to make people like and maybe even trust him. She didn't mind flirting, but that was the extent of her intentions, and something told her Tommy Miller felt the same way.
They spent some time watching as Tommy performed the most outrageous tricks seen to man, to which his sole excuse was "I'm a bit rusty". He also tried to teach Sarah the art of cheating which, much to his disappointment and sorrow, his niece refused to take part in for moral reasons. (Y/N) noted the elder Miller's absence and excused herself from the oh-so-riveting demonstration of a disappearing card to go look for him. After searching the kitchen, his bedroom, as well as the garage, she stepped outside with a throw blanket and found him sitting on one of the patio chairs.
"What are you doing here? You'll get cold." he said, glancing at her from the side.
"I'm tougher than I look," she answered, nevermind the blanket tightly wrapped around her frame. "Came to keep you company."
"Who said I need any?" She sensed a hint of a playful tone.
"I don't know, you look awfully lonely sitting next to that empty chair." This earned her a light chuckle as she sat down. He didn't look very warm with one hand in his jacket pocket and his collar lifted up to his chin. She proceeded to awkwardly move her chair closer to his and slowly, as if dealing with a wild animal, reached out to wrap the throw around both of them, thankful that it was big enough for the job.
Sensing how still and tense he was, (Y/N) felt the need to talk to lighten the mood, "So, do you always sit outside all by yourself? In the dark? And in complete silence? Brooding-"
"I get the picture, and no," he took a sip from his bottle. "Sometimes I like to sit in my car."
He was capable of humour, which was a refreshing discovery after countless weeks of being formal. She understood wanting to define clear boundaries between employer and employee, but when she was essentially tasked to bond with his child and regularly invited to family activities, the lines naturally blurred, and her curiosity intensified.
"Who's Cat?"
Joel was silent for a second, then let out a reluctant sigh, "Cat was…a girl I knew way back when I was young."
"You're talking like you're in your 50s."
"I'm 34 to be precise, but fine, back when I was younger," he said grumpily. "We dated for a bit, then we didn't. That's how it went with most women I met."
"Oh, is this a Casanova situation?"
"No, more of a 'not ready to commit to a kid' situation," The silence that followed was loud, (Y/N) didn't want to make a sound, afraid he'd realise what he was doing and shut himself off. "I was 21 when Sarah was born. She's the joy of my life, I don't know what I'd do or where I'd be without her, truly. But...it was hard back then for a single dad with a newborn. Never went to college, had to take on side jobs to sustain both of us. My love life wasn't exactly a priority, and when the opportunity presented itself, they fled as soon as they heard the mention of a child."
The next question was risky, but she couldn't think of anything else, "So you haven't dated since your younger days? Not even the hot single moms in your area?"
This made Joel laugh heartily, a sound she loved to listen to, something she wanted to hear more often. "Not really. I mean I've flirted here and there, but Sarah and I are good the way we are now. She's my priority, and I want to make sure my partner's good to my kid too, you know?"
"If you don't mind my asking, what happened to Sarah's mom?" (Y/N) probed further, "Sarah told me-"
"Nothing happened. She left and that was that." The wall was back up. You pushed your luck.
Luckily for them, Sarah called for everyone to play cards. Which was then followed by board games. What they discovered that evening is that (Y/N) was either incredibly skilled at them or simply unbelievably lucky. She and Tommy got on well, making innocent physical contact here and there, high-fiving each other, sharing a lot of laughter, too much laughter for the man that sat across from them. Joel wasn't jealous, he was never jealous, but the sight didn't make him feel happy either.
After a while, the oven beeped, indicating that the turkey was ready. The four of them prepared the table with bowls of salads, bread slices, side-dishes, making space in the centre for the bird accompanied by roasted vegetables. (Y/N) joined in their prayer before they dug into their food. They shared all sorts of life stories: Tommy's time in the army, the most frustrating clients Joel had ever had, more embarrassing anecdotes from Sarah's childhood, funny and dramatic events that occurred while (Y/N) was on vacation. The young woman then brought out the tarte she'd made for the occasion, much to everyone's delight. It was as silky as she hoped it would be, tasting notes of coffee in her chocolate dessert covered in walnut crumbs. The ambience was relaxing, they sat under the dim light of the scented candles dispersed throughout the kitchen, bathing in the sounds of laughter and utensils scraping against the food on their plates.
When all was devoured, they moved the party back to the living room and Tommy decided it was time for presents. Sarah received hers first, which turned out to be a collection of CDs of her favourite musicians from Tommy and a skateboard she'd wanted for a long time from her dad. She hugged each of them very tightly, already excited to put both of her new belongings to use. Then it was Joel's turn to unwrap a brand new wallet gifted by his brother (apparently, he had complained about his old one he owned for more than a decade) and a second-hand guitar from Sarah that she acquired from a friend's cousin then paid for a cleaning by a professional with her own pocket-money (with a little help from uncle Tommy). Tommy received a steel lighter from Joel, who claimed the custom engraving – a hand-drawn cowboy hat on the front and T. Miller on the bottom – was Sarah’s touch. Just when everyone thought they were done, (Y/N) cleared her throat, calling for their attention, whilst dragging her bag closer to where she sat on the floor.
“I brought gifts of my own.” She declared and pulled out a box and gave it to Tommy, whom she'd met only hours ago. “I’m sorry, I took this just in case someone else would be here, but I wish I had gotten to know you sooner to customise the present to your taste- “
“Oh my sweet God,” he muttered, staring at the large crystal bottle of whiskey. “This is one of the fanciest kind around, it ain’t fuckin’ cheap either!”
“You’re lucky Tommy here is a whiskey connoisseur.” Joel said from his laid-back position on the couch.
The younger brother engulfed her in a warm hug soon after, “You got my taste just right, sweetheart, thank you.”
The room was silent as she extended a purple envelope to Sarah, who sat across from her. It didn’t seem all too exciting. The kid in question opened the envelope, eyeing her babysitter, who herself seemed a bit nervous. The silence in the room was suddenly broken as the 12-year-old squealed her hardest squeal, forcing both Millers to cover their ears.
“It’s two VIP tickets to the Halican Drops concert in Houston next year!” she exclaimed, launching herself at the now grinning woman. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“How’d you get those? I thought they were sold out.” her father asked, clearly having gone through the struggle of standing in long queues to make his daughter happy.
It was difficult to breathe with a prepubescent child sitting in your lap as she held you in a death-grip. “I have an old friend who happens to work at the venue.” she replied, accepting the kiss on the cheek from Sarah who sat back on the ground, practically buzzing as she stared at the pieces of paper in her hands.
Lastly, (Y/N) got up to stand in front of Joel as he looked up at the object she extended in complete surprise.
“You really didn’t have to- “
“Just open it.”
So he did. What he found inside was a Prussian blue knit scarf.
“I noticed you never wear one, and it’s pretty chilly out, so I figured I’d knit you one myself. Finished it just in time a couple of days ago. The color looks flattering on you.” she explained, blushing deeper and deeper with every word. She failed to notice that he, too, was heating up.
“Well, I’ll be damned. This woman can bake, she can knit, she’s smart, and she plays cards like a pro. I mean what can’t you do?” And while she knew Tommy was teasing, she couldn’t help but redden even more.
“I’m pretty proud of my mixing skills,” she added, making him pause with a face that read ‘no way’. “I’m a bartender on the weekends.”
She had barely finished her sentence when she yelped as Tommy scooped her up and over his shoulder. “That’s it! I’m taking this one with me. It was nice to see ya, big brother!”
(Y/N) squealed and wiggled around as much as she could to try to get him to let her down whilst Sarah did her best to save her friend by clinging to one of her uncle’s legs in protest. It was one chaotic scene unfolding in front of Joel, who had not moved from his seat, still staring at the scarf in his hands as he ran his thumb over the soft wool.
After all that excitement, the household members spent a few more hours watching ‘Home Alone 2’ and ‘Jingle All the Way’, DVDs Joel had bought earlier that week. During the viewing, he caught himself glancing at the woman curled up against the arm rest less than a few feet away from him. She remained completely oblivious, amused by the tomfoolery happening on-screen. He left the room for a moment to dispose of his empty bottle in the kitchen. On the short way there, he realised he was slightly tipsy. While he was rummaging through the drawers, he heard someone come up behind him.
“Looking for this?” he turned around to see (Y/N) holding up the bottle-opener. She walked up to the counter and opened the bottle in his hand, brushing her cold fingers against his warm ones in the process.
“You’re cold.” he commented bluntly.
“Yeah, my extremities get cold easily. That’s why I walk around in gloves and thick socks as soon as the temperature starts dropping.”
She threw away her own empty bottle and swiftly turned around to walk back into the living room, when she felt his hand wrap around her wrist ever so gently.
“I didn’t get to thank you back there. You know, for the present?” he spoke softly, giving her a rare smile. “It was real nice of you.”
She noticed the way his pupils were slightly wider than usual and his stance that seemed to swing back-and-forth ever so subtly. “Joel, are you…are you drunk?”
“It takes a lot more than a few bottles of IPA to get me there. I’m just fine.” he whispered, for what reason she wasn’t sure, then unexpectedly walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He didn’t leave her to contemplate her next actions for too long because he emerged not even a minute later, holding his right hand behind his back.
They found themselves standing closer than they should have, but neither of them seemed to care as Joel revealed the mystery object.
“Merry Christmas, (Y/N).”
It was the most beautiful edition of ‘Jane Eyre’ she had ever laid her eyes on. Red leather hardback with golden accents all over it, including the fore-edges, it looked like something out of a royal library.
“How did you know?” her question was vague, but she knew he knew what she meant.
“Sarah told me about the books that you like, said you haven’t read this one in a long time.”
Her warm embrace came to him as a surprise, but in the state of mind he was in, not only did he accept it, but it felt good, it felt right to hug her back.
“It happens to be one of my favourites, so thank you. Really. For all of the things you’ve done for me so far.”
The two held onto each other for longer than needed until Tommy’s call brought them back to reality. The other Miller eyed the returning pair suspiciously as they took their respective places on the couch and went back to watching the movie in comfortable silence. Only he noticed the red book in her possession and fought hard to stop himself from smiling.
Later that night, after all the dishes had been washed, the leftovers put away, and the only child put to bed, Tommy reluctantly sat in the back of the cab Joel had called for him. I am not fetching my brother from a jail cell on Christmas Day, he'd told him. When he walked back into his home, he saw a sleeping figure on the couch, covered by one of the throws.
He went into his bedroom and took no more than 10 minutes to replace all of his linen with fresh ones from the closet in the hallway. He wasn’t going to let his guest sleep on a couch, especially not under a row of windows or next to the entrance door. Carefully picking her up, and she was one deep sleeper, he made his way back to his bed to lay her down on the new sheets.
My extremities get cold easily.
He changed his usual blanket for a thicker one then grabbed a pillow and went to make his bed downstairs. He picked up the scarf lying on the coffee table once more and unfolded it entirely, only then noticing the tiny initials embroidered in grey into one of the ends – J.M. Upon an even closer inspection, he realised it smelled of vanilla and flowers.
————- ❈ ————-
masterlist: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6
tags: @elliaze @joeldjarin
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rondo-grazioso · 3 days
Text
some math professor quotes
I just remembered about this draft post i made years ago during a semester when i had maybe the funniest professors ever. I guess now that it’s been a while since i’ve been out of uni it’d be fun to just post these 
Algebra
it’s ok that i’m confused, i’m confused all the time
you can teach a monkey to memorize…well, nothing against monkeys, monkeys are amazing
pray that this is an isomorphism
(TA after realizing mistake) oh noooooo….all the other students….i told them the wrong thing…aaah shit
wow…spontaneous silence
can they smurf better
if you look at the solutions after trying a question only once or twice, it will break my heart
last-minute cramming will be about as useful as bringing your dog to the exam
Calculus
this fucker converges
(every time he writes a complicated equation) what the fuuuuu
fuck the one
you know what bfc stands for? big fuckin cube
mathematics is serious!! we don’t like laughter. no laughter allowed. stop laughing. even smiling is not allowed
(someone’s phone goes off) what was that? probably me
(some weird noise coming from outside) what was that? god is that you
e^x is god’s function. lnx is the devil’s function
*comes in talking in a russian accent*
if you don’t know what the dot product is then…you’re fucked 
(after telling a story about experience working in a mental asylum) you may think i’m insane, but you haven’t seen what insane really is!! i’m perfectly normal 
Analysis
½ is less than 1…somehow
oh, 5 minutes left…well, i don’t really have anything else i want to cover. actually maybe i’ll just write a definition *(whole class goes NOOOOO)* okayyy
(finding out there is 15 minutes left of class) oh wow. i thought this would’ve taken me more time to get through
(after playing around with some faulty blackboards) i’m scared for my life now 
(after being stuck on his own proof) i’m going to take a quick look at my notes, which is already pretty embarrassing 
(after making a gajillion mistakes on the board) i really need to learn to read before i talk 
what do you call this in canada
(TA) *coughs* sorry i’m dying 
(TA) somebody on the midterm wrote “i’m dumb” on this question. that’s pretty irrelevant because i’m dumb and i can do this question 
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usafphantom2 · 6 months
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ONLY A FIVE-SECOND WINDOW TO HIT SR-71
Recently, SR 71 pilot Steve Grzebiniak wrote, “Deceptive jamming, essentially defeated the SAM ( surface to air missile) capability to successfully intercept the SR 71 as the window to acquire track and launch was very limited.”
Jim Goodall, a well-known author of books about the SR-71, responded in messages to me. Then, SR 71 pilot David Peters responds to Jim about the subject of the SR 71 jammers and the probability of being shot down by the Russians.
Jim said, “As for the “Deceptive Jammer,” when searching for Habu’s to shoot down, the enemy has only about five (5) seconds to find, lock on, and fire its ‘boost glide’ SA-2. And they would have to be looking for it.
When one drives this 34-ton Black monster, remember that it flies through the heavens at over 3,200 feet per second, or 43 miles a minute.
With less than a half percent of the atmosphere at 85,000 feet, the SAM would have to hit the Blackbird, an impossible task as the control fins on the Soviet SA-2 are useless at 85k.
The only way to take down an SR-71 was to try to F.O.D. the aircraft by detonating it in front of the flight path in hopes of FODing the engine or shattering the cockpit windscreen.”
Lt. Col.David Peters responds, “As I have said many times, we only feared the SA10 nuclear. That’s because of exactly what you are talking about. A nuclear blast in front of us would likely prevent evasive action, unlike a 2 or 5, which we could theoretically get around. But suicide was never in the Russian mind, so we felt it was more than improbable. The other factor was they didn’t have very many, and they were mainly deployed around Moscow. It definitely factored into our emergency war order mission planning, as most of those were post-nuclear BDA around Moscow.”
I am grateful that these men took the time to respond to me. This confirms what I thought before that there was really nothing to fear while flying the SR 71 so close to Russia. I am still and always will be amazed at the talent of Kelly Johnson of the Skunk Works and his team that built the amazing SR 71.
~ Linda Sheffield with David Peters,Jim Goodall and Steve Grzebiniak
@Habubrats71 via X
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the-maddened-hatter · 2 months
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Some Hazbin Hotel death symbolism theories/headcanons
So yeah this is gonna be darker since the show literally revolves around characters in hell
Tw for drugs, suicide, murder, cannibalism, mentions of racism & and idk what to call it like in-character cultural insensitivity (if anyone knows how to tag that better lmk) , and various forms of abuse under the read more
Also I know these will probably get disproven within like 5 minutes once the show comes out, but I think they'd still be cool for an AU or something!
Vaggie: I'm gonna start out with a potentially controversial theory here: Her death X eye could be more symbolic than literal, with her choosing to "turn a blind eye" to something in life that eventually lead to her committing suicide out of guilt, and her moth features symbolizing her having been focused on a certain goal or priority to a selfish or harmful degree in life like a "moth to a flame". Putting these together, maybe she allowed something to happen either to someone directly or in such a way that they ended up being harmed/killed in the pursuit of a goal or belief and once she realized the scope of her actions she committed suicide. Maybe once she's in hell she's all but forced into a career of a bodyguard for the ruling families of hell as some kind of ironic punishment (though in her particular case it ends up working out well for her since she and Charlie fall in love)
Since her moth features are much less pronounced than Valentino, perhaps it serves as a reflection of how she realized the harm her selfish focus caused before she died.
Speaking of him, Valentino's highly pronounced moth features could suggest that his selfish focuses were much worse and more self-serving than Vaggie's were (unsurprising given his character) and his addictive smoke powers could mean he died in a fire (my theory is he went into a club that he ran during a fire to retrieve a stache of money and drugs he had hidden inside and perished due to smoke inhalation (meaning he 1 has no visible death x, 2 has a death x on his chest that we haven't seen yet, or 3 his death x shows up sometimes in the red smoke he breathes).
I wrote a fanfiction about a headcanon for Sir Pentious's backstory But the main takeaways from it are I think that he worked with poisons, became paralyzed prior to his death by them, his drug addicted son killed him in a fit of withdrawls with a shattered vial of snake venom, his death X is on his chest where he was stabbed and is hidden by a large fake eye that he wears over it. The other eyes across his body are because he became paranoid after becoming paralyzed. He knows his son went to hell along with him so he's continually searching for him, but doesn't realize that his daughter did as well several years later.
With Niffty, I theorize that her mother died when she was relatively young and she was expected by her male relatives to take up the duties of a housewife and surrender any degree of ambition she may have held about school or a career (even those that fell within the limitations of the time period). Her one hope was that if she was able to get married she'd at least be able to have some degree of freedom from her abusive controlling relatives. Given as many housewives commonly used stimulants that would be considered dangerous and illegal today to increase their productivity and lessen their desires to eat, it's hardly a stretch to think that Niffty would have tried (or been pressured into trying) them as well. It's my belief that she died due to a heart condition that was made much worse by taking the stimulants and her death X is over her heart (and this is why she has speed related abilities). Her large cyclopic eye could be symbolic of her feeling like she constantly needed to be vigilant while still being aware that there were things she wasn't getting to see in life Perhaps her small size is due to her being younger when she died (roughly 18 to 20) and that her death name is taken from the brand of the stimulants.
With Cherri Bomb her cyclopic eye that is functional despite the X may be because she, like Vaggie, chose to allow people to be harmed when she had the power to stop it, but her connection to it was less direct than Vaggie's was (perhaps she created weaponry for an extremist organization, but she didn't realize civilians would be harmed). Within this theory, she may have died sabotaging the organization, perhaps blowing up a bomb within their headquarters o unsuccessfully attempting to dismantle one on the civilian site (with her cause of death being the shrapnel impaling her). She is not ashamed of her death X, and chooses to wear clothing that implies its location.
I headcanon Vox as having been a corrupt journalist in life, overlooked due to a severe stutter in childhood and left with something to prove, he was willing to write false (but convincing) news reports for people about their competitors (ranging from small-scale businesses to political candidates) and come up with convincing doctored photographs. He wanted to quit the lifestyle and settle down with a lady he had convinced to be his fiance (she didn't really love him, but she had a daughter to care for and he genuinely cared for the both of them), so he accepted "one last job" that he believed would leave him with enough to live comfortably in anonymity. The job ended up being a set-up by someone he had previously wronged or their friends/family and was drugged, beaten, and left for dead in an alley. In his final moments he weakly tried to call attention to himself but was unable to get anyone to notice him due to a display window full of new televisions drawing a crowd and drowning out his pleas for their notice.
He has no visible death X due to dying of internal bleeding, but he still bears marks of his death with his eyes always appearing mismatched from three red lines that frequently appear in the lower left corner serve as his marker no matter how often he changes his features. Deeply saddened he was unable to be a father to his fiancee's daughter back in life, he views Velvet as an adoptive daughter. He waited hopefully for many years to see either of them again and his both relived and distraught that they seem to avoided hell.
With Alastor I'm like 99.99% certain this is already fully incorrect, but fuck it this is a headcanon post (also this one is long bc unlike Sir P I didn't get around to writing out the fic before now: Conceived through wealthy white man's abuse of a cook he employed who was of mixed race, meaning her abuser was fully unpunished for his crimes. Though unmarried and in poor health, she kept Alastor, viewing him as proof and hoping he would one day deliver vengeance upon the people who wronged her. He grew up in the care of his ailing mother who, sadly viewed him more as her poised dagger than as her son, and his grandmother who loved him dearly, but lived primarily in her own memories and passed away by the time he was 10 years old. Before she died would tell him lengthy stories about the family he'd never gotten a chance to meet and he would listen, enraptured by the rich tapestries of lineage she described, with his favorite stories being the ones about the Native American man who had been in love with her father's mother, and, she suspected, was well more than just a friend of the family. She didn't know much about the man, but that only served to fuel Alastor's imagination.
Though he hated the man who had given it to him, his lighter skin brought him advantages that were not typical to those in his situation, the most prominent being that he was able gain employment at a rather prominent local radio station in the next town over, and, given time, talent, poor studio lighting, and a false last name, work his way onto the airwaves. He put up with a lot during those long years, forcing himself to stay silent and keep a smiling face through his bosses & colleagues flippant racism, promising himself that it would be worth it one day and that hey'd be "singing a different tune" once he'd worked his way up to the top. He was right, but not in any of the ways he ever expected to be.
Short version, he was found out and fired (despite a degree of public outcry, as his program was quite popular) and he found himself unemployed and, one night, drinking alone. His mother had passed away of a violent seizure a month ago to the day and he was drowning his shames of failure in both his career and of her (she'd had her high expectations of him clear from the moment he was born).
Another man came into the bar, small, tan, scruffy, limping, with some tattoos visible. He hobbled over to the bar stool next to Alastor and with evident glee recognized his voice from the radio and with a bit more effusive praise dolled out between the pours of liquor they became the fastest of friends. When the bar shut its doors, well why didn't they continue their lively chat in Alastor's kitchen? Neither of them had anyone waiting for them at home or much business to attend to in the morning. So that was precisely what they did.
Though he tried his best, Alastor could not seem to pronounce the young man's name. It sounded to him almost like the gecker of a fox (though he blamed this on the copias amounts of bourbon swimming in his brain), and after his third slurred attempt the young man waived his apologies away and said to call him Shilo.
