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cecilspeaks · 4 years

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164 - The Faceless Old Woman (Live)

[applause]

Jeffrey Cranor: I’m really excited, we wrote this script recently coming up in this last performance for tonight. And I got real excited for writing it, cause we haven’t written like a, to do a live show full length in a new voice. And it was a lot of fun to do.

Joseph Fink: Yeah so tonight we are presenting the first Welcome to Night Vale show that is entirely from the point of view of someone who is not Cecil, this is the time when the Faceless Old Woman Who Secretly Lives In Your Home gets to step out from her secret.. place in your home. [laughter] And tell you a little bit about herself.

Jeffrey: One of my favorite things about writing the Faceless Old Woman stuff is cause the way Joseph and I work is that we’ll write episodes or write parts of episodes and pass it to the other and that person will, sometimes have questions but oftentimes just maybe like add something to it. So a lot of times it’s either, when I get stuff back from Joseph and I dunno if he feels the same way getting stuff back form me, with the Faceless Old Woman script it was always either something really hilarious for something really upsetting. [laughter] And I really love that a lot.

Joseph: This is maybe the most upsetting thing we’ve ever written, I hope you guys enjoy it. [laughter]

Jeffrey: Have fun, good night! [applause]

Joseph: I guess we should start that show we talked about.

Jeffrey: Let’s do it. You guys, let’s welcome to the stage your friend and ours, Mara Wilson!

[applause] [long silence]

Mara Wilson: I am the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. Hello. You don’t know me, but I know you. I know you very well. I’ve been going through your medicine cabinet. You take too much Advil. Do you realize how hard that is on your digestion? I know a couple gelcaps and a glass of water before bed can alleviate a morning hangover, but it also puts you in a bad mood, because you don’t get good sleep with all that extra stress you put on your guts. You know what’s a better hangover cure? Not drinking like it’s the last day of community college. I replaced your vodka with clear Windex, and your Advil with Ipecac. This won’t help your hangovers, but it certainly will be more entertaining for me. I don’t sleep, so I need better late night entertainment than Netflix. I’ve already watched every episode of “Money Heist” and “Criminal Man” and “Planet documentary”, I have to spice it up a little bit.

Which reminds me, sorry about the tarantula incident last week. And here I’m speaking specifically to you, Tony. Yes you, in the shirt. The one hoping I’m not talking about you. I’m not sorry you woke up with a tarantula covering your face, nor that it bit you, causing your eyelids to swell up like Kinder eggs filled with purulent discharge instead of toys. I am sorry that I forgot to turn the flash off of my camera, which alarmed both you and the spider, and I never got a good photo. I’ve been building up my portfolio for an art exhibit I call “Gross Things on a Sleeping Tony”. It’s going up June 1, exclusively in your living room. I’ve already gotten “Open-mouthed Centipede Bouquet” framed. You’re gonna find this show absolutely terrific. Wait no, not terrific, what’s the word? Terrifying.

Tony, you’re one of my favorites in Night Vale. I know you hate your direct marketing job selling high interest credit cards to twenty-somethings, but the benefits are great. You have health care, a 401k, and you get to take advantage of people less fortunate than you. Everything is its own reward. But I’ve read your poetry, you love poetry. To be fair, there isn’t a big job market for poets, but you need to explore what makes you happy. I tattooed one of my favorite lines of poetry on you last month. It’s by Mary Oliver. “Instructions for living a life. Close your eyes. Be scared. Good luck.” And then I drew a little butterfly next to the words. I’m not the best artists, though, so it kind of looks like a radish or a sarcoma. Doesn’t matter, you still haven’t noticed. It’s just right below your right shoulder blade, don’t try to find it now, it’s still healing and given that I used the metal rod from that fondue set in your closet as the needle, it’s possible it’s infected. Better to leave it alone.

Tony, look at me. Imagine where my eyes would be. You have a lot to work through. I’m here to help you, I really am. I’ll prove it by giving you some advice. If a venomous arthropod is on your face, don’t scream.

Anyway, it’s not you Tony who’s bothering me, it’s the new people. They are elderly, like me, and they just moved into a house in the center of Night Vale. Or maybe this is decades from now, time is a little hazy for me. I’ve never been in this house nor noticed it before they moved in. it’s a one bedroom and there are three of them. I thought polyamory, but they have three separate beds and they never speak to each other, rarely look at each other, and never leave the home. The first night I secretly lived in their home, I realized they never slept either. They brushed their teeth, put on pajamas and get into bed. But they all lie there, eyes open, through silent hours of darkness.

I tried whispering to them but got no response. Usually when I reveal myself in the dark, I get the thrill of witnessing horror dawn across a person’s distorted mouth and bulging eyes as they see my faceless face pressed up against their own. One of the best parts of visiting new residents. But not these three. For once, I’m the frightened one.

Speaking of frightening, did you get your taxes (-) [0:08:20] on time Alex? You, you’re Alex. You with the shoes. I had to file for an extension. I don’t owe any money because I have no income, but I’m over 200 years old, never got a social security number, have no permanent address and I wasn’t born in this country, it’s a lot of paperwork. And Alex, you know your Wi-Fi is terrible and I was having a hard time downloading the forms I needed, so I just wrote my name on some yellowish-black Boston lettuce you’ve left in the crisper for the last three weeks. But the leaves kept falling apart, I think more like melting. After about 20 minutes, I got frustrated and just made myself a salad. Also, I used the last of your parmesan cheese, but don’t worry, I replaced it with dried skin I’ve been collecting from your bed sheets. Don’t be grossed out, Alex. Same texture and nutritional value, you won’t know the difference. I got the idea from a Food Network’s “Beat Bobby Flay”, where this one winner tied up Bobby and ran a (micro-) [0:09:17] across his forehead to make a chimichurri sauce.

I love that show, but I’m a bigger fan of HGTV’s “House Hunters”, the desert dystopian version. That’s where I met you, Addie. Yes you, with the face. You were shopping for a new home here in Night Vale. You told the realtor - who was inside of a living deer, its belly horrifically distended and quivering with every one of the agent’s words and gesticulation – that you wanted three bedrooms, a back yard, and something close to an outdoor community space. The first home, the yard was not in good shape, lots of (- remains) [0:09:55] and the lawn was glowing, perhaps from underground radiation testing. It was well under your budget, but you would have had to spend your savings on fixing it up. Also, in the bathroom mirror you saw, crawling across the ceiling, a faceless old woman devouring what looked like a rat. You didn’t need to worry about a rat infestation, Addie. It was a chipmunk. The second home was a condo right in the heart of the arts district. You loved the design: a simple large black cube, no doors, no windows, no interior. A true closed floor plan, so popular these days. But you weren’t sure there was enough room for entertaining, or anything else at all. The house you selected was perfect. Three bedrooms, a Jacuzzi en suite, and a large patio backyard. Plus it was right in the middle of town next to a community dog park. Although you would be disappointed later to learn that your dog had been arrested for domestic espionage after peeing inside the park’s forbidden walls. I think you made the right choice, Addie, but I can’t help wondering every time I watch “House Hunters”, who is this person running away from? You left Queens to move to Night Vale. Queens is where your family lives, where your best friend lives, and your girlfriend of two years. Are you afraid of stasis, Addie? Of being loved, of commitment? You might be afraid of that pinkish ooze coming out of your ear, might wanna see an ENT about that. Or if not an ENT, an entomologist.

Speaking of putting woodboring beetles inside orifices, I tried a similar thing with the elderly room mates who recently moved to town, or will move to town many years from now, again time is strange to me. But these room mates are also so strange. When I went to put a beetle into one of their ears, I noticed a lot of scar tissue there, making the hole too small. In my haste, the beetle scurried away and I got kind of desperate and just made a bunch of spooky moans and hisses like this: [moans, hisses] but not one of the three responded to me. They continued their meaningless pantomime of sleeping, and in the morning they got up and each went quietly about their days. One of them made coffee, but did not drink it. They then went to the window and waved at their neighbor, Susan Willman, who was on her porch stretching before her morning run. Susan looked at the figure in the window next to her and froze. She stared in terror, then darted back into her home and locked the door. Susan has always been unfriendly. I ran her bed sheets through her office shredder as a reminder to be more open and loving toward the world.

The other two room mates climbed into the shower at the same time. I’m not one to get off on others’ sexual activities, I just thought I might see something new, something human here. But no, they stood side by side, cleaning their cold gravity-defeated bodies, not once looking at each other let alone speaking. A squelch and a squish and grey water falling around yellow toenails. They toweled off, but when they hung the towels up, those towels were completely dry.

I’m used to being the one who does inexplicable and disturbing things. Last year during the community players’ production of “Romeo and Juliet”, I decided it would be more fun if they used actual poison. But it was a last minute idea, so the only poison I could find was Borax. Which just gave the two kids playing the leads several unhappy hours in the bathroom on the night after the show ended, so I don’t know. I could have made a stronger directorial choice. But so could the actual director, I get that Shakespeare plays are long, but he cut out all the best parts like the train robbery, and also Tybalt winning his bowling league. Although I did appreciate that they left in Juliet’s famous line: “Good night, good night, your blood and guts and marrow, which worms shall eat inside your grave so narrow.” It’s a classic story. Kids these days just don’t try to fake their own deaths anymore.

Oh. And Morgan. Yes Morgan, I’m talking to you, you with the fingernail sand the teeth. I need to explain something to you. You tip 20 per cent. You can afford it, stop using it as a measure of how much you approve of the restaurant service. A 20 per cent tip is not bonus, it’s a fee. Restaurant owners don’t pay their staffs, instead they make the diners pay their employees through this idiotic notion of capitalist meritocracy. I don’t care how bad the service, tip them. You have money, Morgan. I would also tell you to stop asking to speak to a manager every time your Long Island Ice Tea is a bit like, but I got out your tongue last month, so they wouldn’t understand you anymore anyway. Do you know what a cut human tongue tastes like, Morgan? Yes you do. You just don’t know that you do. Remember Applebee’s last week? You ordered soup. It was a beef base with little onions and little perfectly sautéed flecks of your own tongue that you had used to lash out at a manager the last time you ate there. You could blame them for poorly expediting your orders, but really the onus is on you for going to Applebee’s. Which serves neither of the items its name promises. It’s false advertising. It’s like an egg cream soda, or Taco Bell.

Speaking of eating, the elderly room mates made lunch together, but not for each other. They were all in the kitchen at the same time making separate meals in silence. They sat around the dining room table together and ate. They carved and stabbed and pushed foods quickly into their mouths, but their eyes were empty. One of them began to spit out their food. No one seemed to care or notice. They all began to vomit, but not with muscular heaves of shoulders and necks, the vomit spurted out like water from a hand pump, their torsos and heads perfectly still. After each bodily rejection of food, they would start shoveling it back to their mouths, repeating the same process. Eventually one of them stood up and threw their plate into the kitchen window, glass bursting everywhere. That person leaned into the hole and began punching the jagged shards out with their clenched fists as blood poured out of their forearms and wrists. They screamed mournfully into the suburban street. Neighbors and passers-by passed only briefly, as if they had barely heard the sad howls spreading across the valley. Susan’s lemon tree next door died instantly and all the lemons fell with wet plops to the ground. The fruit pealed open and inside of each was a fleshy crimson pulp, like meat that has been ground for too long. The other two room mates kept eating and vomiting, not even noticing the shattered glass being subsumed by the growing pool of blood on the floor.

You know, I wasn’t always like this, faceless or old. Secretly living anywhere. Once I was born upon warm water. The smell I remember is sharp citrus and the peppery sting of grass. The salt funk of ocean. I was once a child. I grieved once. I smelled blood. Once I was a thief. I lived among thieves, I saw empires rise and fall, centuries cast themselves upon infinity as fruitlessly as waves upon cliffs. Once I was a recluse. I lived amongst bandits and farmers, I spoke a different language then. I’ve spoken many languages.

Once I was under the sea. That was a quiet time. I lived amongst the coral and dead-eyed fish. Once I was a wanderer. I’ve seen the (head) [0:18:14] waters of the Mississippi and I’ve seen the cobbled streets of Paris and I’ve seen the empty arches of Franchia. But I’ve never seen anything like those three room mates. Of all the things I've been – child, thief, recluse, wandered, faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home, I’ll tell you this: I’ve never been more scared.

Fear is in the unknowing and the mystery. Fear is seeing everything about an old woman except her face. Fear is the uncertainty of her secretly living in your home. Fear is not the spider you see on the wall. It’s the spider you no longer see on the wall when you look back again.

In the unnerving din of shattered glass and mournful howls of that house, I found the loose thread that unraveled this mystery. The room mate who screamed had no tongue. And one of the others had an ear swollen shut from a previous surgery. And the other had a red mark, like a radish or sarcoma adorned with poetry drawn upon their shoulder blade. I realized I knew these three strange room mates. They are you, Tony, the special tattoo I gave you. And they are you, Addie, with your oral scar tissue from the beetle I jammed in there. And you, Morgan, with your tongue removed and digested. The three of you do not exactly live together in that home, not at the same time. You are living three different lifetimes in that same space. You do not speak or respond, because you are dead. Each of you alone in that house together, or you will be, time is confusing for me. Decades from now after you die, your souls will be trapped in the house, because something in this world is unresolved for you. You know this, paranormal neuroscience is required for all high school freshmen. But what they don’t teach you is how to resolve it. I know how and when each one of you die. I wrote it down on the back pages of your journals. Iv’e done this for everybody, but nobody ever reads it, because while people always think they’ll write every day, after a few pages they fall off the wagon and never see the lsat pages of their journals. Except Jonathan Franzen. He didn’t seem bothered by what he read. But he did cross out all my adverbs and added some Oxford commas. In case you’re wondering how Jonathan Franzen dies, here’s the answer: he doesn’t.

I am the faceless old woman who secretly lives in your home. You might find this ambiguous, after all the word “home” is singular. So whose home is it that I secretly live in? Listen, some things in this tangled world are simple. I live in your home, and your home, and your home, I live in all of your homes simultaneously. I am many. [echo] I am many. I am one. [echo] I am one. You all live such different lives, teeming, that’s what you are: teeming. And I am there watching you.

You, Tony, you dream of being a poet. Resolve the unresolved. The worst that can happen is crushing disappointment and public mockery, and eviction when you can’t pay your rent. Many more awful things after that, get to it!

And you, Addie, you fled your previous city to escape a murder charge. Strangely, you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with, but you have committed murder. Weird choice to go on “House Hunters” as a wanted fugitive, but maybe it was a good first step to healing your soul.

And you, Morgan. You have an idea that could save us all, an epic defining idea, one of the greats, but you don’t know which one. You have so many ideas. I can tell you this: most of them are not important. One of them is vitally important. Good luck. Also, tip 20 per cent.

And you, I forgot your name, you tweet too much. We all tweet too much, but that doesn’t let you off the hook. That’s why I ate your phone. You can thank me later. You can all thank me later. Because you all will be seeing me soon. I think that tonight is the night to let slip my secret. You’ll soon see me fumbling wet and gray from out of the bathroom mirror, or folded up strangely loose skin and mashed bones in the bottom drawer of your dresser. Or you will see me scuttle on your walls, the hair hanging down from my faceless face. Or you will look out your kitchen window and there will be someone standing in your driveway, and it will be me, and there will be no one in the driveway and instead, I will be next to you in the kitchen. Faceless and so very very old. Won’t that be nice?

I’m the Faceless Old Woman who secretly lives in your home. And your home. And your home. And every home. And I will be seeing you very, very soon.

[music, applause]

Today’s proverb: Never judge a book by its cover. Judge it by the title page instead.

#welcome to night vale #wtnv transcripts #episode 164 #the faceless old woman #the faceless old woman live #finally #thanks for your patience #there might be more mistakes bc there were many big words

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diwhynot · 4 years

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I know that it’s been dark on this blog for a while

but it’s because I’ve felt conflicted about posting something so self-indulgent while the world is suffering so much. Police brutality against black Americans and the resulting protests (and the cyclical militant response by those who are supposed to serve and protect) kind of take priority over my home made pillows right now, you know? I don’t want to take space away from the important conversation our country is having.

On top of that, my department is reeling from this article which has aired a lot of the problems with sexism, sexual harassment, abuse, and racism that are endemic in archaeology and in our program in particular. I’ve cried more in the last month than I have in the entire last two years, and that’s really saying something. It has been a mire of revelations, release, frustration, empathy, and ultimately the discovery of an amazing bond that our small cohort of women share and have been systematically denied until now. I personally had to face a complicated situation from my past, one that I’ve carried with me for the last three years, and it was a terrifying and cathartic moment that was a long time coming.

All of this is to say, it’s been exhausting.

So for today, I won’t post about the things I’ve made or bought. I just wanted to update to say “I’m still here,” and to remind myself that this moment is shitty, and necessary, and only the beginning. After this breaking point, we have to continue to be outraged and to resist, whether it’s in the streets or in the quiet day-to-day moments of rebellion: literally just existing in the spaces we’ve been excluded from.

I will get back to posting diys soon, but for today I’ll just share some pictures of the yard and our cats. Honestly, they’re the things that give me the most peace right now, and maybe they will do the same for you.

Gizmo being the ultimate Mama’s boy

Ziggy crashed out after a long day of eating and napping

Our little patio area with lights from Aunt Tracie

A baby jalepeño, radishes, and zuchinni in our raised bed

(A whole mess of potatoes)

#personal #garden #cats of tumblr #everything suuuuuuucks

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wendylewis-blog · 4 years

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05.18.2020 /MondayMonday

Monday Monday / can’t trust that day / Monday Monday /sometimes it just turns out that way / Oh Monday morning you gave me no warning of what was to be / Oh Monday Monday how could you leave and not take me—

Saturday was full of garden prepping and I felt pretty damn satisfied when the rain arrived Saturday night, continuing all day Sunday as predicted. Prior to the rain, I was able to get the rest of the tomato plants in, herb pots filled, and all other areas prepped with chicken manure garnered from my neighbor (who runs a thriving coop) to nourish seed potatoes, bush bean, radish, swiss chard, cuke and collard green seeds. Now that the yard has enjoyed a full soak I’ll finish planting today and watch my garden grow. Woot!

I’m not a great gardener and certainly not an obsessive one. It’s pretty much trial and error, all the time. I dunno—maybe that’s how gardening actually works. But—in the Summer of Corona, maybe I’ll have the time and energy to maintain it. In years past, I would get a garden put in, but as work increased throughout the season I’d lose interest while temperatures climbed, hornets, ground bees and weeds rivaling Little Shop of Horrors took over. I would bounce between shame and apathy, harvesting what miraculously survived my woeful neglect. In the fall, I would begrudgingly chop it all back just before the first snow, cover it with straw and forget about it until the next year when I would progressively disappoint myself for another summer. Mayyyyybe this year I’ll get it right. Plus—we’ll save money feeding ourselves.

I’ve been pumping up the jam on cooking again, in the ebb and flow. I made a slow-roasted Korean gochujang chicken last night surrounded by smashed gold potatoes—even made the gochujang paste from scratch. I covet an Asian market closer to me in Cannon Falls, but I made do with what I had and/or could substitute and came pretty damn close to the real thing.

That segues nicely into the topic of what I really need. More importantly, what I can make for myself instead of purchasing and/or doing without. Imagine doing without. I had a craving for French dressing this week and just made my own—like, duh! I discovered a plethora of brown mustard seeds in my spice cupboard and will make mustard once we get low—it’s crazy how easy it is and the money it will save because coarse ground mustard is expensive for a tiny jar. I’ve made myriad salsas (from borcha to verde), homemade crunchy/clumpy granola, have been making sandwich bread for a month (saved $20 so far) and next on my list is flora-building kraut and kimchee. Clearly, cooking isn’t for everyone and tastes are varied, but you can easily even whip up a homemade Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supreme in your own kitchen if you’re having a craving for fast food you miss.

