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j-eryewrites · 9 months

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Come Home

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Pairing: (Ominis Gaunt x Reader)

Song: Willow Tree March by The Paper Kites

Concept: What if Ominis’ aunt didn’t die in the Scriptorium and instead left the Gaunt family? What if Ominis went to go live with his aunt in America?

Author’s Note: Starting to finally calm down in my busy life and have a little bit of time to write. I had this idea while listening to the song and I couldn’t help but write it. Ominis, my poor baby, deserves to be happy so I wrote a fic where he does get to be happy. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!

It had only been a few months since he left. Ominis Gaunt in all his magnificent glory was taken away from his rotten family to live with his aunt in America. Of course, Sebastian and I were overjoyed for him for we knew the true harshness that came with being a Gaunt. Ominis was a kind and gentle soul, so undeserving of his family's cruelty and hatred. So, it made complete sense as to why I should be happy for him. His aunt who was just like him was alive. His only loving and caring familial relation was alive and well and wanting to save him from the very family she ran from. Yet…I believe that Sebastian, Anne, and I were Ominis’s family. We kept him safe and sane all those years. I held him in the undercroft. We laughed with him and played the horrific game of gobstones. Hogwarts was our home, and we were a family, but now he’s gone.

I remember that fateful day we all saw him off to America. His leather suitcase in hand and hair styled so neatly that no matter how many times I ran my fingers through it it would never change. I knew I’d see Ominis again. I knew we’d write every day, but he was my family and he was leaving. I’d no longer see him next to me in History of Magic dozing off or have his companionship when I went to raid the kitchens late at night. No longer would Ominis dawn his Hogwarts uniform, but instead dawn the one of Ilvermorny. He was going to make new friends. He was going to make a new family. And just as I knew we’d always be friends, he’d move on because that is what happens with life; It moves on and so do you.

So that’s what I tried to do, move on. Of course, moving on worked just like that day we had blast-ended skrewts in Care of Magical Creatures. Sebastian knew I wasn’t faring well without Ominis, but I knew he was hurting just the same. Natty tried her best to cheer me up. We’d go for walks in the forbidden forest or grab a butterbeer or two from the Three Broomsticks. Poppy comforted me in her own manner and in doing so my collection of rescued magical creatures grew. Yet no matter how much butterbeer I drank, flights over the castle I took, or magical creatures I rescued, the hole Ominis left could never be filled.

I almost began to think that the hole would never be filled.

_____

“No Garreth, you aren’t listening. You’ve got to give each of the mallowsweet plants three drops of the water and fertilizer mixture,” I chuckled as I pushed myself onto Garreth’s station. My legs swung back and forth and I observed the red head’s careful measuring. He may have a reputation in potions, but I refuse to let that reputation bleed into herbology.

Garreth gave me a hearty laugh as his hands carefully distributed the mixture to the mallowsweets.

“Good,” I smiled before patting him on the head.

“Merlin, Y/N,” Garreth said, “I’m not one of your puffskein.” Garreth set down the mixture before sending me a smirk.

“Well, if you're not a puffskein, then why does your hair look like one. Don’t you see how puffy your locks are?” I fluffed up Garreth’s hair and styled it to look exactly like the small furry creatures.

“Hey, hey not the hair,” Garreth whined.

“ Sorry, forgive me, good sir,” I sarcastically said, “I don’t want to ruin your chances with Miss Imelda Reyes.”

Garreth rolled his eyes. “I’ll have you know that I am not infatuated with Imel–”

It was a strange occurrence. One moment I’m teasing Garreth until his ears turn pink and the next it’s like I’ve lost my breath. My heart clenches and leaps forward and my hair stands up. My ears are no longer listening to Garreth as the voice in my mind grows louder and louder.

Run. Run. Run.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Garreth asked.

I look down at Garreth. “He’s here,” I mutter. Snapping out of my daze, I jump down from the desk. “Garreth, mind taking my stuff back to the common room for me? I have to–I just–I’ve got to go.”