Shilo proved to be a very good listener that evening and, as it happened, in the coming weeks. Most would have balked at the rantings and declarations of vengeance of a total stanger, but not him. He followed each word earnestly, soaking everything in until he was finally ready to make his move.
It was truly such a shame Alastor knew so little about his lineage and about his great grandfather's culture, perhaps he wouldn't have so readily accepted Shilo's claims that he could be granted power, vengeance, and justice through a "dark magic ritual". Maybe if his mother had seen him as someone to love instead of something made to avenge her he would have been harder to talk him into performing 7 so-called "rituals" of murder and cannibalism. Who's to say? End the end the decisions were his own.
He chose people adjacent to his mother's abuser (Shilo was clear on this point, that he mustn't yet strike his target directly, that the ritual was about "absorbing the lights in his life to let you see beyond and leave him blind in the dark". Alastor took down
His uncle (his father's brother) first (a horrid man who, in Alastor's defence, reached for his pistol solely in response to his approaching him)
The house's head butler who had turned out Alastor's mother for "causing trouble",
His own half-brother (he took more pleasure in this than he cares to admit even now, knowing so little and so much separated their respective fates)
His half-brother's fiancee, as she became a convenient next victim
His father's bank broker
His father's chauffeur (for suspecting and confronting him).
And finally, the cook who replaced his mother. That's where things went wrong.
Shilo instructed Alastor to take the body of the victim into the woods once night had fallen, and he complied as he had each time before, but this time as he ate he became overwrought with the guilt of what he'd done, to murder someone fully innocent, whose position was nearly identical to his own mother's all of those years ago.
Shilo was furious when Alastor began to plead to back out of the ritual, insisting that he could well have his vengeance for it all, that once he slit his throat with the so-called ceremonial blade of bone he would awake a spirit of vengence, brimming with all of the power of his ancestors. He tried to press said blade into Alastor's bloody and shaking hands, but he swatted it away as waves of bile doubled him over and he purged most of his night's kill from his stomach.
Alastor watched Shilo's easygoing facade melting away along with his human form, morphing into a snarling canine with a mouth of sharp fangs that dribbled bloody foam. Interwoven between the creature's rage filled huffs and undercurrent of a fox's chitter slipped the words "Oh, Al. You really shouldn't have done that."
He ran for hours through the forest. Shilo, or whatever called itself that anyhow, kept pace at his heels, sometimes overtaking him and ripping away a fresh chunk of flesh or snapping a bone with its massive jaws before falling back to keep the chase going.
Horrifically bloodied and mutilated but somehow still moving he eventually managed to attract the attention of some hunters, who seemingly managed to scare off his pursuer with a few warning shots. Needless to say, Alastor collapsed the moment the beast was no longer on his heels.
One could argue that they meant well, doing what they did. He was very plainly in agony, with his neck and limbs lolling grotesquely, and they really could do virtually nothing to care for him. He wouldn't even let them touch him to try and staunch the bleeding (though for pain or delirium they couldn't tell), doing his best to strike out with a broken appendage or, when one of them tried to at least stabilize his neck with a folded coat, bit down on his would-be-healer's arm and kept locked on until he lost the strength to continue.
He regained a bit of sense for those last few seconds. He saw that horrible beast's wicked eyes and gleaming teeth lurking in the edges of the firelight and he saw one of the hunters kneeling beside him and promising it would be quick and everything would be over in just a moment as he readied his handgun.
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I had coffee my thoughts are all over the place it's not gonna make sense and I'm probably gonna change my mind about some of the things I said later but here's my ramble.
I'm so mad right now. There's so many things that piss me off with Peter B. I keep thinking about all the mess he keeps pulling throughout the first and the second movie. The fact that he betrayed Miles not once but twice BUT THREE TIMES (typing Miles up in ITSV, not telling him about the Spider Society or that he was an anomaly, CALLING HQ ON HIM BECAUSE HE WANTED TO SAVE HIS FATHER. Technically that's 4 but moving on.)
He refuses to acknowledge Miles as a fellow spider(which is probably why he didn't feel bad about finding Miles was an anomaly now he has a reason to not take Miles seriously.) And he keeps trying to insert himself into a mentor role when he's yet to do a whole lot of mentoring. What also throws me here is how he had the audacity to say the trauma builds character while being a mentor to help guide Miles into becoming Spiderman so Miles' could avoid the mistakes that Peter made.
I WILL NEVER BE OVER THAT CHAIR SCENE IN ITSV. How is it you as a grown man. A grown white man no less took a black teenage boy who you viewed as so much of a liability that you had to tie him up. And I know multiple people have talked about everything that's wrong with this scene but there's still something so haunting about watching him just nonchalantly be tied up kicking and screaming about how he wants to be let go that bothers me so much. And I find it hard to believe that this was just a scene we're supposed to just move on from. Did they do this on purpose? Was this supposed to showcase something about Peter's character that I'm not picking up on? Because I find it so hard to believe that the writers who made sure to explicitly show how Gwen's Peter is Christian because he later turns into a lizard wouldn't understand the implications of this scene.
I also don't think he's a strategic as he thinks he is. What do you think was going to happen when you forcefully tied this boy to a chair? You thought he was going to sit still? Also would you think the boy who's trying to save his father was going to do? Actually listen to your words? Sit back and be like, oh you're right I should just let my father die. (This is me going off my reasoning that he didn't plan out that one scene in ATSV. I think that he thought that because he's Miles' "mentor" he could get through to him in a way others can't. Which pretentious much?) His actions do more harm than good and it just works out for him somehow. (For instance Miles saving them in ITSV because he came late.)
These are my thoughts do with this what you will. All the stars decided to align today ig because I haven't been able to come up with coherent thoughts like this in a minute.
(I really need to rewatch itsv. So if there's anything here that I'm wrong about regarding itsv it's been like 5 years since I've seen it.)
I GET THISS SOOO HARD (I waited until I had coffee to answer this lol)
BUT YESSSSS Because like I can understanding giving Peter the benefit of the doubt, it makes plausible sense for a movie to have a certain amount of wiggle room plot wise.
But with writers who clearly understood punk enough to accurately show it in Hobie's arc, repeatedly put in the work to respect Cockney and Puerto Rican culture, who wrote every one of Hobie's lines with PERCISION - would just overlook the glaring hole in their story that is Peter.
Because we as a viewer are continually told we SHOULD look up to him and we SHOULD trust him - but in doing so they accidentally make him the exact opposite. Like.. It doesn't make sense to me.
The Focus on Jess & The Absence of Peter:
aka GODDAMN I hate Peter B. Parker [yet another rant about 'bad' writing, plotholes, and Peter not showing up for Miles or Gwen.
For example,
Jess is Gwen's mentor, and we see her mentor style is extremely different from Peter's and that's suppose to be a contrasting dynamic between them and the relationship between Miles and Peter. Okay, makes sense.
But by NOT having Peter be Gwen's mentor, the writers are implying that he didn't step up as an emotional mentor when all this given - HE SHOULD. Because he's the only adult that she knows, and she a freshly homeless teen who needs to be around people she trusts, rather than working at a society with an auditorium of adults.
But by trying to show off how much we should judge Jess, the writers have inadvertently given us a Peter who just..didn't take responsibility. That's what they're implying - that Hobie and Jess were the ones who came to get aid. And we're suppose to look the other way. I... can't do that, sir.
"Look at how mean Jess is, why not blame her-" Jess is doing her job. Where's the adult she actually knows and trusts. Can we get some dialogue about what he did for her? Or did he just do nothing?
Did they just forget to include that, or did Peter just forget to help?
For me, that's two points in the bucket. Not housing Gwen, and not being her mentor. He could've done one, the other or both.
But because he didn't, we're left asking "What WAS he doing in the Society?"
Missions, I assume. Cause he wasn't mentoring her, so he must have been off putting in legit work for Miguel, I assume.
If we're looking at the characters as full-rounded - which I would hope they are considering the depth of Gwen, Miles and Hobie, it's not a large jump to ask 'How involved was Peter in Gwen's time at the Society? Why is he not her mentor, or why is she not living with him?"
Gwen..should be staying with him. If you're an adult who knows a teen and they become homeless, and it is within your means - yeah, I do think it's a moral obligation to open your home to them, at least temporarily. If you care about them. But that aside, let's extend the benefit of the doubt. Maybe Gwen didn't want to see him.
But then the ratting Miles out thing. This, I can't get around-
Some may say that it was simply for plot development and that Lyla spoke suddenly as a mistake on her part.
And I gotta call bullshit.
Firstly, because this is the same movie where we're shown Hobie stealing parts prior to learning what the parts are for. The same film that literally animated a fight accurately to Bushwick down to the very street. Let's cut it some slack here.
And moreso - I could understand the justification that it was a mistake on Lyla's part.
If Lyla was human. She's not.
She's an AI, and a very sophisticated one at that. Lyla runs on protocol, because that's AI's do. She's made to do things the way that is mathematically most effective, based on her analysis and her code.
It's easy to see Lyla as just an avatar, and a comedic one at that - but Lyla is literally one of - if not the - smartest 'person' in the multiverse. She's the only one who can track Spot in real time. If Jess and Miguel need aid on a mission or with Spot, they call Lyla. And she's handled every Society mission prior to the chase.
Her speaking out of turn suddenly and giving Peter away is an understandable plot mistake, if she was subjected to human mistakes.
So far, Lyla isn't. It doesn't make sense, based on what Lyla is.
I think Lyla would know better than to give Peter away suddenly by detecting Miles' presence and still speaking out loud.
A lot ask 'What motive does Peter have for ratting Miles out?', but we also should also ask "What motive does Lyla have for ratting herself out?'
It's her goal to find Miles no matter what. She doesn't care, she kinda can't - she's an AI. She just has to find him and send Miles' location to Miguel. Her objective.
So her locating Peter without his knowledge and then giving herself away to him doesn't make sense - especially if Lyla knew Miles was that close, from a human standpoint and definitely from the standpoint of the most sophisticated AI in existence.
So I was under the assumption that - like you mentioned now, that before when he gets Miles alone, he may genuinely be trying to convince him still, but by the time they get into that space, I think that's around the time that it becomes a 'Okay, let's just get Miles back to HQ and talk about this' situation.
He genuinely ratted Miles out. In my eyes.
Because at this point, Miguel hasn't assaulted Miles. That comes later. So realistically speaking, his goal was probably to calm Miles down, and get him back to HQ however he could, and talk to him there.
Peter could've helped WAYYYY earlier.
People give Peter credit like 'Oh but he came over to Miles' side at the end-'
NO. YOU DO NOT GET A COOKIE.
Peter could've helped SO much earlier, and if anything, he was THE ONLY ONE in a position of helping.
Gwen can't do anything, like they physically restrain her when she tries to. And there's no point after they come to HQ that Gwen has the chance to turn around and help Peter.
Gwen doesn't get that chance. Peter DOES.
Had Peter helped Miles HERE, IMMEDIATELY, Miles would've gotten away without being assaulted by Peter.
If Peter had turned around and changed course in this moment, Miles would have been better off.
Fuck Peter B. Fuckkkkk hiiiimmmmm. NAWWWWWW
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If Peter had let him go here, or helped him escape - Miles wouldn't have been taking hits up on that train. That's crazzzy.
But he wasn't trying to help Miles escape. If he wanted to, he would've. He could've just said "Matter of fact Miles, I think setting the WHOLE Society on you is a bizarre move and you should probably get out of here until Miguel can calm down and I can talk to him."
But he was like 'Nah, hold my baby. Matter of fact lemme tell you story in this pivotal moment when you're actively in danger. Here, look at me. What do you mean - I'm not stalling? I didn't rat him out on purpose.
Like either you did. And even if you didn't you didn't help him when you were literally the only person in the universe who could. In fact, he got away slower because of you. Lovely.
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Peter is a grown man. He's not an idiot.
He knows Miles is in active danger. Why would an adult turn the conversation in that direction - about his baby - KNOWING Miles has no time.
As soon as Miles got his hands on MayDay, Peter is trying to change the conversation. Suddenly he's joking and laughing.
Even though Miles is freaking out. Why is Peter joking? He knows this isn't a joking situation. But here he is wasting Miles time, either accidentally or intentionally.
Because that'd be some good ass stalling.
There was nothing stopping Peter from helping him leave. But Peter was still on The Society's side, so he didn't. If he was on Miles' side, he would've helped him. He should've, but he was still for Miguel, because at this point Miguel hadn't assaulted Peter yet.
Congrats, Peter. Big L. Humbling Reality Spider-man everyone.
Like combine all this. AND THEN THE SCENE IN ITSV.
LITERALLY AND PHYSICALLY PETER IS ALWAYS HOLDING MILES BACK.
You cannot expect me to believe that the writers of a movie I can write 10k+ words about, just so happened to leave these two glaring plot holes for ONE character.
That I'm just suppose to ignore that Peter restrained Miles, a black boy, in ITSV. That he betrayed Miles for months, wasn't very active in Gwen's time at the Society, and he actively hinders Miles escape - if not actively ratting him out.
It baffles my mind.
It doesn't make sense, that these writers can write Hobie, Jessica, Miguel, Officer Stacy, Rio, and Jeff as fully rounded, well-thought characters. But for some reason, when it comes SPECIFICALLY to Peter B. - they just forget how to write. They just stop thinking about him the second they don't look at him.
IN BOTH MOVIES?
I don't buy it.
To have every other character be thoroughly thought through but have one of, if not these most iconic character full of plot holes...
I think the likely answer is they wrote him that way on purpose and he's just a bad person.
I'm sorry, and I'm laughing while writing this but like.
Either Peter is the ONE singular character who has a series of emotional plotholes - or he's just a bad mentor. It's one or the other. And it's open to interpretation.
But I wanna cut the writers some slack and say, No - they thought it through. And No, Lyla did not just randomly speak out of turn, he contacted her first off-screen before she replied to him.
And by waiting till the very end to come around, waiting until the person who looks up to you is deeply wounded to finally turn around - that's the same arc Officer Stacy goes through.
And we're not supposed to clap for him. It's lovely, but he doesn't get an award. And neither does Peter, not at all.
Maybe if had helped Miles escape in that moment. Maybe if he was Gwen's mentor or he housed her.
But as far as we know he spent those months of Gwen in the Society doing fuck all. We've seen no sign of his contribution anywhere.
And in a story about mentorship, that says something.
Anyway. This is long. Again fiosfgihrgirturetuier I'm SORRY
Once again, Fuck Peter B. All my Hobies hate Peter B. (not a typo)
He's worse than Jess.
And he's not worse than Miguel but I like Miguel more and it's not because of the ass that's just a bonus Miguel is cool (but also very wrong. but like personality wise we're cool).
Ummm I feel like I got off track here. Oh well!!
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Damn he be doing Miles dirty. SMH
Bye.
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ukulelevillainwrites · 6 months
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who follows the rules anyway?
Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8
pairing : anthony lockwood x reader
word count : 6.5k
warnings : panic attack, anxiety, spoilers for lockwood's backstory
content : enjoy this part that has more plot, there's also angst but reconciliation too
taglist : @cassiopeiia24 @archiveoftara
note : time keeps passing faster it's getting out of hand, anyway i hope you like it !! and thank you everyone for reading and still being there as this fic keeps getting longer and longer
[from Lockwood’s POV]
He slammed the front door on his way out. It was probably loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. She had crossed a line and it was enough to make the anger he had felt the night before resurface. It wasn’t the fact that she had made everything to annoy him so early in the day, though it had played a part in it. What had set him off was her devising a plan right in front of him as if he was too stupid to notice. She hadn’t been explicit in what she wrote on the Thinking Cloth, but it was obvious that she intended to act on her theories today. And she was going behind his back. She was putting his company at risk and she didn’t even have the decency to be upfront. He thought he had earned her respect. Her disregard for his authority was a slap in the face.
He had gotten used to their fights by now. Even though they had gotten along pretty well for the past few weeks, their relationship had gotten off to a rocky start. But this was different. They had had disagreements in the past where he had been frustrated with her. She was always the one who got truly angry. It had made him laugh on occasions, like the night they met. She had the habit of taking things to heart. But she was passionate, a quality the three of them shared and it was probably what brought them closer. However last night the tension hadn’t been one-sided.
No matter how much he believed he was right, how he didn’t want her nor George to get into any more trouble, he kept wondering if maybe he’d been wrong. What if because of this he had ruined the relationship they had? Maybe he was being selfish indeed. Maybe he should consider their point of view more closely. George had never been the type to hold a grudge. He’d bring some doughnuts on the way home and they’d go back to normal. But y/n… it was complicated. It had taken them much effort to get along, and maybe now all that was gone. He’d need to do more. Get involved. Help her in her plan to stop this Dufour woman.
He stopped walking as the idea crossed his mind. What was he thinking? That was the whole point. It would put a target on their back. They would get noticed by every relic-man related to this case. It would alert the authorities, maybe DEPRAC would get involved. It was the last thing they needed. The publicity he was hoping for would shed light on the great work they did, not getting involved with a less than desirable crowd. And it applied for y/n and George too. Since Fittes didn’t work out for them, they should be doing their best to make Lockwood and Co noteworthy. To put the company on the map and guarantee them the future they were supposed to have. Why was he the only one to see that? It seemed obvious enough.
He went back and forth in his head as he followed the Thames for the next half hour. His thoughts were cut short when he noticed a familiar boat secured near a spot where the river was shallower. Instead of following the sidewalk, he jumped over a fence guarding a flight of stairs and climbed down to the banks. He had to walk a few minutes longer to finally spot a familiar figure. She was crouched down, digging into the mud, like he was used to finding her. He barely had time to walk closer to her that she was already greeting him, like she had sensed him coming from a mile away.
“Morning, Locky. Been a while.”
“It’s been far too long, Flo. I brought you some licorice to apologize.”
It was only when he mentioned the treat that she stood up and faced him. She took them nonchalantly. A wide bright smile lightened up her face after she took a bite.
“So, what brings you here?” She asked, chewing loudly.
“I just wanted to check up on you, see how you were doing.”
“There’s not much to tell. Business as usual. Except maybe for this new rich old man all relic-men wanna work for.”
“What’s that about?” Lockwood asked, frowning.
“You haven’t heard of the new traffic taking over the city? That’s surprising of you.”
“Oh please, not you too!” He was exasperated.
“What’s with you?” Flo teased him.
“Nothing.”
“I really thought you’d be more invested in all this.”
“A lot of people seem to assume that… What does this particular traffic have that’s so special?” His irritation was starting to show.
“It’s just such a mess that it’s killing people left and right. Relic-men who aren’t cautious…”
“They sort of had it coming.” He cut in.
“…innocent bystanders too. Some people get ghost-touched just by living nearby.” She had gone back to work, digging near the water as she explained the situation in a neutral voice. She didn’t seem particularly affected.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that they start moving dozens of sources at a time! They break into homes, antique shops, cemeteries or whatever potential place with relics they can find and just… don’t secure them at all. They’re being really dumb about it. A bunch of them just broke stuff and ended up with a new visitor.” Her tone had changed when she mumbled those last words. She tried being cautious when she explained further. But Lockwood wasn’t really focused anymore. The world stood still for a moment.
“Just because the guy who’s buying is paying more than the usual market price.” Flo concluded.
He had gone silent. It’s like he was reliving the scene all over again. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
“That guy. Who is it?” he suddenly asked with a new determination.
“I don’t know… some posh old man looking to impress his friends I guess.”
“Tell me if you have any more information. Stop by whenever you hear more, alright?”
“Locky, don’t do anything stupid. You don’t have anything to do with this. It wasn’t your fault-”
“Keep me posted, will you?”
With that he started to walk back, more briskly than he had come. This wouldn’t happen in other homes. Not if he could help it.
He tried to ignore the sorry tone he had heard in her voice as he reached the steps that led back to the street. The news hadn’t been what he expected at all. He thought he was simply going to have a chat with an old friend. Instead, the past he had tried so hard to bury was back to haunt him. It had taken him by surprise, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. He had much to do, he didn’t have time to be distracted. He ignored the twist in his stomach as the sound of the source breaking followed by a scream echoed through his mind. He directed his attention to the next step of the plan they would have to follow. George would have to explain everything all over again, but he was sure he wouldn’t mind. And now that he was on her side, y/n would no longer be mad. Everything would be fine. He had everything under control. He mumbled to himself on the street as he thought about what they needed to do next. Obviously Flo was essential to the operation. Without her intel there was no way they could stop the dealings. Especially if every relic-man in the city wanted a piece of the business. They couldn’t target relic-men specifically. They needed to aim higher. George had already offered to follow her. He was probably right. But most importantly they needed to uncover who was this mystery man buying all those sources. They also had to find out why anyone would want to buy so many sources that they singlehandedly affected the entire relic market.
As he neared Portland Row he wondered how he could phrase his apology. He stopped at Arif’s before climbing the few steps leading to the front door. The house was silent. At first he thought he would find them in the kitchen, still thinking of potential links between the information they had like George was used to doing. But when he got down there the room was empty. He looked through the library, their bedrooms, down the basement. No one. He went back in the kitchen, put the box of doughnuts on the table and started reading the plan they had started to write on the Thinking Cloth. He smiled at the poorly disguised acronyms and anagrams y/n had used to hide what she was planning on doing. Though it faded quickly when he read the next line, something about going back to the south of London out of town. He assumed it was where her family lived. She wasn’t just planning on investigating Dufour behind his back then. She was leaving town. She was leaving him.
It was only a matter of time anyway. He should have known it was a mistake when he offered to hire her. It was always destined to end this way or another. Letting her in seemed like a good idea at the time. She needed a job and a place to stay, he needed another member in his team. That’s what he’d told himself. But he might as well have lied to himself all along. He’d been manipulative from the start. He always was, he did everything he could to get his way. And now it was time to pay for it. It wouldn’t surprise him if George went with her. After all, he had been selfish with him too. George had helped him set up his company and supported him when he didn’t have anyone else. And when he asked him for help he turned his back on him. Being left alone was all that he deserved.