Beyond that, what can I do without? Well, I can do without a lot. I’ve honed this skill as an artist over my lifetime, but it’s fast becoming an alarming, spotlit political platform instead. I’ve been making some noise lately (a previous post in this blog) about monopolizing bullies like Amazon (Frontline investigative report linked again if you missed it), who not only underserves their employees but also targets independent book and music stores in addition to myriad local goods providers, swallowing friendly competition like a nefarious grey whale scoops up krill. (Not dissing on you, grey whale...just using you anecdotally.)

The pandemic is revealing, in harsh and glaring light, a trend that has been becoming normalized in our society for decades without us really noticing—until now. When my kids were babies in the late 80′s, I remember politics employing integrity on either side of the aisle (OpEd by MN Republican Dave Durenberger I recently posted on FB). But, over the decades, deregulated capitalism + consumerism has led us into a full scale war with—ourselves! Financial gain rests on one side of the justice scale and the sustainability of humanity rests on the other.

That’s what it looks like to me—the brainwash is so greedy and stealthy. I grew up in a religious cult so I know something about it after living through it and spending years of therapy in an effort to recover from it. Some of us are demanding to return to work recently, packing restaurants and bars (Wisconsin) long before it’s safe to do so and against the advice of medical experts who are only trying to save our lives! I get it—the frustration—but it’s really dangerous, ppl.

This smells like social suicide to me.

Why would we take the risk to jump into that emotionally charged fog just to prove a point? There is too much to lose.

I fkn really truly feel for every small biz owner, every self-employed person (me) every restaurant owner and their employees (my daughter) who are struggling—it’s difficult and scary. I don’t know how it will look six months from now. I hope communities will pull together and creative solutions will be instigated. I believe in human beings.

None of us in the middle/lower-middle class will escape the brunt of this. Those with money will have a different anxiety that I can’t understand, but at least they can pay for services, enjoy good health care benefits and houses that aren’t compromised. Still, they will lose their security and retirement, which I’m sure feels terrifying for them. I have neither, so at least I don’t have to suffer that loss.

Is it possible we are evolving away from our innate survival instincts though, attaching like weasels to a political stance vs staying alive? Not looking good right now. America is not attuned to humility or losing. Is it more worthy to be right vs embracing truth? Ahhhh—sorry, I guess “truth” is another sticky wicket—what each and everyone thinks that means. Slippery slopes. We might be doomed if we continue on this way. Fuck. It feels really dark right now.

The virus doesn’t give a flying fk if we choose to flip off the rules of our governors screaming instead for our “rights”—our “freedom”—our “livelihoods” and flood into the streets, unmasked and angry. The virus will win, every time. It laughs at our arrogance and ego mad gesticulating.

Hm. Well. I guess it’s gonna play out one way or another. I really hope I’m wrong and that everyone’s pride wins and doesn’t spread the virus. But it’s not likely.

So. I’ll return to my garden. Hoe the weeds. Tend to the plants. Hope for the best.

Be brave. Stay safe. Wear your mask. Lovelove.

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clouds-of-yunmeng · 5 years

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Morning Light

Based on my own prompt: https://makoharuloveloveeyes.tumblr.com/post/185267913528/imagine

Against all odds Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriarch himself can’t win this fight. He gives up hope, until...

There was no way, right? This just couldn’t be more than a crude joke.

Right?

Right…?

No. Apparently not…

What kind of abomination even was this? Wei Wuxian tore back his wrist, only to be caught again. The gnashing teeth no longer tearing into his sleeves, but instead his skin.

He gave up screaming long ago already, fighting with everything he had.

One of these cursed dogs – dogs, of all things, can you imagine that?! – had taken away Chenqing from him just before he could place the dizi against his lips. They had broken it.

That’s what Wei Wuxian got for going into the Burial Mounds on his own. Could you blame him for it though? For not wanting his husband to watch him weep?

After all this time, he wanted to be over it, to stop crying about a past that was long lost. But he couldn’t.

The ghosts of his memories, all their screams, their pleas and whimpers echoed through him again and again, with no end in sight.

Who would have thought that anyone would think to cast dogs into the abyss that had once given birth to the Yiling Patriarch?

These dogs – now mutated beyond comprehension – attack anything that has a pulse.

Every attempt at using cultivation – demonic or otherwise – proved to be futile. Perverted forms of life like these dogs refused to bend to the laws of this world; or so it at least seemed.

Wei Wuxian’s reformed core and cultivation were still somewhat feeble, as was his body, so their impact was almost pitiful and laughable as he faced the pack of “dogs”.

His demonic cultivation was still infinitely more powerful than his regular cultivation, but it seemed that these disgusting beasts weren’t harmed by it, but instead drew strength from every curse he whipped in their direction.

So, here he was, succumbing to a pack of filthy mutts.

Ah, he thought to himself as he felt himself fade, his old panic probably messed with his cultivation. There was no way he was able to guide his qi properly under these circumstances.

One of the dogs buried it’s teeth in Wei Wuxian’s nape, causing the man to scream out in pain, only to be cut off by a breathless wheeze.

Was this really it?

If he wasn’t in so much pain, not so hopelessly terrified Wei Wuxian would laugh at his own fate – devoured by dogs in the place that used to be his sanctuary.

His home.

The place where he laughed with a new family, after he’d lost his first.

Where he buried a child among the radishes.

He would laugh so much that tears would spring to his eyes, if only he could. But he couldn’t.

Darkness enveloped Wei Wuxian as his eyes fell shut without him noticing. Next time he opened his eyes, he was shocked to realize that he wasn’t dead yet.

His initial triumph was cut short though, when he realized that the pillars looming above him were in fact people clad in shadowy robes.

Were they alive or not? Wei Wuxian no longer had the strength or the wherewithal to find out.

Hands came towards him, tore him up into the air where he was held.

“Yiling Patriarch!” voices spat at him, mouths so close to his skin that he could feel the moist breath, sometimes even teeth.

“3000 were killed by your hand. Now it is your turn to die 3000 deaths!”

Horror came to Wei Wuxian’s mind as he put the pieces together in his mind.

Could these be the deformed corpses, misshapen ghosts of those who were killed in the battle of the Nightless City? Discarded here of all places...

So this was how karma found him after all this time.

Indeed, indeed, Wei Wuxian thought – not even in his thoughts was he able to imagine himself laughing anymore, after all this time, there was no way he had truly deserved to find lasting joy by Lan Zhan’s side.

Ah, but at least he got to spend some time with him.

Wei Wuxian had no idea how much time passed. Was it days? Weeks? Months… Years?

He couldn’t tell.

Nobody would come for him.

After all, what threat was there that would subdue the Yiling Patriarch himself? Laughable. The mere suggestion should be setup and punchline in one.

But Wei Wuxian wasn’t laughing.

The old trauma of his first fall came back to him every time he shut his eyes. The screams, the pain, the everything.

The pain in his new body was an illusion, he knew that. Long gone was the pain of healing bones that had haunted his last years alive in his original body.

But it didn’t hurt any less than it did back then.

The only consolation he had was that this time he knew he’d left behind a world in peace and harmony. Jiang Cheng was fine, there were no enemies hunting him.

Jin Ling would grow up well with his Uncle looking after him… As would his dear Sizhui-er, with his beloved Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan, oh Lan Zhan…

What wouldn’t he do to see him once more?

Ah, but it didn’t matter anymore.

It was too late.

A sudden thunderclap shook the earth.

Then an ear-shattering strum of a guqin.

Wei Wuxian was disoriented. He knew the sound of this instrument by heart, as he did the sizzle in the air, the sharp aftershocks of the lightning, but it couldn’t be.

Had these damned corpses finally broken him for good? Was he imagining things now?

“WEI YING!”

No way…

No, no, no… how…?!

Arrows whizzed past his body, followed by the disgusting sound of flesh tearing and distorted whimpering.

A dog barked as it rushed towards him, and new tears welled in Wei Wuxian’s eyes, but this time they were as much horror as they were utter relief.

It was Fairy.

Never in a thousand years would Wei Wuxian have imagined that he’d one day be happy to see this dog, but today was that day.

Or night?

“A-Ling, drive them back!”

More arrows flew through the air, each one hitting it’s target with deadly accuracy. One dog after the other fell to the ground with a garbled growl that sent shivers down Wei Wuxian’s spine.

A shuddering spark zapped through the air, and rows of ghouls, corpses and zombies fell to the ground, twitching.

“Senior Wei!”

“Focus, Lan Jingyi!”

A glowing sword tore through the army of corpses, followed by two other swords, their glares blindingly bright in this dark hell pit.

A roar tore through the noise, overshadowing the groaning and clattering.

“Master Wei!”

Wei Wuxian could barely breathe, nor think as he watched the carnage unfold around him. He never needed to see the faces of those who’d come to save him, recognizing them by the mere feeling of their energy in the air.

They all put their everything into this battle.

Zidian tore through the nearest row of corpses, and none other than Jiang Cheng himself strode towards Wei Wuxian.

His expression was as sour as ever, his robes splattered with putrid blood.

“Wei Wuxian, you better not be dead...” he muttered as he approached, retracting Zidian back into it’s ring-form.

A hand came up, grabbing Wei Wuxian’s chin, tilting his face upwards to meet his former brother’s eyes.

“Can you walk?” Jiang Cheng almost snarled – almost, because somewhere in the depth of his voice there was a caring, almost tender lilt, but he’d deny that if you’d ask him about it.

Wei Wuxian wept.

“I cannot.”

“Idiot. Fool. Bastard...” Jiang Cheng muttered as he cut Wei Wuxian free, using Sandu. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused us all?”

“Be gentler!” insisted a young voice behind Jiang Cheng, just as another pair of hands rushed forward to catch Wei Wuxian as he collapsed the moment he was free.

“Sizhui-er...” Wei Wuxian whispered as he was stabilized with one of his arms wrapped around the young disciple’s shoulder.

“Jingyi, come here!” called Sizhui, and moments later the other junior appeared before them, bending down to gather Wei Wuxian’s legs. The two carried him somewhere he couldn’t tell where, until he was placed in the arms of the one and only man he loved.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan breathed, cradling Wei Wuxian like he was about to crumble to dust.

“We are about to wrap it up here,” Jiang Cheng informed Lan Zhan.

Lan Qiren nodded, replying in Lan Zhan’s stead.

“Very well. Maybe we will finally be able to clean up this place. It has been festering for too long. Needs to be ended once and for all,” the elder muttered, stroking his goatee.

Even the old man Qiren had come… for none other than him, Wei Wuxian. The pest that Lan Qiren had so dearly wanted to get rid of, the speck of dirt that tainted his perfect nephew…

It was too much.

“Wangji,” a soft voice said, and Lan Zhan turned around. Lan Xichen stood before him, and by his side stood Nie Huaisang, looking quite uncomfortable.

“They will clear it up. Let’s bring young master Wei to safety and start treating him. It seems his qi is disrupted, not to mention all the external injuries…” Lan Xichen murmured.

He spoke with the monotonous voice of a distanced elder, yet there was a gleam of relief in his eyes.

“L-Lan… Zhan…” Wei Wuxian whispered, his voice hoarse and brittle.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan replied calmly. “I’m here.”

Wei Wuxian opened his mouth to plead with his husband to shield him from everyone’s eyes, to turn away to do anything, but instead what came out was a sob.

Then another.

And another, until he was completely dissolved into a bundle of tears.

How was it possible that all these people had come to the Burial Mounds just for him? How much had Lan Zhan paid them to come?

How much did he plead with them to get them to care at all…?

Why were they all fighting with such vigor…?

Why did they care so much for him? For one lowly demonic cultivator… ?

Nie Huaisang used his fan to give Wei Wuxian some fresh air to breathe.

Mianmian had brought her best herbs to help treat the infected bites from the dogs.

Lan Jingyi and Lan Sizhui stayed close by, waiting for any instructions from the seniors.

Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren kept an eye on Wei Wuxian’s qi and overall condition.

Jiang Cheng stood guard nearby, glaring at anyone who raised their voice a bit too much.

Jin Ling carefully kept Fairy at a distance, while peeking at his other uncle.

And Lan Zhan… Lan Zhan held Wei Wuxian in his arms, never letting him go even for a second, comforting him as he cried.

Even when they made it back to the Cloud Recesses and Wei Wuxian was resting in the Jingshi he felt the presences of the others around him.

He felt them in the fact that he was here at all. Living, without too much pain.

He felt every gentle hand supporting him whenever his scars itched.

He felt their voices in his ears when the memories came back to haunt him.

He never found the strength to mention it, but there was a Jiang sect bell hung on the wall next to his head, and every now and then a gentle breeze would play with it, making it chime softly.

Chenqing was polished and clean as though nothing had ever happened to it. Only a slim ring of gold remained where it had been broken in two.

It looked like it was meant to be like that, the gold foil branching out into petals and leafs.

Even though Lan Zhan was almost always by his side, a quiet and calm guqin was playing most of the time.

And on bad nights the ever so familiar and beloved sound of Wangxian would soothe Wei Wuxian back to sleep, nestled in the arms of his husband.

Kisses would dry away his tears, and the gentlest fingertips would caress his wounds to take away the pain.

In time he recovered.

In time he returned to the Burial Mounds. In time the Burial Mounds were purified at last and renamed.

Chénguāng. Morning light.

A name that spoke of hope, of a new day breaking. A name that reminded of the Wen clan and their emblem, which long since lost it’s significance as the world moved on from the Sunshot Campaign at last.

This is the place where he was reborn… the place where he died… and the place where he was saved at long last.

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obsidianarchives · 5 years

Text

Beneath the Surface - Part 3

A Bond in Bloom

Before she knew it, Hermione was in regular correspondence with Blaise Zabini. What started off as a nerve-wracking task became the thing she most looked forward to during her break. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so lonely anymore, not so cut off from the world.

Having grown up solely in the wizarding world, Blaise started off with a lot of questions. What did her parents do? Why would anyone pay good money for someone to stick foreign objects in their mouth? What did Hermione want to be before she found out she was a witch?

Hermione tried to be thorough in answering his questions, and asked more than a few of her own. Blaise started off interested in Muggle Christmas, but when Hermione explained it to him, he sounded slightly disappointed.

I’m just going to be upfront and say that that sounds boring. Sorry.

My mum and I have never really celebrated Christmas. She says she doesn’t need an excuse to buy me things, but I think it’s also because my birthday is only four days before.

Hermione learned that Blaise and his mother hadn’t always been rich. Madam Zabini’s parents had cut her off after she got pregnant at the age of eighteen, and so for the first four years of his life, Blaise’s mother had worked in a shop in Diagon Alley struggling to make ends meet. Some wealthy wizard saw her there one day and was so enraptured by her beauty that he offered to take her and her young son in.

From the tone of the letter, Hermione could tell Blaise hadn’t liked Mr. Fawley, a pure-blood who seemed to have dealings with all kinds of people, some not so legal. At least, when he died, five years after discovering his mother in the shop, he’d had the foresight to look after them, willing his Gringotts vault to her.

I don’t really remember a time when we didn’t have all this, Blaise had written, but my mum often reminds me that it can be taken away. She spoils me, but she also has a very clear vision for my life. I think she worries about our position in part because of our race. She’s always warning me to keep quiet and pay attention to those I surround myself with because our class and pure-blood status only protects us so much.

She runs in a lot of circles that believe pure-bloods are superior, and I guess I accepted that for a long time. But I don’t understand why proving your worth means you have to hurt and kill others. I don’t think she would ever go that far, but I know at least one of my step-fathers supported the Dark Lord pretty heavily back in the day. I don’t know what she would do if I flat out refused the ideology that has largely kept us safe and comfortable.

It makes me feel like a fraud, acting like I believe in these things because it’s all I’ve known. I don’t know if I can be myself without putting myself and her in danger.

Hermione felt for Blaise and his precarious position, and hoped he was being careful in sending these letters out. But he was nothing if not prudent, and the way he opened himself up made her feel comfortable to do the same. She told him how it felt being Muggle-born, especially with Voldemort back in the open.

I’d lived in this regular, unremarkable world for the first eleven years of my life, she wrote. Strange things would happen to me — like the time I accidentally drowned my mum’s office ficus after worrying overnight that I hadn’t watered it like she asked me to — but everything else was ordinary. And then I get this letter telling me I belong to this fantastical place where amazing things happen. I was so excited to leave my ordinary life for an extraordinary one.

But then Malfoy called me ‘Mudblood’ second year. I didn’t even know what it meant at the time, but I got the tone, understood from the way everyone else reacted that it was bad. I’d come to this wonderful world, only to find the same prejudices as the one I was from, ones that put me in immediate danger. It’s terrifying, but I know I can’t just step aside and let it continue.

She was starting to feel bad for Blaise’s owl Adonis, who would arrive at her window in the morning and then leave again in the afternoon once Hermione finished her letter. She didn’t know where Blaise lived in the country, and worried that the journey would start to take a toll on the owl, so she’d taken to leaving out food and water for him. He would occasionally take a few sips of water, but he refused to touch the owl nuts. At the end of one of her letters, Hermione told Blaise what was happening, and asked what the owl would eat.

The next letter arrived with a package, a small note attached that read Don’t laugh. The package contained Avion Dawdle’s Premium Owl Mix. Hermione poured some in a bowl as she read Blaise’s letter, and put in her response that she had, in fact, laughed.

Blaise had started off telling Hermione that he felt like he didn’t have to pretend with her, and Hermione felt the same of him. In one letter, she found herself writing about something she’d thought of often, but which she hadn’t voiced even to Harry or Ron.

I’ve never liked when people called me ‘The Brightest Witch of Her Age.’ I do work quite hard, and strive to do my best in everything I do, but the title always feels uncomfortable. I don’t do the work for recognition — or at least not in the way others might, for awards or praise. I do it because I’m genuinely interested and want others to feel proud of the work I do.

When people call me that, I wonder if they see me as a real person or just as a human encyclopedia — even sometimes with Harry and Ron, who I know care about my well-being but sometimes fall into the comfort that ‘Hermione will do it or fix it” without thinking about how to do it themselves.

It felt like a release to get the thoughts out, and even more of a relief to have Blaise validate those feelings. In his response, he flat out told her that anyone who only wanted her around for her knowledge didn’t deserve her. Hermione had blushed when reading that, glancing furtively up at Adonis, who blinked at her, looking deeply uninterested.

…

The start of the new term came quickly, and soon Hermione found herself back on the Hogwarts Express in a compartment with Luna Lovegood, listening to her gush about her vacation with her father, where they’d spent the entire time drinking Gurdyroot juice and harvesting blue radishes from their garden.

“They turn orange in the summer, but when they’re blue they’re perfect for drawing out toxins and bad auras,” she said dreamily, “We used them to decorate the house for the New Year.”

Hermione felt cheerful and a little nervous about returning to Hogwarts. She was glad to get back into her routine, to studying for exams and learning more about the fight against Voldemort. But another thought, large and nebulous, loomed in the back of her mind. She tried not to give it space to solidify, but still the sign off of Blaise’s last letter echoed in her mind.

See you at school.

She hadn’t seen him on the train platform, and felt glued to her seat across from Luna. The thought of going to look for him on the train both terrified and excited her, but she had to remind herself why it was a bad idea. He could be in a compartment full of Slytherins, or at the very least was somewhere others might see. She didn’t want other people whispering about their relationship when she wasn’t even sure they had one to begin with. So she stayed put, fighting to keep still.

Luna noticed her fidgeting and offered her a swig of doowindle water, which she said would help “calm the mind and limbs.” Hermione did her best to decline politely, pursing her lips and looking out of the window.

Finally, they made it to Hogwarts, and after a quick dinner on her own — Harry hadn’t arrived at the school by Floo Powder yet — Hermione went up to Gryffindor Tower to prepare for the next day of classes.