I don’t give Garreth time to respond before I’m out of the herbology classroom. I vaguely hear Garreth and Professor Garlick calling after me but my mind, heart, and soul are tuned to the sound of another song: he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

The halls of Hogwarts pass me by as I dash down the stairs and across the stone floors. With nothing in my way, my legs take me farther and faster. It’s as if I’ve drunk a potion of speed. The beat of the song grows louder the longer I run. I have no clue where I’m running, but I know where to go. I’m going to him wherever he is.

_____

“Don’t go,” I whispered. My hand is in between his cold palms.

“She’s my family.” Ominis said the words like they were law.

“What about Sebastian, Anne, and I?” I asked. “I thought we were your family.”

Ominis opened and closed his mouth while his milky white eyes darted around. “It’s not the same.”

“But it is. You are my family. Please Ominis. I’ve already lost Professor Fig and almost lost Sebastian. I can’t lose you too.” I began to cry. I am not sure why, but I always seemed to cry in the Astronomy tower.

The stars were beautiful that night as Ominis tried to comfort me with vague promises. My hands were no longer in his, but now clutching his robes with an intensity I never knew I had. It was if I were to let go, he’d disappear. When I did let go the next morning, Ominis did vanish. He stepped on that boat and was gone.

_____

The cobbled stone of the pathway beneath my feeling echoed the sound of my boots. The early afternoon autumn sun beat down on my figure, inducing a sweat on my brow. Lacewing flies buzzed to the side as the faint sounds of the forbidden forest chirped in my ears.

Odd looks passed my way as I darted between wizards and witches promenading along the road. Nothing was going to stop me from where I was going–where I needed to be.

Soon I passed through Hogsmeade. The smells of candy and butterbeer crept into my senses. Each experience reminded me of him, of where I was running.

As the song grew louder, my feet ran faster, and my breath grew heavier. As I run, I can’t think of a time when I ran this fast without my life on the line. I ran too much during my 5th year at Hogwarts. I ran from goblins, poachers, and villains. I ran from myself and those I loved. I ran and ran and ran. I hated running yet here I was running once more. But this time I was running to something. I was running for something.

The song grew quiet. The urge to run faded. My feet stopped at the train station. Steam was still coming out from the head of the train. People stepped off and filled the station. My lungs heaved as I remembered to breathe. My eyes scanned over the crowd. I knew he’d be here. I believed.

People dispersed as they found their loved ones. Kisses were exchanged and hugs were given to those reunited. Each scene made my heart yearn. More and more people left, the more I grew worried. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I ran for no reason. Maybe I ran here just to run away. Maybe in my delusion and aching, I cried out for Ominis when he couldn’t hear me. Maybe…

There was no one at the station anymore. My breath collected and the sweat on my forehead cooled. It was just me in my uniform and the train about to depart. He was supposed to be here.

A noise came from behind me. It was either a cough or a grunt, I couldn’t tell, but I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to have misheard. My head turned around and there he was.

Ominis with his dirty blonde hair and star-kissed face stood on the platform in front of me. His eyes were nervous as he held his wand in front of him. In his other hand held his luggage.

For a moment neither of us said anything. I knew he knew I was there, just as I knew. I felt my heart skip and my face heat up at the sight of him. He was just as beautiful as the day he left.

“Y/N?” Ominis whispered. It was as if he didn’t dare to speak aloud, scared to break the dream.

“Y/N, I’m–” I silenced Ominis with a hug. My arms squeezed tight as my head buried itself into his chest. Ominis’s luggage dropped to the platform and his hand now free wrapped around me with as much vigor as I hugged him. He was here. His heartbeat underneath my ear beating faster than mine. His breath was on the crown of my head. Ominis was home and now so was I.

“You’re home,” I cried into his chest.

“I’m home,” Ominis soothed. “And I’m here to stay.”

I pull back from the hug and give him a look of disbelief. “What about your Aunt?”

Ominis chuckled. His foggy eyes float over my face. “All she asked for was my summer holidays. Other than that I’m yours. After all, Hogwarts is my home.”

My laugh sniffles my tears of joy. “Well then,” I said, “Let’s get you back to Hogwarts. I’m sure everyone is intrigued as to where I ran off to. After all, I did run out of herbology to find you.”

His eyes widened at my confession. “What about–”

“Doesn’t matter now that you’re here,” I smiled before locking his arm with mine. Once his luggage was back in his hand, the two of us left the station, loving smiles on our faces, hands held together with Hogwarts in our sights.