He loosened his tie. It was getting hard to breathe. Guilt strengthened its grip on his lungs, contracted them until he choked. No matter how deep he inhaled, he was running out of air. He was falling deeper down a spiral. Memories he thought buried resurfaced, their long thin fingers clinging to him, pulling him deeper. They sunk their claws into his skin, he felt like he was being torn apart. Blurry faces floated in front of his eyes and remained when he closed them. He wanted them to go away, but the thought of never seeing them again broke his heart all the same.
He held on to the nearest chair, trying to steady himself, but failed. Everything was painful. Sitting down, breathing, thinking, just existing was too much to bear. He felt like his body was shutting down, giving up on him too. He knew it had to end eventually. He didn’t think it would end like this, but it was better that way. To leave this world behind.
He sat down on the kitchen floor, his vision blurry. He was staring off into space, his lungs hurting, his breathing hoarse and shallow. All he could see was the ectoplasm burn from the room upstairs. Jessica was glowing in the middle of it, her arms open, welcoming him into the darkness. The ache spread from his lungs to his heart but he also felt relieved. He would join them and everything would be better. She had a warm smile on her face, the one she always wore when she tucked him into bed every night. But she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were focused on something right next to him. He turned to look. y/n’s bag was settled against the next chair, packed with what could be qualified as an amateur surveillance kit at best. He frowned. Why would she leave her stuff here if she had planned on leaving? She wasn’t the kind to travel lightly. She always had a bag full of useless stuff “just in case”. He never understood her logic but he had always seen her with a heavy bag. Maybe she wasn’t gone after all. A glimmer of hope sparked. But then where were they? The ache clenching his heart turned to anxiety. What if something bad had happened to them? The whole Dufour case could have taken a dark turn. Relic-men could have gotten to them. He needed to find them. He wouldn’t leave this world without knowing they were safe.
His thoughts were racing. Adrenaline had replaced apathy. He didn’t know where to start to look for them and with every passing second they could be further into trouble. He frantically read the notes on the Thinking Cloth, searching for any indication of where they might be. His eyes couldn’t focus. He wouldn’t be of any help if he felt this way. He tried to remember the exercise George had made him do that one time he found him in the same state. He closed his eyes and focused on the air coming out of his nose. He breathed in deep, keeping his attention on his stomach rising. Breathe in. Breathe out. He looked down at the table. There was a map with different places circled. He wrote them down and walked out of the kitchen. He intended to check them all, even if it meant walking through every single street of London.
He headed for the door with a new determination. He put one foot outside and was immediately stopped in his tracks. He stood in the doorframe and watched as a car parked in front of the house. A tall gentleman got out and went to open the first backdoor. George got out the best he could with his hands in handcuffs. Lockwood felt instantly relieved. Though it was bittersweet. Seeing his best friend arrested wasn’t what he enjoyed the most. That was until he heard him give the man a piece of his mind before comparing him to an elderly turtle with all the grace George was known to be capable of. Lockwood couldn’t help but smile. They were alright. They were safe. y/n got out of the car shortly after. Though her handcuffs were already off. She slammed them against the man’s chest before heading towards the house. Lockwood realized he should have known better than to worry himself sick over her safety. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself and she had already proven that a thousand times. Before George or y/n could cross the iron gate, the man called them back in a voice that seemed unnecessarily loud.
“This isn’t over. Consider yourself under constant surveillance. If I catch any of you out of line I’ll have you thrown in jail. Am I understood?”
Neither of them reacted. y/n climbed the few steps, glaring at Lockwood. If looks could kill, he would have been dead in an instant. She bumped hard into his shoulder as she entered the house and headed immediately for her room. George reached the door. He didn’t look bothered at all. He frowned at him, indirectly asking what was going on.
“We have a lot to tell you.”
---
[back to reader’s pov]
It had been an hour since Barnes had dropped them off. She hadn’t moved from the foot of her bed where she was sitting still. She kept replaying the day in her head, trying to make sense of what they had been told.
The ride to DEPRAC had been a silent one. George didn’t look particularly worried, but y/n had a hard time keeping it together. She bounced her leg fast the whole way there. She was worried they took the accusation from the papers literally. Or maybe they were in trouble because they both tried to break into a supervisor’s office. George would be fine since he didn’t succeed. But she was a criminal. What if she was arrested for good? Was this really how it was going to end?
As soon as they arrived, they were separated. Inspector Wade led George in a different room than her and she was left alone with Inspector Barnes. He sat across from her while putting down a manila folder in front of him. He didn’t open it right away.
“Why were you fired from Fittes, miss y/n?” he asked her instead.
She didn’t know how much he knew about her already. She wasn't sure if the real reason had been written down in her personnel file.
“I broke into a supervisor’s office.” She reluctantly admitted after a few minutes.
“Why?”
“I thought she had something to hide.”
“And what would that be?”
She had the feeling he already knew what she was going to say. He wanted to see if she would say the thing he expected. But she couldn’t tell if he believed her.
“I thought she might be stealing sources.”
“You got that theory from your good friend Karim, didn’t you?”
She nodded, but he hadn’t waited for her answer to continue.
“You see, when I read the paper yesterday I thought that giving the front page to an article that seemed mainly exaggeration was a little excessive. But then later in the day a woman working at Fittes came by to report two ex-agents.”
She actually did it she thought. She couldn’t think of a word rude enough to describe her. She was already picturing herself back in that same interrogation room in a couple of days with a murder charge. Barnes must have seen right through her.
“I need you to remain calm for the moment, miss y/n. I had no choice but to bring you here to interrogate the both of you separately. Though I’ve been through your record and I found it very surprising that someone like you could be accused of such things. You rose through the ranks quickly, got to be part of several leading teams, including Mr. Kipps’, and even won several distinctions. Not one step out of line in your whole career.”
She remained silent. It didn’t mean much that she had been exemplary now, she ended up in handcuffs anyway.
“Something didn’t sit right with me. I could be wrong though. Maybe you’re just talented in more than one way.” She shot him another angry stare. He looked unaffected. “I need to hear your version of what’s going on. So I’m asking you to tell me everything you know.”
“How can I be sure you’ll believe me?”
“You won't know until you try.”
She hesitated. A part of her thought that it might not even be worth it. But on the other hand, she didn’t have much to lose.
She told him everything starting with her growing suspicions. The insistent tone Dufour had when she offered to bring back the source. The meet-up she had witnessed. The chase. The rumors Kipps had told her about. She tried to go into great detail. A voice in her head kept whispering that no one would believe her. But the whisper quieted down when she noticed Barnes listening intently, taking notes and rummaging through the folder he had brought. He took out three pictures.
“Do you recognize any of these men?”
“No… I’m sorry I was far away and I was hiding. I didn't get a good look at them.”
“And where did you say the meet-up took place?”
She took a second to answer. She had a hard time acknowledging he actually believed her.
“Um… It was near the Thames, around Scotland Yard I think.”
“Did you hear anything worth mentioning?”
“Well I did see Mrs. Dufour selling the clock we had taken from Mrs. Overton’s house. I heard her negotiate the share she would take on its price but-”
The other inspector entered the room before she could finish her sentence.
“Sir, I think you should hear this.”
“Excuse me.”
Barnes left the room with Wade, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She was deeply confused and didn’t know how to feel about her situation. There was an official report against her, that part was not good. But the inspector in charge didn’t seem to believe she had anything to do with it. She wanted to think there were some positive aspects, but she doubted she could actually trust the man who had arrested her. She remained alone for quite some time, impatiently waiting. She felt like she had been there for several hours already. Though without a clock or natural light it was hard to tell. Eventually, the inspector came back. He didn’t ask her to finish what she had started to say before getting interrupted.
“Do you have any contact with relic-men on a regular basis?”
“Aside from the time one of them chased me down to slit my throat, I prefer to keep a safe distance.”
He got up.
“Are we done?”
“Not quite.” He didn’t explain further and simply asked her to come with him. 
She followed him down a corridor lined with a dozen doors. None of them were numbered. It must not be easy to locate anything in this gigantic building if rooms didn’t even have numbers on them. Barnes selected one of them seemingly at random and opened it. It looked like the same dark interrogation room she was just in. Sitting at the table was George, who didn’t seem to notice them coming in, too busy telling inspector Wade about something that required a lot of gesturing, probably one of the many theories they had been working on since their research. There was an extra chair next to him. Barnes told her to sit down. Only then did George look up and smiled at her. 
“y/n! We were just talking about what we learned at the furnaces.” He exclaimed before going back to what he was saying.
The inspectors shared an exasperated look before interrupting.
“Mr. Karim, we appreciate your input but we have more pressing matters to discuss.” Barnes said in a serious tone. “There are strong accusations against you and they are not to be taken lightly.”
“But you believe us?” y/n asked tentatively.
“I believe that you make the perfect suspects.”
She gaped at him while George was outraged, telling them to learn how to do their job. Barnes raised one hand to silence them.
“However… I think there’s more to this case than meets the eye.”
“I’m glad to finally hear you admit it!” George said, leaning back into his chair.
“Thanks to your testimonies we can safely assume that your case is linked directly to the recent surge in relic dealings. Whether you have anything to do with it or not remains to be proven, but so is your innocence. For now I want you to lay low and not do anything stupid.” He turned to George, then to her. “Am I understood?”
Her frustration came rushing back. Yet another person telling her she shouldn’t do anything.
“So someone I saw commit a felony with my own eyes is putting the blame on us and you expect me to let it slide?”
“I trust that you’re smart enough to realize that the stakes are higher than you think. There are powerful people ready to sink you to protect themselves. It isn’t to be taken lightly. One more mistake would only make their case against you stronger. Believe me if you want to get out of this unharmed you’d better take my advice.”
She looked over at George. His expression was inscrutable.
“I also need to drive you home in handcuffs to keep up appearances.”
At first, she thought it was the inspector’s poor attempt at a joke. Her smile faded when he actually handcuffed them.
“Why would you need to do this? We’re not under arrest.”
“I need certain people to think you’re in more trouble than you really are.”
“Does that have to do with my Scotland Yard theory?” George asked.
“Maybe.” Barnes admitted at a volume barely above a whisper.
This morning, George had suggested the idea that the meeting y/n had witnessed happened so close to Scotland Yard, a risky and quite frankly stupid place for dealing stolen relics, because an officer working there was part of the deal. That would explain how Dufour could have filed an official complaint against them without any tangible proof of their link to relic-men. He had a satisfied look on his face and put out his hands graciously to be handcuffed. He undeniably loved to be right. She wasn’t as forthcoming. The idea of being paraded through the building as someone officially under arrest didn’t sit right with her.
The walk back to the inspector’s car had been humiliating. A few people stared at them as they walked by like they were putting on a show for their entertainment. Not only was she asked to lay low, she also had to pretend like she was guilty. It was infuriating. On the way back to Portland Row, Barnes felt the need to remind them yet again to keep a low profile.
“I’ll keep you updated if anything new comes up, but in the meantime-”
“Yeah yeah ‘don’t be stupid’, you’ve gone over that part already.” George interrupted.
y/n remained silent, picking at her handcuffs to distract herself.
Once they reached their destination, Barnes yelled something to maintain the illusion. His acting skills were terrible. Lockwood was standing in the doorframe, smiling. She couldn’t believe him. He was the one to tell her that this whole thing would blow over and that it wasn’t a big deal. Now he saw them getting out of a police car in handcuffs and he was smiling? She bumped hard into his shoulder as she entered and went straight to her room.
The sun was starting to set. She felt numb. This whole situation was getting too much to bear. Maybe she should just go back to her parents’. The thought had briefly crossed her mind this morning. It had been quickly chased by George’s enthusiasm but now that she was alone she considered it more seriously. She’d be away from trouble and rumors there. She would do what she was asked, laying low and fleeing, leaving DEPRAC to handle Dufour. Lockwood would keep his precious reputation intact. He’d have one less thing to worry about. She wouldn’t drag George into her mess. Everyone would be better off with her gone.
She jumped at the rapid knocks on the door to the attic. After a few seconds, the door opened and hesitant footsteps started to climb the stairs. Lockwood appeared. He tried to smile at her. She didn’t smile back. They remained in an uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. She hadn’t moved from her bed. He was standing awkwardly near the stairs.
“I wanted to see if you were okay…”
“You said to do nothing because it would blow over and the next day I got dragged in handcuffs for an interrogation. How do you think I’m doing?”
“You got out of those pretty quickly…” He joked quietly. “You’ll have to teach me that, it’d be useful.”
She simply stared back.
“I’m sorry. For unsuccessfully lightening the mood and for the way I acted.”
She didn’t say anything. He would have to do a lot more than that to earn her forgiveness.
“George told me everything that went down at the station. I want to say that the positive thing is that this Barnes inspector seems to be on your side. But it might be early to talk about silver linings.”
She raised her eyebrows. No kidding. He shifted slightly closer to her.
“I was wrong. I should have been on your side from the start. I don’t think you should listen to Barnes. Or leave town…”
She hated how he apparently had the ability to read her mind. He took one more step closer.
“George and I need you if we want to stop this. Please help us.”
She remained silent. She didn’t know what to think anymore.
“Or rather… please forgive me.” He concluded with a thin smile.
She looked up at him and was surprised to see him look so honest. His eyes were softer than they had been the night before. His smile was almost shy. It wasn’t far from his usual grin and yet it felt like it was a world away from what she was used to. She wanted to believe him. She nodded slightly. He relaxed instantly, letting out a long sigh. A satisfied look took place once more upon his face.
“Wait, no.” y/n said, renewing the tension that had left the room for a second.
“No?”
“You can’t just walk in here and perform your usual charming act hoping it’ll work again.”
“What do you mean?” Lockwood asked, confused.
“You know exactly what I mean. You act all sweet and flash your signature smile to get everyone to agree with you. You do this with every client we have. Hell, you even did it to me to get me to work here!”
“What? That’s not true!”
“Yes, it is. You acted all nice and sweet-”
“I was comforting you! I was offering my help. I didn’t lie to you or trick you to get you to work here!”
“In hindsight it’s what it feels like.” She finally admitted, dropping what had been on her mind for the past few weeks. There was a long pause. He stared at her in stunned silence.
“I’m sorry you think I’m capable of such a thing.”
He went back downstairs and didn’t bother to close the door.
The relief she felt was bittersweet. The truth was out, and she hoped it would help clear things up between them. Once the tension eased, she would maybe understand Lockwood’s intentions. Though that was a stretch, and she felt terrible, like she had crossed a line.
It was only because she was starving that she eventually came downstairs to help with dinner. George had her chopping onions, Lockwood was nowhere to be seen.
When he eventually made an appearance, they ate in silence. The few times they spoke, they barely said three words or they gestured vaguely. George poured himself a glass of water and Lockwood held out his hand to grab the bottle. She put out her glass but he deliberately put down the water away from her without serving her. She glared at him.
“I wouldn’t want you to think I have ulterior motives.” He shrugged.
He could be so infuriating.
“I learned a little bit more about this whole relic-dealing.” He said to change the subject. “Apparently this whole thing is happening because of one man who is singlehandedly raising the demand for haunted objects. He’s paying handsomely and it’s enough to make everyone go crazy.”
“Then following Dufour would definitely help us learn more about this man.” George answered.
“Maybe… I think we might have to think bigger. To aim for the leaders directly and not just for the leg men. We should probably start by collecting more information about what’s going on in town, in higher society, maybe some events or gatherings that could help us identify this man.”
“Sure I could go back to the Archives tomorrow.” George agreed.
“Yesterday you didn’t even want to hear about this and now we should just follow your every order?” y/n interrupted.
“What do you want from me? I tell you to let it go, you yell at me. I tell you we should get involved and you yell at me again.”
“Because we should always do what you decide!”
“Fine, what do you suggest we do then?”
“I have to think about it…”
“How surprising!”
“Oh shut-”
“Enough!” George slammed his fist on the table. “I’m sick of having to listen to you fight. Apologize to each other and let’s get this over with.”
y/n and Lockwood stared at each other in silence. Neither of them went first.
“Fine.” George said, standing up. “I won’t do any more research then. Until you both apologize, I’m on strike.”
He ignored their protests and went up to his room.
“See what you did?” Lockwood blamed her. “I don’t understand you y/n. I thought you’d be glad I joined you on your revenge mission.”
“You’re so used to getting your way that you can’t imagine things might be more complicated than that.”
“Then tell me what I’m doing wrong! You didn’t accept my apology… I mean, what more do you want?”
“I want you to realize that my career was my life and it was taken away from me. I’ve never felt more powerless than when I got fired and now I can’t even make my own decisions because you decided that you know better than everyone else. And the fact that you don’t even let me decide what to do about something that only concerns me and George…”
She broke off, not sure how to finish her sentence. He didn’t seem sure of what to say either.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t more attentive to this.” He sat in the chair next to her. “I guess I always saw Fittes like a prison and couldn’t see how getting fired from there was a bad thing. I’ll make sure to listen to your opinion… if it’s worth listening to.” He winked at her. She felt acknowledged for the first time since her troubles had begun. It wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement. She smiled back at him. Though, she felt like there was more that he wanted to say. He hesitated, not sure how to phrase what he had in mind.
“Don’t take this the wrong way but the relic-dealing case isn’t just about you and George anymore.” He said cautiously. She frowned.
“People are dying over it.” He continued. “Dozens of sources are being stolen from any place that might have something of value and aren’t secured properly. Because of that some of them broke and let out a visitor that killed people nearby.” He looked into her eyes. “We need to stop this, y/n. Some relic-men managed to get their hands on relics that contained spirits that broke free when they mishandled the sources. This type of ghost will kill the first thing it sees as soon as it breaks free.” He grew more passionate as he explained what he knew. He was staring at something in the distance, his gaze focused, like he was looking through a window to the past. There was turmoil in his voice. It was unsettling, he was usually either indifferent or very professional when talking about visitors.
She listened intently, hanging on to every word. She realized she was staring at him when he suddenly stopped talking and looked down at the table. He looked haunted. She had never seen him so vulnerable before.
“How do you want to proceed?” She asked, trying to make him think of something else.
He looked back at her and blinked in surprise.
“I thought you didn’t want to take orders from me anymore?”
“Vulnerability’s a good look on you.”
The faintest blush appeared on his cheeks. He almost looked shy. She didn’t think it was possible for Lockwood to look anything other than proud and annoyingly attractive.
“I hope this isn’t another one of your acts to get me to forgive you.” She teased him. Though a part of it was true. She still didn’t know if she could trust his puppy eyes. She was about to get up when he took both of her hands in his to make her look at him.
“y/n, I need you to know that I never had the intention to trick you or charm or whatever you want to call it. I was always honest and I meant everything I told you.”
She could get used to seeing him like this. She actually felt like she got to see him for who he really was. And she loved this version of him. The real him. She took back her hands at the thought.
“Even when you said I was pretentious and helpless?” She said to ease the tension she was feeling.
“I meant the nice things.” He corrected. He laughed lightly and looked deep into her eyes with the same warmth from a few weeks ago, when he comforted her in the library. She had no idea how he could maintain eye contact with so much intensity in his gaze. She wondered if the oven was still on with how hot the room was getting.
“Though I wasn’t completely wrong when I said you were pretentious.” He winked.
“You’re the worst!” She laughed as she pushed him away and got up to go back to her room.
“I’ll tell George to get back to work on my way up.” She gave him one last smile before opening the door to the kitchen.
“Goodnight, y/n.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Screaming filled her ears and she was paralyzed with fear. It was coming from everywhere, surrounding her and nulling her senses. At first, she couldn’t see anything. The place was pitch black and horribly cold. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. She had no idea where she was. It looked like some sort of warehouse, with industrial equipment resting under a thick layer of dust. Spiderwebs covered every inch of them and climbed up to the ceiling. That wasn’t a good sign. The screaming intensified. It sounded like a group of teenagers. Her psychic senses, usually sharp even under pressure, were blurry and didn’t give her any indication on what was going on. She noticed a door in the corner of her eye and tried to run to it but her legs refused to work. It was like she was fused in place, unable to move. She panicked as the screaming got closer. But the threat passed right through her. She felt a freezing bolt of energy crashing into her before opening two tall doors wide. A group of agents tried to close them back, they were losing control of the situation. y/n was forced to watch the scene, unable to help. One of them, she assumed the leader of the group, shouted orders that were barely audible above the wind that had risen up. The group went back through the doors, struggling to keep them close. At the last minute, two girls appeared right before they shut. One of them was injured, but she was too far for y/n to see her face. The second girl took off her jacket to tend to her wound. She looked like she was screaming at someone outside but y/n couldn’t see anything from where she was. She desperately wanted to help but her feet did not move. Suddenly the girl looked right at her. It was her. The one who had been haunting her dreams for weeks. She had accusing eyes and said something to her that she couldn’t make out. Then she started screaming. Louder than the wind, louder than the screams of her teammates, louder than y/n’s own screaming.
She bolted up in bed, her throat sore and drenched in sweat.
67 notes · View notes
cheshiresense · 1 year
Text
Anon:
Fandom: Harry Potter (CLV kinda?)
Character or Ship: Hadrian from CLV, I love Hadrian/Orion but that might not work here so it's totally up to you!
AU/Trope: I'd love to see an AU where instead of the CLV dimension, Hadrian is sent to a universe still with BWL!Neville but more similar to canon. Maybe with Slytherin!Hadrian and Hadrian taking some of the other Slytherins under his wing? I just really like the idea of a world where the "good guys" win and instead of (or in addition to) Orion it's the Slytherins who need Hadrian in their corner. Doesn't have to be all of them, whoever you prefer writing is fine. I am also down for bashing if you need to work that in. Thank you!
Tags: CLV AU, Slytherin!Hadrian, Canonical Prejudices, Draco Malfoy Bashing, kind of?, tbh this is more or less how I see him in canon lol but I know he's a fan favourite so fair warning, he's not the CLV version here, at least not yet.
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Author's Notes: Hello, it's been a while since I've worked on these. I think I mentioned before that my tumblr inbox got glitchy so I actually couldn't find the other 6 requests from the last batch of 10 you guys sent in for 5+ Headcanons. So I set up an airtable form instead and got someone to test it, and this was the one they sent. It works, so in the future, I'll toss out a new post with the form link for more requests, and maybe I'll get through them in a timely manner lol.