After giving a hungover Fat Lady the password, she entered the common room.

“Granger!” a high voice called to her from across the room.

A tiny second year, Liam Redding, hurried over to her, a note in his hand.

“I was told to give you this,” he said.

Hermione’s heart was pounding in her ears, “Thanks.”

She hurried up to her room, grateful that neither Parvati nor Lavender were inside, and ripped open the note. It was written in now-familiar handwriting.

Meet me near the Quidditch pitch?

Excitement and nerves shot through her. She stopped and took a deep breath. This was fine. She could talk to Blaise — she had been for weeks. This was nothing.

There was more than enough time before curfew, so Hermione put on her boots and pulled her winter cloak on over her jumper. Her hair was already tied down into two braids, so she jammed her hat over her head and wrapped the bottom half of her face in a thick purple scarf that had been one of her parents’ Christmas gifts to her.

Snow was falling lightly as she stepped out of the entrance hall and onto the grounds, the lake looked like it was made of gray slush. Wind tried to worm its way through the fabric of her clothes. Hermione shivered and drew her cloak tightly around her before trudging through the snow.

Her stomach flipped when she saw the dark figure up ahead, near the Quidditch stands. As she got closer she saw Blaise’s lanky figure, a scarf tied loosely around his neck, green hat covering his head and ears. He was watching her approach, hands deep in the pockets of his black cloak, teeth playing with his bottom lip. Was he nervous?

“It’s freezing,” Hermione complained as she approached, “Why couldn’t we meet indoors?”

Blaise shrugged, looking up at the gray clouds, “I like the snow.”

Hermione watched his face for a moment, the peace that seemed to come over him, and smiled. A warm feeling pooled in the pit of her stomach.

He looked down at her then, “How are you?”

Hermione wrapped her arms around herself, “I’m okay. Ready to get back into classes.”

Blaise nodded. They stood there silently for a moment, and he shifted his weight a bit, so that he was closer to her. His scent, cinnamon and cloves, carried over to her on the wind.

Hermione wracked her brain for something else to say. “How, er, how was your break?”

She cringed internally as she finished the question, realizing that she already knew the answer, having corresponded with Blaise the entire time. She suddenly wondered, in horror, whether they would ever be able to interact in person — was it possible to only have great interactions through paper? She felt like she knew this boy, his innermost thoughts, and he hers. Why was this so anxiety-inducing?

Blaise coughed lightly, raising a gloved hand to scratch his nose. “It was fine.”

As he dropped his hand, Hermione noticed something glitter from his wrist.

“Your watch!” she exclaimed, grabbing his arm without thinking. She hadn’t seen him with it before break, and it looked brand new.

Blaise was startled, but he held his wrist closer so that she could see it, a gold band with a black face, the hands golden snakes with emerald eyes.

“My mum bought it for my birthday,” he said, “since I came of age.”

Hermione had inadvertently pulled him closer to her, his warm body now blocking the wind. Her cheeks warmed as she dropped his hand, “It’s nice.”

“Thanks,” he said, glancing down at it before putting his hand back in his pocket, “Is there anything like that for Muggles?”

Hermione shook her head, “Well we — Muggles, I mean — don’t come of age until eighteen. And there’s no specific gift.”

“You’re a witch though,” he said, “Didn’t you get a watch for your birthday?”

“My parents are Muggles.”

“Yes, but they have to learn to acclimate to this culture right? Since their daughter is a part of it.”

“I suppose that would be true,” she allowed, “If I’d told them.”

Blaise tilted his head at her, his eyes curious, “Why haven’t you?”

She realized she liked talking to him face-to-face more than writing letters. While the letters had helped her get past her own self-consciousness, she’d only had his words to go by. In person, she could watch his expressions, his mannerisms.

“I don’t know,” she said, “My parents have always been okay with me being a witch, but I guess I sometimes don’t know how to be around them. I’m not around a lot, so I guess I try not to do things that scream at them that I have another part of myself they know very little about.”

Blaise frowned, “Wouldn’t telling them bring you closer?”

Hermione shook her head, “I don’t want them closer. I’m a Muggle-born who is best friends with the Boy Who Lived. It would only put them in danger.”

Blaise fell silent then. At first Hermione thought he might feel put out by her response, but then she realized he was lost in thought.

“What do you tell them, then?”

She shrugged, “My grades, mostly. They can understand those, even if the system is different from the Muggle one. And about my friends,” she had told them quite a lot about Harry and Ron throughout the years.

Blaise’s eyes met hers then, but he looked nervous again, rubbing his nose before asking, “Have you told them about me?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came out. She shook her head, “Are we even friends?”

He looked away, suddenly bashful. “I mean...I’d like to be.”

Her heart was thudding in her chest. “Okay,” she tried to sound casual. “We’re friends then.”

“Alright then,” he said, sounding relieved.

It was dark now, so that Hermione could really only see Blaise’s silhouette, feel the breadth of his body in front of hers.

“We should probably get back,” she said. Harry should have arrived by now.

She could see Blaise’s shadow nod, and the two turned back towards the lights of the castle, trudging through the snow. A couple of times, Hermione’s shoulder would bump into him, or his elbow was graze her, and she would hold her breath until they slipped back apart in the darkness. Silence spread between them, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. Hermione wondered what Blaise was thinking.

They finally got to the front doors. Hermione took a deep breath to recenter herself.

Just as Blaise’s hand touched the handle, the doors pushed open, startling them both. Professor Dumbledore stood in the doorway, a fur-lined navy cloak draped over robes of silver and maroon. His blue eyes widened in surprise from behind his half-moon glasses.

“Ah, Miss Granger! And Mr. Zabini,” he said charmingly, “What a lovely surprise.”

“H-hi Professor,” Hermione stammered, “You’re out late.”

“On the contrary, the night is quite young,” Dumbledore looked between the two of them, “I’m afraid I have some business with Hagrid that needs attending. I do hope the two of you are ready for the excitement of a new term?”

“Of course, sir,” Blaise said politely, looking just as stunned as Hermione felt.

“Wonderful,” Dumbledore said, “Oh, I’ve almost forgotten. Miss Granger, if you could present this note to your friend Mr. Potter, I would be eternally in your debt.”

He passed Hermione a small piece of folded parchment. Recognition flashed through Hermione’s mind. This must be about Harry’s next lesson. “I’ll do that right away, sir.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore smiled at the two of them, “Well, don’t let me keep you. I’m sure you have far more illuminating tasks to get up to than babbling away with an old man.” He swept past them and off across the grounds, towards Hagrid’s snow-capped hut.

Hermione’s eyes felt like they would pop out of her head. As she glanced up at Blaise’s shocked expression, she felt a strong urge to laugh.

They stepped into the entrance hall, which was deserted but for the Grey Lady, moping up near the chandelier. Blaise turned towards her, dipping his head slightly to meet her gaze.

“Well, er, I’ll see you in class?” Hermione said, suddenly nervous again.

“Yeah,” he nudged her lightly with his elbow, “‘Night, Hermione.”

And with that he turned away, taking the staircase down to the Slytherin common room. As she hurried up the stairs towards Gryffindor Tower, Hermione smiled to herself.

…

Hermione found Harry, Ron, and Ginny stuck outside of the Gryffindor common room, arguing with an irritable Fat Lady.

“Harry! Ginny!” she called, hurrying over.

“Hey Hermione,” Ginny said as she brushed a bit of ash off of Harry’s shoulder, “Where have you been?”

“Oh, er, I’ve just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings,” she lied quickly, internally thanking Dumbledore for giving her the idea. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah,” answered Ron, as if their last interaction hadn’t involved him humiliating her in front of their entire class, “it was pretty eventful—”

“I’ve got something for you, Harry,” she said, pretending she hadn’t heard Ron, “Oh, wait, the password. Abstinence.”

“Precisely,” the Fat Lady said, swinging open. The four of them stepped into the crowded common room where students were greeting friends and taking advantage of the last few hours of down time before the homework started to pile up again.

Hermione pulled out the scroll Dumbledore had passed her at the castle doors and passed it to Harry.

“Won-Won!” came a high squeal, cutting Harry off as he opened his mouth to thank her. Lavender came hurtling into Ron out of nowhere, throwing her arms around his neck and nearly knocking him over. An annoyed look crossed over Harry’s face and Hermione grimaced, remembering Lavender’s worries about her relationship with Ron on the train.

“There’s a table over here,” she said quickly, trying to divert attention from the palpable desperation clinging to the interlocked couple, “Coming Ginny?”

“No, thanks, I said I’d meet Dean,” Ginny said, sounding resigned. Hermione eyed Harry as Ginny walked away, noting the faint optimism in his pink cheeks.

“What?” he asked when he caught her watching.

“Nothing,” Hermione said airily. She’d decided she wouldn’t probe him about Ginny unless he decided to talk to her about it, but his feelings really were obvious to anyone with eyes.

“So how was your Christmas?” he asked, very obviously trying to divert attention from himself.

“Oh, fine,” she said, shrugging nonchalantly as though the question hadn’t brought a certain Slytherin to the forefront of her mind, “Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won’s?”

Harry looked as if he wanted to say something about his friends’ standing feud but she glared at him before he could. He sighed, rolling his eyes before resigning to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Before that,” he said, “I still haven’t told you what happened before break.”

He explained to her that he too had left Slughorn’s Christmas party earlier, soon after she had escaped with Blaise, in fact. Instead of heading to the Gryffindor common room to call it a night, he had followed Snape and Malfoy under the Invisibility Cloak.

“Malfoy was talking about some job he had to do for ‘his master’ and Snape was offering to help him. Said he’d made an ‘Unbreakable Vow.’”

Hermione frowned at the smug eagerness on Harry’s face. “Don’t you think—?”

“—he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he’s doing?” Harry interrupted, clearly having thought through this line of argument.

She blinked, “Well, yes.”

“Ron’s dad and Lupin think so,” he said grudgingly, “But this definitely proves Malfoy’s planning something, you can’t deny that.”

“No, I can’t,” she said slowly. She hated to agree with him when it felt like doing so would just push him further into his obsession.

Still, she let him carry on for a bit with his Malfoy-is-a-Death-Eater conspiracy, inwardly hoping that Harry would find other things to capture his attention. He mentioned that he was planning to tell Dumbledore what he had overheard, and she hoped the headmaster would be able to put a stop to his spiraling.

The next morning brought something else Hermione thought might work as a distraction for Harry: sixth years were to start Apparition lessons. She signed up, excited to finally learn a new magical skill. All day, everyone chattered on about it.

“It’ll be like we’re official adults!” Parvati said excitedly at lunch while Lavender moped quietly, playing with her food and casting furtive glances over at Ron and Harry further down the table. Hermione wondered if something had happened between now and their wrestling match the night before.

“At least you two are of age already,” Lavender sighed, turning back to her chips, “I won’t be able to take the test until summer.”

Hermione had long decided to stay out of her and Ron’s business, so she just gave a conciliatory grunt and went back to skimming the Daily Prophet, which was reporting a Dementor attack and two disappearances since the start of the new year.

After Charms she went to the library, wondering if there was a book she could check out on the theory of Apparition, just so she could be prepared for the first day. She made her way over to the section on Magical Transportation.

The Apparition books were first, and Hermione scanned the titles slowly. There were books about famous Apparating records, scary stories of Apparitions gone horribly wrong (with moving illustrations), even a guide to Side-Along Apparition. She frowned at the empty space on the shelf between Apparating with Aplomb by Gilderoy Lockhart and Arctic to Tropic: How Temperature May Affect Your Apparition by Cardaroc Jumper.

“You’re predictable, you know that?” a familiar voice said behind her.

Hermione’s stomach fluttered as she whipped around to see Blaise leaning back against the shelves dedicated to Floo traveling. He held a small book in his hands, a smirk on his face.

“Hi,” Hermione said. She nodded at the book in his hands, “Studying for Apparition lessons too?”

“Nope,” Blaise said. His fingers flexed around it and Hermione suddenly remembered his firm grip on her elbow at the Christmas Party, “Some of us read for fun, you know.”

Hermione ignored his dig, knowing he was just trying to get a rise out of her. “What are you reading?”

Suddenly, Blaise looked guarded, self-conscious. He shifted the book behind his back, “Nothing.”

“Oh, come on, let me see,” she said, reaching forward to get a look at the title.

His hand flew up, over his head and out of her reach.

“Honestly,” she huffed. She pushed up on her toes, trying to close the distance.

Blaise chuckled as he straightened his arm, holding the book higher. His breath tickled her ear. Hermione jumped, her fingers bumping against the band of his watch. When she landed she lost her footing, tripping forward.

Blaise’s free hand slid to her lower back, to keep her steady as he stumbled, the bookshelf wobbling behind him. Hermione caught herself on the shelf with one hand, her other splayed against his chest as she tried to maintain her balance.

The smell of cinnamon and cloves filled her nose. She looked up at him, her breath caught in her throat. His eyes blazed and the grip on her back seemed to tighten, sending a jolt up her spine. Hermione’s gaze fell on Blaise’s lips, slightly parted in surprise, and she forgot about the book.

Blaise’s eyes widened and then he looked away suddenly, dropping his hand. Hermione backed up, clearing her throat. Her heart was pounding and she felt as if she were under a very persistent space heater.

“You don’t have to show me,” she said quietly, embarrassed.

“No, it’s fine,” Blaise said. He held the book out to her.

Hermione took it, careful not to let their fingers touch. The cover was an eggplant purple, a curvy Black woman in a glittering dress shaking her hips on the cover. The title was written in curly green writing, A Cauldron Full of Hot Strong Success, the Autobiography of Celestina Warbeck.

She looked back up at him. He was rubbing the back of his head, looking abashed. “I like autobiographies. She’s my mum’s favorite singer.”

Hermione smiled at this new bit of information. “What other ones have you read?” she asked, partly because she was curious and partly to show him there was no reason to be embarrassed.

“I’ve read loads,” he said, looking encouraged. “There was this one about the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation before Barty Crouch. He was the one who helped establish an exchange system for different kinds of wizarding money, can you believe we didn’t have it before?”

Hermione had never seen Blaise so passionate about anything. His face seemed to genuinely open up, his eyes alight.

“Seraphina Picquery was the one I read before this one,” he continued. He glanced at his shoes a moment, biting his lip. “The one I read at the beginning of break was about Dorinda Stallworth. She was—”

“The first female Supreme Mugwump,” Hermione said. Her cheeks were flaming now, as she remembered him mentioning how the book had reminded him of her. She plunged forward in an attempt to skip over the strange tension building between them. “I haven’t read many autobiographies. Well, except for Lockhart’s, but that was for school.”

Blaise’s knowing smirk was back. He reached out to take the book back, his fingers brushing her hand. Hermione held her breath. “You can borrow some of mine if you’d like,” he said, “When you’re not too busy studying.”

With a parting nod, he turned down the aisle. Hermione watched him leave, her hand tingling where their skin had touched.

…

A few days later, Hermione stood in an empty courtyard with Harry, snow glittering in her thick hair.

“And so Dumbledore said I have to figure out a way to get Slughorn’s memory, the real one,” Harry looked a little nervous, his looming fate a shadow over him.

Hermione’s mind was racing as she thought through all he had told her. “He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him,” she said, keeping her voice low in case anyone happened to walk by. “Horcruxes...Horcruxes...I’ve never even heard of them…” How was that possible?

“You haven’t?” Harry sounded disappointed. Hermione felt a twinge of irritation — he always relied on her to know everything.

“They must be really advanced Dark Magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it’s going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you’ll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy…” despite herself, she was already trying to think of ways to convince Slughorn to give up the memory. Perhaps a potion or a—

“Ron reckons I should just hang back after Potions.”

Hermione’s irritation turned to full blown anger, “Oh, well if Won-Won thinks that, you’d better do it,” she snapped, “After all, when has Won-Won’s judgment ever been faulty?”

“Hermione, can’t you—?”

“No!” she said before stalking off, leaving him in the ankle-deep snow.

She was fuming all through Arithmancy. Harry — and Ron — had relied on her for so much: homework, research that was outside of the purview of schoolwork, saving their lives, only to turn around and not take her advice seriously. It wasn’t that she thought she was always right, but for Harry to disregard her opinion for someone who was only dating a girl so he could be seen doing it, who couldn’t even play Quidditch without someone tricking him into thinking he was actually good, stung. When had her best friends become so infuriating?

She felt a strong need to vent, to throw her feelings at someone just for the sake of it. But there was no one. Harry and Ron were her only close friends; Lavender wouldn’t hear a word against her boyfriend and Parvati wouldn’t care. Maybe Ginny, but she had enough going on with her rocky relationship with Dean.

Her mind turned to Blaise as class ended. It had been so easy to talk to him over break, but they were in the same place now. She couldn’t just borrow Hedwig, a pretty recognizable owl, and send her down to the Slytherin common room. Maybe she could find him? But wouldn’t that be weird, not mention stalker-like? Hermione made her way to Gryffindor Tower to drop her things. She sighed internally as she helped a small first year girl pick up the large stack of books that had spilled from her hands onto the ground on the seventh floor. She should just let it go.

Rather than dwell on it, she decided she should write a letter to her parents. It was only a few days into the new term, but she figured she should try to make more of an effort to reach out than she had in the past. Something about the tense climate in the wizarding world made her want to try harder to maintain her Muggle connections, even if she could barely stand to live in that world anymore.

She made her way up to the common room after dinner, ready to spend her time by the fireplace writing to her parents. She walked up a staircase to the fourth floor, pleased that it was already moving to connect to a landing that would take her down a more direct route to Gryffindor Tower. The feeling quickly dissipated when she spotted a group of Gryffindor seventh years, recognizing Cormac McLaggen among them.

His face lit up when he saw her, and Hermione quickly averted her eyes, ready to pretend as if she hadn’t seen him.

Keeping her eyes straight ahead, she had almost gotten past the group when McLaggen shouted, “Hey, Granger!”

She wondered if she could pretend not to hear him, but he had already detached himself from his friends, his long legs catching up with her before she could turn the corner up ahead. She slowed to a halt, grimacing.

“Oh, hello,” she said awkwardly, glancing at his friends, who were clearly pretending not to be paying attention.

“Had a good vacation?” he asked, grinning down at her in a knowing way that made it clear he didn’t actually know anything. He was standing too close again. Hermione rocked back on her heels.

She shrugged, glancing back down the hall, “Yeah, it was fine.”

“You know, I was thinking,” he said, barely listening to her response, “I feel like we were cut off at the Christmas party.”

Hermione forced the bewildered laugh that was climbing up her throat back down.

He seemed to take her silence as an invitation. “There’s a Hogsmeade trip coming up soon,” he said, “Maybe we could try again? I’m sure there will be less distractions.”

Hermione took a clear step back then. Trying her best to smile as if her skin wasn’t crawling, she shook her head, “Sorry, I don’t really have time to date,” she said, “What with schoolwork and prefect duties and...other things.”

Mortified, she turned and hurried down the hallway, leaving McLaggen looking dumbstruck. By the time she made it to the common room, it was full of students, all of the seats by the fire taken. Annoyed, Hermione went up to her dormitory, resolving to write her letter in the quiet. She pulled out her parchment and quill and sat on her bed, leaning her back against the headboard. Crookshanks stalked over, curling up on top of her feet.

She told her parents about her classes, the weather, and the upcoming Apparition lessons. She stared at the page long and hard, trying to think of any other updates to give, but there was nothing to say about Harry or Ron that wouldn’t make her more angry than she already was. Honestly, angry wasn’t the word. Tired. She was tired.