_____

Taglist: @bartokthealbinobat

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hoomandoescosplay · 1 month

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Anyone Else Isn’t You | Jegulus Oneshot

Anyone Else Isn’t You

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silaslich · 1 month

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Where There is Light, a Shadow Appears

Ghoap Hogwarts Professor AU

Part 2/10 - Honest Truths & Chance Encounters

Part 1 - here

Wc - 5.1k

No warnings

Taglist - @siriuswritingandart 🖤

It’s to the sound of screams, that John awakes.

The air in the room is stagnant and heavy.

It’s his own screams that have pulled him from his nightmare, a common reoccurrence since the incident - and sometimes even before that.

His chest heaves, sweat drips from his forehead and runs down his spine, his sheets are soaked through. He’s gasping for breath, trying to settle his aching lungs, his eyes scan the darkness but there is nothing there.

There never was.

He had placed wards around his room soon after he’d arrived, a common courtesy, to save anyone within earshot from losing sleep the way he does.

A silencing charm had been the first of many measures he put in place when unpacking what little things he had brought with him, John knows that his mind isn’t what it once was, he needn’t take the chance of finding letters slid underneath the crack of his door telling him to stop the noise past curfew.

John rubs his eyes, pressing his fingers into the sockets, cursing the pressure that sits behind his bad eye - rooted deep in his skull. It’s as if something is burrowed there, buried deep in the tissue, he can feel it pulse, but any diagnostic spell he casts brings up nothing of the sort. Only angry-smoky swirls of black and green, weaving around his mind, he doesn’t understand it.

Einar must sense John’s distress, he hoots quietly from his perch, fluttering his feathers in the darkness, the wizard can’t see him but he appreciates the birds concern.

Last night, Price had stared at John with a knowing look in his eyes, the pair illuminated by the full moon overhead, nestled within a blanket of stars. He might have retired early on into John’s career as an Auror, but Price always kept in touch with the Ministry, for other matters entirely, but on the condition that he was kept up to date about his team and their wellbeing.

He knew of John’s potential; his strengths lay in brewing up powerful potions used for both offence and defence, as well as healing and emergency first aid, but there was so much more then that below the surface. John was a fighter, as selfless as anyone could possibly be, and as much trouble as that landed him in, Price admired it. The way he would lay down his own life in the line of duty, to save countless others, it was the sign of a natural born Auror.

The proficiency in John’s wand-work and one-on-one combat was remarkable, an underdog of sorts, a bookworm with an interest in cauldrons and a childhood dream of becoming an Auror. Price had laughed.

He saw many just like him come in and out of the programme, some not even lasting a day, but with every challenge thrown at him - John flourished.

Right up until the day of the incident. John threw himself into the path of a curse meant for another, ending his career, disfiguring himself physically and mentally - forever, it seemed.

While he was honoured for his bravery and selflessness, John still felt cheated.

Price can tell it hurts. While he can’t empathise with John, he can help him through the grieving process, and he can at least try to understand what this must all be like for his friend. For everything to change so suddenly, to leave everything he’s ever known and move into a completely different field altogether - it’s daunting, it’s scary.

He understands, and Price vows to be with John every step of the way, he feels he owes it to his friend after everything he has sacrificed in the name of wizard kind’s safety.

John feels his eyes sting, too safe in the comfort of his old captain, he sets his jaw and tries to gather his racing thoughts. “Should we head up?” The young wizard queries, “m’shattered from the train”, while it isn’t entirely a lie - it’s at least something to change the subject.

Price scans John’s face a final time before nodding, releasing his hand that’s clasped to John’s shoulder. “Of course mate” he smiles softly, “oh- nearly forgot”, Price pulls out his wand and with a quick flick there’s a bright pop of light, as quick as the light appears - it’s gone again, leaving a large bottle of Firewhiskey clasped in Price’s hand. He hands it over to John, smiling toothily as the younger wizard inspects the bottle, it’s the expensive sort.

John smiles, the gift is lovely, it’s thoughtful - it appears Price still knows him well after all this time. “Think we should break this open when we’re inside” John eyes Price, gauging his reaction, the older man smiles wildly.

“I won’t tell the headmistress if you won’t”.