If you're not in the UraIchi server, then you might've noticed that I've sort of been MIA on the writing front for a while now, the last time I wrote and posted something was like back in May last year, and honestly I've been kind of tired and burnt out ever since, and real life is kicking my ass a bit, so when I do have spare time, all I feel like doing is reading fics or webnovels and sleeping. But the winter hols were a nice break for me, and I've started on a couple new fic ideas and added to some wips on and off over the past few months, so I'm slowly getting back into it, and this 5+ Headcanons prompt was one of the things I've been working on. Hopefully, I'll be able to get back into posting fics soon.
ANYWAY, on to the stuff you actually care about: Slytherin!Hadrian, so basically amp up the hardened war vet and dial down the friendship magic XD Way back when I first started CLV, I did consider Slytherin for his House but it felt like everybody did that, plus the politics I would have to get into gave me a headache and I felt like I couldn't do it justice anyway, so I went with Hufflepuff. Slytherin does give me more options to play with a powerful Hadrian who has less morals about flinging that around to get what he wants though since he would be viewed as a halfblood at best and he'd need that currency to make sure nobody messes with him, especially if this universe is more canon than CLV (lbr, almost everybody is at least 50% nicer in CLV lol). So okay, let's give this a spin.
(AO3 Link Here -- I’ll add this to the collection fic on my AO3 to make it a round 15 but this one will be the last for that. If I do more, I’ll start a new fic.)
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1.
Hadrian ends up being a Hatstall. He sits on the stool for a full seven minutes as the Sorting Hat sifts through his bloodstained memories with a silence so grim Hadrian is tempted to comfort it. Then it proceeds to send back memories of its own, the major points of recent Hogwarts history that would best help Hadrian fit in - Neville, the Boy-Who-Lived; an image of Hadrian's counterpart and an entire family still alive; Quirrell vanquished in first year, a basilisk slain and a diary that bled itself to death in the second, Remus teaching in the third but no Pettigrew in sight; Neville at odds with Potter, Gryffindors at odds with Slytherins, and Death Eater children who hadn't managed to come out of the last war as financially and politically secure as families like the Malfoys, subtly shunned for their parents' sins, while children from the Light side, the winning side, with parents who'd openly defied Voldemort, can do almost no wrong. On the surface, everything looks bright and happy. Beneath it, malcontent and despair bubbles and brews with hardly anyone the wiser, and those who are, are glad to look away.
The Sorting Hat offers no opinions of its own after it is done, only continuing on to extol the virtues of all four Houses while making an argument for why Hadrian would be perfectly suited for each of them in equal measure, before finally leaving the decision in Hadrian's hands.
"Even I cannot be certain where you would do the most good," the Sorting Hat tells him. "Nor do I know which House would do you the most good. There are many children in this school who could use a helping hand such as yours, and likewise, you too would benefit from the same. Who am I to decide which is more important? Perhaps it is most accurate to say that no matter where you end up, who you will help, and who you will allow to help you, a new future will unfold, one made possible only by your existence. Yours is a fate that demands change, Mr. Evans, for better or for worse. But when peril looms on the distant horizon, when our society insists on blind stagnancy, and its people have long stood divided, change is exactly what this world needs. Thus, I leave the choice to you. Where do you wish to go?"
Hadrian says nothing - thinks nothing - for a long deafening minute. The mounting whispers in the Great Hall are easy enough to tune out, and within the confines of his mind, the Hat too remains patiently silent.
The truth of it is - Hadrian is tired. Even now, in this moment, in this place, one year and an entire dimension and seven years away, he still feels like he does on most days— as if he's just walked off a battlefield at the end of one of those kinds of days that can break a man even when you think there's nothing left to break, yet still hyper-alert for the next enemy, the next fight, the next death, because he doesn't know how to do anything else, how to be anything else. On all the rest, of course, it feels as if he never left the battlefield at all.
He is tired, and he honestly doesn't feel like he's capable of helping anyone, not children, not the reflections of his loved ones, and certainly not an entire world that's rapidly revealing itself to be as stuck on a one-way train to hell as his original world had been.
He doesn't want to be a hero, doesn't know how to be one even after all these years, even when other people had always so desperately wanted him to be. A hero, until he'd proven unable to meet their expectations, and then he'd been their villain, right up until they'd needed a hero to stand in front of them again, and round and round and round they'd gone.
The only thing he could never be was just Harry, just himself, and now even Harry Potter is no longer his to claim.
But maybe that's not so bad, not when Harry Potter has always been more story than reality, a patchwork fairytale portrait of a boy, a man, a weapon, a sacrifice, stitched together by every hand except his own.
Maybe Hadrian Evans could be something different.
Gryffindor feels too much like repeating history, and Hadrian would rather not be forced to stare at the majority of those long dead to him day in and day out. Hufflepuff is too prone to crowding together for his liking, persistently eager to be friends with their own members even if they're quick to turn on those who aren't, and Hadrian doesn't think he can bear the overenthusiastic socializing that would require.
 Ravenclaw might be best, a House where even the most introverted can find a home if they have a thirst for knowledge, but at the same time, for a lot of them, once they latch on to a question unanswered or an opinion that doesn't fit their worldview, they won't let go until the question is exhausted or the opinion has conformed to what they consider acceptable, and Hadrian has too many secrets and no more patience to be what others what him to be to fit in with those sorts of people anymore. Besides, he's never quite forgiven that House as a whole. Marietta Edgecombe had been Ravenclaw. Quirrell and Lockhart and Trelawney had been Ravenclaws. Every single one of Luna's bullies had been Ravenclaws. He'd worked with members of that House over the years, taught them back when the DA had been up and running, and even been friendly with some of them beyond just Luna, but generally speaking, he has no positive emotions regarding Ravenclaw. He knows that he isn't being entirely fair, because Voldemort had been from Slytherin, and Pettigrew had been from Gryffindor, and the worst of the lot who'd spearheaded the damaging gossip and baseless accusations incriminating him - first for the Heir of Slytherin debacle in second year, and then the Cup nonsense in fourth year - had all been from Hufflepuff, but still, Ravenclaw simply stands out as that one House that holds no appeal for him.
That really only leaves one place he can go though, and Hadrian finds that he minds that a lot less than he once would've. Slytherin will have its own problems, him being a halfblood at best with a very obvious muggle surname, but Slytherins also respect power, and most of them have the sense to back off if they realize they're picking a fight with an opponent they can't beat. And once that's dealt with, Hadrian will most likely be avoided and left to his own devices, with only the occasional curse to his back to worry about. From a bunch of schoolchildren, that's a negligible issue.
In his head, the Sorting Hat chuckles. "Very well then. If you're sure, better be-"
"SLYTHERIN!"
But Mr. Evans," the Sorting Hat says in the seconds before it's removed from Hadrian's head. It sounds thoroughly amused. "Do not be so quick to underestimate your own heart."
And with that last ominous statement imparted to haunt him, Hadrian stands to lacklustre applause and makes his way to his new House as his tie settles into green and silver stripes.
The briefest of glances over the stretch of the Slytherin table tells him that none of the students seated where most of the fourth-years are gathered have moved to make room for him. That's fine. Hadrian would rather not be boxed in anyway. He takes a seat at the end of the table, smiles at the suspicious first-years around him, and then waits for Dumbledore's opening speech to finish so they can start the feast.
Fifteen minutes later, one treacle tart and a glass of pumpkin juice is all he can manage. He sips at some water for the rest of dinner even as he wishes it was something a lot more alcoholic. He speaks to no one, and no one tries to speak to him, although plenty of prying eyes and sneers of disdain find their way to him throughout the meal.
It makes him feel, Hadrian thinks with some humour, almost nostalgic.
Near the end of the evening, he thinks about going over to the Gryffindor table to find Neville, Ron, and Hermione. But he's in Slytherin now, so he doesn't know how they'll react, and after another moment of contemplation, he decides against it. Not much can embarrass him anymore, but he'd still rather not be put on the spot if the Golden Trio rejects his overture of friendship. It won't help his reputation in Slytherin either if he ends up making a spectacle of himself like that. There's plenty of time tomorrow to see how they'll feel about maintaining ties with a Slytherin without too big of an audience watching, and if they're against it, then, well, it's not as if Hadrian hasn't been living as a recluse over the better part of the past year anyway. He sees no problem carrying on exactly as he has.
Fate sent him here against his explicit permission but she sure as shit can't make him dance.
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2.
Hadrian ends up shuffled into a dorm room with five very familiar Slytherins - Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott. He gets the remaining bed that's presumably been empty since the others' first year, and a very pointed silence coalesces at his back as he starts unpacking his clothes into his wardrobe.
He ignores it. Instead, he absently begins a count of how long it will take for someone - he's betting Draco - to put their foot in their mouth first. He casts a glance at the floor-to-ceiling window next to his nightstand; like the Gryffindor dorms, the room is circular so everyone has a view to the outside, but here, instead of winds and open skies, it's lake water that shimmers against the glass, with the shadows of passing aquatic life flickering by. It's not bad, just different; the ambience of it is almost soothing.
Someone clears their throat behind him. Hadrian hangs up his winter cloak before moving on to his books. They each get a desk too, complete with a mini bookcase, which the Gryffindor dorms don't have. They have to do their homework on their beds or in the common room. How unfair. But at least Hadrian gets to benefit from it now.
Someone clears their throat again, louder this time. Hadrian smothers a twist of a smirk and bends over his trunk again to fish out his towels and toiletries. His more personal belongings can remain inside, although he'll have to ward everything to the nines anyway.
A displeased noise that comes out gilded with that distinctly familiar Dudley-esque whine of a child who's been spoiled since birth and has never known hardship reaches his ears, and then finally-
"Are you deaf, Evans?!" Draco demands, and oh, look at that, Hadrian wins the bet.
He straightens and turns, idly fiddling with a packet of quills as his gaze falls on the blond standing puffed up and bristling by the bed opposite Hadrian's on the other side of the dorm. He looks him over, looks at Crabbe and Goyle bracketing him with twin expressions of oafish scorn, looks at Zabini standing a ways away, watching the whole room with a smirk that doesn't reach his eyes, looks at Nott who doesn't look at anyone at all.
His attention returns to Draco, considering him for a moment longer before asking mildly, "Did you say something?"
Draco's cheeks flush pink even as he draws himself up and snaps, "You should at least have enough manners to introduce yourself!" His face narrows into a sneer, and Hadrian can almost predict his next words. "But I suppose even that might be too difficult for a mudblood to learn."
For a second, Hadrian wonders if he should tell him he's a halfblood. Then again, it doesn't really matter, and also some people consider halfbloods to be mudbloods too. And now that he thinks about it, the person he is in this world might actually be a muggleborn. But he was homeschooled so at least one of his fictional parents had to have known magic, right? Then again, they could've just been related to a witch or wizard but were muggles themselves. Who knows. Certainly not him since Fate couldn't be bothered to inform him.
"Evans, are you listening to me?!"
Hadrian blinks out of his thoughts. "Yes, I'm listening, what is it?"
Draco glares. His features are so… pointy at this age that the expression doesn't really carry the impact he's probably going for, but Hadrian figures it would be unnecessarily mean to mention it, so he doesn't. Instead, he quickly reviews everything Draco has said, and there wasn't actually a question anywhere in there, as far as Hadrian can tell, but maybe Draco really does want an introduction. Seems like a waste of breath though.
"Is there a point to introducing myself?" He asks. "Everybody heard my name at the Sorting. You even just used it so it's not like you don't know."
Draco splutters as if that wasn't what he expected Hadrian to say. He recovers after a moment and opts to glower harder instead, as if that would hide the way the pink in his cheeks is slowly turning red. Poor bastard. That's what you get when you have a pale complexion and fluster easily.
"Are you actually a mudblood then?" He demands contemptuously.
Hadrian honestly doesn't know, but he can't say that, so he volleys back, "Does Slytherin accept muggleborns?"
He knows they take halfbloods, but he can't remember any muggleborns in Slytherin, although if there are any, he doubts they would be willing to broadcast it, even if it means inventing a magical parent in their family tree.
"Of course not!" Draco refutes, sounding scandalized.
Hadrian can't tell if that's actually true, or if that's just Draco's own belief, but it does make things easier. "Then…" He shrugs. "If you already know, why are you asking?"
A beat of silence passes, then two. The red deepens in Draco's face as he hisses dramatically, "Are you mocking me?"
Hadrian suppresses a sigh. He probably is being too flippant for someone as high-strung as Draco, but it's still a far sight from mockery. He can definitely do better if he wants to taunt someone. Had his world's Draco been this easily riled up? They hadn't even really gotten into any exchange of insults yet. "I wouldn't say I'm-"
He stops.
Across the room, Draco has pulled out his wand, and when he realizes that Hadrian's broken off mid-sentence, the flush recedes from his face, and a triumphant smirk instantly takes its place instead.
"Since you've been sorted into Slytherin," Draco announces, raising his wand with a ridiculously showy flourish that makes Hadrian twitch with the desire to correct his posture. "You should know your place. Mouthing off to your betters is a good way to get cursed around here, especially when you're in the presence of someone like me." He sneers down his nose even as his chin tips up, all peacock proud. "My name is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. Even the likes of your kind should've heard of my family." He looks smug, as if a mere surname can protect him from anything when it comes down to it. "You'll be staying here for the next four years, Evans, and I guarantee you'll have a miserable time of it if you get on my bad side. But today's your first day at Hogwarts, so I can be generous. If you apologize, I'll let you go just this once."
An expectant hush falls as Draco finishes his little speech. Hadrian doesn't say anything right away, still turning over the packet of quills in his hands, still waiting. When nothing happens after a good five seconds tick by, and the silence gradually becomes strained, Hadrian finally nods at Draco's wand, "So are you going to use that or not?"
The stunned look of outrage on Draco's face is gold.
"Don't say I didn't warn you, Evans!" Draco snarls, jabbing out with his wand. "Oscausi!"
Hadrian has time to arch an eyebrow at the choice of a pseudo-silencing charm before he's flipping a quill into the fingers of his left hand. A swipe of his thumb leaves a chain of runes glittering along its shaft, and then he brings it up, catches the oncoming spell with the tip, and swats it aside with a flick of his wrist, all in one fluid motion. His right hand doesn't stay still either as his wand slides neatly into his palm, and a single wordless modified Expelliarmus darts out and attaches itself to Draco's wand.
The white light of the Mouth-Sealing Charm is sent soaring across the room, shattering against the door in a shower of harmless sparks, and in the heavy silence that follows, Hadrian smiles.
He thinks it's a very bland smile, if he does say so himself. At the very least, he's careful to not look too intimidating or too unhinged, the way he can sometimes get, if some of his dead friends were to be believed, back during the war. Nevertheless, it still makes Draco blanch white, makes Crabbe and Goyle shrink back, makes Zabini lean further back into a convenient shadow and Nott go utterly still from where he's sitting on his bed.
Hadrian glances down at the remains of his writing utensil, most of the barbs now burnt black. It was a regular quill after all, not exactly made to withstand so much magic. He looks back up, at Draco who has a white-knuckled grip on his wand, and with his own wand, he gives the other's a tug, just enough to make Draco's eyes go wide with something like panic, but not enough to actually disarm him and - considering the sheer amount of honed intent in the charm that even Draco can undoubtedly sense - most likely bend the wand's allegiance.
Hadrian holds it for a moment longer, and then lets go. Draco staggers back a step, jerking his wand down and reflexively pressing it into his chest as if he's trying to protect it, or maybe assure himself that it still belongs to him.
Hadrian tucks his wand back up his sleeve before stooping down to pick up the rest of the quills he'd dropped. The burnt one goes in the bin by his desk.
Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves. So Hadrian does.
"That took you almost five seconds," He begins almost conversationally as he opens a drawer to stash his remaining quills away. "From when you decided to fire that spell to actually firing it. And that's not even counting all the time you wasted saying the stuff before that, after you already took out your wand. It's stupid. When you draw with the intent to harm, you shouldn't give any warning at all. And the spell itself was slow. You should work on that."
He pauses, and there's still no response, which he supposes makes sense. He doubts anybody here wants to listen to him preach. He should just wrap things up since the plan is moving along so neatly.
"Anyway, this is pretty unfortunate," He switches gears and smiles again, as fit-for-public-polite as he knows how to be. It doesn't seem to make anyone feel better, but he also doesn't feel like he was that heavy-handed earlier, was he? Ah well, can't change anything now, and it's still in line with what he wants so it doesn't matter.
"I wasn't really expecting to make any friends since I know the average Slytherin's views on blood isn't exactly in my favour," He continues in light tones. "But I was hoping that we could at least remain on civil terms and get along as schoolmates, if only because we'll be living together for the rest of our time at Hogwarts. Since that doesn't seem to be possible anymore though, how about we just go with the simplest solution?"
Hadrian surveys the room and smiles some more. "You ignore me and I’ll ignore you. You attack me and I'll retaliate. An eye for an eye, so to speak. Everybody just needs to mind their own business, and there won't be any problems. That's fair enough, don't you think?"
His gaze settles once more on Draco. "Since you're the only one who's said anything so far, I'll assume you speak for everyone in this dorm. Draco Malfoy, right? So then, do we understand each other now?"
Across from him, Draco shivers imperceptibly like a rabbit caught at the wrong end of a predator's line of sight, but he also swallows and nods and gingerly puts his wand away. It looks like it costs him, but - at least for now - he seems both too shocked and too afraid to try anything else.
"Great!" Hadrian says cheerfully before cocking his head as a thought occurs to him. "Oh, right, one more thing."
He lets his smile fall away. Lets his expression smooth over into marble. And then he lets his magic flare, lets the pressure of it roll across the room like the black merciless depths of a storm-tossed ocean, lets it eclipse them all like death come to call, and then he brings it crashing down, not most of it, not even half, because he hasn't forgotten that these are children, that they're still young, and they can learn, they can be better, and Hadrian doesn't actually want to traumatize them permanently.
But he also remembers Draco - his world's Draco - telling him once, in a fit of aggravated exasperation during one of those times when they'd devolved into insulting each other's House traits yet again because they still hadn't understood what made the other tick, but they had also reached a point in their friendship where they'd started trying to, and kept trying.
"Slytherins respect power," Draco had said, not for the first time, but then he'd also added, for the first time, and haltingly as if he hadn't known why he'd had to explain it at all, "How else are you going to know they're worth your time? Or I guess worth befriending, in your Gryffindor terms."
"You don't decide whether or not to make friends based on how powerful someone is."
"Slytherins don't have friends. I only said friend because you're a Gryffindor and you don't understand anything else."
"Fine, you don't decide whether or not to associate with every single person you come across in your life based on how powerful they are either."
"Why not?"
"Why would you??"
"How else would you know they're strong enough to stand with you? Or competent enough to protect themselves? Power is a good starting line. If they're powerful enough, then they won't be afraid to face your enemies with you, and you can trust them to be capable of keeping themselves safe without having to keep an eye on them every minute of the day. Only brainless Gryffindors prefer doing things like throwing themselves in the line of fire and dying dramatically for each other and calling that a win. Let me tell you something, Potter - it's not a victory when you're forced to suffer a loss. You haven't won anything if you're not around to enjoy the aftermath. So the best allies must be ones who are powerful enough to not only achieve their goals but also survive them."
"…"
"Well, I will grudgingly admit that I didn't put quite that much thought into it when I was younger, but who did? …It's what I believe now though. Did I finally get it through your thick skull this time, Potter?"
After that particular conversation, Hadrian had understood a little better, even if he hadn't entirely agreed with it all. But he hadn't forgotten a single word, and Draco was right— as they are, these kids definitely aren't thinking that deeply, but Hadrian thinks that the core of it at least is the same. Slytherins respect power. And he has power in spades, so at the very least, he can make them respect him.
Of course, if that also happens to make them afraid of him, then, well, he was never aiming to be their friend or even ally anyway. So long as they leave him alone, it's fine.
He brings his magic to bear, allows the weight of it to fall and fall and fall, and he watches dispassionately as Draco goes grey, as Crabbe and Goyle's knees buckle, as Zabini flinches back like he wants to melt into the walls, as Nott curls into himself and may or may not have stopped breathing.
Hadrian catches Draco's eye, and doesn't let him look away. "I have no betters. Do I make myself clear?"
He'd spent half his life being beaten down by the Dursleys, told over and over that he was worth nothing, that he didn’t deserve food or clothes or kindness, that he was a waste of space and better off dead. He'd spent a good chunk of his Hogwarts career obliviously dancing to Dumbledore's tune, and then some more of it knowingly dancing to it because what else could he do with a target on his back. He'd spent over twenty years shackled to Voldemort, to his parents' legacy, to a war that had loved him a whole lot more than he'd ever loved it. And he'd been Fate's everything since before he'd ever even been born.
Some days, he wonders if he even knows what freedom is anymore. Or if he's ever known at all.
But one thing he is sure of is that he will never passively tolerate anyone controlling what he can or cannot do ever again.
Draco whimpers something like agreement, like deference, like surrender, and- that's enough. Hadrian reels it all back, all his magic hidden away again, and in the dizzying wake of its abrupt disappearance, Draco collapses, barely catching himself and his dignity with the edge of his bed. Crabbe and Goyle do crash to the ground, while Zabini has to steady himself against his nightstand, and Nott sways like he might faint.
Too much, Hadrian thinks distantly, and tries to feel bad about it because he really hadn't meant to go that far, but his lines in the sand have also long since blurred away beneath a tide of blood and corpses.
Mostly, he just feels tired, and it has nothing to do with his displays of magic tonight.
He breathes. Turns. Grabs a towel and his underwear and pyjamas and pretends everything's fine. It is fine, now. He's gotten what he wanted. "It's getting late. I'll shower first. Won't be long."
And then he's exiting stage right, straight into the bathroom, and it's a relief to close the door behind him.
Of course, that sentiment is one that's shared by probably every single person in the room.
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3.
Theo is awake before anyone else the next morning. Or at least he thinks he is because he usually is. But everybody's curtains are drawn, and after last night, he doubts anyone was able to sleep right away, if at all, with the exception of their new roommate.
Hadrian Evans. Great Merlin, where had this person even come from? Even just the memory of his magic - vast and endless and utterly uncompromising - pressing down on them like the sky had fallen on their heads, makes his hands want to shake all over again. For a long, suspended, suffocating moment that could've lasted an eternity, Theo could've sworn he was going to die last night. And the most terrifying thing is that he is absolutely certain that Evans hadn't even been trying that hard.
