#kinda reminds me of Dumbledore

[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle smut #tom riddle angst #(the trifecta) #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ftltutbh

[slytherinboysappreciation]

Adoration - T. R. x fem!Reader

A/N: this has been sitting in my drafts for a while so I figured I’d post it. It’s unedited and my first time writing a sex scene so please be nice 💛 No use of Y/N. Reader is Dumbledore’s daughter. Tom is in his seventh year for this fic

CW: Angst, so much angst; religious trauma, I guess?; Dumbledore bashing; mentions of devils; mentions of past physical abuse; trauma related to masturbation; crying, nausea, shame, and self-hatred related to masturbation; hurt/comfort kinda; praise kink; uhhh I think that’s it. Please let me know if I missed anything!!!

Does contain mature content so NO MINORS PLEASE!!! Just keep scrolling!!

999 words

Tom hated Dumbledore. The professor reminded him too much of the priests at the orphanage. The ones who smile and pretend to be your friend, but are never there when you truly need it.

Tom hated Dumbledore. The way he so obviously played favorites while blatantly denying doing so. Slughorn was an annoying professor, but at least he admitted to his favorites.

Tom hated Dumbledore. The way the man looked as if he knew something Tom didn’t. It got under his skin; made him itch with discomfort.

But no matter how much Tom hated Dumbledore, he hated his daughter more.

You’d been his first true connection to the wizarding world. You’d been there that first day, when Dumbledore had come to visit Tom in the orphanage.

You’d stood quiet and docile as Dumbledore told Tom about his magic. Tom had listened, of course. But it wasn’t until he was alone with you later that he truly believed.

You’d sat on the edge of his rickety bed, while your father had gone to discuss things with the orphanage nuns.

“They call me a freak,” Tom had said quietly. “They say I’m possessed by the devil.”

You’d looked at him. You, with your lovely wide eyes and sweet trusting smile. “What’s a devil?” You’d asked, so earnestly. “Your magic is special. See? I can do it too.”

You’d held out your hand, concentrating. A small flower had bloomed in your palm, sprouting from nowhere. And Tom had finally believed.

Believed you and your stupid smile. Your darling sweet manner. Your soft-spoken words.

All the things he despised about you now.

Despised… and adored.

Tom could not get you out of his head. You haunted him. Hounded him. It was maddening.

Every morning you’d smile so sweetly at him. You’d laugh or say something silly and inconsequential. And it would stick in Tom’s head all day long.

He couldn’t stand it!

You were nothing compared to him. He was Tom Riddle, the newly discovered Heir of Slytherin! The future ruler of the wizarding world! Voldemort!

You were the daughter of a half-witted buffoon who’d abandoned Tom as soon as he’d gotten to Hogwarts.

And yet, he could not get you out of his head.

Like now.

He’d been in the library, trying to study peacefully when you’d approached him with that smile of yours. You’d needed his help getting a book down.

Of course he helped; he could never truly end up saying no to your smile. Just another fact he hated.

But he’d stood too close to you while getting down the book, and he’d accidentally brushed up against you.

And now he was in his room, angrily trying to will the erection you’d unknowingly given him away.

It doesn’t work. Not after five minutes, not after ten. The memory of your blush and sweet smile was too much.

Tom can’t stand this. He has a meeting with one of his teachers in an hour!

So there’s only one thing to do.

Tom settles back into his bed, exhaling heavily. This has rarely been a pleasurable experience for him. The nuns at Wool’s were strict in their devotion to chastity. Even with the boys.

Tom’s been beaten more times than he can count after being caught trying to get some relief. So he avoids it until absolutely necessary.

And now he’s having to do it, all because of your horrendous smile.

Tom unbuckles his pants, glancing at the door to double check it’s locked. It is.

Tom takes his time pulling out his cock. Rushing feels too much like being back at the orphanage.

He grimaces at the sight. Too many bad memories are associated with what he’s about to do.

With a deep breath, Tom closes his eyes and clears his mind and wraps a hand around his cock.

The self-loathing hits after the first few moments. It’s strong enough that he falters, wanting to vomit.

But the need for release is stronger than his hatred. He continues on, swallowing down his nausea.

Every moment is like torture. His mind conjuring hateful words about himself, while his body aches with pleasure.

He starts to cry; silent tears pooling in his eyes. It’s too much. The hatred. The disgust and shame.

Just as he’s about to let go and give up, a new thought enters his mind. A smile…

His frenzied mind attaches itself to the thought like a rabid dog. Before he can even comprehend the switch, Tom’s breath is taken away.

There you are, in his mind. Sitting at the edge of his bed, smiling.

He stills immediately, but your smile isn’t mocking. It’s… peaceful.

“Silly boy,” you murmur, in his mind. “What are you so worked up about?”

Tom swallows, shaking. “You,” he whispers.

You laugh, soft and teasing. The sound makes Tom ache.

In his mind, you reach out, fingers feather soft. You grasp his cock, that ever-infuriating smile on your face.

“Silly boy,” you coo. “It’s as easy as this.”

As your imaginary hand glides along his cock, his own hand does the same. Tom whimpers. It feels incredible.

He starts to speed up, panting as your imagined self murmurs encouragements to him.

“That’s it,” you whisper to him. “That’s my good boy.”

“Your good boy,” he repeats, breathless.

You laugh again, your voice so achingly soft. And Tom cums so hard his ears ring.

He hunches over, gasping for breath. You’re gone now. His thoughts flit around aimlessly. What had just happened?

He lies back, gazing up at the ceiling in shock. He’d just— You’d— You.

He’s made a mess of his pants and bedsheets. But this time, the shame and self-hatred are overshadowed by a sudden rush of annoyance.

Of course it would be you. You, with your smile and laughter. You, who he cannot rid from his brain as much as he tries.

You.

He cleans himself up, too busy plotting how he can get his revenge to feel ashamed at the mess.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle smut #reader is from an unspecified hogwarts house #please don’t be mean to me over this #divider by cafekitsune

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

harry potter timeline sirius black x reader

CHAPTER NINE (see full series list here)

1993

You sip your tea, actually up in time for breakfast for once. Because of the night-time nature of your subject, you tend to go to bed later than the rest of the school and wake up later. It means you're especially close to the kitchen's house elves, as they often prepare you breakfast for when you eventually do get up. Especially Bitsy. You've taken to buying her film for her camera every Christmas, but it doesn't last long as she takes pictures of everything, including you.

"You know, I had the strangest dream last night," you say to Remus beside you.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mhm, I was in a sort of muggle circus tent, right? But it was on fire. And there was this guy there, wearing like a weird three-foot tall wizard's hat that morphed into this odd kind of wig afterwards," you recall. "And then, I kinda thought, 'hey, maybe I should use my wand to put out this fire' but instead of putting it out I transported it to Madam Puddifoot's."

Remus blinks at you, and you try and stop the smile from appearing on your face.

"You know what? That is a strange dream," he responds, shaking his head and you laugh.

"I know! It was so weird."

"Oh, I actually read something about dreams recently," Remus says thoughtfully. "Apparently they reflect things going on in your life."

You snort. "What, my desire to set Madam Puddifoot's on fire? I mean, I suppose it's not wrong..."

There's loud noise at the Gryffindor table, even students from other houses going over to it. You lean your head to the side to see Harry sitting at the table, grinning proudly at his Firebolt. You chuckle, looking down the table at Professor McGonagall.

"He got his broom back, so?" You say and she nods.

"Yes, couldn't find anything wrong with it, thankfully. And I must say, never have I seen a student so happy with something I have told him," she remarks and you grin.

"A Gryffindor win this year, perhaps?"

"Oh, I do hope so."

"You would only be so lucky," Snape says snidely beside her and you scoff.

"Don't need luck with that broom, right Severus?" You say cheekily and he raises his eyebrows disdainfully at you.

"At least my house have skill, and do not rely on their broomsticks to do the work for them."

"You're just jealous 'cause you want a spin on the Firebolt, Severus," you tease, returning to your breakfast.

Later, you sit with Remus in the Quidditch stands, looking out at the pitch in the cool, clear air.

"Merlin, I hope they win. I'm after placing a five-galleon bet with Filius that we win," you say, watching as the two captains shake hands and Madam Hooch blows her whistle to set off.

"You can't say 'we'," Remus says with a sigh. "We're supposed to be impartial, remember?"

"Ah, you hardly think any of these teachers are impartial, do you?" you laugh. "Sure even Dumbledore leans to Gryffindor just a little."

Lee Jordan's voice can be heard over the stands.

"They're off, and the big excitement this match is the Firebolt which Harry Potter is flying for Gryffindor. According to Which Broomstick, the Firebolt's going to be the broom of choice for the national teams at this year's World Championship — "

"Jordan, would you mind telling us what is going on in the match?" interrupts McGonagall's voice.

"Right you are, Professor — just giving a bit of background information. The Firebolt, incidentally, has a built in auto-brake and — "

"Jordan!"

"Okay, okay, Gryffindor in possession, Katie Bell of Gryffindor heading for goal..."

Remus chuckles beside you, nudging you with his elbow. "Mr Jordan reminds me of someone."

You roll your eyes, laughing. "I can't say that you're too far off...he can definitely give me a run for my money. I think my title of Best Commentator in the History of the World is in danger."