John doesn’t bother trying to get back to sleep, his nightmare has left him too unsettled and unnerved - images of the human-like beast still burned into the darkness when he closes his eyes.

Instead, he starts his day, cleaning and dressing himself before he sets about sorting out all of his paperwork that’s stuffed into his satchel. While he’d gone over all of it on the train he still doesn’t feel ready enough, he’s knowledgable enough for this job, probably more so then he needs to be - but John worries he won’t fit in.

He’s unserious at the best of times, he can’t stand the thought of having to take charge over a room full of teenagers, even when he was a student himself he never focused as hard as he should have. He was lucky enough that his chosen classes happened to be the ones that he exceeded in, it took little effort for him to pass with flying colours, he worries that his students won’t take him seriously enough that he can take them through the academic year and get them all up to scratch for their exams.

John has always been good at faking it until he makes it; he’s always had to plan and adapt, through both school and his Auror career. It’s a big part of life really, assessing new situations and acting accordingly, choices that in some cases, can mean life or death. He wants this to be the same.

Until he gets into the swing of things, he’ll just pretend, despite the nerves and negative thoughts, he’ll teach his classes and do exactly what he has been brought here to do.

He’s here to teach potions. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Nothing else is expected of him. It’s a simple enough task, he needs to recite what he knows in a way his students can follow and learn, and at the end of the day - he’s somewhere safe, with people he knows will keep him safe.

It’s time that he lets the past go, whats happened has happened and he can’t change it, so he needs to move forward with this new chapter in his life. Despite the way it stings and even if he thinks he’s not good enough, it’s time to move on.

A few hours later, and it’s a more appropriate time for breakfast. John easily navigates his way to the Great Hall, everything is steeped in nostalgia, it sends goosebumps rippling across his skin.

He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed Hogwarts, the day he left he’d vowed that his days there were behind him - how times have changed.

The gleaming suits of armour stand to attention as he walks by and the portraits natter absentmindedly amongst themselves, it’s all just background noise.

The set up of the Great Hall seems a tad overkill, especially considering that not all of the professors are back for the start of term yet. Some clearly try to hold on as long as possible before returning, due to their families and other commitments, John doesn’t share this problem.

The four house tables are as they usually are, but It’s only a few sections of each table that are adorned in silver plates and huge bowls; filled to the brim with everything from bacon and sausages to fruits and porridge. There is everything that anyone could possibly want, this is something else John finds he’s missed.

Price is sitting at the furthest end of the Gryffindor table, shoving a forkful of black pudding into his mouth as he thumbs idly through a copy of The Daily Prophet. Another thing John has missed, the domestication of life, no more hiding and running, no fear for resting or eating - worried something is lurking around the next corner. Nothing is hiding here, preying in the shadows and waiting for Price to look up from his paper so it can pounce.

John hurries over and sits across from the older wizard, returning the smile he earns as he begins piling food onto his plate. “Morning” Price offers up, rolling his eyes when he looks up to find John is unable to reply, his mouth too full of toast. Price closes his paper and sets it to the side, leaning against his elbows on the table and looking pointedly at John as he eats his breakfast, John feels his gaze and meets it - confused.

He swallows down his bacon and clears his throat, suddenly uneasy. Price purses his lips, looking from his plate to his hands, his fingers fidgeting with one another. “Did you sleep well?” Price asks, finally, still seeming sheepish. John thinks for only a split second before he answers, “not really” he replies, honestly. “I think I just need more time to settle, firewhiskey didn’t help as much as I hoped it would” he says, chewing the inside of his cheek, “I haven’t slept well since the incident-“ he has to swallow, “I’m not sure if it’s connected but I keep having these strange- sort of dreams” the words are a jumble from his lips, falling quicker then he can catch them.

Price won’t judge him, he knows this, but he still hates the thought of becoming too vulnerable. It’s different when you’re fighting fit and at the peak of your career, some self reflection is normal - it’s healthy. But talking about his thoughts and feelings when he feels like he could barely cast a counter-curse if he tried to, it’s a new low John has not yet met - not until now.

The older wizard nods in acknowledgment, still fidgeting with his fingers, he brings up his hands to rest his interlocked fingers against his lips, still thinking deeply. John watches, carefully, he can see the way Price’s eyes linger for too long on his scar again - his throat burns.