Evans had radiated enough raw power to force all of them to their knees if he'd really wanted to. But he'd held back. He'd only given them a glimpse, just enough to warn them off. The rest of his magic had been out of reach, but present. It was there, reined in and waiting, but the shape of it and the depth of it had felt… unfathomable, as if it had no limits.
And that doesn't even account for the spellwork he had done. Theo had recognized the Disarming Charm, but last he checked, the average Expelliarmus only deprived a wizard of their wand. A more powerful one might send the target flying and even knock them out, but he's never heard of one that can… threaten to disarm your opponent at your leisure and - if Theo wasn't mistaken - force the wand to forsake its owner. Everybody knows that that's always a possibility in a real duel; if you win and take your opponent's wand, then that wand might not work for its owner anymore. But most of the time, you have to mean it, you have to set out with the intent to do it, the buildup of magic in the duel itself gives that intent a foundation, and there has to be an actual possibly life-threatening conflict of interest between the parties too, a real enmity that even last night - however excessive the exchange - shouldn't have qualified. Squabbles between students just don't count. If it did, with the Disarming Charm being taught in school, there would be a lot more students in need of new wands. The only way Theo can rationalize it happening anyway is that Evans must've been strong enough to compel the wand itself to leave its owner.
Pity he hadn't gone through with it in the end. Evans is powerful, but he's also… Theo is hesitant to call him soft, but if it had been Malfoy, if it had been Blaise or even himself or pretty much any other Slytherin, they would've done it. He's unsure of why Evans hadn't.
And then there had been the thing with the quill. Theo can't even explain that, and he'd mulled it over for half the night. He has the… incidental fortune of occupying the bed closest to Evans', so as soon as Evans had ducked into the bathroom last night, and the others had been distracted with pulling themselves together and possibly trying not to wet themselves, Theo had chanced a swift peek into Evans' wastebasket.
It really had looked just like any other regular quill, one that'd been burnt completely black and missing most of its barbs, but it had been a quill. He'd been tempted to open Evans' desk drawer to check the other quills, but - with Evans' ultimatum still ringing in his ears - he hadn't been that suicidal, so he'd refrained. But from what he could recall, the pack it had come from had looked just like the mass-produced writing utensils one could find in any stationery shop in Diagon Alley.
Whatever he'd done though, he had made it look like child's play. A quill and a Disarming Charm, so fast that Theo could've blinked and missed it. Could someone like that really have remained in obscurity all this time? Evans had apparently been homeschooled up until now, and they haven't even attended their first class yet, but by anyone's definition, after last night, he can't claim to be anything less than a prodigy.
It's… unbelievable. And not even because of any of the blood purity ideals that Malfoy likes to preach about. Theo doesn't think much of muggleborns or halfbloods, but he also doesn't think much of most purebloods, so he's fairly certain it's not high society prejudices that's driving his disbelief. It's just… He's never met anyone - not even his father, and Merlin knows Theo's been afraid of him for as long as he can remember - as effortlessly powerful as Evans had shown himself to be, and he doesn't understand how nobody has heard even a whisper of a rumour of this boy before he'd arrived at Hogwarts.
Someone like him shouldn't exist. Or perhaps there has been one, and that had been how the Dark Lord had made so many people bow at his feet or cower in their homes, but Theo had never met him in person, and so all he has is Evans' example to draw from. And not a single witch or wizard whom Theo's ever met could compare.
Has Evans just been hiding himself? Maybe his family hid him before they deemed him ready to face the rest of the world, and he's certainly proven that he can hide it when he wants to. But what kind of family can bring up this kind of wizard? Evans is only fourteen. None of them had thought him anything special before he'd revealed exactly how wrong they were. And he probably wouldn't have done even that much if Malfoy hadn't immediately taken a go at him, always so obsessed with making sure everyone knows he sits at the top of the food chain.
Well, he certainly doesn't anymore, and if Theo hadn't been caught up in the confrontation last night just like everyone else, he would've been tempted to applaud the spectacle of Malfoy being taken down a peg or ten. Before Evans' arrival, Theo was the one Malfoy liked to take jabs at every few days, and it was only partly because he'd had a halfblood mother. The Notts could've been said to be respectably rich once upon a time, but after the war had ended, with his father's political clout being almost nonexistent and most of their extended relatives either dead or in Azkaban, they'd been easy pickings for the Aurors. His father had escaped prison time with the Imperius excuse and some bribes, but that hadn't prevented multiple raids on their home and a hefty list of fines that had left their vaults near-depleted. And what little fortune they have left is reserved almost entirely for Theo's father's alchemy obsession that's more often focused on illegal research topics than not, as well as his black market dealings, although neither of those at least is widely known, or who knows if they would even have their ancestral manor left after the Aurors were done with them?
Malfoy loved reminding him of almost every one of those things as often as he could, and the most absurd thing is that - more than being born from a halfblood mother or poverty or loss of prestige - Theo's pretty sure Malfoy's biggest reason for disliking Theo is because Theo had refused to follow him around like Crabbe and Goyle back in first year.
So here they are now, and after three years, Theo had more or less become inured, not to mention it wasn't as if Malfoy only bullied him, or even bullied him the most - nobody could top that list while Potter and Weasley were around to fight for first place on it - but it had still been annoying and stressful because Theo was the only one who had to share a dorm with him. Considering the Malfoys' standing in society however, all he could ever do was stay silent and bear with it.
Admittedly, he'd been a little happy when Evans had been sorted into Slytherin, because between Theo and an unknown halfblood-at-best with no allies and no significant family background to speak of, the perfect prey in every way, Malfoy would definitely enjoy targeting the latter more, and even if the blond ponce still came after Theo, it would at least take some of the pressure off of him.
Now… well. That will still probably pick back up sooner or later, but Theo resents it less when he thinks about how it will take at least a few weeks before Malfoy will be able to strut around again after last night's humiliation. And also…
He thinks again of last night, of how Evans had basically smacked Malfoy down like he was nothing more than an unruly upstart getting above himself, and of that quiet oath too - I have no betters - and it hadn't even been pride or arrogance or superiority, only stone-cold certain fact.
He thinks of the fear he'd felt, but behind that, beneath that, more than that, there had also been nothing less than a breathless, heady, wondrous sense of reverence that had settled itself behind his ribcage, in his lungs, in the sudden hungry swell of curiosity that he'd just barely managed to lock behind his teeth, and it had only grown stronger after a night of fitful sleep.
He wants to see that magic again. He wants to know what else Evans can do.
And most importantly, he wants to know if he can do it too.
-0-
Ten minutes later, Theo hears Evans pull his bed curtains back. Very cautiously, he twitches his own curtains open half an inch to watch Evans get up, stretching languidly and scrubbing a hand through his messy black hair before gathering up his toiletries and a change of clothes. Like this, he looks completely normal, nothing at all like someone who could flatten all five of his roommates with a thoughtless flex of his magic. Even his eyes are just green now, no longer glowing like the light of a Killing Curse.
Of course, then Evans waves a hand at his window curtains, which obediently sweep open in response, and… yes, why not? Wandless magic seems par for the course for Evans, even if Theo has only ever heard of a handful of seventh-years capable of some very basic wandless spells if they concentrate hard enough.
Evans leaves for the bathroom as if casual uses of wandless magic is an everyday occurrence for him, and only after the door has closed does Theo let himself relax.
Evans had never even glanced over, but somehow, Theo thinks the other boy had known he was being watched anyway. But he'd said nothing, hadn't even given any indication that he'd noticed, let alone minded. Theo still isn't sure why he'd let Malfoy off so easily yesterday - because on hindsight, when it came down to it, all Evans had really done was scare them and scare Malfoy most of all; despite the verbal abuse and even the Dark charm Malfoy had shot at him, Evans hadn't actually hurt any of them in return - and Theo doesn't get it but maybe part of it is just because Evans doesn't take offence easily.
It seems unwise to Theo to not at least dole out some injuries as a reminder when that offence had been as insolent as Malfoy's, but perhaps Evans has his own measure of such things. Besides, Malfoy's known to say worse. Theo's looking forward to what happens if Malfoy forgets himself and says something even more loathsome. It's not impossible. Malfoy has been unchallenged since he came to Hogwarts. He's used to saying and doing whatever he wants, even to the upper years and those outside his own House. Most people ignore him when they can and indulge him when they can't, or otherwise manage or placate him with their own methods, but the one thing no one has ever done is tell him no, tell him to stop and make it stick. Potter and Weasley tend to give as good as they get, what with how short their tempers are, but they're louder and more obvious about it, so they get caught more often, which just makes them even angrier, so it never actually feels like they win, even when Malfoy doesn't either. Certainly, no amount of lectures or point loss has managed to deflate his ego.
But now there's Hadrian Evans. Theo doesn't need a second demonstration to know that Malfoy is outclassed in every way, but funnily enough, Malfoy himself might need it.
Theo eyes the bathroom door for a moment longer before finally getting up himself. He's barely set his feet on the rug before Blaise - in the bed on Theo's other side - also whips open his curtains, looking far more alert than he ever has this early in the morning.
For several seconds, they stare at each other in silence. And then - because he isn't sure if the other three boys in the room are awake yet - Theo pitches his voice even lower than usual and says, "He said Malfoy spoke for us."
Blaise blinks twice, and then something like distaste curves up at one corner of his mouth. "I heard."
Theo nods. They're on the same page then. Neither of them is particularly keen on this opinion that Evans has regrettably formed, Theo because of obvious reasons, and Blaise because he's Blaise.
Blaise has always been strange. He's the type who gets along with everyone and gets along with no one. You'd be hard-pressed to find anyone - biased Gryffindors aside - who would say a bad word about him, but they'd probably have to think a while if you asked them to describe something of personal significance about him too. It's not that he's average - he's never failed a class, and he's especially good at Potions - but for all that he can carry a conversation in a way that makes everyone feel comfortable and included, and he could probably talk rings around a politician without making them feel stupid, he also never lets anyone close enough to actually get to know him. He's approachable, but only when he wants you to approach him. He's generous with his smiles, but sometimes, it feels a little like he's laughing at you. He might say something condescending or spiteful to you one day, but he has the kind of charisma that makes you forget that the very next. People might call him friend and invite him over for a chat or a game of chess, but most don't make any attempts to go beyond that. And if you know what to look for, as Theo has learned to do, you would realize - Blaise views the world like it's one big boring joke, and his estimation of most of the people in it is probably somewhere around the level of dancing clowns.
Theo doesn't mind. The two of them aren't friends either. They're also not enemies though, and occasionally, they can be allies, but only when Blaise feels like it. Sometimes, the other boy will distract Malfoy from messing up Theo's potion in class or launching yet another diatribe on all of Theo's deficiencies, but Theo will never ask him to because he has nothing to repay Blaise with.
It works for them. Blaise does what Blaise wants, and even Malfoy can't control him. Theo is secretly envious of that— with the Zabinis' seat of power in Italy, it means they don't have that much clout in Britain, and yet nobody messes with Blaise, not even the few who don't buy into Blaise's charm or simply hate him because he's a Slytherin. Not even Malfoy messes with him, and even Theo can't tell if it's Malfoy's self-preservation instincts kicking in to ensure that he isn't about to go insulting someone with a black widow mother like Blaise's, or if Malfoy genuinely hasn't noticed that Blaise doesn't respect him at all no matter how pleasant his words can be. Honestly, when it comes to Malfoy, there's a decent chance of either option being true.
With all that in mind though, it's not a surprise that Blaise isn't pleased with being slotted in as one of Malfoy's lackeys, especially by someone as impressive - or, as Blaise might put it, entertaining - as Hadrian Evans has swiftly proved himself to be.
"It's fine," Blaise says next, rolling out of bed to get ready for the day. He's already regained his typical lazy slouch, as if he hadn't been just as terrified as the rest of them last night. His eyes slide to the bathroom, then away, unreadable but more focused than Theo's ever seen them. "We live in the same dorm, and we'll attend at least most of the same classes. He'll see soon enough that we don't share the same opinions as Malfoy."
Theo watches him dig into his wardrobe. "And then?"
"Then?" Blaise tips a more familiar look of knowing amusement at him. "Then you do what you want, and I'll do what I want, and at the very least, we'll have the good sense to not throw ourselves straight onto a hippogriff's talons like dear Draco."
Theo smothers a snort and rises to his feet. Neither he nor Blaise take Care of Magical Creatures, but everybody had heard of Malfoy's idiocy last year. The phrase "my father will hear about this!" had reached a record high by winter's end. Not much had come of it, not when Hagrid had had the likes of James Potter and Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore championing him. Even Lucius Malfoy would - and had, more than once over the years - find it difficult to contend with the British wizarding world's vaunted war heroes when they join forces. In the end, Hagrid could continue teaching so long as he did it alongside a second professor hired by the school, and even the hippogriff got to live. Malfoy had not been happy, and he'd made sure everybody knew it too, but at least he'd also whined less about it once Slytherin House had learned to snigger about it where he wouldn't hear.
But 'throwing oneself onto a hippogriff's talons' had become rather popular vernacular ever since, subtle enough that even Malfoy couldn't call anyone out on using it without embarrassing himself, but funny to everyone who understood, and nobody could even say who'd started the phrase. Theo's money would be on Blaise though.
The bathroom is spelled so that nobody outside can hear anything when the door is shut, but they can hear the lock click open just fine, and almost in tandem, he and Blaise both immerse themselves in picking out their outfits for the day as if it's a task that requires every last bit of their attention.
Evans walks out. True to his word, he ignores them completely, neither greeting them nor sparing them a glance as he moves back to his section of the dorm. Theo watches him out of the corner of his eye as the boy folds his pyjamas away before proceeding to pack his bag. He catches a glimpse of an Ancient Runes textbook, and his mind abruptly flashes back to the quill. But… that can't be right.
Evans shuts his bag, pulls on his robes, and toes on his shoes. Like this, there's something vaguely familiar about him that Theo can't place right away, and the thought is gone again as Evans slings his bag over his shoulder and strides for the door.
He still doesn't look at any of them, and he's gone from the room a moment later. They might as well have been empty air.
Theo's fingers tighten around the shirt he's holding. Somehow, he-
-doesn't like it.
-0-
Malfoy gets up two minutes after Evans is gone, moving around with an exaggeratedly unaffected sort of poise that makes Theo want to roll his eyes. At least the blond doesn't try to make conversation until Crabbe and Goyle wake up as well.
Evans aside, Theo is the first out of the room, as per usual, although this time, Blaise accompanies him up to the common room and out of the Dungeon. It takes no time at all to arrive at the Great Hall, and this early, most of the four House tables are still empty of students, although more and more are gradually drifting in in groups of threes and fours.
Unlike the other Houses who like cramming into whatever space they see, Slytherins are more political about it. The end seats are left to the outcasts or first-years who don't know better yet, while the midway point of the table is typically reserved for the most influential students, such as those with the best grades or the largest range of social connections or the strongest family background, or some combination of the three. And everybody else arranges themselves between the two extremes accordingly. The only time that changes - from what Theo has heard - is when someone is so magically powerful that they can overwhelm everyone else. Then it doesn't matter what grades or connections or background they have because magic is respected most of all, although they would usually have some qualifications in those other areas. But either way, they would be given reigning place of pride in the middle with their chosen followers around them, and everybody else would sit where they're told to sit, regardless of their accomplishments.
Someone like that hasn't come along in fifty years though, not since the Dark Lord was still at Hogwarts.
So it's jarring to see Evans seated at the very end, furthest away from the High Table, with a book open in front of him and a steaming mug in one hand, but Theo supposes it shouldn't be. He's newly transferred in, and a halfblood besides, so he probably doesn't know about the traditional seating arrangement, and since it's still just the second day of school, it's not as if anybody else outside their dorm knows that Evans is anything but the unfortunate fourth-year with a muggle surname sorted into Slytherin, so he really can be considered an outcast.
Theo exchanges a look with Blaise before tentatively taking a seat at their usual spot a few feet away from the halfway point of the table. It doesn't feel right to… go over Evans' head like this, but it's not like they can really do anything about it at the moment. Theo in particular is technically sitting above his station, but his family is still one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, no matter how far it's fallen, and he gets decent grades in almost every class. He's also on friendly terms with Blaise, and the fact that he shares a dorm with Malfoy is a double-edged sword. Malfoy has the status to sit near the middle ever since he was a first-year, and it wouldn't look very good for him if he's seen completely spurning a Nott in his generation. So Theo is largely left alone so long as he looks like he's nominally part of Malfoy's group during mealtimes.
Theo spends the next five minutes sneaking sidelong glances down the table. Blaise does the same, and neither of them is obvious about it so nobody comes up to ask them any questions. Other Slytherins begin filing in, and more than one wrinkles their nose or sneers when they pass Evans, as if they've smelled something repulsive.
Theo has to make an effort not to wince every time it happens. Blaise watches with a shallow smirk hitched across his face and something cold and callous and thoroughly amused in his eyes.
By the time Malfoy - with Crabbe and Goyle on either side of him - sits down across from them, about half the table is full, plates of breakfast have started appearing, and Evans still hasn't looked up from his reading.
Malfoy - much less subtle - shoots something sulky and resentful with just a dash of fear down the table and mutters, "Doesn't even know how to sit properly."
Theo really does roll his eyes this time, although he makes sure to do it down at his scone. Before anyone can say anything else though, Evans unexpectedly straightens, his attention finally lifting from his book. Malfoy immediately stiffens as well like he thinks Evans had heard him from all the way down the table, which Theo wouldn't put past Evans's ability but also doesn't think that Evans thinks that Malfoy is worth that effort to eavesdrop on.
Evans looks around, but not at any of the Slytherins. He cranes his head over one shoulder, seems to catch sight of whatever he's looking for, and gets up, shutting his book and tossing it back in his bag. Then he's making his way across the Hall, past the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws, straight over to the Gryffindor table that's only partially filled at the moment but is also hosting the Golden Trio, who had just come down for breakfast.
 Evans stops a few feet away, and Longbottom, Weasley, and Granger turn to face him. What Theo can see of their expressions indicate that they're surprised and a little wary, but they also seem like they know each other. They converse about something, Weasley makes some exaggerated hand gestures, Granger smacks him, and then Evans says something else that makes the Gryffindors burst into laughter, startled but bright.
And then Evans moves forward and-
-sits down.
At the Gryffindor table.
Longbottom and Granger are smiling, and even Weasley - with his hatred for everything Slytherin - seems fine with it, going back to plating more food for himself while passing some sausages over to Evans.
In Theo's peripheral, Malfoy's face has lost so much colour that he could pass for a ghost. Theo can't tell if he's just that offended or if he's actually managed to comprehend the fact that he's already alienated possibly the most magically powerful student at Hogwarts from Slytherin House, to the point where that student doesn't even want to eat at the same table as them, and classes haven't even started yet.
Theo can't tell, nor does he care, but if he'd ever needed any more reasons to despise Draco Malfoy, this would be it.
He averts his gaze from Evans, even if the mere thought of him preferring a bunch of Gryffindors - and those Gryffindors at that; the only ones worse would be Potter's lot - over his own House is… grating. But staring isn't going to win Theo any favours and might just tick Evans off. Besides, there are plenty of others who have noticed a Slytherin sitting with Gryffindors, and they're staring enough for ten of him.
He starts on his breakfast. School has just begun. There's plenty more time in the future to observe Hadrian Evans.
-0-0-0-
4.
Within the space of a week, Theo is cautiously pleased to find that he shares all nine classes with Evans. The core subjects are mandatory of course, but in addition to Ancient Runes, Evans also takes Arithmancy, both of which Theo is also studying, and after three weeks, he gets a slightly more detailed picture of what Evans is capable of.
In class, Evans doesn't stand out, or at least not in a way most people would notice. He doesn't take the initiative to answer questions posed by the teachers, and his spells and potions aren't particularly dazzling when they're assigned practical classwork.
But every time a professor calls on him, Evans always answers correctly. Every time they have to practice a new spell, Evans doesn't clamour to be the first to show off, and he isn't the one who produces it with the most eye-catching burst of magic, but when he's asked to show his progress, he always does it exactly the way the teacher demonstrated it at the beginning of class. Even in Potions, all he does is work discreetly in the back corner on the Slytherin side of the room. He never finishes early, but he also never finishes late, never failing to turn in a textbook-perfect potion ten minutes before class ends, and a couple times, Theo catches Snape watching Evans with an inscrutable expression after the boy quietly hands in yet another flawless potion.
After three weeks, Theo can conclude that while Evans doesn't deliberately dumb himself down, and in fact is performing spectacularly across the board, he does it in such a reserved, inconspicuous manner that even most of the professors probably aren't going to notice until they've graded a good few months' worth of homework and tests.
He does it for every subject. Every single one, except Ancient Runes, and Theo is convinced that that's less because Evans didn't try, and more that… well, some brilliance just can't be hidden.
In the third week, when Babbling hands back their first assignment - Acceptables and Poors all around of course; some days, Theo isn't sure if he wants to strangle Babbling or himself, just to put himself out of the misery that is attempting to understand anything their Runes professor says - she holds Evans back at the end of class, and half the students snicker like they think he's in trouble or did so badly that even Babbling can't stand it, and it's the best joke they've ever seen. But two days later, some papers that Evans has left out on his desk while he's off doing something else, probably with his Gryffindor buddies, catch Theo's eye while he's on his way to his own desk. More specifically, the symbol of the Department of Magical Education stamped on them catches Theo's eye, and after some very hasty and very undignified neck-straining and squinting from a prudent five feet away, he more or less understands.
Babbling hadn't held Evans back because he was doing badly. Babbling had held him back because he was doing so good he would be sitting his Ancient Runes O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams on the twenty-third of October.
Three minutes after that revelation, Theo's still sitting somewhat dazed in his chair when Malfoy returns, Crabbe and Goyle in tow. The blond also spots the papers on Evans' desk and - after suffering day after day of, in Malfoy's increasingly belligerent opinion, being disgraced by Evans due to all the time he was spending with Gryffindors, and even three of the ones Malfoy hates most - practically lights up with a malicious sort of glee at the opportunity to get a little revenge.