For a moment, she wondered if she should include anything about Blaise. She hadn’t told them about writing to him over break, often disappearing into her room for a time to read and respond, or else waiting until they were out for work. Have you told them about me? His voice, the shy way he had looked away from her as he said it, echoed in her mind. She supposed she could tell them about him, but what would she even say? She felt flustered just imagining the ways her parents could read into her words, and she folded the parchment up and sealed it quickly before she could do something she might regret.

She slid her feet out from under Crookshanks and pulled her shoes back on before leaving the dormitory, hurrying through the crowded common room and out into the halls. As she wound her way through the castle to the Owlery, it suddenly occurred to her that her account of the weather might have let something slip about breeding Dementors. She quickly unsealed the parchment as she sidestepped the Bloody Baron telling off Peeves, and made a left at the portrait of two wizards trying their hardest to escape an angry bowtruckle.

It’s been quite gloomy here though the snow is nice.

She exhaled sharply. Good. But now, she felt the need to read through the entire thing, just to be sure there was nothing in it to alarm her parents or alert the wrong person should it be intercepted. Her eyes flew across the page.

“You should really watch where you’re walking,” Blaise’s teasing voice said from about four feet ahead of her.

Her eyes flew up from her account of her latest Herbology class. He stood facing her on the stairs leading up to the Owlery, on the second step from the bottom.

“I was just double checking the letter I’m about to send to my parents,” she said, trying to ignore the way her heart rate seemed to pick up speed.

He shook his head, “Overachieving even in your letter writing.”

Hermione flushed, “Did you just get done sending a letter, then?”

“To my mum,” he said quickly, scratching his broad nose, “I finished that book this morning. Thought she might like it.”

“That’s nice,” There was a beat of awkward silence. Hermione gestured up the stairs lamely, “I’m just gonna...go send this off.”

“I’ll come with you,” Blaise said, turning on the ball of his foot to walk back up the stairs.

“Oh,” Hermione said, startled, “Alright.”

She tried to continue reading the letter back on their way up, but she could barely focus. The staircase was narrow, which made it so that they kept bumping into each other with every other step, their arms brushing against each other. By the time they reached the top, she had decided to give up and trust that she’d done alright the first time.

She could feel Blaise watching her as she looked up to find one of the school owls. Normally, she would ask Harry to use Hedwig, who she saw snoozing up at the very top of the rafters, but she wasn’t talking to him. She spotted a barn owl not too far up, and stepped forward to call her down.

“So, you only write your mum?” she tried to be casual, but she felt awkward, her voice somehow coming out higher than usual.

Blaise leaned back against the perch, close enough that their shoulders touched lightly. She felt like a live wire had sparked right in the place where their arms touched, spreading through the rest of her. She tried to ignore it, to pretend that it was no big deal. She couldn’t help but wonder if he felt it too, but he seemed just as calm as ever. She focused hard on tying the envelope to the owl’s leg.

“Yeah, mostly,” he said, “There was this one girl I used to write to, but she hasn’t sent me anything since we got back to school.”

Hermione’s fingers fumbled around the string, and she looked up. There was that look again, from after the Christmas party. His eyes were blazing, and he was leaning closer to her, as if they were sharing in some big secret. Hermione was suddenly very aware of his body, his warm scent. Their touching shoulders, it seemed, were the least of her problems, especially when he was smirking like that, his full lips tipped up lightly on one side. For a moment, her mind went blank.

“Well,” she said shakily, “She sounds lovely.”

Blaise laughed. It was higher than she expected, but warm and free. All of the building tension seemed to dissipate at the sound of his mirth, and Hermione grinned. She went off to help the owl out of the nearest window. By the time she turned back around, Blaise’s laughter had faded away, but a sweet smile graced his lips.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his head towards the exit, “I’ll walk you back down.”

She followed him towards the doorway without hesitation, and found herself racking her brain, trying to think of something to say or do that might make him laugh like that again.

“So,” he said as they reached the bottom of the staircase, “How is your start of term going?”

Hermione shrugged, “It’s fine. There’s a lot to do, but I’ve improved a lot on my time management.”

Blaise raised his eyebrows at her, “Do you mean to tell me you weren’t always good at time management?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I can sometimes overdo things.”

“I have never heard that about you.”

“Well then you’ll be surprised to learn that third year Professor McGonagall wrote to the Ministry to allow me the use of a time turner so that I could take all of the classes the school offers.”

Blaise stopped walking, his jaw falling slack. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You traveled in time to take extra classes.”

“You know I never thought about it, but I’m technically at least nine months older than everyone thinks.”

This musing seemed to be too much for Blaise. A laugh burst from his mouth and he keeled over, his arms wrapped around his stomach.

“That’s — the most — you thing — I have ever heard,” he gasped.

Hermione was giggling too as she truly processed her own ridiculousness and simultaneously took that moment to congratulate herself for succeeding in making Blaise laugh twice in such a short span of time. The sound of his laughter made her feel like she was standing out in the sun, even though they were still in the dead of winter.

“What about you?” she asked, once they had both calmed down a bit, continuing down the dimly lit hall, their footsteps echoing off the high walls.

“What do you mean?” Blaise asked, still smiling, his face a door unlocked.

“What is a peak ‘you’ moment?” as many letters as they had exchanged in the two weeks of Christmas break, Hermione only ever found herself wanting to know more about him.

“Hmm,” Blaise said, nudging her gently to the right so that she wouldn’t miss the turn that led to the Gryffindor common room. “I don’t know that I’ve ever quite achieved that level of self-caricature.”

Hermione huffed, lifting her nose with an air of superiority, “You’ve obviously not been trying hard enough.”

“I did ‘accidentally’ ruin a pair of one of my step-dad’s shoes,” he said, thoughtfully.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Selwyn. He always seemed hell bent on separating me and my mum. I don’t think I factored into his plans for her,” the ghost of a frown flitted across his face.

“He sounds awful,” Hermione said lightly, “Would the accidental nature of your vandalism hold up in front of the Wizengamot, do you think?”

Blaise grinned then, and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. The way his cheekbones filled out when he smiled, the way his eyes flashed playfully...he should really warn her before he did things like that.

“It should,” he said, “It happened just before first year, actually. He’d said something cheeky, I don’t even remember what at this point. I’d gone to bed angry, and when I woke up his shoes had somehow found their way into Adonis’s cage.”

Hermione let out a cry of laughter, then clapped her hands to her mouth, worried she had been too loud.

“Adonis didn’t eat them of course — he has taste,” Blaise said, wrinkling his nose. Hermione had dissolved into a fit of giggles. “They were hideous — some bright red monstrosity he was trying to pass off as dragon leather. He couldn’t get the stains off, even with magic.”

Tears dotted the corners of Hermione’s eyes, as she tried to keep her laughter in, her hand still pressed to her mouth. She put her other hand on Blaise’s shoulder to steady herself, taking a deep breath. He chuckled, joy still lighting his face, but something softer was pushing through.

Her laughter faded away as she suddenly became aware of what she was doing. Her hand suddenly felt like lead where she gripped his shoulder, electricity running up her arm. She bit her lip as she dropped her hand, feeling strangely awkward and self-conscious. Blaise looked away, his face closing off again. Silence stretched between them, tense and confusing.

Hermione cleared her throat, “I should, er…”

“Yeah,” he said, “Me too.”

He offered her a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. As he turned away, Hermione suddenly felt disappointed. She wasn’t sure what had been about to happen, but she was sure she had ruined it.

…

Hermione was trying her hardest to manage her clearly growing feelings for Blaise, unable to see how it could end anything but badly. Still, she appreciated having someone around who made her feel like she was interesting outside of her extensive knowledge on the twelve uses of dragon’s blood. It especially helped given that Harry and Ron continued to infuriate her.

Ron was oscillating between trying to talk to her as if nothing had happened and making snide remarks when she passed. Harry, on the other hand, refused to do his Potions work on his own, instead using the Half-Blood Prince’s instructions any chance he got.

“I have to try to soften Slughorn up if I’m going to get that memory from him, aren’t I?” was his excuse.

But one lesson, towards the end of January, seemed like it would finally backfire on him.

“Settle down, settle down, please!” Slughorn said from the front of the room, “Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott’s Third Law...who can tell me—?” Hermione’s hand shot up, “But Miss Granger can, of course!”

Hermione could see Blaise rolling his eyes at the Slytherin table, but she could tell he was amused by her.

“Golpalott’s Third Law states that the antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components,” she recited.

“Precisely!” beamed Slughorn. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott’s Third Law as true…”

Harry looked like he was going to be sick. Ron wasn’t even paying attention, doodling in the corner of his book as if someone would Apparate into the room and do the lesson for him. Hermione grinned to herself as she copied down Slughorn’s words into her notes.

“...and so,” Slughorn finished, “I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don’t forget your protective gloves.”

Hermione shot up out of her seat and grabbed her phial before anyone else could. She went back to her cauldron and tipped the hissing electric blue poison inside before starting the fire beneath.

“It’s a shame that the Prince won’t be able to help you much with this, Harry,” she said brightly. She couldn’t help herself, “You have to understand the principles involved this time. No shortcuts or cheats!”

Harry scowled as Hermione turned back to her cauldron.

She pulled out her wand and thought Specialis Revelio! The potion separated into its disparate parts. She poured them out one by one into different phials. She recognized the fellviper venom immediately, and the nightshade. The others she had to check in her book. She had most of the separate antidotes in her potion-making kit, but a few she had to grab from the class stores. She poured it all back into her cauldron and set it to simmer before clipping a small chunk of her own hair and adding it in, changing the light, almost transparent peach color to a cloudy and swirling sunset orange.

Harry sighed and stood, going over to the store cupboard.

“Two minutes left, everyone!” Slughorn called. Hermione added a few more ingredients into the now thickly bubbling cauldron, which had now turned a dusky purple. She turned the fire off and started scooping it out, tipping the contents into her bottle.

“Time’s...UP!” Slughorn called, “Well, let’s see how you’ve done! Blaise...what have you got for me?”

Blaise stood by his cauldron, arms crossed. As Slughorn peeked over at his final result, he raised his eyebrows at Hermione playfully. She bit her lip and looked down at her bottle of antidote. She suddenly realized she had forgotten the asphodel on her cutting board. She quickly grabbed some and sprinkled it into the bottle while Slughorn moved on to Malfoy, who looked like he had spilled vomit over the front of his robes.

Slughorn came to their table last. He sniffed Ernie’s potion, and almost gagged at the awful fumes coming from Ron’s cauldron.

“And you, Harry,” he said, “What have you got to show me?”

Harry held out his hand, a small shriveled stone in the center of his palm.

There was a long beat of silence. Harry began to turn red. Suddenly, Slughorn roared with laughter.

“You’ve got nerve, boy!” He boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so the entire class could see. “Oh, you’re like your mother...Well, I can’t fault you...A bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!”

Slughorn hadn’t even looked at Hermione, had completely forgotten to look at the work she had done. He only had eyes for Harry. She felt a hot anger burn through her, making her eyes water.

“That’s the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!” said Slughorn happily. Hermione’s hands began to shake as Slughorn went back up to his desk, her potion completely forgotten.

She tossed her things into her bag haphazardly and stormed out of the room as the bell rang. She was sick of this, of putting in so much effort and getting nothing in return. School was the thing she was good at, and Harry was just stumbling through, taking up space without doing any actual work.

She fought back her tears as she entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, knowing it would do no good to cry in front of Snape. She chose a seat as far from the back as possible, knowing Harry and Ron would probably choose to sit there.

By the time Harry came in, he didn’t look as triumphant as when she’d left the Potions classroom. She found out why at lunch.

“It was a disaster,” he said, sitting down across from her at the table like she wasn’t still furious with him, “Slughorn all but threw me out at the mention of Horcruxes.”

“Wow,” she said flatly, “Who would’ve thought Won-Won’s suggestion wouldn’t go as planned?”

“Hermione, can’t you just talk to him already?”

“Leave me alone, Harry,” she said sharply, opening up the autobiography of Seraphina Picquery Blaise had lent her the week before.

…

Even through her anger, Harry’s update on Slughorn’s memory reminded her that she wanted to look up information on Horcruxes. On her next break, she went to the Restricted Section of the library. She scanned the books and found two that she thought might work: Dark Sorcery and Magick Moste Evile. After grabbing them both off the shelf, she went to find a quiet corner to read.

She found Blaise instead, sitting at a table on his own, books sprawled out in front of him as he scribbled neatly on a sheet of parchment. Sunlight peeked through the cloudy sky from the high window, briefly passing over him, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. She hurried over to him without a thought, a smile spreading across her face.

“Can I join you?” she asked once she was close enough.

Blaise looked up, his dark eyes bright. He gestured to the empty chair across from him, “Go ahead.”

Hermione dropped her bag on the ground beside the table and sat in the chair as he went back to his work. She slid Magick Moste Evile in front of her, which let out a low ghostly moan as she opened it to the introduction.

Blaise looked back up from his Transfiguration essay, an eyebrow raised.

“Why are you reading such a creepy book?”

Hermione’s fingers froze on the first page. She hadn’t thought of this when she’d come over. She knew she couldn’t tell Blaise why she had really picked up these books, and she cast around for something convincing to tell him.

“I’m trying to understand the way werewolf bites work,” she lied, saying the first thing that came to mind, “I thought these might help.”

Blaise seemed to buy it, accepting her need to know everything about everything in the slightly exasperated way she had become accustomed to. “I doubt Snape will care if you’re able to pinpoint the exact magical property that creates the change.”

“Yes, but learning Defense is about more than getting good grades,” she pointed out.

Blaise’s eyes widened, looking startled, before he shrugged. “I suppose you’re right.”

They passed the rest of break time in silence, each of them focused on their own work. Hermione didn’t find anything about Horcruxes in Magick Moste Evile except for a small mention in the introduction, so she turned to Dark Sorcery in the hopes that it would at the very least shed light on what a Horcrux actually was.

Blaise started packing up his things ten minutes before the end of break. “What class do you have?”

“Arithmancy,” Hermione said, shutting the book.

“History of Magic’s in the same wing,” he said, pushing himself out of his seat. He jerked his head towards the exit, “Come on.”

He waited for her by the door as she checked her books out with Madam Pince, and then they strode out together. Hermione started to feel a little nervous, wondering what would happen if someone they knew saw them together. As if he had read her mind, Blaise made a sharp right, pulling open a tapestry and revealing a small corridor, a shortcut that would not only ensure they were hidden, but would cut across the castle to where they needed to go. Hermione ducked inside.

“I meant to ask,” Blaise said, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, “How are you after the bezoar incident?”

She had left her anger to simmer in the back of her mind in her more pressing quest to learn about Horcruxes, and it burned brighter now at the mention of their last Potions class. But she couldn’t let Blaise know how much it hurt. She suspected he had a bias against Harry, which she wasn’t sure was just from his being a Slytherin. “I’m fine,” she said tightly.

“Hmm,” Blaise said. Hermione looked up to see that he was frowning.

“What?”

“Nothing, just you looked really upset in class…” he trailed off, glancing down at her, his eyebrows raised.

Hermione huffed, “Well obviously I’m furious, but there’s nothing I can do. Harry is Professor Slughorn’s favorite.”

“Even among us favorites,” Blaise sighed, though he didn’t sound bitter. “I’m sorry he didn’t get to appreciate your hard work,” he reached out and tugged lightly on her hair, where she’d snipped off a bit to add to her antidote.

Hermione scowled at his sly grin and smacked his hand away, pretending that the contact didn’t sent her heart racing.

Up ahead, she could see the exit, could hear the chatter and footsteps of students just beyond the large framed portrait that was blocking them in, out of sight.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, curiosity in his eyes.

“Sure.”

“Why’d you hesitate to tell me how you were feeling?”

Hermione’s stomach flipped but she rolled her eyes, “Because if I tell you how I’m really feeling, you’ll just go into a diatribe about how that’s why you’re a loner who luxuriates in your own solitude atop the Astronomy Tower.”

Blaise laughed, but shook his head, “Nah, I wouldn’t do that. Not now that I’ve found you.”

His words made her blush, and her voice came out quieter than she intended. “Glad I could help pull you down from your tower.”

They slowed to a stop, just before the entrance. She looked up at Blaise, about to suggest that they leave one at a time, so that no one would suspect anything. But Blaise didn’t seem to be thinking about an escape. His eyes sparkled humorously, and he took a step towards her.

“Yeah, thanks for that,” he murmured.

He was so close, Hermione couldn’t see past the breadth of his shoulders. His warm scent filled her nose and her breathing turned shallow as he gently tugged on her hair again, his fingers winding their way through her tight curls. Her eyes locked onto his. There was a fire behind them, and she couldn’t look away.

She lifted her chin as he bent down, closing the already shrinking gap between them. And then his lips pressed against hers, gentle but firm.

Before she could think, before she could decide to kiss him back or pull away, the pressure on her lips was gone, his hand gone from her hair.

Her eyes fluttered open, just in time to see Blaise’s standard smirk before he pushed the portrait open and slipped out into the crowded hall.

To Be Continued

#Hogwarts #Hermione Granger #Blaise Zabini

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kuromantic · 5 years

Text

Whumptober: Self-Sacrifice

This centres around Goshiki and Ushijima!

“I won’t do it again! I- I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Scream after scream echoed in the empty classroom, followed by a crack of solid hitting solid. The Shiratorizawa dorm students anxiously waited for the smacks and cries of pain to stop, but the punishment was going on for an unnervingly long amount of time. They bit their lips, chewed on their nails and tapped their foot to distract themselves from the anger and sympathy that twisted their guts.

“The kid won’t be able to write for a week, at this stage.” Tendou murmured worriedly. It was a rite of passage that every child in the school had to go through at some stage, but even then, it had been a while since he’d seen something so merciless. The last time someone had received so many lashings, it was because they had shattered the glass panes in the dormitories.

Semi rubbed his temples, longing for the child to come out of the room already. “How many canings has it been? I’ve lost count after the first fifty. He’s been in there for so long.” He kept pacing around the room, sitting down on the bed briefly to stretch his legs, only to get back up and repeat the steps all over again.

“No point counting. Doubt the kiddo knows, either.” Tendou had stolen ice packs from the nurse’s office for the boy when his punishment was over, but he could still hear him whimpering weakly while receiving another round of merciless flaying. Tendou had often faced punishment when he was the same age as the boy, and the only thing he remembered was pain and resentment. “What matters is that he’s hurting, and he probably doesn’t deserve it.”

“He is only eight years old, or so I recall.” Ushijima spoke up, joining the worried students’ hushed conversation. “What did he do to receive such a punishment?”

Shirabu hopped onto the bed, laying his head on Semi’s lap. “He’s a rich kid,” he explained, and a hum came from the third years. “Well, was a rich kid. His parents died, some say they were killed. But obviously, the kid doesn’t understand life outside his own little secluded world just yet.”

“So that’s why he asked about breakfast in bed.” Yamagata nodded, connecting the dots together. “He probably said something implying that, then. The teachers hate rich kids.” They all knew the boy wasn’t trying to spite the teacher, or annoy them on purpose. He was just confused. His parents being taken from him in a matter of minutes, and getting thrown into an environment that was less than welcoming.

“Is he okay?” Kawanishi peered through the crack of the door, that was supposed to be shut all the way. “I can’t really see anything from here, except for the cane moving. How long is this even gonna last?” He moved away and shut the door, realising that there was no point in trying to spy on the unfortunate child.

“Kawanishi and Shirabu, get into bed. If either of you are seen up right now, they can punish you.” Reon ushered the two younger students into their beds, pulling their covers up to their necks. Bedtimes depended on age; half nine for eight years and under, half ten for nine to thirteen. The older ones could have a lamp on until midnight, but they were rarely punished for staying up past that. Their reactions weren’t entertaining for them. The children were hit the most often, because they would scream and cry.