Price clears his throat, refocusing John’s attention, “John” he tests, still seeming tedious about the topic he’s trying his best to address. The younger wizard feels dread bleed down his spine, the fork that’s gripped in his palm is slick with his sweat and he tries his best to not let his mind jump to the worst case scenarios.

I’m sorry son, this just isn’t working. You’re just not ready for this. We’re going to have to let you go.

His mind is racing again, and once it goes, John struggles to get it to stop. It’s irrational, he knows this, and that’s why it’s so frustrating. Watching the ball get away from him, and he’s physically unable to run toward it and catch it.

The sound of Price clearing his throat breaks John out of his own head, gaining back his focus. “I wasn’t completely honest with you when I offered you this position”, the admission comes as a surprise, in John’s head, Price has never hidden anything from him. Price is a clean-cut, say it how it is kind of man, there’s no mincing of words or beating around a metaphorical bush - his dread turns to intrigue.

John cocks his head, setting his fork down onto his plate and mimicking Price in the way he leans on the points of his elbows. Price starts up again, “as soon as I heard about what happened to you I knew that I wanted you to teach here, I thought it would be a great stepping stone” he says, “I didn’t know the extent of your injuries so I thought that even if it was on a temporary basis that you could come here to recuperate, I realise now that isn’t the case” Price wets his lips before he continues on, “I want you to do well here and I want you to make this role your own, in whatever way you see fit, I know that when we originally exchanged letters about the position that you were worried you wouldn’t be suited to a teaching position - but I can assure you that isn’t true”. John hangs off of Price’s every word, his chest swelling with pride, it instils a confidence in him that he thought didn’t exist anymore. Price seems to falter, just slightly, “what I’m trying to say here John is that I really think this is what you were meant to do, you were great leader and a great mentor out there - you can still be that great here too” Price smiles, trying his best to hide it, watching as John’s grin widens.

But what has this got to do with Price being dishonest about something?

John opens his mouth to speak but is quickly shut down, “but” Price quickly blurts out, “that being said, there is still one major thing that I haven’t told you” John cuts in, “what could possibly be so bad that you’re so-“

“Simon is here, in the school, he’s our Defence Against the Dark Arts professor”

Price’s words cut through John like shards of ice. Out of everything he could have possibly said, John would have rather been told that there’s a right of passage to becoming a teacher here, meaning he must fight an Acromantula and win if he wants to stay. He can’t digest the words, Price must be kidding, this has all got to be one big elaborate joke at his expense - but Price isn’t laughing.

Yet, John is. It’s punched out of him in a way that hurts, it makes his chest ache with the effort of it. He’s laughing because this can’t be real, after everything else that has been going wrong in his life lately, he has to exist in the same vicinity as a man he would gladly never lay eyes on again for as long as he lives.

Price wears a look of concern, watching as John’s amused expression morphs into one of pain, he quickly clutches at his head, pressing his fingers against his bad eye. “You’ve got to be fuckin’ jokin’” John whispers, more to himself than to Price, but Price answers, whispering too. “I think it’s best that the two of you talk, sooner rather then later” Price notes John’s grimace, “it’s a good opportunity to break the tension before the start of term”.

While it makes logical sense, John has never seen himself as a logical man, he’s more of a suck it and see kind of man. You’ll never know if you never try. He’s always jumped in head first with things and thought of the consequences after, and up until recently it has always worked in his favour - so he doubts he’ll change anytime soon.

John stares at the half-eaten food that’s starting to go cold on his plate, he finds that he’s just not hungry anymore.

He had wandered aimlessly for hours after breakfast. Retracing steps from his adolescence, it all felt so strange, he’s seeing everything from a new perspective - he’d grown significantly after leaving Hogwarts.

While yes, the years had passed, not much had changed, not really. The portraits on the walls still greeted him as he traipsed by, telling him he looked familiar, the staircases still moved at the most inconvenient times and the elves still popped up in the most random places - usually scrubbing the floors or polishing the many suits of armour that stood around the castle.

It’s unproductive, John knows, but he’s still trying to wrap his head around what Price had told him.

Simon is here. He teaches here.