He seems to have already forgotten that first night's lesson, and it hasn't even been a month yet. Sometimes, Theo is honestly baffled by Malfoy's Sorting into Slytherin. What ambition is there in a boy whose solution to everything in life is to fall back on his father and surname and family money? What cunning is there to speak of when he so often acts without even considering the option of leaving himself a way out, just in case his taunts and schemes backfire on him one day?
Or perhaps the real mystery is how he's managed to go this long without anyone telling him that the world won't always bend to his demands.
"O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams?" Malfoy says loudly as he wanders over to read the papers. He scoffs. "No matter how much magic he has, there's no way that's possible. He's just a fourth-year. And a halfblood! I bet he paid Babbling to sign him up for them. Everybody knows she's not all there so Evans wouldn't even have to pay her a lot to persuade her."
Theo flicks a glance at Blaise, who'd brought up the rear, a few seconds behind Malfoy, and had entered on near-inaudible footsteps in time to witness this latest snowballing disaster. The taller boy's lip curls, and his next words come out in such a nonchalant drawl that it takes a moment for Malfoy to register the bite of them, "Why would he do that though? He's not you."
Malfoy flushes an unflattering shade of red. "Zabini! That's not funny!"
Blaise's insults are always taken as jokes. Theo thinks that's the only way Malfoy can weather them, because he doesn't truly dare to cross Blaise, so even if he does know better, he still has to feign ignorance.
"It can't be possible," Malfoy repeats, turning back to the papers. "Otherwise, why hasn't he said anything about it? If it were me, I'd let everyone know! Obviously, he knows he'll fail, so he doesn't dare to spread it around."
Theo tries to wrap his mind around that logic, fails, and gives it up as a bad job.
"Then, why is he taking them?" Crabbe suddenly pipes up, blinking with a befuddled air in Malfoy's direction.
Malfoy rolls his eyes. "Obviously, Crabbe, it's to impress the Boy Who Lived. You've seen how Evans is constantly fawning over Longbottom." And there's the jealousy leaking into his voice even as it strengthens as if he's gaining confidence in his conjecture the longer he speaks. "He's still just a vulgar halfblood with subpar upbringing after all. He needs political connections if he wants to make anything of himself in our world. And Longbottom's a soft touch, and an idiot besides at everything that isn't digging in the dirt. Just trying to take the exams is probably enough to make him think Evans is a genius."
He takes another step forward, almost hovering over the desk now, childish spite tarnishing his features. "Let's see what the rest of Slytherin thinks of this. We are in the same House so Evans should look for support from real purebloods. I'll help him out."
Malfoy reaches out, and Theo goes still, staring, avid and unblinking.
(Greedy.)
Hadrian Evans does not disappoint him.
Malfoy's hand lands on the papers, and it's as if a miniature explosion takes place. There's no warning as the desk ignites with enough interlocked, interwoven, bloody intricate runes to send anyone reeling. It blankets the entire desk in layers of circles and lines and eye-watering spirals, before even those disappear in a blaze of brilliant silver light that pulses once before bursting outward and knocking Malfoy clean off his feet.
Malfoy screams as he's sent flying across the room in a tangle of flailing limbs and flapping robes. Coincidentally - or not? - he lands on his bed in a graceless upside-down heap, the bag he's still wearing smacks him in the face, and the momentum tumbles him straight over the far side of his bed and onto the floor with a final muffled thump that cuts Malfoy's shriek to a yelp.
The light disappears, along with the runes. The room goes eerily quiet, and for a long moment, nobody moves.
It's Blaise who reacts first.
He laughs.
It's enough to snap Malfoy out of his stupor. The blond scrambles to right himself, pushing to his feet, fury and humiliation writ large across his face as he opens his mouth to shout, "Shut up, Zabini! Wait until my father hears about this! Evans will regret-"
There's a clatter. The door opens.
Malfoy shuts up so fast Theo wouldn't be surprised if he bit his tongue.
Evans steps inside, and then stops. He looks around, looks at his desk, looks at a still dishevelled and increasingly pallid Malfoy, and then he shuts the door behind him and heaves a very deep sigh.
"Seriously?" He asks in rhetorical tones. "I just went to borrow a library book. I couldn't have been gone for more than thirty minutes."
Nobody says anything. Evans sighs again before striding over to his desk. He raises a hand and combs his fingers through the air— or perhaps something only he could see, and that's proven correct as a runic array shimmers into existence, swirling together before reshaping itself into-
-a memory.
Specifically, it's a replay of everything Malfoy had said and done as soon as he'd gotten within three feet of Evans' belongings, complete with sound and colour. It's basically a pensieve without the pensieve or the removal of memories to supply it.
Theo wants so badly that his teeth ache with the leashed desire to ask a million questions immediately.
Patience, he reminds himself.
"Hm," Evans says once the memory's run its course, and the runes wisp away once more. Theo is both surprised and not when the other boy proceeds to pull out his chair, sit down, and dig out his library book, clearly intent to continue his work.
Behind him, Malfoy seethes, and before he can think better of it, or he simply doesn't think, he barks out, "Do you think you can treat me this way, Evans? Do you know who my father is? When I tell him about this-"
"Tell him then," Evans interjects, leaning back to slant a cool look at Malfoy. "Tell him you tried to steal my things, and my wards tossed you onto your bed, and the only thing it really bruised was your ego. Or you can lie and make up something that would make you more of a victim, and big bad mudblood Hadrian Evans bullied you terribly. What's the worst that could happen? Expulsion?" He huffs a laugh, and as far as Theo can tell, the thread of mirth that laces the sound is astonishingly sincere. "Malfoy, I don't actually care. I don't need Hogwarts."
He really doesn't. Worse comes to worst, which other school would be daft enough to not scoop him up if they see what he can do with runes? And that's not even getting into everything else he can do. Any school would accept him in a heartbeat and then laugh themselves to tears if Lucius Malfoy actually managed to get him ejected from Britain's sphere of influence on some trumped up charges just because his son went crying to him. Besides, since Evans had been previously homeschooled, he could always just return to that as well.
Malfoy opens his mouth, then closes it, and he does that a couple times, eyes wide in his face like he's never met anyone who has stonewalled him this way, who has challenged his authority so directly, more than once, and yet remains utterly unintimidated and untouchable.
Evidently, he never has.
Evans regards him for a few seconds more before sighing once more. "I thought I was clear enough that first night, but apparently not. When I say 'attack', I don't just mean with a wand. All my things are off-limits unless I say otherwise, so if I were you, I would keep my hands to myself. You don't want to know what my wards will do to you if they sense intentions worse than just petty theft. I hope you won't forget again."
He holds Malfoy's faltering gaze for a moment longer before turning back to his books and papers. Malfoy stumbles back a step as if he's been physically released, and he looks like he wants to pitch a temper tantrum but also doesn't dare. In the end, he storms out of the room without even straightening his robes or smoothing back his hair, and nobody tries to stop him or go after him, not even Crabbe or Goyle, who've both retreated to their beds, shoulders hunched, almost bowed, angled almost in Evans' direction.
Evans is already poring over his library book though, quill in one hand, inkwell set out, fresh parchment beside it. It's clear he's done interacting with the lot of them.
Theo almost lets it go, as he has every other time he wants to speak to Evans, to ask him questions, to know. He's already biting his tongue and swallowing down the words and opening his bag to fish out his homework.
Except-
It's been three weeks. Theo can be patient when he has to be, but more and more, it's… starting to feel like he doesn't have to be. He's had an entire childhood's worth of practice at dissecting emotions, at looking at a person's face and words and actions and taking all of them into account to figure out how they really feel, if they're angry at him or upset with him, if they're about to lash out even when they're smiling, or if there's still time to appease them even if they look like they're about to go for their wand.
Evans is harder to read than most, but at the very least, Theo can tell that he doesn't get angry often. In fact, there's only ever been that one time, that first night, and even for most of that incident, Evans had only acted to secure his own safety in their dorm once it became clear that Malfoy wasn't going to leave him alone otherwise. None of it had been driven by rage, not even when he'd nearly drowned them in the undertow of his magic over that particular handful of words Malfoy had jeered at him. And ever since then, Evans hasn't done anything except go about his business while ignoring theirs. That went for the rest of Slytherin too, and even some students in other Houses who don't like the fact that he's a Slytherin. Sometimes, they make snide remarks, usually behind his back, sometimes within his hearing range, and to a man, every student in their House has openly shunned him since he went to sit with the Golden Trio that first breakfast, but Evans has never given them a second glance, or really even a first glance, not out of anger or embarrassment or distress, and certainly not out of any desire for them to accept him, which just seems to offend them even more. But Evans is simply… indifferent to it all.
 Most importantly, as much as Theo has been able to conclude, Evans isn't prone to violence. He always seems calm and easygoing when he's with the Golden Trio, and quiet the rest of the time. And from the very beginning, he's never done anything to harm any fellow Slytherins, not even Malfoy. Even his wards seem to have some kind of function worked into them that would rate the level of threat first and only respond with the same degree of damage.
Actually, not the same— if Malfoy had been caught taking another Slytherin's documents without permission, important or not, it wouldn't be too much even if they cursed his hands in return. They probably wouldn't, because it's Malfoy, and people are used to being more lenient with him, but normally, even Malfoy wouldn't do something that gauche anyway. No matter how much they've spoiled him, his parents have at least taught him pureblood etiquette. He's never even tried to rifle through Theo's belongings.
 Admittedly, Theo had committed a slight faux pas as well when his curiosity had prompted him to read those Ministry forms, even if they were laid out on Evans' desk - unintentionally seeing them in passing was fine but the polite thing to do would've been to keep walking - but at least he hadn't been stupid enough to get too close, let alone put a single finger on them. Malfoy really only has his own poor impulse control to blame for going too far yet again, and Theo has every right to judge him for it.
 Although since it was Evans, Malfoy had probably categorized him as someone who doesn't deserve a pureblood's courtesy.
Even then though, Evans hadn't retaliated with anything more than the ward equivalent of a watered down Knockback Jinx, which is basically a common prank amongst rowdier students. Malfoy's pride had - once again - been hurt, but nothing else, even when it would've been Evans' right. And he hadn't gotten angry this time either.
Of course, Theo isn't foolish enough to think Evans isn't capable of violence when he wants to be. If he's pushed far enough, Theo is certain that the other boy could and would inflict some significant damage that would at least end with a visit to the Hospital Wing. Perhaps it was his magic, the relentless weight of it that said it wouldn't hesitate to crush them if they proved themselves a real threat. Or perhaps it was Evans himself, who looks at Malfoy after each stunt like he's putting up with a recalcitrant child that he has to go easy on because said child is too young to know better, except the detachment in his gaze also says that he's weighing Malfoy's age on a scale and waiting for the day his youth will no longer be able to compensate for his actions.
Frankly, Theo hopes that day will come soon. But that's his pettiness talking, and Malfoy in general is none of his concern. What Theo really wants is to learn all those things for himself. Well, not all, he's more than self-aware enough to know he's nowhere near as powerful as Evans, but some of those things - the spellwork, the runes - surely those things can be taught to others even if they don't have incredible amounts of magic? Even if it's slow-going and difficult, Theo isn't afraid to work for it.
So long as he learns even just a little of what Evans knows - and he clearly knows so much, knows the things that can actually be useful in real life - then perhaps, one day, maybe even before he graduates Hogwarts… escaping his father won't be a fool's hope anymore. And if there's a chance that he can do that, then no matter how exorbitant the price Evans names, Theo would be willing to pay it, even if it takes him the rest of his life to honour the debt.
But nothing's going to happen if they're not even on speaking terms. It's been three weeks. Already three weeks. Only three weeks. Maybe it really is still too soon, but at the very least, Theo doesn't think Evans will do anything worse than say no.
 At his back, he can feel Blaise's eyes on him, but he doesn't turn around.
 "Is that-" His voice doesn't crack, thankfully, but it comes out croakier than normal, giving away his nervousness. He bites back the urge to hex himself and tries again. "Is that taught by the time we graduate?"
 Evans… doesn't react, doesn't even look up. For several tense and increasingly awkward seconds, Theo thinks maybe the other boy will just continue ignoring him, or maybe he even thinks Theo is speaking to one of the others, not him.
 But then he writes something down and flips a page of his book, and then he raises his head and shifts away from his desk to face Theo.
 It's a little daunting, to suddenly have that piercing bright green regard aimed straight at him, but there's also no hostility that Theo can see, and that settles some of his nerves.
 Evans looks at him, then frowns, then asks in return, blunt, but amazingly, willingly enough, "You mean the wards?"
 Theo nods carefully, making sure he doesn't look too eager or too demanding. Masters of their trades are always rightfully reticent about their knowledge and skills to anyone who isn't their own mentor or apprentice, unless they're a teacher. Evans may not be a master signed and sealed and authorized to practice, but nobody who can write the exams at fourteen can be considered an amateur.
 Evans shrugs. "I haven't exactly flipped through the Ancient Runes syllabus of every year so I can't really say. If it continues at the same pace as third-year and fourth-year though, then probably not. You'd maybe get to the point of basic wards, but not much more than that. Compound wards like these-" He raps his knuckles against his own desk. "-put crudely, requires the use of runic coils to weave together multiple basic arrays, on multiple levels, in varying sequential order depending on how multifaceted you want the wards to be. It's not that difficult once you start getting some practice in, but from what I hear, you guys don't even begin practical work until after your O.W.L., which… I don't really get, but maybe Hogwarts is big on theoretical learning. But yeah, at that rate, I don't see how you could be constructing something like this by graduation."
 Theo's head is spinning. He didn't understand… anything in that summary except perhaps a general idea of "basic arrays". It's rare for him to feel so stupid.
 Evans is still watching him, and he doesn't seem impatient for their exchange to be over, or irritated that it's taking place at all. He looks like he's waiting for Theo to reply, so Theo hurries on to keep the conversation afloat.
 "So you didn't learn Runes following the Hogwarts curriculum when you were homeschooled," He surmises. "Does that mean the standards here fall short of the international schools?"
 It wouldn't be the first time. Britain's educational requirements have been growing more and more lenient for years. Correspondingly, their elective options have also been reduced to four due to budget cuts and lack of interest in anything harder than petting animals and making up death predictions. Every year, more second-years choose to sign up for Care and Divination than they do Arithmancy or Runes. It's one reason why the number of incoming students has been gradually declining and consists of more muggleborns than purebloods. Foreign schools are strict about accepting any children outside of their designated countries, but those in Great Britain and Ireland who want better for their kids and can afford the higher prices tend to prefer sending them to one international school or another instead of Hogwarts.
 But Evans shakes his head. "I wouldn't know that either. I didn't really follow any official curriculum when I was learning." He pauses a beat, like he's thinking about how much to reveal, or even why he's revealing anything, but then he seems to decide it doesn't much matter. "The person who taught me was a bit… unconventional about it. He was a very good teacher, but he wasn't actually a teacher with the degree and whatever else you need to be a Ministry-approved professor, so he didn't really care about following some checklist of what a student attending a magical school was supposed to learn. Plus he was kind of a genius at runes. Ward-cracking and disassembly in particular since that's what he majored in - he was a Curse-Breaker - but he was pretty good at almost everything else too, which meant he found the basic stuff pretty boring. So when he taught me, and he realized I didn't have any trouble getting the foundations down, and I could mostly keep up even when he skipped ahead to more advanced stuff, he basically ended up just jumping between the subjects he liked most, filled in any gaps along the way, and gave me free rein to research whatever I found interesting. And whatever topic I picked was the one he lectured on, or helped me look up if it was one of the few areas he didn't know much about."
 His expression turns wry, if only for a moment. "Apparently though, according to Babbling, that means there's nothing left for Hogwarts to teach me. But I don't know how I would compare to students in other schools."
 He finishes and falls silent. It's the most he's said since that first night, and it's clear as day that whoever this Curse-Breaker tutor was, Evans respects him a great deal, great enough to ramble on about him to a roomful of near-strangers, and considering what he'd had a hand in molding Evans into, he deserves every bit of that respect too.
 Theo envies it. He is oft a creature of envy, and it hollows him out a little more every time it rears its head, but he's resigned to it. He wonders why Hogwarts can't have a teacher like Evans' instead of the whimsical mess that is Babbling, who can never get through a single class without her train of thought wandering away like an untrained dog off its leash.
 "Then," Theo continues, carefully neutral, carefully watching for any signs of displeasure on Evans' face. "Once you pass your exams, will you simply have an extra study period slot? Or will you be required to attend another elective?"
 Evans blinks at him. "The first, I think. I might see if it's possible to take an owl-distance university course or something, but spare time in my day isn't bad either."
 "Then," Theo forges on, watching as Evans's mouth twists a little, like he knows that this is what Theo has been aiming for from the beginning. Theo can't tell if he disapproves though - he doesn't think so - and it's too late to divert his course anyway. "What do you think about tutoring?"
 Evans cocks an eyebrow. He doesn't say anything for several anxiety-inducing seconds, just scrutinizing Theo with a face blank enough to rival Snape's when he bothers to stop sneering. The quill in Evans' hand taps-taps-taps against his desk before the boy swings around in his chair completely to face Theo.
 "Tutoring," He repeats. "You want me to tutor you in Ancient Runes?"
 And at least he doesn't sound derisive, nor does he put any particular emphasis on any part of that question. It does make it harder for Theo to gauge how he should respond though.
 "Yes," He confirms, because straightforward seems to be what Evans prefers. He thinks, briefly, of including Blaise, but he doesn't actually know if Blaise would like tutoring as well, and even if he does, Blaise can ask for himself. Theo isn't that charitable, and Blaise might even take offense if he tries to be.
 "I can compensate you for your time," He adds, because he's poor by pureblood standards, but not so poor that he can't afford decent education, especially with the nest egg he's been secretly building on the side since he turned eight and realized his inheritance was only going to get smaller at the rate his father was drawing from it for his… extracurriculars. His seven years at Hogwarts at least have already been paid for, robes and supplies and even some pocket money included, because even Silas Nott isn't going to let his son go into public at even more of a disadvantage than he already is. So as long as Evans doesn't ask for a huge sum of money, or even if he does, and he's willing to take part of that payment in favours, then Theo should have enough from his own funds to cover the cost.
 Evans leans back in his seat and doesn't say anything about payment. Instead, he looks almost puzzled as he asks, "Why do you need tutoring though? Even if you want to learn stuff like this," He motions at his desk. "I wouldn't be able to even start teaching you how until you got at least the basics down, and that's what Hogwarts teaches, so is there any point in getting more of the same lessons from me?"
 For a moment, even Theo can't come up with a way to say 'yes, because Babbling can't teach worth a damn, and I don't actually know how I passed last year but I definitely won't this year with the way her lectures keep getting lost somewhere between class and Atlantis every bloody week' but in more polite terms, if only because Evans might not appreciate anyone badmouthing her since she's obviously the one vouching for Evans' qualifications in order to let him take his exams so early.
 Fortunately, Blaise has no such compunctions.
 "Have you seen the way Babbling teaches?" The other boy enquires in his usual lackadaisical tone, just aggrieved enough to sound invested, but mild enough to leech the provocation out of it. It also gives Blaise a foot in through the door, drawing Evans' attention to him without making it seem as if he's interrupting.
 Theo glances behind him at where Blaise is now lounging in his own desk chair, emptying his bag of textbooks and papers even as he glances over to meet Evans' gaze, and his expression has eased into an invitation to commiserate over Babbling's questionable teaching methods. All of it is designed to look casual and cordial, to keep this fragile first exchange lighthearted, if also full of a resigned sort of exasperation, funnelled together in order to lower Evans' guard.
 And it seems to work too, like it does with everyone Blaise turns his charms on. At the very least, the way Evans' mouth quirks in response looks reflexive enough to be genuine.
 "That's fair," Evans concedes, a wry sort of humour suffusing his voice. "She's not the best at… staying on topic."
 Theo has to suppress a snort, but something of it must show on his face anyway because Evans' eyes snap back to him, and a moment later, a quicksilver grin flits across the other's face, bright in a way that lights up his whole face, and perhaps Blaise will have to try harder after all because Theo realizes that this is what genuine looks like on Evans.
 "Okay, I get why you might want a tutor," Evans acknowledges. "But isn't there anyone better for that?"
 Theo blinks at him. "Better than someone who's ready to take his exams in a month?"
 Evans' eyebrows go up briefly, and something in his eyes sharpens. "No. Better than someone who's a halfblood orphan in Slytherin, stuck in a one-sided grudge-match with a pureblood brat who has all the maturity of a toddler and isn't going to be very happy if his friend starts hanging around the guy he wants to curse into the Hospital Wing."
 Orphan? is Theo's first thought, followed by, I wish Malfoy was around to hear that. But all of it is superseded by a defiance that bursts out of him before he can curb it, "We're not friends."
 Evans waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Slytherins don't have friends. What I mean is-"
 "No," Theo says, wincing internally at how he'd cut Evans off mid-sentence. "I mean, we aren't friends. Normally, we aren't even civil acquaintances most days."
 Evans eyes him for a long moment like he can hear all the things Theo isn't saying. Theo's pretty sure Evans doesn't know about his family's circumstances - How would he? Why would he even care to look it up? - but he seems to be able to glean at least the gist of it in a single glance because he seems to accept it easily enough, and the next thing he says is, "Alright, but that doesn't change the fact that he's still not going to be happy about it."
 "Good," Theo says, once again before he can stop himself, and with more relish than he should convey. Even if he's often thought that anything that made Malfoy unhappy was a good thing, he's certainly never expressed it out loud. He doesn't know what's come over him, only that there's something about the way Evans is watching him, patient and without judgement, that makes him… bolder than he normally would be.
 And since he's already opened his mouth, he might as well keep going.
 "So long as you're willing, I don't mind what other people might say," Theo says as firmly as he knows how to be. "I need to raise my grades for Ancient Runes before I take my OWLs next year or I'm never going to pass. I would appreciate any tutoring you can spare the time for." He hesitates, but only for a beat. "If you want, in addition to monetary compensation, I can also snub Malfoy at dinner somehow. And you would know it wouldn't just be some show we put on either. Malfoy doesn't have it in him to be humiliated in public, even as a stunt."