The clock’s hands moved towards ten minutes to eleven, and the noises finally stopped. Uneven footsteps made their way to Shiratorizawa dorm, and all of the students swallowed thickly, waiting for the sight that would greet their eyes. The door opened with a click, and the oldest students lifted themselves off the bed to make their way towards the boy.

An audible “Shit,” escaped Tendou’s lips as he lay his eyes on the terrified boy. His face was a mess of tears and snot, and blood had seeped into his sleeves from where he had been struck repeatedly. “He’s so hurt, what do we do?” The boy was shivering violently, still muttering apologies unstoppably.

“Hey, you’re Goshiki Tsutomu, right?” Reon crouched down to Goshiki’s level, slowly extending a hand towards him. Goshiki let out a short gasp, curling away from Reon. “We won’t hurt you, I promise. Can you show me your arms?” Goshiki was apprehensive, but unsure. After a moment of hesitation, he nodded. He winced as he pulled back his sleeves, skin sticking to the fabric with blood. His arms were covered in welts, in every grotesque colour imaginable. The skin was struck so hard that it broke and started to bleed.

Tendou pressed an ice pack to his arms and Goshiki winced, letting out a pained hiss. “Those bastards. He didn’t deserve any of this.” Tendou was fuming, stroking Goshiki’s hair as he struggled to hold back his tears. His bowl cut was disheveled, and his eyes were puffy from bawling uncontrollably. “Hey, Tsutomu. You’re gonna be okay. It wasn’t your fault, they’re just horrible people.”

“Why,” Goshiki sobbed, nestling in Tendou’s lap, “Then why did they hurt me so much?” The eight-year-old’s life had been thrusted into hell from the moment his parents died. The transition between being treated like a little treasure and a horrible vermin was too much for him, and it had severely impacted his mental wellbeing. “I just wanted a goodnight kiss.”

Goshiki slept in Tendou’s bed, whimpering and squirming as he tried to find a position that didn’t leave him crying out in agony. No matter how many times Tendou shushed him gently and whispered to him, that he was safe with them, Goshiki didn’t stop panicking and crying that they would get him again and hit him until his arms had no skin left on them.

The next morning, Ushijima woke up to Goshiki attempting to lift himself up with his injured arms, his lips pressed into a tight frown. After a few futile attempts, he seemingly gave up and swung his body up after gathering momentum and using his legs to push himself up. The boy wasn’t sobbing anymore, but his eyes were filled with unexpressed pain as he undid the buttons of his clothes and put on his uniform.

“Come on, let’s get breakfast. I’m starving!”

Yamagata led the way for the students to get their morning meal, ushering the young ones to line up in an orderly manner as they received their food in the hall. It wasn’t anything delicious, and mainly consisted of thin rice gruel and picked radish. He sat down beside Semi, playing with his watered-down gruel before reluctantly starting to eat the tasteless food.

Goshiki’s wrist trembled continuously as he attempted to spoon the gruel into his mouth. With each attempt to move his arm up, he winced and lowered it again. With a defeated sigh, he turned to Semi’s and tapped his side. “Um, can you help me eat?” He muttered, looking around for anyone that could punish him. “I can’t lift my arm.”

Semi’s gaze shifted to Goshiki’s arms, bruised and painful beneath the sleeves. “Sure. You can’t help that you’re hurt.” He moved beside the boy, scooping up some rice and bringing it to his mouth. Goshiki eagerly devoured the thin gruel, gratified to get something to eat. He was hungry and desperate, and was willing to eat anything.

“Thank you very much.” Goshiki bowed his head. The shine had returned to his eyes, and he would have some of the energy an eight-year-old needed to function throughout the day. The breakfast wasn’t filling, but it was much better than being starved.

When Goshiki stumbled back into the dormitory after the school hours, everyone could instantly tell that something was wrong. He was sniffling in a way that gave away the fact that he had just been crying. He backed up against the bed, slumping down and resting his forehead on his knees.

“Tsutomu~?” Tendou tapped Goshiki’s shoulder gently, approaching him with an air of friendliness. “Hey, what happened? Are you hurt?”

Goshiki twitched, lifting his head up to see Tendou. “They slammed my head into the blackboard,” he whispered, anxious that somebody would hear him and punish him again. “I couldn’t write properly, and my handwriting was too messy.” He didn’t talk above a hiss, as if the walls had ears and the ceilings had eyes.

“They make me sick. That’s so horrible.” Tendou stroked Goshiki’s cheek, cursing whoever hurt the sensitive child. He may have been called a monster by his teachers and classmates, but the real monsters were the ones who beat children in their single digits and blamed them for expressing pain and emotion.

“My mama told me that I was a good kid,” Goshiki said in a hushed voice, as if he was telling a forbidden secret to Tendou. “But they told me I was hit because I was a bad kid. Am I really a bad kid, after all? Do they think I did something terrible? Am I not allowed to have hugs and kisses anymore?”

Tendou wrapped his arms around Goshiki’s body, lifting him up and sitting him down on his thighs. “If you want a hug or a kiss, just ask anyone in this room. But never anyone else, especially the adults, got that?” Goshiki nodded, and Tendou ruffled his bowl cut. “Try not to show pain or sadness in front of them. They’re horrible people, and they might try to do bad things, even if you did nothing wrong.”

“But… But my parents told me I should always express myself. Is that wrong too?” Goshiki murmured fearfully, and Tendou let out a defeated sigh. “What am I meant to do? I don’t understand. I don’t understand why.”

Nobody could say anything against him. Besides being slightly sheltered, Goshiki had been given almost perfect parenting and discipline. Having to undo that just to make him fit into an unpleasant mould was something none of them wanted to do. But they knew Goshiki wouldn’t survive with the same mentality he had in his former home.

Just as Tendou and the others thought Goshiki had adjusted well enough to stop being caned, disaster struck. Goshiki hadn’t been feeling well that day, swaying on his feet as he walked and almost choking while trying to muffle his chesty coughs. Semi and Reon had urged him to rest, but couldn’t force him to stay in bed. There was always the possibility of teachers feeling like punishing ill students.

“Now, come on. Classes are over. Let’s get you to bed.”

Tendou and Kawanishi held Goshiki’s warm hands as they ushered him back to the Shiratorizawa dorm, making sure that he didn’t topple over to one side. “Bed..?” Goshiki mumbled deliriously. “I won’t- I won’t be punished?”

“No, you won’t.”

Kawanishi let go of Goshiki’s hand for a split second to touch his forehead, but the child started to walk towards the window, his eyes fixated on a point in the wall. “Mama? You- you’re here?” His arms waved around frantically, attempting to grasp the figure of his mother that was no more. “Mama?”

“He’s completely delirious,” Tendou rubbed his forehead with his knuckles, gesturing for Kawanishi to help him pick Goshiki up. But they were too late. When Goshiki’s hand knocked against a lone, flowerless vase, Tendou and Kawanishi realised that there was no saving it.

A sharp crash echoed, and Goshiki pulled back from the shattered remains of the glass in pure mortification. “I broke it,” his voice barely above a whisper, he started shaking violently as he realised exactly what he had done. “Oh no. No, no, no.” The students from his dorm started gathering in the hallway to see what had caused the noise, and other pupils joined them shortly after.

“Please don’t tell me my assumptions are right.” Semi’s question was met with a grim nod from Tendou. “What do we do? He’s going to really have it this time, if they find out it was him.” Although it was unclear whether Semi’s words reached Goshiki’s ears, the boy started to panic even worse, working himself up to the point of hyperventilation.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, don’t hit me anymore! Please!” Goshiki’s eyes started to lose its spark, tears glistening on his fever-flushed cheeks. His breathing came in panicked gasps, slowly constricting his throat. “I don’t want to be hurt again! I’ll be good!”

“Hey, Tsutomu, it’s me. Look at me, okay?” Tendou approached Goshiki carefully, his hand brushing against his arm. The innocent touch caused Goshiki to scream and scuttle away, although not much distance was between them as the fever slowed him down. Before Tendou could come any closer, Goshiki let out a terrified hiccup, bringing up a mess of sick down his front and onto the floor.

He retched over and over again until there was nothing left, and his breathing started to slow down after he finished throwing up. Tears, snot and drool trailed down his face miserably, dripping onto the wooden floor beneath him. Semi extended a hand towards him, making sure that he was calm enough to register him as non-violent. “It’s okay. We won’t let anything happen to you.” He lay a cautious hand on his shoulder, whispering to him in a steady tone.

“Why is that vermin crying?”

Goshiki tensed up at the all-too-familiar abrasive voice, gripping Semi’s shoulders until his knuckles turned white. Semi wrapped his arms around his middle protectively, noticing the abnormal amount of heat radiating off it. “He heard the vase breaking, and it set off a flashback. He’ll be okay soon.” Semi knew he wasn’t lying, and held Goshiki tighter to ensure that he wouldn’t be handed over to be punished.

“Well, who broke the glass?”

Both Semi and Goshiki froze, but before they could plan something to avoid Goshiki getting in trouble, a voice swiftly cut off their thoughts.

“I broke it. I am responsible for the whole incident.”

Ushijima’s face remained unchanging as he stated his explanation flatly, making it seem like he was unaware of what planting the blame on himself meant. Shirabu, Tendou and the other students fought to keep a neutral face, not knowing what else to do besides keep their mouths shut.

“Are you, now? What a surprise. Well, in that case, I hope you’re prepared for an appropriate punishment.”

“I am.”

Semi could feel the intense aura between the two, without even looking. Intense fear pounded in his veins as Ushijima upheld his unyielding attitude, and he had an urge to laugh and cry at the spectacle. “Get over here, then.” The teacher grabbed Ushijima’s arm, failing to drag his large frame off as he did with the little children.

Ushijima didn’t speak or move a muscle in his face as he was taken to an empty office, standing in the middle of the room without a sound. “That vase was expensive, Ushijima. Property damage results in severe punishment, I’m sure you know that.” Ushijima made a noise of agreement, which only infuriated the teacher further.

“Fucking bastard!”

Without prior warning, a stick of bamboo struck Ushijima on the shoulder, causing him to sway to one side. Hot pain shot down his arm, and he instinctively gripped his injured shoulder with his other hand protectively. Attacks rained down on him again and again, leaving painful marks on every inch of his body.

He curled into himself, forced to take the beatings with nothing to defend himself with. His arms and legs throbbed the most, having taken the majority of the damage. Books were thrown into his face, one hitting his eyelid that wasn’t quite protected by his bruised arms. A part of his heart wanted to cry, but he refused to let that happen.

When the torrent of violence finally ceased, Ushijima realised just how much he was bleeding. His nose was caked with dried blood, and the fabric of his shirt stuck to his stomach with blood. He exited the room almost mechanically, limping to the right side and dragging his palm against the wall to prop himself up.

“Ushijima-san?”

A voice laced with fear greeted him as he stepped into the dormitory, followed by hushed whispers from the older students. “Are you very hurt?” Shirabu asked immediately, looking around for something that could help Ushijima. “Semi-san, get him something to wipe the blood!”

Tendou, Yamagata and Reon assessed Ushijima’s injuries, cleaning them and applying cold packs where the bruises were. Ushijima remained stoic, thanking them politely and letting Tendou dote all over him and letting him kiss his bruised cheeks. “I’m so glad you’re here right now,” Tendou hugged Ushijima tightly, and Ushijima returned the embrace despite his bruises aching all over.

“Um, Ushijima-san?” A small voice piped up below Ushijima, attracting his attention. “Thank you, for saving me. I’m sorry you got hurt because of me.” Goshiki used his two hands to cup Ushijima’s palm, rubbing it gently and comfortingly. “I want to make it up to you.”

“There is no need,” Ushijima said plainly, patting Goshiki’s head. “Hearing your gratitude is enough.” A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. Nothing relieved him more than seeing Goshiki well and safe, especially after he had witnessed his broken, panicked state.

Goshiki pointed to the beds, waving his hand at Ushijima to signal him to come. “I want to sleep beside you tonight,” he said, rolling himself onto Ushijima’s bed.

“Hey, Goshiki! No fair! I wanna sleep with Wakatoshi-kun too!” Tendou piped up, puffing his cheeks out.

“Then we can all share the one bed,” Ushijima suggested, laying beside Goshiki with a fond smile. “I’m sure we can fit. Goshiki is of smaller stature than the two of us.”

Tendou cackled, tickling Goshiki’s ribs. “You’re small, he said!” He translated Ushijima’s words jokingly, poking fun at Goshiki lovingly. “Now, come on. Let’s go to sleep, does that sound good?”

“Uh-huh!” Goshiki nodded, holding Ushijima’s arm as he pulled up the covers and nestled into him. “You’re my hero! When I get older and my voice goes deeper, I wanna be like you!” Ushijima wrapped an arm around the sweet child, his heart warming as he became surrounded by the family he loved.

“Ah! Wakatoshi-kun, are you crying?” Tendou pointed out, wiping the tears with his thumbs. “It’s okay, it’s okay! We’re here for you!”

“Mhm,” Ushijima rubbed his cheeks against Tendou’s, enjoying the warmth that it brought him. He was crying, but he wasn’t upset at all. It was a strange feeling, but he liked the company around him, easing his pain. Comfort sank into him, and he was with a family he would sacrifice everything to care for.

#whump #whumptober #Ushijima Wakatoshi #goshiki tsutomu

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callmenickk · 5 years

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I WANT TO BREAK FREE

Courage I talk about...but maybe you should know where I am coming from - my greatest fears.

M Y O T H E R M O T H E R

You don’t know my Nanay. That is because I never talk about her - for the last two years I never did. Nanay is another mother I have - plain as can be. She matters to me. Doesn’t calling someone nanay sound endearing and warm?

How lucky can you be to have a mama and a nanay. So a part of me got broken when she rejected, turned her back on me. I got bummed. Something happened a few years back. She was hurting from our family feud that she gave me a part of her hurt. I remember holding back the tears yet my voice keeps cracking, anyway. I just can’t always get myself broke. I said.

It was painful to watch my dear ones try and live apart. But it had to happen. I understand that now. Cool down the flame, and maybe one day, all else will be well again.

That “maybe one day”. That day happens to be a part of this year. January 2, 2019. Written with the stars.

I was coming home after buying some horse radish (charot, sa hindi po nakaka-alam, kalamunggay ra na. And yes po, naglalakad napo ako ngayon papuntang merkado), when Nanay and I had to cross our paths. I struggled as I never ignored my Nanay as far as I can remember although I kept hiding myself whenever I was home. You can’t take it away from me to fear that she might reject me again. We met that day. A truly God-ordained moment. As she got nearer, I came close and nag mano po. I had fear, I still do. She accepted it and that was when I broke down and hugged her real tight.

Gimingaw ko nimo, nay.I don’t remember missing someone that much it ached. Such longing taught me that forgiveness can set yourself free from the pain not meant by the one you love. I took it as a good sign. That I made the right decision - a decision where I am one with God. I feel bless knowing I started the year at the right pace. Prayers do work wonders.

M Y D E A R L O V I N G M O T H E R

Mine. My very own mother. You know in college, I dreamt of a mother in a coffin. I couldn’t say it was my mama but I just knew in that dream it was a mother. I worried much to a point that I kept coming home - travelling five hours to and fro, twice in a month (struggling with the grades, baby, but no regrets). I confided on my friends about it just to get rid of the worries, one thing I often don’t. Sadly, in a few months time, a mother of my friend died.

Back in Elementary, I always had my toothaches. I had bad teeth that always makes me cry. And even as the ache drill pain into my head, I don’t know how mama always had the superpower to make me sleep. Nope, no lullabies. In High School, a more mortifying ache aimed for my mother instead. She had breast cancer. At the age of 14, I knew what being terrified meant...because I felt it, a feeling I fought myself for having.

#nikkiwrites #pinoy blogger #patama #hugot #spilled ink #mother's love #motherly love

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kuroshitsuji-scenarios · 6 years

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Hey! I've just recently binge-read the manga and I've only been following you for a few days but I was wondering if you can you do angst headcanons for Snake and Agni and their s/o when she finds them drunk and tries to console them when they get upset thinking about their pasts. Like, Agni and his regrets pre-Soma and Snake remembering his abusive/lonely upbringing. Oh my gosh writing about those two is making me so sad, those two precious cinnamon rolls who deserve protection and love 😭

I’m a dumbass and I didn’t realize you wanted headcanons so I made scenarios instead but I think this is actually a good mistake. Hope you enjoy anyways!

It worried you a little, the lightspreading on the floor, flowing from under the door leading to Agni’sbedroom in such a late hour. You were on your way just to get a glassof water, since merciless thirst didn’t allow you to sleep anylonger, forcing you to angrily wander through the long corridors, nowdrowned in the utter darkness diffused by the single oil lamp youheld in your hand. It was obvious that the day started for Agni muchearlier than for you, his duties calling out for him right after heopened his eyes but inspite of being a perfect butler and company forhis dear Prince Soma, he needed some rest like every other person.You could already imagine how hard it will be for him to focustomorrow if he still wasn’t sleeping at almost 3 a.m.

You knocked delicately and pushed thehandle, only to blink few times until your still asleep eyes adjustedto the warm lightness filling the bedroom. Agni’s silhouette wasclearly visible, leaned over the desk in almost pitiful manner, whichmade you realize that something has to be terribly wrong. Notbothering by saying anything, you stepped inside and rushed towardhim, placing a hand on his shoulder and causing him to gasp slightly,as if he wasn’t expecting your presence. Peeking at you over theshoulder, you could see how reddened his eyes were, how the tearswere still glistening in them, bringing the cold colour of steel.

„My dear, what has happened?” youinquired, brushing few white strands from his forehead, while hestraightened his back and inhaled deeply, trying to not lose hiscomposure anymore, not in front of you.

„It is nothing you should be concernedof,” was his reply, preceded by a sad smile.

„But I am concerned, nevertheless, soplease, let me help. Tell me what is wrong.”

Agni turned the head toward thecandelabra placed on the desk and almost touched the fire with hisindex finger, losing himself deep in his own thoughts. Few secondspassed and just when you were considering repeating the question, hefinally spoke, his voice a little bit hoarse and low.

„I am a very bad man. I made very badthings.”

„So did everyone,” you told him,sitting at the edge of the desk. „Your mistakes do not define you,they are hard and painful, yes, but they do not define you.”

„Things that I commited aremaking me a bad man,” he objected, looking at you almost angrily,but you knew better that the only anger he felt right now was the oneaimed at himself.

„No, they are not. What is importantis that, you learned your lesson and that you will never do themagain. This is relevant, not your past.”

He sighed, torn between the words he washearing from you, understanding that they were — they had to betrue — and the storm of his own emotions bringing chaos to hisheart. It was hard for him to accept his previous self, to not beable to cut if off and become just whom he was now. Maybe it was hispunishment, the torment created so he would never forget who he was,so he would never lose his path again.

„You are such a wise woman, mydearest…” he admitted, a single spark of happines appearing inhis eyes. „I am delighted to have you by my side and I doubt I willever be able to thank gods for sending you to me.”

You smiled to him and took his hand inyours, feeling how warm it was. This sweet, fleeting affection madehim lean toward you and put his cheek on your stomach, embracing youtightly and holding as close as possible, inhaling the scent of yourbody.

„And I am delighted to be with you,too,” you giggled, placing a hand on his turban, feeling theovewhelming warmness from where your bodies connected in such anintimate, magical moment when both your souls and minds kissed.

„I may not be able to change my past,”he continued quietly, stroking your side through the fabric of yournightgown. „But I will make sure that our future is as bright asthe sun. I want to grow old with you, my dearest, and spend my whole,new life with you.”

„Then we will grow old together. Thereis no need to worry about who we were because there are so manydecades of happiness ahead and I will love you in every single one ofthem.”