"Oh? And where were you given this prestigious award? The Academy of Modesty?"

You cackle, throwing your head back in laughter. "You witty bastard."

You watch as Harry zooms past on his broomstick, the Ravenclaw Seeker, Cho Chang, tailing after him.

"Gryffindor lead by eighty points to zero, and look at that Firebolt go! Potter's really putting it through its paces now. See it turn — Chang's Comet is just no match for it. The Firebolt's precision-balance is really noticeable in these long — "

"JORDAN! ARE YOU BEING PAID TO ADVERTISE FIREBOLTS? GET ON WITH THE COMMENTARY!"

Harry suddenly dives to the ground and you hold your breath, thinking he's seen the Snitch, but then he pulls up sharply and heads for the Ravenclaw end of the pitch, accelerating. Cho Chang follows suit, before she lets out a scream and points at three tall, black, hooded Dementors looking up at Harry.

You and Remus both turn to each other before quickly turning back to the match, just in time to see Harry produce his wand and yell, "Expecto patronum!"

A large silver stag erupts from Harry's wand and throws itself at the Dementors and knocks them off their feet —

Wait, their feet?

As you squint at the dark figures, you make out four young boys tangled in dark cloaks and click your tongue in disappointment, just as Harry grabs the Snitch and the stadium explodes into cheers.

You and Remus stand and leave your seats like the rest of the supporters, the Gryffindors rapidly streaming onto the pitch in celebration.

"You saw what I saw, right?" you ask.

"If you saw four boys playing dress-up as Dementors, then yes."

You find the four boys, immediately recognizing the faces of Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Marcus Flint.

"Well, well, well," you tut, hands on your hips as you look down at the heap of Slytherins. "Bet you regret doing that now, eh boys?"

They groan collectively and soon enough, McGonagall approaches with an expression of pure fury on her face. She starts to yell, and then Remus arrives with Harry in tow, and you don't miss the look on Harry's face at the sorry site in front of him.

"An unworthy trick!" McGonagall shouts. "A low and cowardly attempt to sabotage the Gryffindor Seeker! Detention for all of you, and fifty points from Slytherin! I shall be speaking Professor Dumbledore about this, make no mistake! Ah, here he comes now!"

You grin at Harry, whispering, "Excellent Patronus, Harry!"

He beams proudly.

An great victory for Gryffindor indeed, especially considering you're five-galleons richer as you return to your bedroom.

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

Sharp knocking on your door jolts you awake that night, and you quickly swing your legs over and out of your bed to answer the incessant knocking. Dubh meows angrily at the interruption of her sleep, as if she doesn't sleep the whole day anyway.

"I'm coming, I'm coming..." you quickly leave your bedroom and enter your small office, unlocking the door and swinging it open. "Minerva?"

"Sirius Black has broken into the school again," she tells you quickly. "Ronald Weasley said he was standing over him with a knife not too long ago."

You feel your mouth drop, unable to form any cohesive sentences as your brain tries to wrap around the information you've just gotten. "What?"

She nods, a grim look on her face. "I am terribly sorry about this...but I do need to check your room."

You nod wordlessly, opening the door for her to step in. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead..."

McGonagall does a quick sweep of your office and bedroom, stopping to give Dubh a brief few pets before she returns to your side at the door, shaking her head.

"Nothing here, of course," she says. "Will you accompany me in my search of the rest of the castle?"

You give her a confused look. "Are you sure? I thought Dumbledore doesn't want me to be involved in any searches like this...lest I sabotage it."

McGonagall scoffs. "I trust you. I know you are not stupid enough to let him into the castle, let alone let him out of your sight if you had. "

You give her a small smile. "Thanks." You grab the keys to your room and step outside, closing it behind you and locking it firmly. "Alright, let's go..."

You walk down the hallway together, wands shining light and at the ready. "How the bloody hell did he get into Gryffindor Tower? Did he attack Sir Cadogan too?"

McGonagall kisses her teeth, shaking her head in frustration. "No. Neville Longbottom was so incredibly foolish he wrote down the whole week's passwords and then left them lying around for anyone to find."

You sigh. "Oh, Neville...poor, forgetful Neville."

You scour the halls together, occasionally passing Professors Vector and Flitwick on their own search, but end up finding no trace of Sirius anywhere.

You bid goodbye to McGonagall and return to your room. As you unlock the door, you half expect to find him on the other side, but when you open it there's no one there, just your desk, messily covered with parchment and quills.

You return to your bed, but can't sleep at all so you choose to sit up and read more of the book you've been reading lately. Dubh stretches, jumping up onto your bed to nestle herself in your lap, purring softly. You pause to reach out and scratch her ears, before returning to your book.

Why was Sirius standing over Ron Weasley with a knife? It just doesn't make sense to you. You really are beginning to think he did truly go mad. And there's no way Ron dreamt it because Sir Cadogan confirmed that he did let him in...so why? Why would he do that? He wasn't actually going to murder an innocent boy like that, was he? He wasn't going to really take someone's life just like that, was he?

You reach the end of your page and realise that your eyes are just looking at the words and not actually taking them in. So finally, you step out of your bed and choose to do what you always do when you can't sleep: stargaze.

You shrug on a warm hoodie and a pair of slippers, grab your wand and leave. Dubh decides to follow and the two of you make your way up the Astronomy Tower. You sit beside the railing, legs dangling out over the edge as you grip the railing, looking up into the dark sky above. Dubh wanders around the room, sniffing various objects and rubbing up against them, before eventually she settles on curling up beside you and closing her eyes.

It's a clear night thankfully, and you can see all the twinkling stars perfectly. Beautiful, flaming objects of gas that are millions and billions of light years away from you. It's crazy to think that you are just one small, near-imperceptible speck on the ever-growing canvas of the universe. It's what drew you to astronomy in the first place. The study of space, because that's all it is. Space. That idea that, really, nothing matters at all. The world does not revolve around you. It never has, and it never will.

It's something that's always fuelled you to stop worrying about things. Why spend your time on this earth, your beautiful one-in-an-infinity chance to live, worrying about things? Though you say that, you can't help but worry anyway. You worry about Sirius, you worry about your friends, your family, your students, your godson, your cat, your job. Because even though the world doesn't revolve around you, your world revolves around the things and people you love.

A thin line of light streaks through the sky and you silently wish for peace from the thoughts that trouble you.

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

Security is noticeably tightened around the castle the next day. Filch is boarding up every crack and mouse hole in the castle; Flitwick teaches the front doors to recognise a picture of Sirius; and with Sir Cadogan sacked and the Fat Lady restored, big security trolls now patrol around her portrait, grunting at each other and comparing the size of their clubs.

You miss breakfast again, and tickle the pear on the fruit painting outside the kitchen, stepping inside quickly. The house elves all look up and greet you, immediately setting to work on something for your breakfast. Bitsy runs up to you excitedly, camera swinging around her neck.

"Hello, mistress!" she squeaks, holding up her camera. "Say 'cheers'!"

"Cheers...?" you say quizzically and there's a flash from Bitsy's camera.

A photo slowly emerges out the end of the camera and she shakes it excitedly, thrusting it into your face. Sure enough, there you are, mouthing the word 'cheers' with a confused expression.

You chuckle lightly, pushing the photo down out of your eye line gently. "Lovely, Bitsy. You could be a professional photographer at this rate!"

She grins wide, her big brown eyes twinkling. "Thank you, mistress!"

"Oh, and the word is 'cheese', not 'cheers', Bitsy," you say with a small laugh and she lets out a loud "Oh!".

Then you're presented with a tray of breakfast from another house elf, and you accept it gratefully as the elf bows. You sit down at a small table, tucking into a breakfast of fruit, pancakes and a great mug of tea.

You drain the mug, though you find you haven't got much of an appetite and give the house elves in front of you an apologetic look. "I'm awfully sorry, but my appetite just isn't there. Thank you all very much."

Bitsy bows with a smile. "That's okay, mistress! Bitsy is happy to help!"

"Bitsy is not the only house elf that prepared mistress's breakfast," another elf says with a scowl.

You chuckle lightly, smiling. "Don't worry, I am well aware. Thank you very much."

You turn to leave but are stopped by Bitsy. "Oh, mistress, the Headmaster told Bitsy to tell you he wants to see you in his office! He also said he really likes Bubbling Bonzies!"

You raise your eyebrows, nodding. "Oh, right. Okay. Thanks, Bitsy."

You leave, knowing well what Dumbledore wants to see you about. It's certainly not a raise in your pay, anyway. As you move through the castle, you pass Ron Weasley standing with Harry and relaying his chilling tale to a few second-year girls.

" — and I saw him standing over me, like a skeleton...with loads of filthy hair...holding this great long knife, must've been twelve inches..."

You continue walking past them, shaking your head, and it's not long before you arrive outside the entrance to Dumbledore's office. "Bubbling Bonzies," you say to the stone gargoyle. The wall starts to move and a spiral staircase is revealed to you. You make your way up and knock on the door to Dumbledore's office.

"Come in."

You push the door open, finding Dumbledore sitting at his desk and sitting in front of him, is none other than the Minister of Magic.

"Minister," you say in slight surprise, walking further into the room. Dumbledore gestures for you to sit down beside Fudge and you do, eyeing him warily.