John never knew, but in fairness, he had never asked. He’d like to say it’s because he doesn’t care, but in actuality, it’s because he cares too much.

He’s always cared too much when it comes to Simon Riley, he’d lie once more and say that he doesn’t understand why, but they both know why. They’ve always known.

Thinking back to when he last saw him, John realises just how long it’s been, it’s two whole years since they last saw one another. While it isn’t a long stretch of time by any means, a lot has changed for the both of them in that time.

John sulks around the hallways, still not really knowing how he should feel, he feels betrayed by Price but at the same time - it was going to come to a head at some point between him and Simon, sooner or later.

They have too many shared connections not to bump into one another eventually, John supposed it was better that it would be on his terms rather than just a chance encounter in the street.

At some point, John reaches the kitchens, having descended the spiral staircase towards a lower part of the school. He had originally been aiming for his old common room, but found himself distracted by the smell of something baked and sweet.

There’s too many times to recount when he had snuck his way into the kitchens. The term ‘snuck’ being used very lightly; the so known ‘head elf’, Posie, was particularly fond of him. For reasons unknown, perhaps it was because he was kind, most wizarding families were - at least the ones that didn’t have their own house elves.

The wizarding families that still owned house elves were often of old blood, purists who believed that muggle-wizard relationships were utterly blasphemous, the topic of half-bloods and ‘mudbloods’ being seen just the same.

John came from an old wizarding family, but one that held absolutely no social status, they had no interest in that sort of thing and also saw nothing wrong with the idea of muggles and wizards coexisting and starting families. It was an outdated way of thinking in their eyes, their family name went back for hundreds of generations, as far back as Hogwarts itself being created.

It meant that John treated Posie and the other elves like they were actual living creatures rather than something unworthy of basic wizard decency. It wasn’t overtly rare at Hogwarts in John’s time for most of the students to be kind and gratuitous, it had been on the up and up over the years, but Posie still had a liking for John that couldn’t really be explained.

She catches sight of him in the kitchens, having to crane her neck up even more than she did when he was a teenager, he’d gotten so much taller since leaving Hogwarts. Posie practically jumps for joy, she pulls him by the hand towards the rows of tables, they mimic the ones in the Great Hall. She presses all different kinds of pastries into his hands, forcing him to try a bite of every single one, filling up his pockets with tarts and scones when he insists he needs to leave before he’s too sick and heavy to move. She’s as spritely in her older age as she had been ten years ago, chatting John’s ear off about what he’d been up to since he’d left, telling him how much she’d missed him and how often she’d thought of him and hoped he was doing well.

It warms John’s heart, knowing that the elf hadn’t completely forgotten about him after all this time, he hadn’t forgotten about her either.

“Well, you look worse for wear” Price’s sly grin only annoys John even more, he reeks of vinegar and his clothes stick uncomfortably to his skin as he sits across from his old captain, again, at the far end of the Gryffindor table.

He hadn’t spared the Hufflepuff barrels a second thought, he obviously wasn’t going to go in, it didn’t feel right considering he was a professor, even if the students were still yet to arrive. Yet, it seemed he still got a little closer then he should have, almost jumping six-feet in the air when a sudden jet of vinegar from the barrel hits him right between the eyes - soaking him completely through.

John grimaces, “I’d almost forgotten how funny you were” he says sarcastically, his eyes scanning around the room. Price raises a brow, “he’s not here you know” he speaks between forkfuls of cottage pie, “he had some things to attend to, won’t be back for a few more days”.

It’s as if an invisible weight is lifted from John’s shoulders. He wasn’t scared of seeing Simon, it would be a lie if he said he wasn’t dreading it, but he wasn’t scared. He just didn’t want to be caught off guard, he wants to know exactly what to say - but he can’t even begin to think of how he’d start that conversation.

He has a feeling Simon won’t be the most forthcoming either.

John scoffs, “what makes you think that’s who’m looking for” it’s a rhetorical question, one he doesn’t intend Price to answer, yet he does anyway. Price laughs, “your heads been on a swivel ever since this morning, your poker face is shit mate” as Price continues to laugh, the only thing John can think to do is mimic him - completely caught out by his old captain.

“Away a bile yer heid” the Scot spits his words but the venom is misplaced, aimed back at himself for being so transparent, he’ll have to get a grapple on that before Simon returns.