Snake hasn’t been seen anywhere sincethe morning and when he didn’t appear in the kitchen to help indinner preparations, you started to worry about him. It wasn’t thatuncommon for him to disappear from time to time, preferably to havesome time for himself and focus on his thoughts, but it never lastedfor almost half of the day. Plus, none of his snakes were anywherenearby and that was the reason why you asked Mey Rin to do your partof the job until you will be back from looking for him.

The rain poured outside but it didn’tstop you from running through the gardens with hysterically beatingheart when you still couldn’t find him in the mansion. Ignoring thewet hair on your face, droplets soaking through your clothes and somewater in your shoe, you reached to the glasshouse, lead by someunnamed feeling that this is a place where he might be.

After stepping inside, you immediatelyfelt the sultriness and scent of growing fruits, vegetables andherbs. Round tomatoes hanging from the sprouts, almost ready to bepicked, green cucumbers laying on the ground, leafs of the radishpeeking over the earth right next to the carrot’s and beetroot’s onesand finally, at the other end of the glasshouse, mint, sage, dill andonions with straightening chives. The sound of raindrops hitting thetransparent roof drown out your steps on the soft, dark ground,bending under your weight when you approached Snake, sittingpeacefully on the of the wooden benches and staring blankly at thebushes of aromatic basil.

„Snake?” you asked, but only Goetheon his shoulder turned his head curiously toward you. „Are youalright? What are you doing here?”

„I was wondering,” he answered andyou caught yourself on waiting for him to add the: „said Goethe”part which never came.

Oh dear, it was serious.

Slowly, you took a seat next to him andlooked at his profile, not finding there anything beside terrifyingemptiness. You pariently let him think, not pushing him intospeaking, aware that it would only do the opposite.

„I was wondering when I will stopbeing alone.”

You opened your mouth and immediatelyclosed it, considering what could you say to him to not harm hisfeelings nor make him feel worse than he already felt. You couldn’tgive him easy answers, the ones he heard many times in his life,before everyone who said that disappeared, you had to be differentand you had to prove him that.

„I am here. I am always here if youneed me and I do not plan on leaving anywhere.”

„Those are almost exact words myfamily said before they left me in the circus.”

Your heart clenched painfully in yourchest, a lump suddenly growing in your throat.

„They said I was the part of theirfamily. That I was one of them and I won’t be alone anymore. Andwhere are they now? They are all gone.”

Without a word you hugged him, naïvelyhoping that if you held him strong enough, he won’t shatter apart infront of you, but the only thing you felt, was how his body startedto tremble. At first you thought that he was crying but one look athis face was enough to understand that he was simply mad, so upsetthat the life has always been so unfair for him and him alone.

„Iwant them to come back,” he muttered, as if unconsciously. „Smilesaid that he will find them but it has been three years now. Exactlythree years since I am there. He won’t find them, will he? They won’tcome back…”

„Ilove you,” was the only thing you could say that came to your mindin that moment. You couldn’t find better words to describe yourfeelings, to comfort him because nothing was good enough. The path hewas on, was made to be walked alone and all you could to was to holdhis hand, promising yourself that no matter what, you can not leavehim — even if it meant fighting the death itself.

„Ilove you,” you repeated. „I will always love you. I will be yourfamily from now on and I won’t let anyone hurt you, not you norGoethe or Emily or Oscar or Wordsworth or Keats or Donne. Notanymore.”

His armslowly leaned on your shoulder and the slight squeeze he gave you wasa sign that he was probably going to be alright, just like he alwaysdid.

„Thankyou. I think I love you, too,” he whispered. „Says Goethe.”

#kuroshitsuji-scenarios #kuroshitsuji #black butler #agni #snake #humans #scenarios #agni x reader #snake x reader #reader insert

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headcanonsandmore · 6 years

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‘Under the fairy lights’ A Lunarry fanfiction

(This is the sixth part of my ‘A Certain Romance’ series of Lunarry fanfictions- part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5. Hope you like it!)

Harry Potter had a problem.

The problem was love, and it concerned Luna Lovegood.

He had recently discovered that Luna had a crush on him. He had been thrilled about it, having been attracted to her for a long time. However, he found himself conflicted over what to do.

On the one hand, he wanted to pursue things with Luna. On the other hand, however, he was terrified that he would get something wrong. He liked having Luna as a friend, but what if he messed things up whilst trying to pursue her romantically? He didn’t think he could take it if he did something to scare her or (even worse) make her hate him.

However, this wasn’t his only problem, as he was once again the best friend of two people who seemed to hate each-other with a burning passion.

Ron and Hermione had fallen out. That was not a new thing, but this time was different. Unlike the previous times they had stopped speaking, this was over matters of the heart.

Ron had recently begun dating Lavender Brown (although, the way Harry saw it, all the two of them seemed to do was snog). Hermione had then attacked Ron with a flock of ravenous birds. The two had not spoken since.

Harry was not especially impressed with either of them. After his two friends had agreed to go to Slughorn’s party together, he had thought that they had finally made some progress with their obvious attraction to each-other. However, they were both now treating the other with a disdain they usually reserved for people who bullied Neville Longbottom.

As far as Harry was concerned, it was now blindingly obvious that Ron and Hermione were in love with each-other, and yet his two friends seemed further apart than ever before. Harry was forced to split his time between the two of them. Hermione refused to talk in the common-room whilst Ron was intertwined around Lavender Brown, so Harry had spent an especially miserable early evening in the library with his bushy-haired friend, punctuated only by Hermione angrily blotting her parchment every time she mentioned Ron’s name.

The two of them had returned to the Gryffindor common-room, and Harry had hoped to try and close the distance between his two friends. However, Hermione had spotted Lavender Brown wrapped around Ron like an electric eel, and had left for her dormitory before Harry could say any words of comfort.

He hoped that maybe their attitudes would improve the next day during lessons, but this had proved to be false. The Transfiguration lesson had progressed with Ron and Hermione being unpleasant to each-other throughout the whole lesson, culminating with Hermione leaving the class in tears and abandoning half her belongings at her desk.

Ron squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, and his face became laden with guilt. However, under the watchful eye of Lavender, he could hardly run after Hermione to apologise. Harry’s eyes met Ron’s, and the redhead omitted a silent plea.

Mentally cursing the childishness of his two friends, Harry let out a heavy sigh, collected Hermione’s things and set off to find her.

Thankfully, she hadn’t gotten far, and Harry discovered her leaving a girls bathroom on the floor below. What surprised him was the person who was patting Hermione softly on the back.

‘Oh, hello, Harry,’ said Luna Lovegood, turning her large grey eyes towards him. ‘Did you know one of your eyebrows is bright yellow?’

Harry felt heat flush his face. He wished he had fixed that before he’s left the class.

‘Hi, Luna,’ he said, trying not to feel too embarrassed. ‘Hermione, you left your stuff…’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Hermione, her voice sounding choked as she hurriedly took her books and turned to place them in her bag. Harry thought he saw her wipe her eyes on her pencil-case. ‘Thank you, Harry. Well, I’d better get going…’

And with that, she hurried away before Harry could offer any words of comfort, although he had no idea as to what he could have said.

‘She’s a bit upset,’ said Luna, as they watched Hermione round the corner. ‘I thought at first it was Moaning Myrtle in there, but it turned out to be Hermione. She said something about Ron Weasley.’

‘Yeah, they’ve had a row,’ said Harry, trying not to stare at Luna, who was absentmindedly curling her long blonde hair with her finger. Harry’s stomach gave a lurch.

‘He says some very funny things sometimes, doesn’t he?’ Luna said, as they began to wander down the corridor together. Harry couldn’t help but notice that Luna’s grey eyes seemed to reflect the sunlight peeking through the nearby windows. ‘But he can be a bit unkind. I noticed that last year.’

‘I s’pose,’ Harry mumbled. Luna had a unique way with slightly uncomfortable truths, which always made him feel a little awkward. ‘I just wish they’d make things up.’

‘I’m guessing they’re not going to Professor Slughorn’s party together, then.’

‘How do you—?’

‘Oh, I heard Hermione crying about it when I found her in the bathroom.’

‘Oh,’ Harry said, letting out a sad sigh. ‘Yeah. That’s not looking likely at the minute.’

‘Hmmm,’ Luna hummed thoughtfully. ‘Speaking of which, are you going to Professor Slughorn’s party?’

Harry whipped his head round to Luna, his eyes widening. Luna was smiling at him, a slight blush appearing on her cheeks.

‘Er,’ Harry felt like his heart was somehow tripped and ended up at the back of his throat. Was Luna suggesting what he thought she was suggesting?

‘I mean,’ said Luna, biting her lip slightly. ‘If you were already planning on going alone, that’s fine. I just thought maybe you’d—’

‘Y-yeah,’ exclaimed Harry, blinking quickly. ‘I’d like that. To go with you, I mean.’

Luna’s mouth stretched into a wide smile, and her large eyes sparkled.

‘Thank you, Harry,’ she grinned. ‘I’d like that very much, too.’

Harry smiled back, his heart beating quickly against his chest.

‘I’ll meet you in the entrance hall at eight o’clock, then.’

Luna nodded, dimples forming in her cheeks as her smile widened.

They reached a fork in the corridor.

‘Well, goodbye, Harry,’ Luna said, as she began to walk away to her next class. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’

‘Yeah,’ Harry prayed that he wasn’t grinning like an idiot. ‘See you.’

As he watched her skipping away down the corridor, a sudden thought came to Harry.

‘Oh, Luna?’ he called after her.

She turned, and looked at him inquiringly.

‘When you say “going together”, do you mean as friends or….what?’

Luna smiled at him again. Harry felt his stomach squirm again.

‘Shall we just see what happens, Harry?’

Before he could reply, she turned around, still smiling, and continued skipping along the corridor, her long blond hair dancing behind her.

At eight o’clock, Harry found himself walking towards the entrance hall. The intervening hours seemed to have passed in something of a daze. He could vaguely remember telling Ron that he was going to the party with Luna, and Ron giving him a suspiciously knowing look. However, Harry was unable to question about this further, as Lavender Brown had flung her arms around Ron’s neck shortly afterwards.

He had spent the time after dinner trying desperately to flatten his hair in the dormitory mirror, but this had proved to be fruitless. Eventually, he had given up, hurriedly put on his dress robes, and polished his glasses.

As Harry proceeded down the staircase towards the entrance hall, he noticed that there was a large crowd of people (mainly girls) who seemed very interested in who he was going with.

‘Hello, Harry!’

Luna was standing a short distance away, and was waving at him cheerfully.

She was wearing a set of spangled silver robes that were attracting a lot of stares from the assembled onlookers. She wasn’t wearing her butterbeer-cork necklace, but her familiar radish earrings were in place. Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at him, and her skin appeared to sparkle in the candlelight.

‘Er- hi,’ Harry scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. ‘You…look nice.’

‘Thank you, Harry!’ Luna smiled widely. Harry must have been imagining things, but he thought that a slight blush on her cheeks. ‘You look nice too!’

‘Thanks,’ Harry tugged at the sleeves of his robes, feeling very self-conscious. ‘Shall we get going, then?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Luna replied, happily. ‘Where is the party?’

‘Slughorns office.’

As they walked up the marble staircase, many of the onlookers stared at them suspiciously. This made Harry’s stomach bubble with angry- what was wrong with Luna going with him?

‘Did you here there’s supposed to be a vampire coming?’ he said, biting back the insults he wanted to hurl at the eavesdropping people around them.

‘Rufus Scrimgeour?’ asked Luna, as they began to walk along the corridor and away from all the staring.

Harry tried not to stare too much at Luna as she went into great detail about how the minister for magic was secretly a vampire, and how her father (the author of the wizarding magazine known as ‘The Quibbler’) had been barred from publishing the story. Luna’s lips seemed fuller than normal, and Harry felt his stomach give a shudder.

Harry shook his head and diverted his attention to Luna’s eyes. As usual, her enormous grey orb-like pupils seemed to reflect moonlight, despite them being indoors. This detail did nothing to calm his nerves.

‘Are you okay, Harry? You look a little flushed.’

Luna had turned to him, looking concerned.

‘Oh, yes. I’m fine,’ Harry said, his heart beating slightly quicker. ‘Just a bit nervous about the party.’

‘Perfectly understandable, Harry,’ Luna said, smiling. ‘We’ll make sure to investigate the mistletoe.’

Harry’s stomach seemed to deflate.

‘Wha-?’ he spluttered, the heat rising in his face. ‘What do you-?’

‘Nargles,’ Luna replied, simply. ‘Don’t you remember? We said we’d investigate.’

Harry’s mouth went dry. Luna was, of course, referring to their conversation a year previously in the room of requirement.

‘O-oh yeah,’ he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Kind-of hard of forget, that.’

Luna nodded. Was Harry imagining things, or were her cheeks slightly flushed?

They were now approaching Slughorn’s office, and the sounds of merry party-goers, as well as music, was growing louder with each step.

The office seemed to have been magically enlarged, and the ceiling and walls had been draped with scarlet, gold and green hangings, so that the light emanating from a lamp containing actual fairies reflected off the walls in a patchwork effect.

Harry grabbed two glasses of pumpkin juice from a nearby table, and handed one to Luna.

‘Cheers,’ he said, tapping their glasses together.

Luna giggled as she raised her own glass to her lips. Harry couldn’t help but notice how good her lips looked when wet.

He was just about to suggest getting some food, when he noticed a long mane of bushy hair push past what looked like two members of the Weird Sisters.

Grabbing Luna gently by the arm, Harry pushed through the crowd.

‘Hermione!’

‘Oh, hello, Harry,’ said Hermione, as they reached her. ‘Hi Luna.’

‘What on earth happened to you?’ exclaimed Harry, letting go of Luna’s arm somewhat hesitantly. Hermione’s hair was a tangled mess, and her make-up seemed to have been smudged.

‘Oh, I’ve just left Cormac,’ Hermione explained. When Harry gave her a blank look, she elaborated. ‘Under the mistletoe.’

‘Urgh!’ Harry crossed his arms, frowning at his bushy-haired friend. ‘Why’d you even ask him anyway?’

‘Well, I thought he’d annoy Ron the most,’ Hermione continued, waving her wand to make her hair untangle itself. It was now held in a delicate bun. ‘Unfortunately, he seemed a little…too keen on the idea.’

‘You okay?’ Harry enquired, now feeling concerned. ‘He didn’t….’

‘Oh, thank goodness, no!’ Hermione grabbed a glass of butterbeer from a nearby waiter, and began to sip it. ‘I managed to smack him round the face before he got too…friendly.’

‘Good idea,’ Harry nodded, his eyes darting around the surrounding area to check that McLaggen wasn’t in the vicinity. ‘Listen, Hermione, about Ron—’

‘I’d rather not talk about Ron right now, Harry,’ Hermione interrupted, her voice quavering over the redheads’ name. ‘He didn’t want to come with me to this, so I’d rather just forget about it.’

‘It didn’t sound like that when you asked him in Herbology.’

Hermione’s cheeks turned a delicate red.

‘Well, anyway,’ Harry continued, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I just hope you two can make things up.’

Hermione’s eyes dropped down to her glass, her hair obscuring her face.

‘I don’t think that will happen anytime soon, Harry,’ she said sadly, her voice oddly strained.

‘Er, listen,’ Harry said, giving her a brotherly pat on the shoulder. ‘If you want to just hang around with us for the rest of the party, we wouldn’t mind.’ Harry said, indicating himself and Luna.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,’ replied Hermione, giving Harry a slightly knowing look. ‘You two just have a good time- oh, no, here he comes!’

And with that, Hermione disappeared as quickly as if she had disapparated. From a few metres away, he saw McLaggen peer through the groups of people, before walking over to the food table.

‘I would normally suggest that he was influenced by the Nargles,’ said Luna, peering round at Harry. ‘But they don’t make people…act like that.’

Harry gave a little smile. Luna was a very sweet girl.

‘I suppose,’ he said. However, his attention was diverted as the door of the office opened, and Argus Filch entered, pulling an irritated Draco Malfoy behind him.

‘Er, Luna,’ Harry asked, putting his empty glass down on a nearby table. ‘I’m gonna pop off for a second. Be back in a bit.’

‘Okay,’ Luna replied, turning to speak to Professor Trelawney, who was standing nearby and smelling strongly of brandy.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Harry pulled the invisibility cloak off himself, and re-entered the party; his head swirling with what he had just overheard from Malfoy and Snape.

Unbreakable vow? What mission did Malfoy have? And why was Snape trying to help him?

Luna was stood right where he had left her. In his effort to re-join her, however, he momentarily forgot who she was in conversation with.

‘Harry Potter!’ exclaimed Professor Trelawney.

‘Oh, hello,’ Harry said, unenthusiastically. Trelawney had a habit of predicting his death, which he found very annoying.

‘My dear, why have you not elected to continue Divination this year?’ the enormous-spectacled teacher enquired. ‘Surely, to you, the subject is of the upmost importance?’

‘Sybil, we all think our subject is the most important!’ Professor Horace Slughorn appeared, his enormous stomach preceding him into the conversation. ‘Harry, m’boy! So glad you could make it, and…er, your companion, of course!’

‘This is Luna Lovegood, Professor,’ Harry forced down the bile that came to his throat everytime Slughorn happened to forget a student’s name. It had happened with Ron before, and he was getting very sick of it. ‘She’s in Ravenclaw.’

‘How do you do, Professor?’ said Luna politely, evidently not taking Slughorn’s accidental rudeness to heart.

‘Very well, Miss Lovegood.’ Slughorn grinned genially. ‘I must say, I’m glad that you’ve managed to coerce Harry into coming along- if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was avoiding my little parties!’

Harry tried to join in the laughter, and avoided looking Luna in the eye. He had, in fact, been avoiding Slughorn’s parties as a way of cheering Ron up about being ignored by the Nepotistic potions master.

As Slughorn moved to talk to a thin, balding wizard who Harry gathered was a leading light in the department of magical accidents and catastrophes, Luna turned to Harry and whispered into his ear.

‘Harry, I didn’t force you along to this, did I?’

She sounded a little worried.

Harry shook his head.

‘No. Well, I wasn’t originally planning on coming,’ he said, trying not to stare at how a loose strand of her dirty-blonde hair was dangling over her right ear. ‘But I thought it wouldn’t be so bad if you were here too.’

Luna blinked, and her mouth stretched into a small smile.

Merlin, she’s cute…

From behind them, music began to play. Turning, Harry realised that they had inadvertently walked over to the edge of the dance-floor, where many people were swaying in time to the music.

A sudden thought occurred to Harry.

He offered his hand to Luna.

‘Shall we?’

Luna grinned, and took his hand.

Stepping onto the dance-floor, Harry put his other hand on Luna’s waist, and the two of them began to weave gently through the groups of people.

‘It’s been a while since we danced.’ Luna said, her grey eyes glinting in the fairy-lights.

‘The Yule Ball, wasn’t it?’ Harry smiled. ‘I’ve improved since then.’

Luna giggled. Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of birdsong.

‘So I can see.’

The music slowed, and Luna rested her head on Harry’s shoulder as they swayed. Luna’s skin felt soft and cool against his robes, and her long dirty-blonde hair seemed to catch the light of the fairy-light above. Goosebumps appeared all along Harry’s arms.

What I wouldn’t give to have this moment forever, Harry thought wistfully.

Harry didn’t know how long they danced for, but the band eventually began to wind down, and the party-goers began to disperse. Luna took her head off Harry’s shoulder, sighing softly.

‘Shall I walk you back to your dorms, then?’ Harry asked, as they made their way off the dance-floor and out through the office door. He didn’t know where Ravenclaw Tower was, but he had the Marauders Map on him, so he could always find his way back if need-be.

‘If that’s okay,’ Luna said. Her face was still slightly flushed from dancing, and her neck had a light coating of sweat. Harry couldn’t help but find his eyes being drawn to her.