"Now, Professor...I am sure you know why I have called you here," Dumbledore says and you nod.

"Yes, Headmaster."

"It is my understanding," Fudge says, turning his head to you, "that Sirius Black once again broke into the school and this time he successfully managed to get into Gryffindor Tower, terrifying the students there."

"You'd be right about that, Minister."

"What is your involvement?" Fudge demands, and you turn to him in disbelief.

"What is my involvement?" you repeat, glaring at him. "I didn't have any!"

Fudge scoffs. "It is more than just a coincidence that Black has managed to get into the school more than once! How did he do it?"

"I don't know, ask him!"

"Stop your denying!" Fudge snaps. "I have given you the benefit of the doubt time and time again, but I have had it up to here! Did you help Sirius Black get into this castle?"

"No, of course not!"

"Cornelius, please," Dumbledore intervenes calmly, bringing a hand up to silence the both of you. He looks at you. "Professor, please, can you tell us what you were doing last night after the Quidditch match?"

You sigh, kissing your teeth. "Alright. After the match, I went back to my quarters. I worked on a few things from my fifth-years, then I went to bed."

"What exactly did you work on?" Fudge demands.

"Essays on the relationship between Saturn's moons and its rings," you reply bitterly.

Dumbledore motions for you to continue. "Then, at around half one or so, Professor McGonagall came and informed me of the break-in. Then we searched the castle together, found no one, and I returned to my bedroom. Then I read a book, tried to sleep but couldn't, and went up to the Tower to stargaze."

"A likely story," Fudge mumbles under his breath.

"See, Cornelius? A perfect alibi," Dumbledore says.

"Perfect alibi? She was practically alone the whole time!"

You scoff. "Minister, honestly, what reason would I have to let him into the castle? Do you think I want him to go around scaring the life out of my students?"

"I — I don't know! How else could he have gotten in? He would have needed inside help."

"Take a walk, Minister. Don't you think that a man capable of breaking out of Azkaban on his own is capable of breaking in to Hogwarts on his own?"

"But — the Dementors — "

"If the Dementors didn't catch him then that's not my problem," you snap. "If they're really so hell-bent on giving him that Kiss then they ought to work a little harder."

Fudge doesn't respond.

"A lovely thing, by the way. The Dementors' Kiss."

Fudge makes a noise, halfway between a frustrated growl and a sigh. "He is a murderer. He deserves no better fate."

"No one deserves that fate other than Voldemort himself."

Fudge winces, hissing, "Don't speak that name!"

"Coward," you mutter under your breath, and Fudge doesn't hear it. "You didn't give Sirius a trial last time, why give him one this time? You're so kind, Minister."

"Please, Minister, let us put this matter to rest," Dumbledore says. "I have the utmost faith in my staff. I know she wouldn't do anything to jeopardize the safety of her students."

"I really, honestly, wouldn't," you say to Fudge earnestly. "I love my job and I love this school and I love my students. I would never do anything to hurt them."

It's quiet for a moment, before Fudge speaks, "Do you still think he is innocent?"

You don't respond.

Fudge silently fumes in his seat and Dumbledore says, "I think that is enough. You may go, Professor."

You breathe a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Headmaster." You give Fudge a parting glare and depart from the office, closing the door behind you.

→ all kinds of interaction are appreciated ♡

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter ten here!

#sirius black #sirius black x you #sirius black x reader #the marauders #marauders #harry potter #fanfic #fanfiction #hp #angst #angst with a happy ending #hp fanfiction #hp fanfic

[cubeapples]

a funny but slightly angsty trope i want to write for those tomarry time travel to the 40s aus is: when tom just… doesn’t gaf about the new transfer student. like imagine how funny that would be. harry thinking tom is just evil all the time, and trying to catch him in the act, but really, Tom is just studying super hard, and doesn’t have time to come up with any schemes.

Tom helping the first year students and Harry’s suddenly reminded that he was a good student and a role model, so if Harry accuses him of something he’d look insane.

Harry trying to join the K.O.W but pureblood supremacy being so much worse and Harry’s not allowed to join and is told hes worthless by fuckin’ walburga black or something. Since he’s not great at dueling in a formal setting, tom doesn’t take notice of him at all. He gets so frustrated, he can’t even punch tom, because tom would curse him so badly and harry would look crazy.

harry trying to confront Tom and telling him that he’s a time traveler and the prophecy and that lord voldemort becomes a joke in the future and Tom is like: woahhh, that’s crazyyyy, anyway, ten points from slytherin for being up after curfew. Tom doesn’t take him seriously at all!!! dude doesn’t CAREE. He has more important things to do like gossip with abraxas malfoy and smoke with alphard black.

harry finally thwarting tom from killing myrtle and tom’s just like: ‘phew, atleast dumbledore wouldn’t have a legitimate reason to expel me’ and moves on.

and Harry’s just relieved, but SO SO irritated that tom doesn’t gaf about him, so he kinda starts to not care about him at all and talks to hagrid or something, and then when he least expects it,

the basilisk ends up fucking killing him.

#😭😭😭 idek if i should tag this #tom riddle #tomarry #harry potter #voldemort #lord voldemort #harrymort #the basilisk #tomarrymort #and the endgame ship is fuckin.. tom/walburga or smth because harry accidentally sets them up LMAOOO

[rewritingcanon]

I just ADORE the idea of potter sibs learning lessons from their namesakes and being nothing like them :)

James being calm and studious and kinder than his namesakes

Albus learning how NOT to handle very specific social situations from his namesakes

And Lily is just like "FUCK them kids lmao"

YESSSSS literally.

james is more popular than his namesakes were (i like to think james and sirius were just impervious to popularity&they just gave 0 fucks, although sirius was default popular because of his surname and his attractiveness) because hes more welcoming and less of a dick and a nepobaby, but he’s emotionally distant with his peers and finds it hard to open up to others because he’s always a little suspicious of people (unlike james sr, who was an open book). he plays quidditch because he knows he should and it makes his mum happy and its kinda fun and hes kinda good but hes not that passionate about it. he gets amazing grades because hes studies a lot and not because hes a natural genius (unlike sirius, who didnt have to study hard for anything to pass comfortably). james a perfectionist, by-the-book person who struggles to think outside of the box, unlike his grandfather whos genius lied in nothing else.

albus reminds me more of his namesakes than the other two potter siblings, but he probably would appreciate the comparison the least. he’s quiet and lonesome and angsty with a ‘no one will understand me’ mindset, but severely attaches himself to the people he loves, and carries them with him throughout his life without ever moving on (all exactly like severus). hes cunning and always ready to martyr himself (both dumbledore and severus), but hes way more audacious and simple. he has a ‘1 + 1 = 2 end of story’ mind that he got from his parents that completely goes against severus and dumbledore’ long game of chess. albus does not care for such BS, hes still got that gryffindor dawg in him. he will go against every expectation set out for him on purpose (unlike dumbledore and snape, who will use their reputation to their advantage). also, albus is happy lmfao. its why he commits his life to himself and not to others like his namesakes did. he wants simple things like nicely-cooked dinners, warm houses, and to get married young and start a family. kind of like his dad and grandmother.

and lilyyyyy. she is all over the place. she is the quidditch star, the loud one in class, the person who fakes her report cards so her mum doesnt freak out at her. shes not studious like her grandmother, she attracts people to her and selects the greatest pick out of the litter for friends, and shes got a lot of friends (unlike lily evans, who’s love is so concentrated and loyal to very few, and luna who was socially repellent). she travels everywhere because shes a glutton for experiences, she doesnt plan ahead, shes will never be tied down— not even by true love and the prospect of staying with them forever. shes open like luna but her mind is more of a straight arrow than luna’s genius. lily grows up and never has any kids, not because she hates children but because she just never particularly wanted to. she never grew out of being reckless and impatient and impulsive, and she had always known that those traits would not be compatible with raising a child and she was okay with that (unlike lily evans who had always wanted to be a mother, and had dedicated herself to her baby).

#asp kind of like his namesakes a little bit #except hes not a LOSER like them 🙄 (he is a loser) #didnt mean to yap about them but what elsw do i do on thia acc besides that #harry potter #hp #hpcc #cursed child #albus severus potter #scorpius malfoy #james sirius potter #scorbus #<- bcuz thats who albus marries obvi #lily luna potter #marauders #marauders era #sirius black #james potter #lily evans #lily potter #luna lovegood #severus snape #albus dumbledore #ginny weasley #lilysander #jily #ask #anon #rewriting

[skylarinfinity]

[team cap and team ironman ready to attack eachother]

m/n: [appear out of nowhere] you know steve you kinda remind me of dumblewhore, where you use younger people who trust you as a pawn... you so manipulative!

steve: [confused] what-

m/n: [continue rambling] don't get me wrong tony still the death eater but you not good either [shrugged]

scott: [point at m/n] hey that rhythm!

m/n: [get excited] wait it rhythm?!

author notes i hate dumbledore.

tags lists @sonicqaulan @graysonfriggason @thebettermaximofftwins @sloanalistair @acienthazard @starlinggoldeneyes @ortegaolsen @wednesdaywanda @sandwichmarvel @gardenofmarvel @wanda-cabin-natasha-jacket @panandinpain0 @badblondebisexualboy

#male reader #malereader #male y/n #incorrect male reader #incorrect quotes male reader #male reader incorrect quotes #male reader insert #male reader imagine #male reader avengers #male reader marvel #avengers x male reader #marvel x male reader #xmale reader #x male reader #x male y/n #x male!reader #male!y/n #male!reader #incorrect avengers #avengers imagine #avengers incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes avengers #avengers x male!reader #avengers #scott lang #steve rogers #tony stark #incorrect quotes #incorrect marvel quotes #incorrect mcu quotes

[missnight0wl]

Y7Ch57: The Final “Battle”

*sigh*

Ok, let’s talk about this disaster.