 It's far more outspoken and far more audacious than Theo is accustomed to being, and he can feel Blaise's eyes on him again. But he gets the impression that if he doesn't put his cards on the table - that he really does want to learn from Evans, that it's his main motivation, even if it isn't the only one - then Evans might think Theo is playing some kind of trick on him, possibly on Malfoy's orders, and that's the last thing Theo wants him to believe.
 Besides, this is also an opportunity. Theo had been resigned to living under Malfoy's temperamental rule for the duration of his Hogwarts career. It wasn't as if he wouldn't be doing more of the same as an adult, after all. Considering the difference in their social status, Theo would still have to bow his head, and jump when told to jump, and remain courteously - or at least forbearingly - deferential in front of Malfoy whenever they see each other. At least this more childish version at school is giving him plenty of practice for the future.
 But now, there is Hadrian Evans, whose existence no one had expected and no one thus far can control, who isn't afraid of Malfoy, whom Malfoy is afraid of instead, and Theo honestly can't see that changing. Of course, the real world is very different from some squabbles between teenagers, and Theo has only known Evans for less than a month. But… call it instinct. Even if one day the Malfoy family can really make it so that Evans can no longer live well in Britain, Theo gets the sense that the other boy would rather up and move to a different country than ever submit to anyone.
 People with inborn power like Evans won't bow. They don't know how to.
 And if Theo can get even a fraction of that protection that openly siding with Evans might earn him, then the choice is obvious. He's long known that he isn't powerful enough or ambitious enough or even brave enough to stand on his own. That in order to thrive, or even to simply live a satisfactory life, it would be best to choose someone's shadow to settle in. Preferably, that someone would be willing enough to leave Theo alone most of the time and wouldn't ask too much of him, but he already knows he wouldn't be able to get that from his father or Malfoy.
 Then, there's no point clinging to either of them. Before, there had been no other choices, and between his father and Malfoy, Malfoy was the better bet, though it wasn't as if the blond ponce could've gotten him out from under Silas Nott's thumb either. But at least being - loosely - affiliated with Malfoy would, in the future, offer Theo some protection from his father's obsessive tendencies. It wouldn't do for one of Malfoy's circle of acquaintances to disappear under mysterious circumstances after all.
 Now there's a new player on the field. Of course, Evans probably doesn't see himself as one, and wouldn't care even if he knew. But that doesn't change the fact that his shadow casts a long and looming line, and somehow, it feels more like a refuge than anyone else's Theo has ever come across. Evans might not be willing to protect him, if only because he would have to make himself known to do so, and if there's one thing Evans has shown over the past few weeks, it's that he much prefers staying in the background. But even if he isn't willing to protect Theo, at the very least, he can teach Theo how to protect himself. So, Theo might as well take his chances with Evans, and the first step in doing that is to make it very clear to all and sundry that he's throwing his lot in with the halfblood Slytherin transfer.
 He hadn't quite been prepared to go this far when he'd first decided to speak to Evans today, but doing things by half measures doesn't bode well for him either. Prevaricating or at least being vaguer about his intentions might leave him an extra hand to play, a way to retreat in case associating with Evans becomes too dangerous one day, but no one likes a fence-sitter.
 In Slytherin, every decision is a power play, whether it seems like it or not. An insignificant word or action might result in large consequences that aren't always obvious until the waves and ripples have settled. And Theo's never been much of a gambler, preferring safety over potential riches. But the things he can learn from Evans are too tempting to pass over. Put in plain terms, he's technically using Evans as a means to an end, which no one in Slytherin wouldn't approve of, but for a good chunk of this House, Evans' blood would definitely outweigh any usefulness he might have, especially since he hasn't publicly proven himself in any way at all. And the way he spends all his free time with Gryffindors hardly helps.
 Still, it's a risk Theo's willing to take. And now the Quaffle is in Evans' hands, and all that's left is to wait for his answer.
 Of course, if Evans says no, then Theo can only hope Blaise is feeling magnanimous today and won't go spreading this little story around. Then again, there's Crabbe and Goyle too, and they'll definitely tell Malfoy, so it will get out either way.
 Such is Slytherin, where the only shared secret you can trust to remain a secret is when all other parties are dead.
 In front of him, Evans only raises his eyebrows for a moment before amusement quirks one corner of his mouth. "Well you don't have to go that far."
 Theo can't tell if the other boy understands the implications of publicly cutting ties with Malfoy, but he's relieved to hear it anyway. He'd do it if it's a condition Evans sets, if only to alleviate any concerns Evans might have of being played, but it's not as if he wants to do it. He would happily see Malfoy humiliated any day of the week, but Theo is at heart an introverted person. Open confrontation of any kind will always make him uncomfortable.
 Evans studies him for a while longer as if weighing his sincerity. Eventually, he says, "I'm not opposed to tutoring. Actually, I'm already doing that for Hermione every Wednesday and Saturday. Adding one more doesn't make much of a difference. It's just that I don't love tutoring so much that I want to do it more than twice a week. So," He smiles, and this time, his expression is one of a sharp sort of curiosity. "If you want me to tutor you, then you'll have to be okay with Hermione. And I don't just mean tolerating her presence enough to sit at the same table as her. I mean if you say one bad word about her blood, I'll take that as an attack on me and react accordingly. Understand?"
 Theo blinks once, twice, digesting that ultimatum with something like disbelief because- "Is that all?" And then, because it couldn't possibly be that easy, he hastily tacks on, "How much would you like to be paid?"
 Evans blinks back at him, looking like he's re-evaluating Theo on the spot. Then he makes a dismissive gesture and says, "I'm not short on money. Also I don't make Hermione pay so it wouldn't be fair if I made you pay." He sits back with a finality that starts bringing an end to their conversation. "Wednesdays and Saturdays, 4-6pm in the library. I know we share all the same classes so that shouldn't be a problem for you. Showing up isn't mandatory, you can just come whenever you want, and I'll tutor you in whatever you need help with. My only condition is that you treat Hermione with basic respect. Of course," His mouth twists into a strange smile. "That goes for her too. And her friends if they happen to stop by."
 Theo has to suppress a grimace at that, but it's mostly out of reflexive distaste. Even if Weasley starts flinging insults, he's sure he's heard worse than anything a Gryffindor could come up with, and his tolerance is high, so it doesn't much matter whether Evans can prevent it or not. Actually, it's already pretty novel that he would try at all. This is by far the easiest and weirdest deal Theo has ever been offered, which only makes him that much more suspicious, but Evans also adds no other terms, so Theo is forced to conclude that this really is all Evans wants from him.
 The sheer unfairness of what each party is bringing to the table is jarring. Does Evans not understand what's happening here or is he seriously willing to offer up his time and knowledge on a silver platter at basically no cost?
 Part of Theo wants to ask again, to make sure Evans really doesn't want anything else, but since they've come to this point, even if Evans were to ask for something in the future, Theo would have no obligation to give it. It's admittedly somewhat uncomfortable, to receive so much in exchange for giving back so little when he wasn't even the one manipulating Evans towards this outcome, but at the same time, wouldn't he just be stupid if he keeps pushing the issue? Complaining about not having to spend any money or owe any favours seems rather counterproductive, and even though Theo is willing to pay for a chance like this, that doesn't mean he wants to if he doesn't have to. Of course, he supposes it isn't very honourable of him to not at least insist on some form of compensation, but that's why Theo isn't a Gryffindor.
 So then.
 "Very well, I agree to your terms," Theo says, letting himself relax a bit more when Evans' expression doesn't change. And because even a Slytherin should acknowledge genuine goodwill, he shoves past his own discomfort and manages, if a bit stiffly, "Thank you, Evans."
 Evans makes a face that's something left of embarrassed. "It's just tutoring, you don't have to be so formal. Besides, you're still the one who's going to have to put up with Malfoy pitching a fit once he finds out."
 Theo almost shrugs. That's not anything new. He might have to field some curses hurled his way once other Slytherins realize he's no longer under Malfoy's "protection" and is seen spending time with a halfblood, but it's not as if he has no way of protecting himself from most spells that a student can get away with using in public at Hogwarts. He already has a few family wards set up around his bed too, so Malfoy can't get to him while he's asleep, and the only time he spends in the Common Room is when he's crossing it to leave the Dungeon or return to his dorm, so his Housemates aren't likely to be able to corner him there either. So long as he's careful, he'll be fine.
 Blaise's voice cuts into his thoughts, speaking this time with the lightest touch of concern seeping out from behind a thin veil of indifference that would've fooled even Theo if Theo didn't know the way Blaise can change his approach like he's changing clothes depending on his assessment of the person he's talking to. "You sure you don't need to ask Granger first before letting a Slytherin join your tutoring sessions? She might not be too happy to have Theo there. And her friends definitely won't."
 Evans' attention shifts again, and as with Theo, his gaze is neither friendly nor hostile, but it's different all the same in a way Theo can't quite name. "Is that my problem?"
 The room is quiet for a beat.
 Evans smiles, careless, casual. "I'm the one doing the teaching. Who I teach should be up to me, shouldn't it?"
 Blaise stares, unblinking, hands finally gone still. "Aren't those Gryffindors your friends though?"
 "Sure," Evans agrees. "Still doesn't mean they get to tell me what to do just because they're biased against Slytherins." He shakes his head. "I doubt it'll be much of a problem though. Like you said, they're my friends, and aren't I a Slytherin too?"
 Nobody says what Theo is certain they're all thinking— that in many ways, Evans isn't anything like your average Slytherin.
 (And in others, Evans is the very epitome of one, but the Golden Trio probably doesn't know that, do they?)
 "Are you saying other Slytherins are welcome in your tutoring sessions then?" Blaise says next, and it's the most straightforward Theo has ever seen him, skipping at least three prevarications and five backhanded compliments that Theo could've sworn Blaise would normally include just because he doesn't know any other way to speak. Apparently not.
 Except Evans' response is to huff a breath that sounds like laughter, except not in any way they've heard before, not as amicable, and Theo sees Blaise's smile grow a little fixed.
 If they were in the business of distributing vices, then excessive hubris would undoubtedly go to Malfoy, but only because Blaise doesn't have the same reckless self-defeating habit of flaunting what he has everywhere and retaliating like a rabid lapdog the moment he feels slighted, the latter of which is helped along by the fact that he doesn't hold many people in high enough esteem for them to offend him. After all, you wouldn't get mad if a ghost or a goblin or even a house-elf - as unlikely as that is - is rude to you, would you? At most, you'd punish the latter and move along with your day. And for those who do register enough as people in Blaise's eyes, well, Blaise far prefers retaliating when the other party least expects it.
 It's the same now, in the way Blaise blinks twice rapidly but doesn't otherwise react. Of course, since this is Evans, he won't be able to retaliate later either, not with any kind of success, so it's doubly impressive that the other boy manages to keep his pride nailed down and tucked away.
 "You know," Evans says lazily, mirth or perhaps mockery gleaming in his eyes. "You could just ask. Take a leaf out of Theo's book; it wastes less time."
 Because even Blaise's straightforwardness needs to take a stroll or two around the block first, and apparently, Evans had caught onto that possibly since the first time Blaise had opened his mouth since this conversation began.
 Blaise's lips thin, but after a moment of no doubt weighing the pros and cons, he shrugs gracefully like it doesn't sting and asks, "Then, may I join your tutoring sessions, Evans? I would also appreciate some assistance with my Ancient Runes studies. Of course, I will abide by the terms you've set as well."
 Theo listens and wonders just how much self-control those three sentences took. Before today, he hadn't even known Blaise was capable of it, and the fact that he is, for this, actually says a lot more about his regard for Evans than Theo had realized even just a minute ago.
 At least Evans doesn't make it harder for Blaise than that.
 "Sure," The other boy acquiesces with the air of a predator sitting back on its haunches. "On your own head though."
 At this, a trace of a smirk - his real one, beatific in its cruelty, instead of his regular fit-for-public one - cuts across Blaise's face for the span of a heartbeat. "No problem."
 Evans levels another long look at him before shaking his head with another twist of a smile. "Okay then. We're all good now?" He looks from Blaise to Theo and even spares half a glance in Crabbe and Goyle's direction before nodding, satisfied. "Fantastic. Back to work for me."
 He spins back around to face his desk, reaching for his quill, and the rest of the day passes as usual, without another word traded between them, even when they all get up for dinner. Malfoy comes back shortly before that, stalking over to his section of the dorm with the mulish single-minded intensity of someone unwilling to even acknowledge Evans' existence, although that probably won't last once he finds out what Theo and Blaise have agreed to.
 Later, in private, Theo remarks to Blaise, "I didn't expect you to care so much about your Ancient Runes grades."
 Blaise slants an indecipherable look at him even as a shallow smile stretches the width of his mouth. "Who wouldn't care about their grades when someone's offering to help raise them for free?"
 It's a rhetorical question and answers approximately nothing, but Theo wasn't expecting anything of substance anyway.
 Besides, when it comes down to it, he supposes it's not so surprising that Blaise can also see which way the wind is blowing, hard enough to tell anyone with decent enough instincts that a major shift in power is imminent.
 And no one likes a fence-sitter.
 -0-0-0-
 5.
 Hadrian would like it to be known that he isn't quite sure how he's gotten to this point in his life.
 Well, that's a lie, he sort of knows, or at least he can pinpoint all the decisions that got him from Point A to Point B, but he supposes he just wasn't expecting a couple Slytherins whom he'd always assumed - even back in his original world - were just Malfoy's lackeys in school, to commit, and commit hard. They hadn't even participated in the war on either side, as far as he was aware— Nott had died relatively early on under mysterious circumstances, and Zabini had by all accounts returned to his home country. To Hadrian, they'd been little more than faces in the background that he'd never even exchanged five words with in total before coming to this world.
 But within the first week after they've asked to join his tutoring sessions, Nott and Zabini - Slytherin/Pureblood Rule Number Who-Knows-What: you can't use someone else's first name until you're invited to - make it really fucking obvious who they're… supporting? Have sided with? Because Slytherin is a nest of brewing factions and shifting alliances and political doublespeak and even a couple blood feuds, and this is precisely why Hadrian doesn't want anything to do with this House.
 Except apparently, agreeing to tutor Nott and Zabini means he's… joined the power struggle? Formed his own faction? Decided to vie for in-House supremacy and possible world domination? Who knows because Hadrian sure doesn't, and he's determined not to know, because surely if he just continues doing his own thing, it'll become clear sooner or later to all and sundry that he has no interest in fighting a bunch of schoolchildren over whatever they think he wants to fight for.
 It's just that he can't quite do that either, because not even three weeks after Nott and Zabini start joining him in the library every Wednesday and Saturday with a wary but accepting Hermione, something that translates to them moving their seats to sit with him in class and - when they can make it look natural, if still deliberate - walking with him in the hallways, the displeasure and animosity in Slytherin House reaches breaking point.
 It's not as if Hadrian hasn't already been the target of multiple hexes and curses from his own Housemates. He's a halfblood who hangs out with Gryffindors— it's to be expected. But so far, the spells have always been in the realm of reasonable, ones that might make him trip down the stairs or rip his bag or screw up his potion, and he's been able to block or avoid them all, so he'd figured it wasn't that big a deal. He'd put the fear of a Horntail in Malfoy early on because he has to live with the berk, and he doesn't much feel like returning after a long day of classes just to have to butt heads with him every single time. But he basically has no intersections with the rest of the House, so he just hasn't bothered paying attention to any of them.
 Then, perhaps rather suddenly, Nott and Zabini are there, not so much orbiting him as they do hover from afar. But they join his tutoring sessions, and they're serious about learning from him, listening earnestly and asking questions and even checking out the books he recommends they read if they have time. There are holes in even the most simple of their fundamental knowledge of Runes - Babbling, read a how-to book on teaching for Merlin's sake - so Hadrian has to more or less start from the ground up, as he had with Hermione, but both of them quickly prove themselves more than intelligent enough to keep up, and they're startling enthusiastic - by Slytherin standards - about everything he teaches them. Nott is more obvious - more ravenous - about it, but even Zabini - who likes to pretend he's only there for the novelty of it or something and therefore tends to play up a laidback sort of indifference - never fails to complete the optional exercises Hadrian writes up for them once a week.
 And outside of the tutoring sessions, it's like they've decided that being tutored by him means that he's now their new Malfoy or something. Not that Malfoy was their Malfoy before, if Hadrian had understood Nott correctly, but they'd at least acted like they were part of Malfoy's groupies. Now they've done a one-eighty, and it's not as if they follow him around all the time the way Crabbe and Goyle do with Malfoy, honestly if you don't count classroom and dorm room, they're not even around him half the time, especially Zabini, but when they are around, when they move their cauldrons next to his in Potions class despite working separately, when they go down to breakfast with him despite splitting off at the entrance, when they trail behind him back to the Slytherin Dungeon after a tutoring session, they're so damn conspicuous about it that they might as well be waving neon-bright signs above their heads.
 In contrast, they don't even sit next Malfoy during mealtimes anymore, much to the blond's increasing red-faced ire that vaguely resembles a Silenced teakettle on the brink of boiling over. But now they sit at the end of the Slytherin table, which Hadrian has gradually gathered that that's not a good thing, but he doesn't know how to fix it either, and neither Nott nor Zabini seems to mind.
 They also talk to him now, not often, not just in private, and not just about Runes, although that does still take up the majority of their conversation topics, if only because they don't know each other that well yet. But in their dorm or in class or in the library or in the halls, sometimes, Nott would say something completely normal, like whether or not he owns an owl or if he's noticed Snape's increasingly intent attention on him or if he's found the secret passageway connecting the Dungeons to the sixth floor yet because climbing six flights of moving stairs isn't what anyone would call a good time. Zabini on the other hand prefers sharing obscure gossip that even most of Slytherin isn't aware of, sordid little secrets like whose parent has a mistress (or three) on the side that will very likely cause an inheritance problem down the road, who killed a cousin over the summer due to jealousy but has done a decent enough job of covering it up as an accident because said cousin had been the heir apparent, and even who had to go to Pomfrey for an Abortion Charm just last week but will likely have to break her betrothal contract - and consequently have her magic bound, as per the terms of said contract - in the future anyway because there's no hiding the loss of her virginity from the olde family magicks no matter how frantically she searches for a way.
 To the former, Hadrian responds the way he would if Neville or Ron or Hermione were to ask him similar questions. To the latter, he says, "You have serious issues, Zabini."
 Nott never smiles, but his body language is a little less closed off and his eyes look a little less hunted with every random conversation they have. Zabini is almost always smiling, and in response to Hadrian's incredulity, he only laughs like it's the grandest joke he's ever heard.
 They grow on him, is the thing. One's probably abused at home, and the other is honestly half a psychopath already, and Hadrian shouldn't care but he's always had a bit of a soft spot for broken people, people who don't quite fit in no matter how well they fake it, people who remind him of himself. And the war he'd survived had only served to destroy what little compunctions he'd ever had about getting too close to dangerous things.
 So they grow on him, day by day, and half a month in, the other Slytherins apparently can't handle it anymore.
 Hadrian's just coming back from dinner. Nott and Zabini are with him, having joined him once he'd bid Neville, Ron, and Hermione goodnight. They're halfway across the common room when Hadrian catches movement in his peripheral, and he has half a second to decide what to do, to abort the reflex to go for his wand, to cancel the shield ward sparking at his fingertips, to pivot around on the spot and abruptly swing himself right into Nott's personal space, which means Nott immediately puts on the brakes, and - behind him - Zabini has to do the same.
 Hadrian senses more than feels the curse that grazes the back of his robes and splashes against the far wall between a pair of suspiciously empty armchairs in an area that's normally a popular hangout spot. There's no sound, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way it oozes a sickly viscous purple that puddles to the ground and eats straight through the carpet before finally evaporating into nothing.
 He doesn't turn his head, doesn't challenge anyone into a duel the way his hands are itching to do. Instead, even before the spell disappears, he's already asking, "Did you copy down the Potions assignment from today? I just remembered I forgot."
 In front of him, Nott's turned three shades whiter, and he's already pale-skinned to begin with, so he obviously recognizes the spell. Zabini clearly does as well if the way he's gone gargoyle-still is anything to go by.
 If they'd continued walking, that curse would've hit Nott right in the ribcage. His left ribcage.
 A beat of silence passes. Then Nott takes a breath and answers in a voice that doesn't waver but is even more inflectionless than usual. "Yes, I wrote it down. I can show you."
 "Cool, thanks, let's go."
 Nobody else speaks, nobody even moves, as Hadrian leads the way back to their dorm.
 Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle aren't back yet so they have the room to themselves. As soon as the door is shut, Nott almost slumps onto his bed, hands shaking. Zabini pulls out his chair to sit, a smile hooked at one corner of his mouth, but absolutely nothing about the rest of him says amusement.
 (Slytherins don't have friends, and Zabini doesn't seem to know how to have friends, but Nott's probably the closest to one that his disposition will ever allow.)
 Hadrian looks from Nott to Zabini and back, and then he asks, "Who was that boy? The one surrounded by that group by the fireplace."
 The one who'd fired the spell. Don't think just because a bunch of students were arranged in front of him that Hadrian had missed the way his arm had moved, the jab of a wand, the blossom of light at its tip before the curse had flown across the room. Did they think he was blind?
 Nott blinks up at him, features still pinched. It's Zabini who answers, soft as silk, "Malcolm Avery, seventh-year."
 Hadrian takes a moment to digest that, to press that face into his memory before filing it away for later. He focuses on his roommates again instead and presses on, "Has this sort of thing happened before?"
 Because even if they're spending time with him, Nott's an old pureblood name, isn't it? And Zabini is Zabini, and everybody's heard of his mother. Even if they're shunned a bit, jeered at a bit, even hexed a bit, any serious assaults should only be aimed at Hadrian, right?
 Well, apparently not. That curse earlier had been a much Darker cousin of the Bone-Vanishing Spell, a variation on the more public-friendly Bone-Breaking Curse. If Hadrian hadn't seen it coming, if he hadn't stopped Nott in time, that thing would've not only shattered the left half of Nott's ribcage but also stabbed the resulting fragments directly into the nearest organs before dissolving into the bloodstream as a lethal poison— in this case, it would've been the heart and a lung. Nott would've been dead in under a minute, drowning in his own blood in extreme pain, and it's a tossup if even Hadrian would've been able to save him.