They set off down the corridor at a leisurely pace. They weren’t in any particular hurry, despite the late hour.

‘Hey, isn’t that Harry Potter?’ Harry could hear other party-goers whispering to each-other. ‘What’s he doing with that weird Lovegood girl?’

Almost subconsciously, Harry closed the distance between Luna and himself, so that their shoulders were almost touching as they walked away from the onlookers.

They walked in silence for a long time. The two of them had started climbing a winding spiral staircase when Luna broke the quiet.

‘I imagine people would have expected you to go with someone cooler than me,’ the Ravenclaw said, once again displaying her knack for uncomfortable truths.

Harry felt his stomach bubble slightly.

‘You are cool, Luna,’ he said, looking her straight in the eye. ‘I don’t care what other people expect; I think you’re amazing.’

A slight pinkness appeared on Luna’s cheeks, and she dropped her gaze to her shoes.

‘Sorry- was that weird?’ Harry asked worriedly, as they proceeded up the spiral staircase.

‘N-no,’ Luna said, biting her lip. ‘It’s just—thank you, Harry.’

‘No problem.’

They had reached the top of the staircase. There was a door attached to the wall in front of them. It had no knocker or key-hole, but a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle.

Luna turned to Harry, and smiled at him, dimples appearing again in her cheeks.

‘I’m glad you came along, Luna,’ he said, feeling a little nervous.

‘Me too.’

Luna turned to the door knocker behind them. The eagle opened its beak, and a soft, musical voice called out.

‘Does an object know itself?’

Harry’s mouth fell open in confusion. Did the Ravenclaws not have a password?

‘Hmm- what do you think, Harry?’ Luna asked, turning her head to face him.

‘Er—’

‘Oh, good idea, Harry!’ Luna said, smiling happily. She turned and addressed the door-knocker. ‘I suppose the answer is nothing ever really knows itself.’

‘Good argument,’ the eagle replied. The door opened, and a small beam of candlelight sneaked into the passageway from the common-room within.

‘Thank you, Harry,’ Luna smiled at him.

‘But I didn’t do anything.’

Luna chuckled slightly under his breath, and Harry once again was reminded of birdsong.

‘You did. Remember- “to err is to human”’

The grey-eyed Ravenclaw stroked a lock of her dirty-blonde hair absentmindedly, and Harry felt his heart go into the back of his throat.

‘T-to be honest, Luna,’ he stammered, running a hand through his messy hair. ‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked you now.’

Luna’s face fell, and her eyes widened in a hurt expression.

Harry let out a mental gasp of anguish. He hadn’t meant it like that…

‘I-I mean,’ Harry exclaimed, cursing his own awkwardness. ‘Asking you just as friends.’

Luna’s eyes widened even further, but her face seemed to light up, brighter than Harry had ever seen it before.

She reached out, and took Harry’s hand in hers. Harry felt his stomach give a funny lurch.

Her skin felt warm and soft, and gave off a soft smell of vanilla.

Harry’s eyes met Luna’s, which she steadily held. Harry wasn’t entirely sure why he found himself unable to look away, but Luna’s eyes seemed to reflect the light from the nearby candles, so that the grey sparkled in the moonlight drifting in from the window to their left.

He felt like he could look into those eyes forever, ever-changing in their grey swirls and textures.

‘I had a really nice time, Harry.’ Luna whispered, her voice just reaching Harry’s ears. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

Harry swallowed nervously.

‘I’d happily do it all over again,’ he breathed. ‘Sorry we couldn’t investigate the mistletoe. I’d- I’d still like to do that sometime. If you want to.’

Luna smiled, and moved closer to Harry. He could almost count her eyelashes, which contrasted wonderfully with her pale skin.

‘I’d like that too, Harry.’

Luna gave his hand one last gentle squeeze, and then turned to walk into Ravenclaw Tower. Harry thought he saw her turn back to look at him as the door swung closed; her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled.

Harry began to walk down the spiral staircase, his heart bounding heavily against his chest. His knees felt wobbly, and heat flushed his face.

Looking down at his hand, Harry felt a small smile stretch his lips. He could still smell the soft scent of vanilla etched across his palm.

Well, we didn’t get a chance to investigate the mistletoe, he thought as he reached the bottom of the spiral staircase, but I wouldn’t have changed tonight for the world…

Hope you enjoyed reading this. It’s a little longer than the previous chapters, but I hope it’s good nonetheless. I’ll be uploading it to my Fanfiction.net account in the next few days, and I’ll reblog this post with a link to it then.

#lunarry #lunarry fanfiction #huna fanfiction #lunarry fanfic #huna fanfic #luna and harry #luna x harry #harry and luna #harry x luna #lunarry fluff #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanf

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mystacoceti · 3 years

Text

“A Disciple”, Primo Levi

The Hungarians arrived among us not a few at a time but en masse. Within two months, May and June of 1944, they had invaded the camp, convoy upon convoy, filling the void that the Germans had not failed to create by a series of diligent selections. They caused a profound change in the fabric of the camps. At Auschwitz, the wave of Magyars reduced all other nationalities to minorities, without, however, touching the “cadres,” which remained in the hands of the German and Polish common criminals.

All the barracks and all the work squads were flooded with Hungarians, around whom, as happens to new arrivals in all communities, an atmosphere of derision, gossip, and vague intolerance rapidly condensed. They were strong, simple workers and peasants, who did not fear manual labor but were used to plenty of food, and so in a few weeks they were reduced to pitiful skeletons. Others were professionals, students, and intellectuals who came from Budapest or other cities; they were meek individuals, slow, patient, and methodical, and hunger was not so hard on them, but they had delicate skin, and were soon covered with wounds and bruises, like ill-treated horses.

At the end of June a good half of my squad was made up of capable men who were still well nourished, still full of optimism and good humor. They communicated with us in a curious sung, drawled German, and among themselves in their exotic language, which is bristling with unusual inflections and seems to consist of interminable words, all pronounced at an irritatingly slow pace, and with the accent on the first syllable.

One of them was assigned to me as a mate. He was a robust, rosy young man, of medium height, whom everyone called Bandi—the diminutive of Endre, that is, Andrea, he explained to me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Our job, that day, was to carry bricks on a kind of crude wooden stretcher, equipped with two shafts in front and two behind—twenty bricks per trip. Halfway along the route was a superintendent, who made sure that the load was in order.

Twenty bricks are heavy, so on the way we didn’t have (or at least I didn’t) much breath for talking; but on the way back we spoke, and I learned many likable things about Bandi. I couldn’t repeat all of them today: all memories vanish, and yet I hold on to the memories of this Bandi as to something precious, I am content to set them down on a page, and I wish that, by some not impossible miracle, this page would reach him in the corner of the world where perhaps he is still living, and that he would read it, and would find himself in it.

He told me that his name was Endre Szántó, a name that’s pronounced approximately like santo, or saint, in Italian, which reinforced in me the vague impression of a halo encircling his shaved head. I said this to him; but no, he explained laughing, Szántó means “plowman,” or more generically “farmer”; it’s a very common last name in Hungary, and anyway he wasn’t a plowman but worked in a factory. The Germans had captured him three years earlier, not as a Jew but because of his political activity, and had assigned him to the Todt Organization and sent him to cut wood in the Ukrainian Carpathians. He had spent two winters in the woods, cutting down pine trees with three companions; it was hard work, but he had got on well there, almost happily. Indeed, I soon realized that Bandi had a unique talent for happiness: oppression, humiliation, work, exile seemed to slide over him like water over a rock, without corrupting or wounding him, in fact purifying him, and heightening in him an inborn capacity for joy, as in the story of the innocent, happy, pious Hasidim whom Jirí Langer describes in Nine Gates.1

He told me about entering the camp: when the train arrived, the SS had forced all the men to take off their shoes and hang them around their necks, and had made them walk barefoot on the gravel of the track bed, for the seven kilometers that separated the station from the camp. He recounted the episode with a timid smile, not looking for pity but, rather, with a trace of childish, playful vanity in having “made it.”

We did three trips together, during which, bit by bit, I tried to explain to him that the place he had ended up in was not for nice people or for quiet people. I tried to convince him of some of my recent discoveries (in truth, not yet well digested): that here, in order to get by, you had to be active, arrange for illegal food, avoid work, find influential friends, hide yourself, hide your thoughts, steal, lie; that those who didn’t behave like that soon died; and that his sanctity seemed to me dangerous and out of place. And since, as I said, twenty bricks are heavy, on the fourth trip, instead of picking up twenty bricks, I picked up seventeen, and showed him that if you arranged them on the stretcher in a certain way, with a space in the bottom layer, no one would suspect that there were not twenty. This was a trick I thought I had invented (though I later learned that it was in the public domain); I had performed it several times successfully, while other times I had been hit, but it seemed to me that it lent itself well to the pedagogic purpose, as an illustration of the theories that I had set forth a little earlier.

Bandi was very sensitive to his situation as Zugang, or new arrival, and the social subjection that derived from it, and so he didn’t resist; but he wasn’t at all enthusiastic about my discovery. “If there are seventeen, why should we make them think there are twenty?” “But twenty bricks weigh more than seventeen,” I replied impatiently, “and if they’re arranged right no one notices; anyway, they’re not being used to build your house or mine.” “Yes,” he said, “but still they are seventeen and not twenty.” He wasn’t a good disciple.

We worked for some weeks on the same squad. I learned from him that he was a Communist, a sympathizer, not enrolled in the Party, but his language was that of a proto-Christian. At work he was skilled and strong, the best on the squad, but he didn’t try to take advantage of his superiority, either to place himself in a favorable light with our German masters or to give himself airs with us. I told him that, in my view, working like that was a useless waste of energy, and it wasn’t even politically correct, but Bandi gave no sign of having understood. He didn’t want to lie; in that place we were supposed to work, therefore he worked as well as he could. Bandi, with his radiant, boyish face, with his energetic voice and his awkward gait, soon became very popular, a friend to all.

August arrived, with an extraordinary gift for me: a letter from home—an unheard-of event. In June, with a terrifying lack of awareness, and using a “free” Italian mason as my intermediary, I had written a message to my mother, who was in hiding in Italy, and had addressed it to a friend of mine named Bianca Guidetti Serra. I had done all this as one observes a ritual, without true hope of success; but my letter had arrived without a hitch, and my mother had answered by the same route. The letter from the sweet world burned in my pocket. I knew it was elementary prudence to be silent about it, and yet I couldn’t not speak of it.

At that time we were cleaning cisterns. I went down into my cistern, and with me was Bandi. In the weak lamplight, I read the miraculous letter, translating it quickly into German. Bandi listened attentively: he certainly couldn’t understand much, because German wasn’t my language or his, and then because the message was spare and reserved. But he understood what was essential to understand: that that piece of paper in my hands, which had reached me so precariously, and which I would destroy before evening, was nevertheless a breach, a gap in the black universe that crushed us, and that through it hope could pass. Or at least I think that Bandi, although Zugang, understood or intuited all this, because, when I had finished reading, he came over to me, dug in his pockets for a long time, and finally extracted, with loving care, a radish. Blushing intensely, he gave it to me, and said, with timid pride, “I’ve learned. This is for you: it’s the first thing I ever stole.”

—

1. Jirí Langer (1894–1943) was a Jewish poet and scholar; his book Nine Gates to the Hasidic Mysteries described his experiences among the Hasidim of eastern Galicia.

#pearl diver #whole hog

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iesika · 6 years

Link

In the summer of 2011, psychiatrist and FBI consultant Dr. Hannibal Lecter travels with a crack forensic team to the murder capital of America to assist the New Orleans field office in hunting a possible serial killer. But bodies aren't the most interesting thing he finds when the water starts to rise.

Or, what would have happened if Will never left Louisiana?

Chapter 9 is up!

"Am I to be your victim, then?" Hannibal asks her, holding his arms out for access as he catches her intent. This is much better than if he had volunteered the information himself.

"Yeah, I'm gonna get ya," Beverly says cheerfully. She takes hold of his left arm with her left hand and reaches under his right arm with hers. The movement brings her slim body flush against his back, and the smell of her apricot shampoo to his nose. "Knife in," she says, poking him with the butt end of a ballpoint pen some four inches left of his navel. "Up and over." She drags the pen up until it nudges his ribs on the opposite side.

Brian scratches his beard as he watches them. "That's pretty intimate."

"And then guts everywhere. Slow painful death, shallow grave, alligators eat your face."

Or, what’s been eating John Doe?

This is a Louisiana black bear. Please note: She smol.

There are bears in parts of South Louisiana and one or two spots in western Mississippi. Most Louisiana black bears are in the Atchafalaya parishes where this fic is mostly set. There is some argument over whether they are a true subspecies, but they are definitely not like the bears in the rest of the country. They are small, meek and slender, without the thick undercoats and padding that black bears have in colder places, and their faces are long and pointy. They are also often brown instead of black. From my limited experience with wild bears they are weirdly dainty eaters and are terrified of cats.

The Louisiana black bear was removed from the threatened list this year. They were disappearing due to habitat lost, but conservation and reforestation efforts have been pretty successful. I am (literally and figuratively) wearing my Black Bear Conservation Commission t-shirt today.

Please look at these good good swamp bears.

Creole Cream Cheese, mentioned briefly in Hannibal’s breakfast, is sort of in between crème fraîche and cream cheese, but with less fat. It’s a truly regional food that almost went extinct in the last few decades as local dairies and markets were replaced by huge national companies. When I was a kid you could get it at every regional supermarket and drug store, and then all those local chains got bought out by national ones too, and not only could I not find creole cream cheese ice cream at my K&B, I couldn’t even find a K&B. And then everybody turned into foodies, and it became cool to make cheese at home and to serve local dairy at your fancy restaurant and shop at local markets, and now it’s back! But if I’d known how easy it was to make back then, I never would have had to go without because it is as easy to make as jello or something.

Creole Cream Cheese

2 gallons of skim milk

1 pint buttermilk

1/2 tsp liquid rennet or 1/2 rennet tablet

(no really that’s it)

some cream or half and half, optional

This recipe requires the following fancy specialized equipment: a big pot, a thermometer, and some empty plastic food containers. Like old pint yogurt or sour cream containers. Very fancy.

Mix everything in a big pot and heat to 80 ° F while stirring. Keep it there a few minutes then turn off the heat. Cover tightly and leave out at room temperature for about 3 hours. At that point you can drain the whey and pack the cheese in smaller containers. I recommend you pour a little cream or half and half on top before putting it away.

This is really good with fruit, especially sweetened with sugar or honey, or spread on toast with preserves or salt and pepper. Or you can do my favorite thing and eat it with crackers or raw zucchini and radish slices and pepper jelly.

Or you can make really good ice cream out of it and eat it with strawberries, or use it for anything you’d use cream cheese or maybe even ricotta for, like a cheesecake.

#what the water gave me #hannibal fic #hannigram fic #Will Graham: dog expert #bears #not that kind the other kind

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i-growl-growl-growl · 7 years

Text

The Beast within the Dark Forest

Genre [Rating] : vampire au, angst

Length: 3539 words

Pairing: Minhyuk x Reader

Summary: After you’ve grown up hearing tales that have been told for a century of a dreadful creature lurking in the dark forest just beyond the outskirts of your town your curiosity gets the better of you and you go in search of the beast despite all the warnings told in the tales.

———————————————————————————————————–

For a thousand years there have been tales of a creature that roams the dark woods alone, a creature so dangerous and terrifying that not even the bravest of our countrymen dare to go near the edge of the mystical forest that was sprouted and grown from the deepest sorcery of black magic. Everyone tells the tales of the evilest being known to mankind keeping a watchful eye on our small town that resides just a mile away, waiting for any unlucky soul to enter whether it be man, woman, child, or animal and those of whom have dared to enter the inhospitably cursed woodland in the past have vanished without a trace, never to return, be heard from, or seen again for they had entered the territory of the most dreadful being to ever walk this earth which only goes to prove that the tales are true and that everyone shall stay away if they value their life.

I grew up hearing these tales just as anyone who has lived since the beastly year of 2017 has. 2017 was when it all happened, the year that the forest was born and, along with it, the beast. “It was the year of utterly untamed chaos!” as the elders whom had lived to witness it would say “From start to finish, a year well rounded for the doom and destruction of life as anyone had known it before!” Those chants have since been passed down through generations upon generations as part of the tales, not a word of it forgotten or fiddled with. August 27th, 2017, that was the day that the world as we know it now was born.

If ever my family found out that those tales so commonly told had ignited a curiosity and desire within me to enter the woods and find the creature, even if only to see it with my own eyes moments before I’d perish like the rest under its merciless, malevolent whims, they’d surly call for the matrons to come and whisk me away until sense has been brought back to my mind. For that very reason I have kept my thoughts and desires to myself, never have I shared any of this information with anyone not even my closest friend Hyungwon not even before he had gone missing days ago. Maybe he had ventured into the dark woods, I nor anyone else would be surprised in the slightest if that revelation were to be true, maybe he had wanted to see the creature for himself like I had, there’s only so little time before people, even the most cautious ones like myself, get a bit curious about it, or very.

I know that my curiosity cannot hold out any longer, it can no longer be contained therefore I shall leave for the forest tonight. Without a word, without a sound, without a trace, I shall let my curiosity drive me into the abysmal depths of hell that lie beyond the sanctuary of my home within the small town that resides just within reach of the accursed realms of the creature’s domain. Tonight I shall go and I shall not return until I’ve seen the beast, if I am to ever even have the chance to return at all that is.

The sun is setting, my small hometown becoming smaller from behind me as I trek through the fields that lead to the forest. I have nothing but a backpack filled with water bottles and food and several flash lights, the clothes on my back, and the shoes on my feet as my possessions now. No one shall notice I’m gone until the sun has gone down, I was summoned to run an errand to inform old lady MonMon that my family is out of radishes and would pay handsomely for a batch of hers come tomorrow morning. By the time anyone has become suspicious of my disappearance I shall be far from sight or reach for I shall be beyond the rows of the dark forest that call to me evermore as I come nearer to them.

Upon my arrival at the entrance of the forest I stop in my tracks but only to spare a final glance of the town behind me. Even from this place afar I can still spot the roof of my house, its chimney releasing fading streams of black smoke into the air. This is the last I will see of my home, this is the last time I can say an unheard good-bye for I will not step down, I shall not back away and chain my curiosity any longer, this is the last time I will head the warnings of those who tell the tales, I will go into the dark forest and I won’t come out, dead or alive, until I’ve seen the beast!

I know not the reasons for everyone’s worry. The tales have been lies as of yet. Surly I would’ve been dead by now if the beast were real, I’ve trekked through the dark forest for hours and not a living soul or sound has been seen or heard. If this so called beast were so dreadful and was the cause for the vanishings of those who’ve entered before myself then why has it not come to rid me from this world like it supposedly had with the others? A fraud, a scam, a true tale of tales, nothing but dark humor preached in such a way to make that it seems believable, a true master of pranks is what it is. For a thousand years everyone has been told lies! This dark forest is nothing but an abnormal forest that just so happens to appear as if it was cursed well I tell you what! I shall return home with the truth, this is just another forest, with nothing to fear other than, possibly, the same predators that reside in this sort of habitat- bears, wolves, rabid squirrels and such!- There is no curse, those who have vanished have vanished not from being sighted by the beast, they have vanished in other natural ways- probably dying of thirst or from losing they’re way but not from being offed by a beast! HA! To think everyone has been so gullible enough to believe such nonsense! There is no creature! There is no Bea…….