Ah, yes. Because everyone knows that as soon as Dumbledore is not at Hogwarts, the faculty becomes totally incapable of doing anything – including people like Minerva Badass McGonagall or Filius Former-Duelling-Champion Flitwick. Yes, of course.

Funny that you say that, Jae. I’ll actually come back to it a little later.

You know what? No. Rowan would cry at least for a week straight if they knew how fucking stupid everyone is at this point.

All right, that might be my biggest problem with this whole “battle” because… WHY?? Why do we even care whether or not they get to Hogwarts? Minnie alone would kick their asses in under a minute – and quite frankly, I’d love to see it. Just let them through!

WHY THE FUCK DO WE CARE?!

Ok, so it’s never really explained who’s exactly Perry’s target here. Sure, we’re told it’s about an adult Legilimens, and MC deduced that both Dumbledore and Snape are adult Legilmenses. Still, it’s never addressed directly again, and it kinda bothers me. But whatever, I guess. Apparently, we’re supposed to assume that it’s indeed Snape who’s Perry’s target. But like… if there’s anyone at Hogwarts fully capable of defending themselves... IT’S SNAPE. Like… just imagine this encounter.

Perry: Severus Snape? I have a proposition for you that--

Snape: *lazily waves his wand*

Perry: *flies over the Black Lake, slightly smoking because of the impact of Snape’s spell that hit him*

Or…

Perry: Severus Snape? I’m Peregrine Lastname, I’m the father of MC and Jacob. I--

Snape: Sectumsempra!

Perry: AAAAAAAAAA!

Snape: I suffered years because of your two spawns.

Perry: Help! I’m bleeding out!

Snape: Yes, that’s a very accurate description of my suffering.

Seriously, why do we care?! I swear, this fucking “battle” has no stakes whatsoever, and I just don’t understand why it even exists.

Another absurd: why the fuck Verucca wants to kill Peregrine?

Ok, so at least it’s clear that Verucca is indeed a Snyde because apparently, all the Snydes are stupid bitches. If Verucca thought just for a moment, she’d realise that the Ministry focusing on Peregrine meant they’re focusing less on her. And that means she can do whatever she wants more freely. But whatever, I guess.

And here’s another stupidity. If Verucca wants to lead R, all she has to do is to convince other members that Perry is insane and that she’d be better for the whole organisation. Like, it should be super easy after he fucked up with the recent mind control test. And who fucking cares that he ruined R’s name or whatever? Rebel people against Perry, lay low for some time, change the name of the organisation, and enjoy your fucking profit! What would Perry do when left alone??

Because I’m gonna do it myself!

A friendly reminder that Verucca is also Merula’s mother’s sister (according to Y5Ch28) which means it’s quite likely Merula’s parents are cousins – which is not rare among pureblood families, after all :)

I know, it’s really disappointing.

Also, the Circle of Khanna behind us, especially Ben and Corey (and especially if you chose to ban Merula from the Circle a couple of chapters ago):

No, really, it’s just… so pathetic, considering that the vast majority of the Circle never cared about Merula and Merula never cared about them.

I… I’m…

HOW EVERYTHING ABOUT IT IS SO BAD??

Also, WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FIRE?!?!?! How anyone at JC looked at this and was like: “Yeah, that’s good enough”?! I swear we had dragon fire animations before better than this abomination…

Ok, but Ben’s utter disappointment in this scene is the only good thing in this damn chapter. I can even say I actually enjoyed it.

I mean… Yeah, there were 17 of you and 7 of them, so… By the way, I talked more more about the fighting alone in this post.

Ok, but does anyone remember that R is supposed to be an international organisation? Was it simply retconned or are we supposed to believe that an international organisation has like… 14 members? Am I counting it correctly? Perry, 7 idiots he brought with him, Verucca, Merula, Shiratori, Burke, Zenith Xeep, and Rakepick. Right?

I don’t know how it’s possible, but this whole situation gets more and more pathetic the more I think about it.

Also, I mentioned in the post linked above that I felt more threatened by Mrs Norris in Y1. But you know what else had more tension than this damn “battle”? Our very first trip to Knockturn Alley. Remember this?

Now, let’s compare those situations.

Honestly, it’s just so upsetting that this game used to be created by people who actually could create tension for one simple event that doesn’t even matter that much in the great picture, and now we’re getting… THIS. The final “battle” with R had literally no stakes. There was no logic and therefore also no threats. I felt absolutely nothing, and I’m truly baffled remembering how many emotions this story could give me back in Y5.

Unfortunately, it all changed with the extremely stupid end of Y5, and it was getting only worse ever since. It’s like JC’s greatest ambition is making things worse than Y5Ch31 was.

But let’s move on because I’m not done.

MC’s reaction is about as emotional as I felt during this whole chapter. It’s just hilarious, sorry not sorry.

Ok, so at first, I wanted to leave this part because JC clearly doesn’t know what they’re doing anymore. But you know what? I’m gonna rant. Because no, Rowan’s sacrifice was not honoured. And quite frankly, you keep desecrating it by still using it at this point.

Learning the truth was something very important for Rowan. I mean, this is our conversation from the end of Y1:

By the end of Y7, I’m pretty sure we didn’t solve a single mystery of the story. And what’s the worst is that we didn’t solve the mystery of Rowan’s death. Sure, Peregrine told us that Rakepick went rogue or whatever. But it still makes no fucking sense.

First of all, only an idiot would believe in anything Peregrine says. But more importantly, we actually know about things suggesting that Peregrine lies. In the insane route, Rakepick in Azkaban is absolutely terrified of R, so how she’d go rogue if that’s the case? On top of that, we saw in Olivia’s memories that Rakepick talked with someone from R about Duncan brewing his potion. Yet, Peregrine claimed that R didn’t get involved with the Cursed Vaults until Jacob went missing. You know what it means? It means that Perry fucking lied. And if he lied about something this important, why should we believe him about anything else?

Moreover, we still don’t know why Rowan died. Rakepick told us in Azkaban that it wasn’t Rowan who was supposed to die that night. Then who? Ben? Why? Sure, Rakepick herself claimed in the Forest that she wanted to kill MC. And sure, you can say it makes sense if she saw MC as her competition – except it makes no sense! Why? Because it only made things harder for her. And the game even addressed that!

Why would Rakepick make things so much harder for herself just to get rid of her competition? Especially since she should’ve known where the Sunken Vault is because we know that R was there before (thanks to the note from the Weird Sisters TLSQ). But even if she didn’t know… it still would be more reasonable to not draw attention to herself and simply use it to work on getting to the Vault before MC.

You didn’t honour Rowan’s sacrifice. You ignored about 95% of things that ever happened in the game.

#long post #hogwarts mystery #hphm #hphm spoilers #hphm mc #hphm jacob #hphm peregrine #hphm r #verucca buckthorn #merula snyde #anti merula #ben copper #patricia rakepick #rowan khanna #circle of khanna #jam city #year 7 #Y7Ch57 #playing hphm #analysis post

[shostakobitchh]

TW: Child abuse

Hello, me again, back with another angsty ask…

So, I’m guessing in your canon the Dursley’s haven’t physically harmed Ariel, just neglect and emotional abuse… but how would it go if there was physical harm?

Taking into account Snape’s past with his own father, I can’t imagine what’d go down once it comes out. No need to answer this ask if it makes you uncomfortable though. Thank you for all your work, I can’t wait to see more! ❤️❤️❤️

I haven't really touched on it because Ariel doesn't like to think about it (or rather, she hasn't processed it or come to terms with it because Snape being her Dad kind of took precedent in her mind) but I'm sure Petunia slapped her around here and there - that sounds like I'm making light of it and I'm now, I was slapped around as a kid (meaning if I said something cheeky or defiant I'd get a whack) and it was humiliating. My parents used it as "corporeal punishment" but it was so degrading and humiliating and uh - it fucking hurt? I kind of view Petunia doing the same here. I don't think Vernon would ever lay a hand on Ariel, tbh. Ariel makes Petunia fucking crazy because she looks like Lily and has magic and it's driving her crazy that her "perfect sister" made this "perfect child that's the ghost of her dead sister what the FUCK" and it drives her batty. I'm sure one wrong word or something that reminded her of Lily made Petunia snap.

Snape probably suspects but everyone knows he doesn't need any more reason to fucking annihilate the Dursley's. If it ever came out Snape would probably be like, "your 17th birthday present is going to be watching me rIP OUT PETUNIA'S SPINE" while Dumbledore is like "okay yes fine just wait until she's 17 PLEASE."

actually, it kinda works because in this AU, Snape's initiation into the Death Eater's was killing Tobias. I think I've mentioned it? But yeah, there's some Snape Lore for you.