 Zabini - unsurprisingly - shakes his head. For all that he doesn't have an old bloodline to rooted in Britain, he still has enough family clout to grant him a strong backing. And that's not counting his own means of protecting himself. Hadrian had actually gotten the feeling very early on, from the moment they'd had their first conversation, and he'd only been proven right as they'd gotten to know each other a little better— Zabini has all the best traits of a quintessential Slytherin. And thereby also all of the worst. Magic-wise, Hadrian can overpower him in a second, but that's why Zabini knows not to make an enemy of him, knows how to bend and stretch and profit while he's at it. He doesn't need anyone to protect him.
 Nott on the other hand doesn't reply right away, and when he does, it's an evasive, "Spells like that would be an instant expulsion from Hogwarts, especially coming from a Slytherin, and from a seventh-year, they'd go straight to Azkaban. There are portraits all over the school. I'm not stupid enough to wander into places where there aren't any."
 Hadrian aims a flat look at him. "That's not what I asked."
 Nott purses his lips and stares at his lap. Hadrian waits him out.
 "…They've tried cornering me," Nott finally admits, grudgingly, almost resentfully. "There's no avoiding a couple areas with no portraits. But they never used a curse this Dark before, and I've always been able to slip away."
 Hadrian swallows the first three things he wants to say, to shout, because at his core, he likes to think he has a long fuse, but when someone crosses his line in the sand, his temper has always been explosive and violent, which won't help here.
 Besides, hadn't he more or less told these two to handle the consequences of letting him tutor them on their own? Even if they weren't Slytherins and actually had the mind to reach out for help, they probably wouldn't have come to him after what he'd said, so he has no one to blame but himself and the fact that he'd underestimated just how deep some Slytherins' senseless hatred runs.
 So he breathes through his first instinct, his second, his third, and then he pushes off the desk he'd been leaning on in favour of pulling out parchment and ink and the appropriate books.
 "Alright, come here," He beckons, spreading everything out on his desk. "I'm gonna teach you a Fourfold Rebounder Ward so you can wear it on you from now on. The variation I'm thinking of has a chameleon element, so it'll be both strong enough to deflect a curse on the level of the one from earlier and also camouflage it when it's bounced back at whoever attacked you. It's based off of intent too, so it won't act up in a scuffle or a practice duel or something, the other person has to really want to harm you with deadly intent, so keep your guard up for other stuff, and honestly, this should just be for emergencies, you should still try to dodge it because it's not good to grow overly dependent on stuff like this. I'm confident the runes won't fail when I'm the one making it but your reflexes will get rusty if you get lazy. It's a bit- okay, a lot more difficult than anything you're learning right now, but I'll do most of the work, you just watch and provide the magic at the end, and once your foundation is a bit more stable and we can move ahead to more interesting things, I'll come back to this first so you'll be able to learn how to do this yourselves one day."
 A long silence follows. Hadrian looks up. Neither of his roommates has moved. "What's wrong?"
 Another few seconds tick by. It's Zabini who gets up first, an odd smile on his face, one that Hadrian's never seen before. But all he says is, "Nothing's wrong. I was just hoping if we waited a bit, Malfoy will get back in time to see what we're doing and finally keel over from high blood pressure."
 Hadrian snorts with laughter. "Get over here. If that really happened, we'd be the ones who'd have to waste time carrying him up to the Hospital Wing."
 Zabini's expression says that that wouldn't be his problem but he only smirks and saunters over to Hadrian's desk with his chair. When they both turn to look, Nott is already on his feet as well. He doesn't say anything, but he looks steadier, and he's watching Hadrian with a strange gleam in his eyes that makes them look almost feverish.
 They settle down around him, eager - by Slytherin standards - to learn in a way that reminds Hadrian exactly why he likes to teach.
 He gets to work, explaining each step even though he knows most of it is going over their heads. That's fine though; for now, these wards just need to protect them properly, and in the future, he'll teach them how to protect themselves.
 -0-
 Of course, things aren't over just like that, because Hadrian's temper is an explosive and violent beast, and the only things that's changed from when he was still a teenager is the fact that he's gotten a lot sneakier about it as an adult.
 They aren't friends. But Nott and Zabini are his roommates and his students and kids that he's starting to genuinely care about, and nobody gets to walk away scot-free after fucking with the people under Hadrian's care so long as he's still alive to do something about it.
 Malcolm Avery is seventeen anyway. That's an adult by any magical community's measure, which means Hadrian doesn't have to hold back.
 It takes a week. A week of slipping out after curfew and eavesdropping on conversations, of finding out what the seventh-year's next practical Potions class will be working on and scanning all of Avery's belongings to see what Dark spells he's been mucking about with, and finally of filching Avery's cauldron for an afternoon while he's in class and replacing it before he returns to his dorm.
 When it happens, Hadrian isn't even in school. Even if he were, it wouldn't matter because he'd made sure to time everything just right, and all the fourth-years - and most of the rest of the student body too - are already in the Great Hall waiting for lunch to be served. Seventh-year Potions is in the morning block, and Avery always goes overtime when there's a practical.
 Hadrian isn't even in school, sitting his Ancient Runes exams at the Ministry all day instead, but he certainly hears all about it when he gets back that evening.
 A few minutes before noon, a silver doe Patronus comes bounding up from the dungeons with an urgent summons for Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and McGonagall. Nobody hears what is said, but the three staff members rush off even as the food begins to appear, and nobody hears from them again until half an hour later when whispers start going around about Healers from St. Mungo's being called and one Malcolm Avery being carried out the front doors on a stretcher because his condition is too unstable to be transported through the Floo. The professors don't really tell them anything except that there was a Potions accident, but - as these things do because the rumour mill at Hogwarts is healthier than ever, and there'd still been a few other seventh-years in class with Avery at the time - everyone more or less knows what happened anyway by the time afternoon classes start. Potions is cancelled for the rest of the day, because no one else was injured but Snape was too busy furiously documenting what had happened after running multiple diagnostic spells over the remains of Avery's cauldron to teach. Also, he has to submit said documentation and a Pensieve memory to the Aurors investigating the accident, which doesn't exactly say great things about his mood, so nobody's unhappy about being able to give Potions a miss.
 Apparently, Avery had been using his cauldron to make other potions - banned potions - in his dorm room. His roommates had been willing enough to keep mum and even give him a hand, and the book he'd been learning from had been found in his trunk. Thankfully, he hadn't managed to make anything too terrible yet, and his failed attempts hadn't managed to kill anyone, but he also hadn't cleaned his cauldron properly, and so there'd been a mess of residue potion and Dark magic clinging to the metal. Coincidentally, it had ended up reacting quite badly to the potion that the seventh-years were to work on that day, and the end result was a magnificent explosion that Snape had barely managed to protect himself and the other students from in the nick of time. There'd been no helping Avery who'd been standing right next to the unholy concoction.
 In the aftermath, the explosion had caused bad enough burns to disfigure Avery, but time and Healers would fix most if not all of that. Far more serious had been the potion damage to his body— the liquid had seeped right through his skin and disintegrated the majority of his left ribcage, and then it had gone on to chew even further, straight into his heart and left lung, an insidious venom that had dissolved into his bloodstream and sent him into convulsions that had wrung scream after agonized scream out of him until Pomfrey had deemed it safe enough to knock him out, although even then, his body wouldn't stop seizing from the pain.
 He'd still been alive when he'd been rushed out of the castle. Word has it that he's still alive now in St. Mungo's, except the Healers have no idea how to even begin treating him. Mixing multiple failed attempts at Dark potions, most of which even Avery's own roommates couldn't list all the names of or in which order he'd made them, together with one N.E.W.T.-level potion but in an explosion that had caused the maximum amount of entropy in the magic imbued into it— Merlin himself wouldn't be able to fix it with just a wave of his wand.
 By dinnertime, everybody is talking about it, and the professors have given up trying to stop them.
 (In truth, the outcome probably wouldn't have been quite so serious if Hadrian hadn't added a spell to amplify the toxicity and volatility of the residue in the cauldron, as well as several looping single-use runes to hide the volcanic buildup and also bind the whole thing to Avery alone so that it wouldn't have hurt anyone else even if Snape hadn't reacted in time. Without Hadrian's interference, it would've still exploded sooner or later, but Snape might've seen the danger signs in time to evacuate everyone from the classroom, and even if he didn't, the effects of the potion on Avery probably wouldn't have been so terrible.
 But then, that wouldn't have been enough. After all, lessons like these should stick.
 Avery will live, but he sure won't enjoy it.)
 It's almost ten by the time Hadrian gets back to the Slytherin Dungeon. Snape drops him off at the entrance before sweeping off to his own office in a dramatic billow of irritably flapping robes. He'd been at the Ministry for half the day just to piece together what had happened for them, but as Hadrian had ensured, the Potions master had been cleared of any negligence in the matter. The potion had very obviously shown no signs of exploding - three other experts had verified - and students are expected to take care of their own cauldrons from third-year onwards without the professor having to do weekly checks. Snape had been released by dinnertime, but he'd apparently decided to simply eat in the Ministry cafeteria and return with his student and Babbling, so here they are.
 Except-
 Just before Snape makes to leave, he turns and pins Hadrian with a long appraising look, clinical and penetrating. Hadrian stares back serenely, and maybe the fact that his mind is a steel trap wrapped around a battlefield would be highly suspect to anyone looking in, but he also doesn't feel so much as a brush of Legilimency from Snape whatsoever. The professor really is just looking at him.
 It's a strange new world.
 In the end, Snape doesn't say anything before walking off, and Hadrian is left to blink after him before letting himself into the common room.
 Everything goes eerily silent the moment everyone realizes he's back. Even if he hadn't said anything, someone - let's be real, it's Malfoy - had spread the news of Hadrian taking his Ancient Runes exams early, so pretty much everyone had known where he'd gone today. It was never a secret though so Hadrian hadn't cared, except when he steps into the room, it's very obvious that everybody is focused on him, and just as obvious that nobody is willing to make eye-contact with him.
 The younger students should've already retired for the night. At least everybody still in the common room, studying or playing chess or chatting with each other like any standard evening, are fifth-years and up, so most of these students had probably known - or had been told after the fact - exactly what that curse would've done to Theo Nott that day, and exactly who had been the one to attack him.
 And everybody knows what had happened to Avery today. More specifically, they know that what had happened to him today had been an almost perfect mirror of what he'd wanted to do to Nott one week ago. Nobody here believes in coincidences, and there's only so many people who would've had the motivation to orchestrate the entire accident down to the smallest detail.
 Most of them have known Nott and Zabini for at least a few years. Perhaps they're not on speaking terms, but they'd still been Housemates for a while. Something like this isn't really Nott's style, and while it is Zabini's, neither of them has the ability.
 The only real unknown is Hadrian Evans, and if they still can't put the pieces together at this point, they might as well sell their brains.
 The area by the fireplace, normally always occupied by Avery's group at this time, is empty today. Avery's at St. Mungo's, his roommates are in overnight lockup at the Ministry, and any who aren't but were part of Avery's faction are probably hiding up in their rooms. Nobody else has taken their seats, not even the students who usually do when Avery hasn't claimed it for the day.
 Hadrian walks towards the doorway leading to the boys' dormitory, and no one stops him. It feels like the entire room is holding their breaths. Nobody speaks. Nobody even moves until Hadrian is out of earshot.
 The dorm is likewise very quiet when Hadrian enters. Malfoy's bed curtains are already drawn, as are Crabbe's and Goyle's, but Zabini's are open, and he's lazing against the headboard with a book in his hands while Nott is still at his desk doing homework.
 They both look up as soon as the door swings open. Zabini stays on his bed but Nott even stands up as Hadrian shuts the door behind him. His whole frame is tense with a restless sort of energy, and he's staring at Hadrian with shining eyes. They both are, although in different ways. Zabini looks equal parts ecstatic and hungry, while Nott just looks the kind of deeply confused and deeply grateful that makes Hadrian want to set fire to someone, preferably whoever stitched this very expression into Nott's range of emotions out of the pieces they'd torn from him.
 Nobody says anything right away. Hadrian squints at them as he makes his way to his own bed, feeling vaguely perturbed, because he hadn't truly expected them to not connect what happened to Avery back to him, but he hadn't thought they would be so fixated on it either. Maybe a roundabout tactful thank-you from Nott, an offer of a favour at most. But not… this, whatever this is.
 He laments the fact that these two aren't more stupid when it comes to this sort of thing. Ron would be oblivious. Hermione would be determinedly oblivious. Neville… would actually react a bit like Nott, Ginny would react a lot like Zabini, Luna wouldn't react at all but she'd be extra cuddly for a few days, and gods, Hadrian needs saner friends.
 Not that these two are friends of course.
 He manages to get through a shower, brush his teeth, and climb into a bed before Nott is suddenly at his side, eyes still shining with something Hadrian really doesn't want to put a name to. Thankfully, he doesn't burst into any heartfelt speeches that would probably embarrass everyone within hearing range. Not so thankfully, he honest-to-fucking-Merlin bows, all archaic and meaningful in every way Hadrian has never learned and so doesn't understand, but even he can sense the weight and deference behind every word as Nott murmurs, "All of mine is yours, until the end of days. I would be honoured if you would call me Theo."
 "Jesus fucking Christ," Hadrian mutters, because sometimes wizarding swears just don't have enough oomph to encompass the never-ending circus trainwreck that is his life. He scrubs a hand over his face, peeks at Nott - at Theo - who's still halfway bent over, and of course, it's just his luck that he has no idea how to respond in the proper pureblood way.
 He would've preferred the heartfelt speech.
 "I'm a halfblood, I don't know how to respond appropriately," He says bluntly because he doesn't know what else to do. But he also flicks a Silencing Ward at Malfoy's bed, then at Crabbe's and Goyle's as well because you can never be too careful, and then he leans over and hauls Theo upright and catches his gaze and holds it, "I'll call you Theo if you call me Hadrian. One day, you'll be strong enough to take care of your enemies on your own, and you won't need anyone else to do it for you if you don't want them to, but until then, if all of you is mine, then your enemies are too, so I'll deal with them if it turns out that they still haven't learned after today. That makes us allies from now on though, which means we're equals, and that means you never, ever bow to anyone again. Not me, and not anybody else either. Understand?"
 Theo stares again, wide-eyed and lost and so terribly young, and sometimes, Hadrian wonders what it says about just how messed up the world is when broken kids can be bought so easily.
 Finally, almost dazedly, Theo gives some semblance of a nod.
 "Hadrian," He says, and something about him straightens, grows steel, settles.
 "Hadrian," He repeats and dips his head, not a bow, but respectful all the same, and his eyes are still bright with that unnamed creature, but at least he looks at Hadrian head-on. "Thank you. Goodnight."
 Hadrian sighs and figures that this is about the best he's going to get tonight. Maybe it'll dial back to normal in a few days. "Goodnight, Theo."
 Theo smiles, tiny, crooked, a little awkward. It's the first one Hadrian has ever seen from him, and that at least he can't be upset about.
 They can finally go to sleep though. Theo returns to his own bed, Zabini is still watching them both from his bed like they're his new favourite show, and Hadrian resolutely pretends he doesn't see anything else as he takes down the Silencing Wards before drawing his curtains, rolling over, and promptly making a sincere attempt at smothering himself with a pillow.
 His life.
-0-0-0-
End Notes: Ok wow so this got hella long and I didn't really get to all the stuff anon wanted whoops. Theo just… wouldn't stop thinking lmao, and also this AU has the potential to get so big so I ended up cramming in worldbuilding wherever I could. So unfortunately all you get is sort of a starting snapshot of where this is going and how Hadrian is going to turn out and a shitload of Theo's character. I kind of wanted to do him and Blaise's POV but I could only fit Theo, and I feel like getting Blaise through Theo's POV actually added to his character just as much as a personal POV would've. Anyway, those two are basically blank slates in canon so ofc I would pick them to write lolol.
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leximicham · 7 months
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Friendship as a Force Multiplier
I wrote a preface (read: rant) about this but I want the methods below to stand on their own. Feel free to read it. Or not. I'm not a cop.
The below terms are meant to be ways that you can help others or ask for help from others with increasing productivity. These are execution skills as in they allow you to execute on tasks and get shit done. Skills; not crutches, not cheats or hacks, and not anything else which you might feel ashamed of. People want to help you and you probably want to help people get more done so let's build these skills together.
Task Activation
Sitting down with someone for 5-10 minutes to help one of you focus on a task long enough to build momentum or "flow state". Go to a designated workspace together, clear and otherwise prepare said workspace, pull out/open the tool of choice for this task, talk about the goals of the current big thing, start working for 5 minutes. Task Activation complete! The helper can go back to whatever they were doing. The tasker can either continue working if the activation has put them in flow state or they can go back to the drawing board because there may be unforeseen roadblocks or this may just have been the wrong day to do work or the wrong task to work on. Cost of this Task Activation? 5-10 minutes from 2 people and hanging out with a cool person. Cost of trying again if the first activation failed? The exact same.
Rubber Ducking
An intimate (/s) roleplay experience where one person plays the role of an expert trying to suss out a path through a complicated problem and the other person roleplays an inanimate object. Maybe the first player drops the mask and steps away to search for something on the internet because they need more expertise than they're ready to act out. Maybe the second player breaks character by asking helpful questions to set the first player back on track through their musings. Or maybe the forget that rubber ducks can't play Pokemon on their Switch while someone is talking at them. This is a safe space, there are no judgements if everyone's having a good time.
Body Doubling
Very similar to Rubber Ducking but with structure and tomato shaped egg timers. And less talking. Read up on the Pomodoro Technique if you're not familiar. One person (at least) gathers one other person (at least) to sit in a room with a timer and strict expectations about how long productivity periods and break periods last. I like 25 minutes of working and 10 minutes of break. Don't let productivity spill into breaks. Don't forget to keep planning your tasks and future working cycles. Don't shame anyone for playing Pokemon on their Switch during productivity cycles - rest can be productive, too. Avoid disturbing other people during productivity periods except with time checks, cries of victory, or reminders to not beat heads against walls or keyboards. Task Activation can lead into Body Doubling. Body Doubling can be paused for Rubber Ducking. All bodies involved should be breathing.
Paired Productivity
This is just Pair Programming but with a conjugation and more generalized activity term change. Two people enter (a prepared and organized workspace), they have a task or two which they've both agreed to work on, one has the tools to perform the task, the other has a device which can search the internet, they do work, two people leave. Tomato shaped egg timers are encouraged. Rubber Ducking may occur. One person attempts to do the task while discussing the steps, actions, and open questions with the other. The other person checks work, researches particularly difficult questions, and does not touch the tool for this task. Trading roles at predetermined times is fine. I recommend that the more experienced person give the less experienced person more time working with the tool. Take breaks if either the task or other person wears you out.
Task Dump
Giving someone a pen and paper and making them write out every worry, chore, deliverable, past due library book, and passion project idea they have until they start remembering missed homework assignments from the last school they graduated from. Alternatively: be the person who has a pen and paper thrust upon them. Getting Things Done (this is a book and paid coaching program but the link gives a good synopsis) teaches that the worst place to store information and to-dos is your brain. We forget things and we worry about forgetting things. We feel pressure when tasks are a cloud of associations and worries about missed deadline repercussions or would've, could've, should'ves for how our life might have been if we'd done this important task yesterday instead of playing Pokemon on our Switch. We must always forgive our past selves, accept our present selves, and be kind to our future selves. Once a task is on that list it's a future item and past us is off the hook. Having everything listed in front of us helps us figure out and accept the current state of the world. Determining next steps gives our future self the best chance of being proud of themself for accomplishing cool and important stuff. It's hard to say what to do with the big list of tasks from your brain once you have it. This isn't a planning or project management guide and I haven't written one (yet). It's up to you what you do with the list but I guarantee that you'll be in a healthier place when you can see everything on paper instead of listening to the tasks and worries buzz angrily around your head. Here's some suggestions to get you started:
Separate the hastily scrawled list into several lists based on themes:
work
hobbies
errands
passion projects
gifts for the wonderful friend helping you with this
Stack rank things based on a combination of urgency and importance:
Capture the bug which just landed on the corner of your desk?
High urgency (it's gonna fly away!)
Low importance (unless you eat bugs?)
Figuring out where to send humanity in the cosmos when our sun inevitably expands?
Very high importance (we need to live somewhere not inside the sun)
Very low urgency (we hope...)
Figuring out what you're going to eat for your next meal?
Medium-high importance (don't forget to eat!)
Medium-high urgency (you've forgotten to eat while reading this post, haven't you?)
Do this one!
My main suggestion is just to learn to do this Task Dump regularly. This is a tool which you can use in response to "oh no, my head is full of things to do and I don't like it!" You can cross things off the old list or add them to another system but at the end of the day writing things down helps. Keep your old lists around and rewrite them but skip things which are done or that you've decided you don't need to worry about anymore. Add new things. Observing and measuring your task load like this will eventually get you taking on more manageable loads and prioritizing things (with your Task Dump buddy) and feeling really accomplished.
Kind Interrupt
This is not a planned event. If you see someone you care about is hyper fixating on something but making no progress because they're just spinning their wheels and banging their head against a wall then there's actions you can take to help. Breaks are important so you want them to step away at least for a little bit. It's important to be careful not to force someone away from something that they're stuck on, though. You also want to avoid guilting them; they probably already know if they're running late or not making a lot of progress. Try replacements and simple choices: "Would you like to go for a walk or would you rather get a snack and something to drink with me?" Don't shy away from sharing your needs, though. If you need this person to do something else for you then don't shy away from that. Focus on the help, "Can you help me get ready to go?" or "Can I get your help with this task?" Helping people is stimulating and you shouldn't underestimate how much people in your life want to help you.
This list was originally 5 skills until my "15 minute blogpost" became 3 hours and my wives had to rescue me to work on other things.
That's it for now. Read this with someone who you want to unblock or who you know is willing to help unblock you. Become force multipliers together. Keep this in your back pocket for a bad executive function day. Steal it for your own blogpost or website but please give credit to the trans and ungovernable catgirl, Lexi Micham. Have a nice day!
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