A twig snapping off in the distance grabs my attention, bringing me out of my infuriated quarrel. The sound is not too close but not far. I stop in my tracks to listen, if an animal is close then I will hear another snap of a twig somewhere before it is upon me if I am its target. I dare not move, for if I do I could draw attention to myself and might not hear the animal approach closer. I must stay still, I must find the whereabouts of the following creature with only my ears as my aid. My senses fail me however for there is no following sound to be heard. All is Silent. All is sound. I let a few moments pass, speedily giving my scarcely lit watch a quick glance to check the passing time. Three minutes, I let three terribly long minutes pass before I straighten myself out, feeling vacuous for believing that anything would happen to me. Once I’ve shaken my limbs from their stiffened state I resume my travels, turning around to head home to bring awareness to the dim-witted fools before the light of my flashlight lands on something before me stopping me in my place.

The sight of my eyes lands on the torso of a male counterpart, particularly his clothed chest. He wears a burgundy button up shirt with a black jacket covering most of it. A studded belt wraps around his waist where the pants are tucked over the remainder of his shirt, it matches the rest of his clothes perfectly despite the offset of the grey studs against the otherwise red and black toned outfit. Remembering to be polite, I refrain from shining my light directly in the man’s face as my eyesight aims upwards but I do have the urge to look up and see who it is that has followed me therefore I shall.

A gasp escapes me as the profile of the male’s face comes within view. He is stunning! Gorgeous! an ethereal sight for eyes that have only ever seen men with dirt dusted beards and mud stained faces. Surly his clothing should’ve given me a hint that this man was like no other that I’ve ever seen before, he must be a partisan of a higher family to afford walking about in such an a’ la mode manner, especially this deep within the oh so cursed woods. I feel doltish for not thinking of it beforehand. My eyes want to avoid him for the poor act that my mind had played but his sharp gaze enchants me, captivating me to continue gazing at him. He has high set cheeks with a mildly sharp jawline, his nose is properly set- not the sort you grow accustom to seeing when you live in a place such as I had where men’s noses are often crooked, sporting a broken look,- his eyebrows are thick, his eyes are a cat-like narrow with just a slight touch of roundness to them, and his lips are nearly full with a deep pink tint. He doesn’t seem overly muscular or emaciated like the men back in town. There is a word for people with structures like his that I’ve heard from overhearing conversations when I’d run errands in town, what is it?, ah yes, lean, this man is perfectly lean- well, at least in the sense that I’ve come to know that it means. All in all I am impressed, charmed solely on his looks alone.

When I look back up to his face again, I see a smirk played across his lips, his eyes narrowing with a gleam of mischievous intent. That’s when I notice the color of his irises, they’re an unnatural candy apple red with a gold traced ring around them.

“Who are you?” He asks with the same smirk, his head tilting from side to side slowly as his eyes seem to devour me. His voice is like smooth silk that could churn any woman’s heart to butter when he speaks, “What’s a beauty like you doing in so deep in these woods?”

“I’m …….” I reply, remembering to be kind but becoming cautious as he continues to stare me down, my nerves sending an edgy shiver through my spine, “I came here in search for the beast from the fairy tales but I’ve been made a fool just as all the others. I shall make my return to town to inform every one of their silly, nonsensical beliefs. Good day to you sir, or, if you’d like, you can follow me back. I see you have no flash light with you, it’d be a shame for you to lose your way if I left you behind. I’m sure your family will be looking for you at this point in time. Join me if you’d like.”

“Ah but it’s you who shall be joining me. Not the other way around” he derides briskly with a chuckle. His eyes becoming daggers as they scrutinize me.

“Pardon me?”

“I said, it’s you who shall be joining me” he reinstates with a stern tone in his voice, the smirk fading as he lifts a foot to approach me slowly, menacingly, like a predator sneaking up to its prey except I am facing him and can see every move his body makes.

With every step that he takes towards me I take a step back. “I don’t know what your intentions are mister but I’m not here to cause any trouble and I don’t intend to be made a fool again by falling for someone’s cruel pranks so you can stop what you’re doing and go back to town with me or I can leave you here to fend for yourself, I won’t let myself be a victim to anything any longer and I won’t deal with anyone threatening me.”

The man halts but the gleam in his death staring eyes continue to stay locked on me. “I thought you were looking for the beast” he deadpans with a miniscule quirk of his head to the side, the smirk returning as he sees the surprise and unnerved nature that he has put me in, my body ready for a fight or flight show down.

“I am.”

“Well, you found him or rather I found you” he replies with a sinister smile creeping onto his face. Only then do I notice the anomalous stretch of his mouth where elongated canine teeth have stretched the skin as they nearly protrude from his mouth. His nails are long and pointed at the ends like claws and his skin had seemed to be inexplicably pale when I first noticed him but now everything was putting itself together and the more I thought about it the more this man presented the exact profile of a creature they define and talk about in those terrifying tales to the older children in the town, “Vampires.” No, No, No, this is all a prank, vampires aren’t real! Even if they were what would be the odds that this man is one of them? Surly this is a prank as I expect it to be.

“So you’re not going to run huh?” he asks in a quizzically amused fashion as he begins approaching me once more “from the look on your face you’ve already figured out what I am. Most people would’ve begun running for their lives at this point.”

“Ha!” I snicker “you’re only pretending to be a vampire!” I spit out “vampires aren’t real! You’re just using the surroundings and the fact that I’m alone as an advantage to pull of whatever prank it is that you’re trying to pull. I may run but it won’t be because I believe you’re going to suck my blood or any of that rubbish!”

He laughs whimsically at my outburst, it is a long throaty laugh that sends chills down to my core, a laugh with evilness laced within it that reeks of doom. “Ah, my sweet darling, you really are such a fool.” He shakes his head at me, his lips pursed in a fine line that clearly states his disapproval at my brazen temper and denial of the occult that he claims to be a part of, his feet still carrying him towards me while mine stagger backwards to ensure that a distance is kept between him and I. “I wonder if you will think the same as I do actually suck the blood out of you.”

When my feet have failed to keep a significant distance between me and the menacing stranger my flight mode triumphs and I find myself running in an unknown direction. All that’s known as my feet carry me away from the stranger is that I’m racing away from a threat of ultimate danger and death as I blindly jump over fallen logs that I see moments before being upon them and scratch myself with the thorns of wild bushes and low hanging tree branches as I run past them. The more I seem to run the more dense the forest becomes around me, it’s like it is growing and attempting to swallow me alive as I run through it, trying to get a sense of which way I should go to get home. Before long my clothing is caught by a branch of a tree but as I jerk away and tear at my clothes to be released the situation only becomes worse, my clothes become tangled in the branch and I’m left with the choice of risking being killed by the psychotic stranger or stripping out of my shirt and light jacket to escape.

As I begin to pull my trapped hand through the sleeve of my jacket, a branch from another tree strikes at me as if guided by magic to prevent my escape. The strike manages to catch the back of my free hand before the limb wraps itself around my wrist and pulls it until it is spread at an angle above my head that hinders it useless. I then attempt to tug my other hand out of the caught clothing on its own since there is no other way for me to release myself from the branches grasps before the man will be upon me since I assume he isn’t far behind. I can feel branches slithering up my legs like snakes wrapping themselves around their preys and I try to shake them off but they to, just as the branch binding my hand above my head, have a firm grasp on me then tug at my legs until they are spread as far open as they’ll go.

Once I’ve become completely trapped I have no other way to escape other than to risk someone, like the man, hearing me and coming to my rescue. I scream as loudly as I can for help and struggle against the holds of the branches keeping me in place but all is silent and the limbs won’t let me budge all that much.

Fear and defeat begin to settle in when the same silence that I was met with when I entered the forest welcomes me as I catch my breath. As I continue wheezing for air, I hear a noise from in front of me. When I look up hopefully I’m only met with dread as the man from before steadily makes his way towards me. I struggle in my binds as I meekly beg to be let go but he only sends me the same sinister smile as he had when he had threatened me.

“Now Now darling, there’s not much for you to fear. I promise to go easy on you if you do something for me in return” he offers in a cheery tone with a dash of slyness intermixed.

“Oh yeah, and what would that be? You want me to be your slave or something?!” I hiss, trying to seem unperturbed by my impending doom, once again struggling against the holds of the branches as he comes nearer and near to me.

“MM, something like that” he affirms “be good and stay still while I take my fill from you and if you do I will let you live but as my blood slave, I can smell you better than any of the others I’ve had in the past, your scent is so delicate and delectable, I can only imagine how you truly taste as my mouth waters for you. You shall live with me here in the forest within my mansion until it is time for me to track down others who have entered the forest then you shall help me capture them and bring them to their doom as they had so willing signed their lives away once they entered my domain. You shall live a lavish life with top of the line clothing and you shall dine like a queen but you must be with me as my slave. What say you to my offer?”

As he now stands before me, mere inches separating us from each other, I glare up at him. The vile words on my tongue, as sharp and harmful as the strongest poison of which I wish to spit out at him are stuck in my throat. With a deep gulp I only let out a daring “NO.” I would rather his suck me dry, fill me back up with my blood and bring me back to life only to suck me dry again before letting me really die than be his slave and let him touch me and help him murder others.

The man doesn’t look surprised at my turn down of his deal. ��I expected as much” he shrugs nonchalantly before that irking smile appears again, the smile I so badly want to wipe off of his face “but in the end I’m the one who seals the deal. Sorry sweetheart, but you’re mine now.”

Before I can protest the man sinks his teeth into the flesh of the nape of my neck. The elongated teeth descending deeper into my flesh until they’ve nearly stabbed through my external jugular vein. The pain blinds me, my screams silent from shock. I can feel the rush of my blood being forcefully sucked into his fangs as he laps at the areas where extra blood spill into his mouth with his tongue. When I feel myself becoming weak, fading away from consciousness, I feel a tug from the holes where the vampire’s fangs had bitten into me before the lapping of his tongue intensifies over my neck. Before I complete succumb to the darkness washing over my body as I faint ever so slowly I hear a voice speaking to me.

“My name is Minhyuk.” The voice say with impassiveness “I am your master now.”

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lazyfox411 · 7 years

Text

I’ll Try

aka the college au where shiro studies way too hard and needs a little help from his roomie keith :P this would have been posted a lot sooner but I was away for a few days :( don’t be afraid to send me feedback on my writing but go easy on me haha im still not used to this “sharing your work with other human beings” thing XD

Keith watched, practically scowling, as Shiro slumped farther over the kitchen table, straining to read the text in front of him.

“Why is this so hard to read?” Shiro asked in frustration. “I think I need glasses. It’s like the letters keep moving. Why are they moving? They’re words, they don’t need exercise.”

“Probably because you’re shaking,” Keith muttered, grabbing Shiro’s textbook and folding it shut. “I think you should take a break from studying.”

“Hey!” Shiro cried indignantly. He made a half-hearted grab for the book, only to let his hand flop back down to the table. He looked up at Keith through bloodshot eyes. “Give it back.”

“No. With finals coming up, you’ve been working yourself way too hard, and I’m not just gonna sit around and watch anymore. You always lecture me about being reckless, but look in the mirror. I’m not the only one who needs to improve their self care.”

Shiro sighed. “I just get so stressed over finals, it’s like I can’t even function properly.”

“Dude, you haven’t slept in like three days and I watched you mix Red Bull in your coffee yesterday morning. Trust me, I know you’re freaked out over this.”

“I’m just so tired,” Shiro moaned, resting his head on his arms.

“It’s okay,” Keith soothed. Seeing Shiro like this always left him heartbroken. Normally he was in control, always on top of things, finishing assignments on time and handing in essays a week before they were due. But as soon as finals week loomed over them, Shiro broke down. It was like he forgot who he was, and was replaced by an over-caffeinated, sleep-deprived wisp of a person, face ashen except for the radish-colored flush plastered on his cheeks. If Keith didn’t know any better, he would have guessed that Shiro had been in a fight; the lack of sleep had given him the appearance of two black eyes.

“It’s okay,” Keith repeated. He’d been terrified when Shiro had nearly worked himself to the point of needing an emergency room trip during their first year of college, but this year he was a little more prepared. He knew now that all his roommate needed was someone to be there for him and make sure he was well taken care of. And Keith was going to try his absolute best to be that person.

“Just try to relax,” Keith told him, gently laying his hands on Shiro’s shoulders and doing his best to work away the tension that plagued him.

Shiro moaned again, happily this time. “That feels good.”

Keith smiled at him sadly. “You look pretty tired, buddy. I think a nap would do you some good.”

“No.” Shiro shook his head abruptly, brushing Keith off and reaching for his textbook again. “I gotta study.”

Keith slapped a hand down on the book to prevent Shiro from picking it up. “Come on, man. Look at yourself. You can hardly keep your head up, how on earth do you think you’re going to get any studying done?”

“I guess you’re right.”

The fact that he would admit to Keith being right was a telltale sign he really was feeling awful. Keith took his arm and led him to the couch, tucking him under a blanket and fluffing one of the throw pillows for him.

“You’re still shaking,” Keith frowned.

“M’head hurts,” was the mumbled reply he got.

“Alright, I’m going to get you a glass of water. That might help with your headache. And then I’m going to sit right here on this couch with you until you fall asleep.” Keith didn’t leave any time for Shiro to object before he left the room.

“Do we have any Tylenol?” Shiro asked after he’d downed a second glass of water.

“We do, but with all that caffeine you’ve been taking in, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. How much coffee have you had today?”

Shiro shrugged meekly. “I dunno. A lot.”

“Mmhm. I thought so. No wonder you’re all shaky.”

“Make it stop,” Shiro whined. He rolled over and buried his face in Keith’s leg.

“Go to sleep,” Keith ordered softly, resuming his efforts to loosen the taut muscles of Shiro’s back and shoulders.

Shiro tensed up even more at the massaging. “Stop that,” he groaned.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asked. “You loved this two minutes ago.”

Shiro did his best to explain the uncomfortable sensation in one sentence: “My skin hurts.”

“Your…skin hurts?” Keith echoed.

Shiro nodded.

“Can you tell me anything else about how you feel?”

“Um…tired? Sore? I have a headache. And a stomach ache. And I guess my throat hurts a little bit, too.”

Keith got more worried with every symptom added to the list. Surely this couldn’t all just be from overexertion. Keith had been staying up late to study as well, and while he was pretty exhausted, he was nowhere near as bad off as Shiro.

Shiro shivered when he felt Keith’s fingers brush against his forehead. “Your hands are cold.”

“You’re burning up.”

“Really?”

“Yes. You’ve definitely got a fever.”

Shiro pulled the blanket tighter around himself upon hearing the dreadful news.

“Are you cold?” Keith asked him.

“No,” Shiro said. “I’m too hot. Or am I too cold? I’m sorry, I can’t tell, I’m all sweaty and gross.” He felt Keith stand up next to him, and he reached weakly after his roommate. “Keith, where are you going? Come back.”

“I’ll be right back, don’t worry.”

A few moments later, he felt the dip of the couch cushions that meant Keith had returned.

“Now what are you doing?” Shiro asked as his shirt was pulled over his head, too tired to do anything but sit there and watch. He didn’t get an answer, just the blessedly cool feeling of a damp washcloth on his neck.

Keith continued to wipe him down, finishing by smoothing back his hair and placing a fresh cloth over his forehead.

“There,” Keith said, satisfied with his work. “How’s that?”

“Better.” Shiro snuggled blissfully back under his blanket.

“Do you think you can sleep now?”

“Don’t know. My throat is worse now.”

“Hm. I don’t think we have anything in the apartment that could help with that. But if it’s that bad, I could go pick you up some lozenges. Or maybe popsicles.”

“Popsicles sounds good.”

“Alright. What kind?”

“I like the blue ones,” Shiro said through a sheepish smile.

“Blue popsicles, coming right up. I’ll make a quick trip to the grocery store.”

Shiro caught Keith’s arm before he could leave. “You’ll be quick?”

“Ten minutes,” Keith promised.

The sound of Keith’s car engine was the last thing Shiro remembered before he fell asleep sprawled on the couch.

“Shiro, I’m home,” Keith called quietly, not wanting to wake him up if he was asleep. “I got your popsi—oh. I guess I left them in the car.”

“K-Keith?” Shiro sniffled from his spot on the couch.

“Shiro! What’s wrong?” Keith rushed to his side and wiped a few stray tears from his friend’s face.

“I-I’m late,” Shiro sobbed, “I m-missed my f-final exam. I gotta get to class right now. Right now, Keith, you gotta help me get to class.”

“Shiro, what the hell are you talking about?” Keith asked. “It’s Saturday, neither of us have classes on Saturday. And your first test isn’t until Monday.”

“No, you don’t understand. You don’t…you…you don’t…” Shiro’s eyes went wide, his breath hitching as he desperately tried to rid himself of the blanket. Keith had known him long enough to know that this was what happened when his anxieties got the best of him.

“I can’t…I can’t breathe,” Shiro wheezed, hands scrabbling at his bare chest, eyes darting around the room and finally locking onto Keith, who intervened before he could hyperventilate completely.

“Shh, it’s okay, Shiro. You’re okay. You can breathe, you’re fine. Just breathe. You’re okay, Shiro,” Keith said slowly, looking into Shiro’s dark, wild eyes. He delicately took Shiro’s hand and placed it over his chest, hoping that worry hadn’t made his heart beat too fast. “Focus on that, okay, buddy? Try and make yours match. Just breathe.”

“Make mine…match,” Shiro panted, gulping back tears.

“Yeah, there you go,” Keith offered a small smile. “Deep breaths. Do it with me. In, out. In, and out.”

Shiro followed his instructions, sucking in air and expelling it in heavy huffs.

“You’re okay,” Keith reminded.

“I’m okay,” Shiro nodded. “I’m okay.”

What little energy Shiro had left had been completely sapped by his narrowly avoided panic attack. He collapsed against Keith, sinking deeper into the couch. Part of him wondered if it might swallow them both whole. Another part debated whether or not he would mind that.

Keith stiffened when Shiro pressed closer to him. Not only was this Shiro trying to cuddle him, it was Shiro trying to cuddle him with dangerous waves of heat pouring from his body.

“Shit, okay, that fever is way worse,” Keith panicked. “Sit tight, I’m going to get the thermometer.” This got a whimper from Shiro, who anxiously awaited his return.

“Open up, Keith commanded. He slid the device under Shiro’s tongue.

While they waited, Keith allowed Shiro to snuggle up to him again. Keith held him, patted him, stroked his hair while Shiro whined softly, trying to mumble something through the thermometer.

Keith snatched it up the instant it beeped. Shiro, now free to speak, said, “Keith, will you take me to class? I need to get to class.”

“104.7! No wonder you’re so out of it. This isn’t good.”

“Keith, you need to drive me to class.”

“Yup,” Keith dragged Shiro to is feet, blanket and all, and shoved him towards the door. “I’ll take you. Let’s go.”

After buckling him safely into the passenger seat of the car, Keith ripped open the box of popsicles and stuffed one in Shiro’s hand.

“Here. It’s blue. Maybe it’ll help cool you down.” He started the engine and took no time speeding out of the driveway.

Shiro watched lazily as tree whizzed by, then some houses, and finally their campus. “We’re not going to class, are we?”

Keith sighed, glancing over at Shiro, whose lips had turned a neon blue from the popsicle. He would have found it comical if Shiro wasn’t so sick.

“No,” Keith said. “I’m taking you to the hospital, buddy. You’ve got a crazy high fever.”

Shiro, dazed as he was, seemed to sense that something was off in Keith’s voice. “Keith?” he slurred.

“Yeah?”

“It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah.”

“And Keith?”

“What is it?”

“Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”

Keith gave him a tight-lipped smile. “You got it, buddy. But please, next time finals roll around, promise me you’ll take better care of yourself?”

“I’ll try.”

#voltron #vld #voltron legendary defender #keith kogane #takashi shirogane #voltron college au #sickfic #voltron sickfic #im probably putting way too many tags on this #but if u think i care then youre crazy #do you people even read tags #its about 12:30 in the morning #im tired #this fic is probably also really ooc #but once again if u think i care #platonic sheith #my writing

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