#sam speaks #aim and ignite #Ariel vibes #snape vibes #ask #fucking Dursleys man #human shitstains

[writing-fanics]

The Flash Review 2023 / Let Me Say

Never done a review on a movie before on here but here’s mine.

So the The Flash has been in development hell for decades, multiple directors delays. Set backs and other things. Was supposed to come out in 2018 but didn’t. Multiple, controversies and reshoots.

Firstly, Ezra Miller before their controversy I’ll admit I’ve had a crush on them. Especially, when I saw them in Fantastic Beasts as Credence Barebone/Aurelius Dumbledore and then when I saw them as Barry Allen in The Justice League. I was absolutely in love.

I was a middle school teenager around, 14. and was mostly crushing on fictional characters and reading Killing Stalking. I still continued to crush on their characters and the actor themselves, and I still do on the characters not the actor..

don’t get me wrong I love some of Ezra’s work which is fine in my opinion. I’ve really only seen them in, Fantastic Beasts and The Flash. I haven’t seen Perks of Being a Wallflower yet which I’ll definitely watch eventually.

I understand, not wanting to see The Flash because of their controversy and the things they’ve done.

But… I will say that his performance as Barry Allen. Is very enjoyable and funny and goofy, what I expect from a character like the Flash. I mostly grew up liking Batman but Ezra’s Flash I immediately fell in love with I’m the past movies

Again, I understand not wanting to see the film because of Ezra. Which is totally up to you even I was skeptical of seeing it. But I went with my gut and decided to see a film I’ve been excited about since I was like 15 years old.

Actually Talking about the Movie Now

SPOILERS

So, I waited five years for this and the opening was great the first act amazing. I love that he needs to basically eat food or he basically isn’t at full strength. That aspect I love. The CGI…

The CGI babies reminded me of Renesmee, and the director said it’s because we’re seeing it from Flash’s perspective and since he’s fast. He sees things differently and it’s distorted. Him saving, the babies from the hospital goofy as fuck..

But I couldn’t stop laughing.. Elephant in the room, him putting the baby into the microwave.. I audible laughed in theater and was “like no fucking way he just put dat baby in a microwave, like it’s a some breakfast burrito.” the guy next to me laughed when I said that

when he went for the vending machine instead of the baby.. I laughed the dog slowly falling I laughed. I love the interactions between Bruce and Barry, Barry and Iris left more to be desired honestly. Since last we saw her was in a slow mo in Snyder Cut. (which also was pretty decent but could’ve been shorter if not for the slow mo)

Flash is knocked into the next dimension by evil lookin dude

in all a or one gets a 7/10

Act Two.. Eric Stoltz is Marty Mcfly

Barry going back in time was cool, I loved how they interpreted him going back in time. That was cool seeing all the things that happened was amazing.

Young Barry, is fucking annoying but honestly he stole my heart. Like legit he’s goofy as fuck and honestly I’d probs have a crush on him if I went to the same school as him. His introduction is hilarious, and how Future!Barry tackled him to the ground I laughed. Past!Barry life though is just….

Their interactions were just goofy and hilarious, and also they honestly kinda had that older brother and little brother thing going on in my opinion. Which also added to me liking their interactions and little quips.

Barry, losing his powers and just doing that goofy run everyone dunks on is just hilarious. I couldn’t stop laughing. Also, I had no idea who the fuck Eric Stoltz was.. and I was like Barry really just ruined back to the future by going back in time.

Also, even tho I hate Aquaman the fact he’s a dog in this universe. Omg..

Also the younger flash had me cracking up more.. the scene when he ran back into the apartment naked with a music instrument covering his parts. And slowly shuffled away I laughed.

seeing Micheal Keaton, I was so happy cause I absolutely adore Tim Burton’s Batman films. Especially, the sequel I love Catwoman in that one Omg!

Seeing him again, firstly as a disheveled man with th Gandalf beard I was like yo did batman? But seeing him in da suit. Brought back memories.. watching it for the first time on dvd when my mom bought it while at Walmart for me.

Kara, she was good I prefer her over Superman. Cause, gonna say it now.. I didn’t like Man of Steel. It was boring and I didn’t understand it cause of the constant flashbacks it got confusing. For little me.

But Amy Adams was in it so.. I was like ooh Giselle.

But I did get excited seeing Zod, idk why again I didn’t enjoy Man of Steel. But my stupid little ass liked Justice League it’s a guilty pleasure now but I was 14 when it came out soo. But I’m not surprised cause I also liked Batman V Superman and the Suicide Squad not The Suicide Squad (2021) < this one I love the first one no

Back to the Flash, I wish she was in the movie longer tho. When Barry saved her in the Russian base.. and said I got you and she repeated it back to him.. my heart..

also phasing the molecule scene I was like ‘He’s molecules got all rearrange’

6.5/10

Act Three…. zod kills babies now also bat nipples

so…we find out what happened to baby Superman.. Zod killed him when trying to find the key to remake Krypton.. yeah.. fuk Zod.

them preparing for battle was cool to watch but this act, also was the slowest. my mind started to wonder off about flash fanfiction I’ve read (on ezra’s flash before the controversy might I add).. then I went back to the movie.

so.. everything goes to shit real fast Batman dies. Kara dies. And both Barry try to fix it. and eventually older Barry realizes they can’t.

but the younger one who hasn’t seen lost, and is immature. Keeps trying, and I love how his suit gets darker and darker each time he travels back more and more sharp stuff starts appearing and eventually it’s revealed the guy that kicked flash at the beginning is Dark Flash.

which I figured out once I saw the stuff appearing on, younger flash. I’m all younger flash dies and dark flash ceases to exist.

Barry goes back and quickly disguised himself, and takes the cam of tomatoes his past self put in back onto the shelf not before having one last conversation with his mom. And I honestly teared up a bit. It was so sweet seeing him finally get to say goodbye to his mom.

and her giving him a hug. a twinge of me though she realized it was her son but she didn’t. And it was sweet.

the movie ends with his dad getting acquitted, and a hunted date for Barry and Iris and then fucking George Clooney is revealed as Bruce Wayne but he isn’t

also during one scene we see multiple versions of the Flash and Superman’s, we see the og and the one our parents most likely grew up on which I know has a lot of controversy. We see Adam West Batman. And Nicholas Cage Superman!!

omg I new from the way it looked it was him.

I’d give this act a 4.5/10 was slow

i guess im total the film is a B- it isn’t great but it’s good.

Ezra as the flash is great, i haven’t really gotten into the CW flash show I tried to but I wasn’t feeling it like I was with Gotham.

But from a cinematic stand point, I love Ezra Miller as The Flash. Despite, their controversy their version of the Flash/Barry as honeslty meant a lot to be growing up especially since I’d just moved across the state again from

Washington state to NC leaving behind my friends and a house I loved which I had a little place under the stairs. And my own living room. but since we moved I have none of that no place under the stairs for me to escape to when my adopted siblings get on my nerves.

i have a room but the loft is right next to it, and whenever they’re being loud I can hear it full volume and I wished I had a place under the stairs again.

Yes, Ezra Miller deserves to pay for the actions they’ve done spend some time in jail (even). And not get off with the slap on the wrist. I’m happy they’ve said that they’re getting help I applauded that but I’m still upset by the things they’ve been accused up especially for someone who enjoys the things they’ve been in.

But, I didn’t let that destroy my enjoyment of the film and seeing Barry again I couldn’t be even more happier and honestly my 14 year old self in me was still crushing on Barry disassociating him from the actor that portrays him.

In all..

Ezra Miller, should be held accountable of their actions and spend some jail time. Stay away from the camera a bit and get the help they need, and then and only then we’ll see what happens. Honestly idk this is my mind set I’m sometimes a very forgiving person depending on the circumstances.

I’m a fan of Ezra’s work that won’t change.. since he’s impacted my young teenage years for being in Fantastic Beasts heck I still have the Credence Barebone Lego dimensions thing. And then being as the Flash..

But as of now.. I’m absolutely heartbroken by the things they’ve done.

[I won’t turn off comments on this I will delete any hate towards me or anyone else if needed]

#Ezra miller #the flash review #the flash 2023 #Barry Allen #the flash #DCU #DC flash

[steezywrites]

CROWN OF THE MORALLY GREY

Draco X Y/n Snape

Part 7:

It’s taken entirely too long to update this, my apologies. I’ve been chasing around my toddler while adjusting to having a newborn at home too! Hope you enjoy, it’s kinda short.

————————————————————————

Draco hadn't talked to her in days. He wasn't necessarily avoiding her, but he stayed silent, either emptily staring at nothing or looking pissed off.  She heard him talking to Blaise, Theo, Crabbe and Goyle,; his usual group, but he'd go silent whenever she entered the room. The other boys had begun to notice and kept asking her what was going on, but she couldn't give them an answer. Usually, if she did something that upset Draco, he was loud about it. He'd seek her out to tell her how wrong she was, sometimes even causing a scene over it. His silence towards her was something unfamiliar, and it was driving her mad.

    Y/n had been known to have an angry outburst every now and then, but these past few days it'd gotten worse. Snarky comments and venom had been spit over virtually nothing. Pansy had been too loud one morning, something that Y/n had never cared about before, and she had lashed out. Blaise had reminded her they had double potions with the gryffindors, and she had "let him know" Pansy would never fuck him. Theo had asked how she was doing, and she put a leg locker jinx on him.

     Everyone was expecting her to lash out whenever she saw Draco at that point, but she hadn't. She'd stay quiet, staring at him and hoping he would at least fucking look at her. She'd gone over the previous days and couldn't think of anything she could have done to make him so mad at her. Surely Draco didn't care that she injured Potter, but that'd been the same night he had gone silent. She wasn't able to say a word to him at the beginning of the year ceremony, Pansy had taken up all of her hearing capabilities before Dumbledore had dragged her off. They hadn't fought enough during the summer to be it, and Draco had already stated whatever issue he had with her during that time anyway. Everything about him had changed after he said goodbye to his mother but she didn't know how that would effect how he felt about her.

      Her dorm looked like a tornado had gone through. All of her books thrown about the room, her pillows flattened by her fist,  her trunk had been emptied and turned upside down. Y/n hair was a mess as well, her strands going in all kinds of directions from her hands running through it and tugging in anger. Luckily her dorm mates had taken note of her mood and had stayed away from the dorm, besides Pansy.

    "Bloody Hell, Snape. Whatd you do to our room?"

    "I didn't touch your things."

    "I appreciate that but..."

    "Just leave me alone Parkinson."

    "No thanks."

    "I wasn't asking." Y/n growled, staring at the mirror she kept on the wall beside her bed.

    "Neither was I."

    Pansy moved to sit on Y/N's bed. After sleeping in the same Dorm as Y/n for years and slowly building a something close to a friendship, she'd gotten quite used to her anger, but the look on Y/N's face was different.

    Y/n didn't normally cry when she was mad but now her eyes were red, a bit of mascara smudged beneath them. Pansy had noticed the circles under Y/N's eyes on the train, but they were darker now.

    "This is so fucking stupid. I don't even know why he's mad at me." Y/n nearly laughed, her eyes not leaving her reflection.

    "He hasn't said anything?"

    "Nothing. Normally when he's mad at me, he tells me how I fucked up, but he isn't saying shit. It's been days Pansy." Her voice was returning to something Pansy recognized, pure anger with a laugh laced in.

     "It shouldn't bother me so much. It's like I'm having fucking-"

     "Withdrawals." Pansy finished. Y/n nodded.

    "It's so fucking stupid. He's just a boy. It's just fucking Malfoy. Pathetic fucking Malfoy."

    "You know he isn't just a boy."

    "That's even more pathetic."

    They stayed quiet for a moment. Pansy wasn't sure how to help and Y/n was attempting to calm herself down but it wasn't working. She kept picturing Draco which made her hands shake. Merlin she was so angry. The amount of control Draco had over her was disgusting. She kept glancing at her Soul Ring, where she felt a steady heartbeat. The same heartbeat she'd felt for days, steady. Did he not care? There hadn't been a single time the heartbeat had spiked, if he was angry surely it would. She could I only imagine his ring had been beating rapidly since Dumbledore pulled her into his office, and Draco didn't seem to care.

    How could he be effecting her this much? Everything felt hollow until someone spoke or breathed too loud or she was left alone for too long, then she felt as if everything was so small and weak and irritating compared to her. Her anger felt violent and as if it imbued her with some kind of superiority. As destructive as it was, it was a high she hadn't felt before.  It made her feel powerful, everything besides her was fragile. Anger and Y/n were childhood friends, and it was slowly becoming a bad influence.

      She smiled as she looked in the mirror, eyes and nose red, hair a mess, a small chuckle escaping her lips.

    She punched the mirror.

    The sting in her knuckles was almost comforting, and she flexed her fingers a few times, eyes narrowing at the ring that still was beating steadily.

   Pansy sat in silence. She had flinched when Y/n punched the mirror, but wasn't entirely phased. If anyone was going to loose their shit, it didn't surprise her that it was Y/n.

     "You know, there's been a few new additions into my life recently. Questions mostly, and a lot of I don't fully understand." Y/n wiped her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of blood across her face.

    "I fucking hate not knowing. But I thought, I thought I didn't have to questions anything to do with Draco." A chuckle resurfaced again.

    "I swore my life away, for him. My entire future is fucked, for him. And my father hasn't spoken to me in weeks."

    Pansy offered a hand at this point.

    "Talk to me about it."

   Y/n thought about it for a moment. Pansy should be someone safe to confess to. Pansy never hid the fact that she would be a Deatheater one day. She'd been as cruel to muggleborns in their early years as Draco had. Pansy had calmed the bullying back a bit in the past couple of years, but Y/n knew it still lurked in there. Y/n overheard her whispering about Deatheater boys and even defending them on occasion. Pansy wouldn't judge her, and could even become an allay if Y/n so wished. Despite how angry she was at him, Y/n wouldn't tell Pansy about Draco's involvement. She'd have to spin the truth a little, but Pansy would believe her wholeheartedly. Pansy seemed to see something in Y/n that some didn't, and held her on a pillar. No other girl could get away with spending so much time with Draco without Pansy hexing them like Y/n could. Pansy would even set up girls nights where all they did was giggle about was if Draco was flirting with Y/n or not. Pansy had never done anything harmful to Y/n, if anything she practically begged for them to be best friends.

Y/n looked at Pansy, searching her face and only finding that Pansy was genuine in her offer.

    "It's pretty dark, Panz."

    "I think I can handle it."

     "I have to kill Dumbledore."

     "You fucking WHAT?"

   Y/n explained as much as she could to Pansy. She'd told her that she had gotten assigned by Voldemort to kill Dumbledore, and that Voldemort had threatened that he'd have Draco killed if she failed. The beginning of which was a lie. She told her Narcissa had heard and was worried so she had made A Unbreakable Vow to Narcissa that she wouldn't fail so Draco would be safe. Another partial lie. Leaving out the part about her father being a double agent, she simply said Severus knew about the Vow and hadn't spoken to her since and that Dumbledore had somehow known about all of it.

    Pansy had stayed quiet and listened, her eyes widening sometimes. When Pansy shut up, she could be an awful good listener. Y/n had picked up her room as she talked, making note of the necklace she had previously emptied from her trunk and made sure not to touch it and only it's wrappings as she stashed it underneath everything else. When she had finished talking, Pansy breathed heavily, offered a smile and marched out of the dorm. Y/n followed, curious but ready to hex Pansy if a single word of their conversation slipped out of her mouth.

   Pansy had stormed down the stairs and into the common room where Draco was sitting in the chair he always sat, raising his head as Pansy entered and lowered it again when he saw Y/n. Pansy smacked him across the face.

     Draco's face contorted between stunned and anger. Y/n ring began to beat quickly.

    So Pansy gets a reaction, what a plague of a thought to crawl into Y/N's mind.

      "Who the fuck-"

      "Stop being a mopey, pathetic git and talk to Y/n." There was demand in Pansy's voice that Y/n hadn't heard before, especially not when addressing Draco.

      "It's none of your business, Parkinson." Draco hissed, standing.

      "Actually it is. She's my friend and in case you haven't noticed, she's been losing her mind the past few days since you haven't even looked at her. Talk to her."

    Y/n simply watched, slightly amused and increasing grateful for Pansy.

    "Or what?" Draco scoffed as he folded his arms across his chest, clearing trying to come off as intimidating. Pansy smiled at him.

    "I'll ask her to be my girlfriend."

    Draco's eyes hardened even more than they already were, glaring down at Pansy.

     "As if I care."

    "We both know perfectly well you do, Malfoy."

     Y/n had remembered all the times Draco had conveniently showed up to scare away any one who showed interest in her, once resulting in a Ravenclaw boy being sent to the hospital wing covered in boils after he had asked Y/n to the Yule Ball. Y/n would have said yes and Draco had known it. Cedric Diggory had avoided her for weeks once after they had gotten Butterbeers together. Y/n wasn't entirely sure why, but she had a theory Draco had been behind it.

    Draco looked at Y/n, something he hasn't done since they got off the Hogwarts Express. His eyes were narrow, but Y/n felt her gaze soften. In order to glare at her it meant he was looking at her.

    "You're ridiculous Parkinson. Y/n wouldn't say yes to being your girlfriend." His stare returned to Pansy who smiled.

    "You never know. After the chat we just had all alone in our dorm, I think she might."

    Draco didn't respond and instead walked over to Y/n and roughly grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the common room and into the halls.

    He stayed silent, his hand had loosened its grip to a more comfortable pressure as he dragged her through the halls. Y/n hadn't a clue as to where they were going, her eyes too locked into his figure to pay attention. His shoulders were tense, his pace faster than usual and his hair while still styled, was less sleek than usual, the ends of it curling just a bit. The ring on her finger hadn't stopped beating quickly, a feeling she wasn't used to. In the hand he held, she could feel the quick heartbeat that was radiating from the ring he wore. Knowing Draco could feel her heartbeat in this moment would have been embarrassing if she wasn't too focused on him to think.

    Draco had pulled her up the astronomy tower and let go of her hand once they had reached the room inside it. It was twilight, the moon was encompassed by a slowly deepening lavender, the lighting outside turned Draco's hair the most delicate purple she'd ever seen. His skin was nearly glowing, he looked angelic again, Her Lucifer. He sighed heavily and clenched his jaw. Y/n was trying to grasp that this wasn't a dream.

If it weren't for the past few days, this could have almost been romantic. The way the setting sun highlighted the edges of the stone walls and turned the sky shades of peach and lavender could put someone in a trance. It was so quiet, far too quiet with the only sound being the muffled voices of students who were heading to dinner.

Draco still wouldn't looked at her.

#y/n x draco #draco imagine #draco angst #draco fanfiction #long fic #fanfiction #y/n #harry potter #writing #severus snape #fanfic #draco malfoy #angst

[dumbledore-and-grindelwald]

Could you expand on why Dumbledore sent the team to the tea party at the beginning, besides to have Newt convey his message to Vogel? Coz I felt it was kinda pointless, they didn't achieve anything specific and it ended up with Theseus being thrown into jail and the long and somewhat unwanted swivel sequence in the Erkstag. I would also love if you would explain Theseus' arc in this film.

He didn't send them for anything else, but I just think that this is a good enough reason. If Vogel had changed his mind they would have avoided the mess. The fact that Vogel was not convinced does not make the mission less important. By the way, if anything it's kinda Albus' fault that the Scamanders failed. Vogel does not dismiss Newt immediately. Henrietta Fischer calls him to make his speech, and by extent to announce that the evidence against Gellert is insufficient and Vogel looks at her with a thoughtful expression, casts his eyes down a bit and turns to Newt and asks if Albus finally decided to leave Hogwarts and do something about the current turmoil. He chooses easy, but if Albus had given him a better alternative he might have taken it.

_________________________

Now let me talk about my boy, Theseus, because I just adore him. Newt's main purpose in being there is so that the group will be granted access in the first place. The fact that ultimately nothing is achieved is the very point. Theseus is the efficient brother, the war hero with a career that is socially appreciated (unlike Newt's), the ministry-family man who is in charge of other aurors. Newt loves Theseus, but he also kind of resents him in the way that a younger brother may feel about the sibling that gets the most attention. We see this several times: The jealousy over Theseus' relationship with Leta, Newt's avoidance to going to dinner, his annoyance at being asked to compromise with the ministry's plans, his joy when Tina takes Theseus out, the way he ignores Theseus and does not bother with introducing him to Lally. Even at Pere Lachese. Theseus gave the right order to the aurors by asking him not to engage so, when one attacked nontheless, the mess that ensued was definitely not because Theseus made a wrong call.

In SoD Theseus, in his desire to stop Grindelwald and having being given a little push by the fact that he trusts Newt's judgement and Newt trusts Albus, decides to put his faith in Albus and to become part of a plan of which he has no control. In fact, he doesn't even have any idea of why he's doing whatever he's doing. The character is thrown in a situation that puts him completely out of his comfort zone.

When they’re at the German Ministry, Theseus is in a very different state of mind than he was at Pere Lachese. There, he had control of the situation and had the rationality to not engage impulsively. This time he is affected by the presense of the people that he was associated with Leta’s death. A shift has already happened in the room and it’s clear that the ministry has allowed Grindelwald the upper hand. If he had stayed in control he probably wouldn’t have ended up in Erkstag. Even when he’s released, Albus mentions the things the others achieved and adds: ‘And you are alive and you are well’. Not only are they at a worse place than from where they’ve started, but he’s the one who has contributed the least. More than Theseus learning to face failure, the events at the ministry are a formative experience because he is failed, attacked and erased by the system that he has so much faith in. He sees the corruption of the kind of law enforcement he has been part of, lead by a head auror that is also young and efficient and whom he’s in first-name basis with.

The Erkstag is another example of Theseus having to push past his comfort zone, but this time it’s in a way that furthers his relationship with Newt. The brothers not sharing common interests other than helping the world reminds me of Albus and Aberforth, with Theseus bring the Albus and Newt the Aberforth of the situation: Theseus is the one with the traditional career and more of a people’s person, while Newt is more comfortable around his creatures, and while Theseus tries to reach out in some ways Newt is holding back. The Erkstag gives us a context in which Newt’s less appreciated experties are the ones that ensure their survival. More than that, Theseus himself has to try to let loose and to follow Newt’s lead, using a method that would otherwise feel ridiculous to him. When the brothers are out, they are holding hands without having realized it and this reflects what the scene brought out in their relationship. 

Another interesting part is how Theseus affects Albus’ character. Albus does not talk about the blood troth to everyone. But he needs to come clean to Theseus about his reasons for not joining them and allows a glimpse of his vulnerability to gain trust. Theseus indulges him and he doesn’t back down even when he questions Albus’ plan  and feels that it’s not succeeding. This is why it is important that, after Grindelwald’s escape, Theseus is the one to make Albus promise that he’ll stop Gellert. Theseus represents those that put their faith in Albus, those that are putting their own lives on the line and, because of Leta’s death, those who have lost loved ones to Grindelwald. The reason that Albus initially provided for not going after Gellert himself does not stand anymore and he has to do right by Theseus, who trusted him, and by the world. 

#theseus scamander #newt scamander #Albus Dumbledore #anton vogel #fantastic beasts #the secrets of dumbledore #sod spoilers #tsod spoilers #theseus meta #sod meta

[wyclair]

Part two of me and my “Anakin Skywalker adopts Harry Potter” au

(This would be Clone Wars era Anakin)

- the way voldemort wouldn’t be able to even TOUCH Harry if Anakin were around

- I’m very fond of Eldritch!Anakin ??? Like I feel like his power ended up being super downplayed for being like. The literal child of the force ??? So

Imagine Eldritch!Anakin just absolutely feral over anyone / anything that tries to do Harry harm. He would crush their skull without lifting a pinky finger (it was the will of the force <3)

- I imagine the force can vaguely speak to anakin (in a different way from other Jedi since he’s it’s actual son if that makes sense?) and starts referring to Harry as his grandchild

- the way he’d go OFF on dumbledore for never checking on Harry’s home life ??? Like the kid obviously tried avoiding going home and it never raised any red flags to dumbledore ??? Really ??? Anakins not having it

- Anakin being read as like- a super powerful dark wizard by everyone around him cause the wizards have no idea about the Force and all that ??? Like, ohmygod- he strangled someone with air??? It’s the dark arts !!!

- Anakin kinda enjoys (remember- feral Eldritch being!Anakin) how freaked out the wizards get when he appears he’s like “yeahhhh baby. Don’t touch my kid!”

- Vader!Anakin poppin out for a second and making the death eaters tremble. CAN YOU IMAGINE LUCIUS MEETING HIM ?! HED BE TERRIFIED LMAO

- god, he’d fuck shit up so bad in goblet of fire and well- any movie rlly

- he RLLY hates dumbledore (if he’s well meaning or not, idk but anakin doesn’t think he is) for basically making Harry a child soldier. It all hits kinda close to home cause he’s also the chosen one / poster boy for a war so he’s able to connect to and understand Harry in a way no adult has ever been able to do with him???

- Anakin would need to be held back from killing the Dursley’s

- Fred & George LOVE him, I think sirius would be wary but they’d end up getting along over time and Anakin is fond of Remus because he reminds him of Obi-wan in some ways

- Anakin is the Cool Dad

- if ya’ll wanna be Anti-Dumbledore, consider: Anakin realizing Palpatine isn’t all he seems to be because he’s slowly realizing that dumbledore kinda has the same vibe and now Anakin is like “wait a damn second.”

- Dumbledore & Harry are just Palpatine & Anakin in different fonts

- harry: my dad is totally normal

hermione: sometimes he smiled and he has 3x the normal amount of teeth

- this is crack but anakin sees Snape and then has a vision/dream of Ben that night. He wakes up in a cold sweat and audibly goes “EW” and then goes back to sleep (going off the fact that some ppl fancast Adam driver as young!snape)

- Anakin being here just makes things a huge fix it for both his world and Harry’s world

- imagine smth (it’s the will of the force) drops in [ insert person you ship with Anakin here ] and now Harry has another parent!!!

- I’d probably make it Rex or Padmé personally (or both. They all have two hands. I love Rexanidala)

- idk how exactly this would work? If it’s an alternate dimension because anakin accidentally gets sucked thru like a worm hole / black hole or if like it’s just a very very very far and isolated planet that no one’s ever rlly been to before cause it’s so far out and there’s a hyperspace fuck up??

- idk!! I just think this would be neat!!

#pls feel free to add on or write this idk #if u do- pls message me </3 #Star Wars #Harry Potter #clone wars #the clone wars #star wars the clone wars #Star Wars clone wars #anakin skywalker #Anakin skywalker adopts Harry Potter #goblet of fire #Harry Potter and the goblet of fire #harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban #harry potter and the order of the phoenix #triwizard tournament #saw someone use #eldritch domesticity #as a tag on ao3 for an #eldritch anakin skywalker #fic #so imma do the same cause that’s what this is #anakin wouldn’t have gone to the dark side if he had Harry. bet. #harry is anakins equivalent to an emotional support dog #death eaters #Voldemort #rexanidala #captain rex #anidala #padme anidala #rexwalker

[allherfaeriesmeetinjuly]

finished reading ink and parchment!!! jormy dying will always get me istg. tom and eliza means so so much to me. and it seems there my personal liking in romantic pairings. think: two overpowered kinda manic, intelligent, emotionally stunted, strange protagonists in a schematic revenge plot against a perceived chess master (aka fuck dumbledore), complete with character arcs, flaws, and chemistry. it’s so perfect, they mean so so much to me, i’m so NORMAL abt them, they make me want to slit my throat of smth idk. tom and eliza. gosh. also continuing reading ignorance is bliss today. april break really is blissful. hmmm, yoko and saiki reminds me of another pairing i know very well

#also i love normalised queerness #queertopia #if you will #lesbian daphne #gay (i think) theo #blaise is implied to be bi or pan #also wolfstar #implied but like #reg is here via necromancy #lily and james make me #they’re sooooo #<33 #cissa and lucy too #love barty and his revenge plot line #how can i forgot sev #ink and parchment | blood and bone #i don’t see a fandom here and i am sad #so sad #let me rant about them #ofc jormy too omg #and FRANK #my favourite immortal wise — earl-like vampire

[chiwi-la-capybara]

Was Snape coerced into staying at Hogwarts?

I kinda thought Snape had no desire to work at Hogwarts (he hates kids right?) but stuck around because Dumbledore made him teach to keep an eye on him. If that's what happened, it's pretty messed up when you think about it.

Since Dumbledore was the only thing between Snape and Azkaban, it actually kinda seems like he's stuck in an indefinite labor contract--he's basically unfree labor. Seriously, Snape's boss forced him to continue working for him, and he could choose that or dementor-jail. It actually reminds me of when employers take away the visas of temporary migrant workers to make sure they won't try to leave.

Update: I had to change 'unfree neighbor' to 'unfree labor,' haha.

#random thoughts #Was it blackmail or was Snape kinda in to teaching? #Or was Snape teaching because he thought he'd be of more use at Hogwarts if the dark lord returned? #Why do I spend so much time wondering about Snape's motivations

[hungrydolphin91]

Xillia update no. mighty 9! A real loooong session, so I'm putting it under a cut:

I can't remember much about what we did at the beginning, like Fenmont and stuff, except that Wingul was uncharacteristically nice to Elize and then minutes later tried to have us arrested. Him and Gaius just flip flop like that.

My sister's current ships basically include whichever two characters are on the screen at the same time, but particularly Gaius/Muzet. Her: "They're a power couple."

Since Alvin was out of the party I started playing Rowen and he's quite fun! I especially like mashing the button for more fireballs and rolling around the rock. I just wish his arte tuning didn't make that high pitch noise :/

We defeated Muzet with his bell arte. "Live más, bitch."

We finally defeated Ivar too and it seems like he will leave us alone for good. My sister still wishes we had killed him when we had the chance.

As soon as we got to the mountain behind Milla's shrine, the characters started warning about how slippery and dangerous it is. Her: "We're gonna have a cutscene of us falling aren't we."

After the HARD Presa/Agria fight, Alvin actually did rejoin the group. She thought he might just stay away or become a villain. Tales games don't usually permanently retire such a long-lasting party member, but to be fair the other Tales game we played was Zesty, which does.

We debated which character to have leading on the map but she wanted to admire Jude's butt, though you can't really see it with his costume. You can't see any of the character model's butts really. Me: "Except Presa." Her: "True, she has a nice butt. But maybe we shouldn't speak ill of the dead. Me: "We'll pour one out for Presa's fine ass" 😔✊

A lot of bleeding hearts in this group. Jude pitying Muzet's lack of purpose, Leia feeling bad about Agria's intentional death. I am trying to use my sister' dislike of good-hearted protagonists as a reason to play Berseria next 😈

We finally reached Maxwell. Jude: "We've come a long way to ask you something." Sis: " 'Why are you such a dick?' "

He really looks like an evil Dumbledore. Also his name is not very godly or intimidating. I explained it's like a series staple easter egg (like Aifread) but yeah it's a kinda lame name

The way Jude starts pointing accusingly at Maxwell is EXACTLY like Ivar. They're rubbing off on each other!

Milla is back! And The Four work for her now. Their design are also not very godly, she noted. Sylph has glasses, why would a spirit need glasses.

Elize died right as we beat Maxwell, RIP her EXP

Maxwell is going to dispel the schism! Me: "We did it, we beat the game!" Her: "Really?" Me: "No :)"

I forgot Gaius really just shows up and tries to crown himself the next god. Sis: "Good for him."

As soon as the group woke up in Elympios: "Juuude! Make me something!!" lmao

We wondered how all of their meals keep fresh for so long. Me: "Maybe it's like astronaut food. It's just yakisoba-flavored dried food."

The East vs West theme is not subtle, this place is literally New York and all of the music is jazz. She kept noting how colorful everyone looks in comparison to the drab grays. The other themes aren't subtle either like developed vs undeveloped worlds, global warming destroying the planet, etc.

She pointed out that the Torbalan Highroad has Balan's name in it. Maybe the game developers thought "idk what to call this road it's just the one that goes To(r)balan. That's what we'll call it."

We found two separate monocles there. If we put them together we can have a pair of glasses.

Cramped holes remind Elize of her miserable life in the shack which she decides to bring up randomly. Like "Hey everyone, remember how I'm an orphan?"

I keep laughing at cutting off the character's level-up expressions. Rowen saying "Never stop--" and then Elize saying "I won't stop!" Like good I guess she's listening to him.

And Alvin remarking "It just keeps getting better" while Balan is in danger and the worlds are warring and Presa just died like Alvin what part of this is getting better for you. You shot Leia.

She's enjoying the story a lot, or at least finding it more memorable than Zestiria's. Tbh I find the actual story of both to be sorta forgettable but man do I love these characters ❤

We talked about Tales characters for a long while, especially Alvin. I appreciate how his background is actually more unique in the series, being a sort of refugee or an immigrant really. We discussed the recurring character archetypes like the good hearted protags and the suspicious sad bastards and the quirky genki girls while also noting what makes each individual character unique. Man I love Tales characters ❤❤

We kept laughing though because of the lofi jazz music in Elympios and I kept imagining Alvin playing saxophone in the back and cackling

It's funny that Elize scared of the dark when she's the dark magic user. Sis: "You grew up in a shack, you should be used to this!"

Gaius actually considered Jude's approach and tried to use the Volt spyrite. Sis: "He used WWJD: What would Jude do?"

Fought Volt with Rowen's rock arte and we had TWO spheres rolling around. Me: "We're basically just playing marbles."

Everyone keeps crediting Jude for asking Balan questions about spyrixes. Like Jude didn't invent this technology (yet), he literally just asked how it worked and now they have a solution to the entire power crises. Yay! Good work, Jude!

We got a little tired by the next field area (that I don't remember the name of), so we'll pick up from there next time :)

masterpost link here

#dolphin plays xillia #we are getting VERY close to the end now and im excited #i really want to play another tales with her once were done but once school starts she will probably be too busy and stressed :(

[andromeda-the-lobster]

Okay so im starting to write a hp fanfic that will prolly never see the light of day. Basically it's fem harry but like I have it starting with like a one sided phone call between Sirius and James, but like no names are explicitly said, however it is pretty easy to infer. but like... i think i just made everything that is about to happen so much sadder.

“Listen, I'll be there tomorrow for Halloween, yeah?”

…

“No, I know I haven’t been there since her birthday, and I really am sorry. But Dumbledore’s had me running around everywhere.”

…

“I miss her too. But I mean… it’s kinda obvious that Bambi’s gonna miss me, I am her favourite after all.”

…

“I absolutely am.”

…

“Sorry, remind me what her first words were again?”

…

“Yeah that’s what I thought. But on a more serious — get it? — note, I promise I’ll be there tomorrow, okay?”

…

“I’ll try to be there by nine? But I make no promises.”

…

“I know, I know, that’s way past Bambi’s bedtime, but I already have plans with the missus, and I haven’t seen him in over two months.”

…

“I know he can come as well, and I’ll ask, but you know how tired he gets after these kinds of missions.”

…

“I know you miss him, and he misses you too, no doubt.”

…

“Wait! Sorry to interrupt, but I just had the best idea! We can all have a little get together for my birthday in the next few days, yeah?”

…

“Exactly, get the gang back together again. Really. It’ll be great, something for all of us to look forward to.”

…

“But honestly, to get back on topic, I will be there by nine, ten at the absolute latest tomorrow. I promise. Bambi will just have to stay up or wake up for a little while to see me. We all know she’s the only reason I’m coming.”

…

“Okay whatever. I guess I’m coming to see you and your wife too, but we all know Bambi’s my favourite.”

…

“Love you too man. I’ll see you tomorrow. Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” and with those final words he hangs up the phone, rolls his eyes fondly, and goes to get the apartment ready for his fiancé’s return.

#harry potter #marauders #james potter #sirius black #fanfic #okay but like i can so see this happening in canon #because otherwise sirius would have no reason to know something was wrong #ya know #so like he was just coming over for a fun lil halloween hang #with three of his favorite people #and then showing up to find them dead makes everything so much sadder #but like also imagine that when james hears the knock #at like 8 #hes like 'oh sirius' so why would he bring his wand #and anyway james opens the door expectingto see his brother in all but blood #and instead is greeted with voldemort #the embodiment of his friend from childhood betraying them #or maybe he even sees peter first #then peter steps aside and boom voldemort #and all he has time to do is tell lily to run so hopefully #the two most important people in his life can live #even if he doesnt