John wonders what’s pulled him away from Hogwarts in the first place. Perhaps he’s married now; maybe he even has a child, the possibilities are endless - and each new one John thinks up makes him feel more sick than the last.

Price and himself eat the rest of their meal in peace. It’s casual conversation for the rest of dinner; they talk about the upcoming school year as they leave the Great Hall, and they discuss this years Quidditch World Cup as they ascend the staircase that leads to the staff common area.

With each passing hour that bleeds from the late afternoon into the early evening, the bottle of firewhiskey drains closer and closer to the bottom.

The conversation has turned, and from there it begins to plummet.

“It really hurts y’know” John says, out of the blue. Price thumbs his glass, watching as the amber liquid sloshes and licks up the side of his glass, “your head?” He asks.

John tightens his lips, “no” he kisses his teeth with a wet shmack-ing sound, “ma head hurts but that’s no what a’mean” his accent begins to thicken as the alcohol thumps through his bloodstream - slow and lazy. John gestures his arms around the room, “this hurts” he starts, “should b’out there killin’ tha bastards tha did this” he snorts, “cannae even do tha” he grits his teeth and Price can hear it from where he sits across the other side of the coffee table.

Price sighs, “they’ll get them John” he says, “I’ll make sure of it - trust me on that one”, Price knocks back the rest of his drink, wincing at the sting of it against his throat. John scoffs, “trust” he repeats, “don’t know the meanin’ of the word do I” he mumbles to himself as he stirs his whiskey with his finger. “Don’t say that” Price’s words are curt, quickly bitten out, John doesn’t bat an eyelid. “S’true though” John slurs, “looket wha happened to Si” he wipes his nose with the backs of his fingers, the booze is making his mind slip.

The older wizard bristles, “don’t start that John”, he’s serious. Yet, John is ignorant to it, the words just keep on spilling. “S’ma fault he had to leave” a laugh falls from his lips, it’s a solemn one, masking the real pain that his words brings to the surface, “ma fault he’s stuck teachin’ ‘ere” John’s chest hiccups.

“That’s enough now!”

Price has raised his voice and it cracks the veneer that the booze has built up around John’s rationality. His eyes are wide and wet when he meets Price’s hard glare, whether or not the words are true, Price doesn’t want them speaking out into the open - because it means they mean something.

John watches as Price sighs, his thumb and pointer finger clutching the bridge of his nose, he refocuses his eyes on John before he opens his mouth to speak. “You did all that you could with what you had” Price reiterates, “if not for you John, then Simon may not be alive today” the words feel like a dagger to the gut, John isn’t ready to hear it all. The event itself is still so fuzzy, it was a blur of blood and teeth, the telltale sounds of agony as John tried his best to fully heal Simon before he was too late - to no avail.

Price is suddenly closer, and the wetness behind John’s eyes threatens to breach, “Simon appreciates everything you did John, no one could have done any better”, John shakes his head, forcing the dull throbbing-pain to creep back up on him.

He could have done better, he should have done better.

Sleep escapes John that night. He’s partly grateful for it, because he knows what waits for him in the darkness of slumber - the beast. As exhausted as he is, it’s hardly worth it in his eyes, he can brew up something to mask the fatigue, something to simulate sleep; but he can’t brew something to fix his shattered mind.

Not a cure at least. Draught of Peace could right him, but it would fade eventually, it wouldn’t last long enough for him to deem it worth while. It would just mask everything, it’d coat the surface but deep down he would still feel everything just the same.

The booze makes his limbs feel heavy, but his mind always seems heavier. He blinks slowly, seeing nothing in the darkness, he can hear Einar preening his feathers and he can hear rain beating against the windows. John tries to focus on those things, to keep himself awake, he can still relax, he just can’t fall asleep. He’s frightened, because he doesn’t understand, the incident and the nightmares must be connected - it’s too coincidental, but how?

John has never seen a creature in real life like the one in his nightmares. So he can’t understand why it seems so familiar to him, like he’s looked into those eyes before.

It’s too vivid, it’s too clear for him to not know what it means, when he closes his eyes even now, he can see it as clear as day.

As he lays in bed, trying to focus on the way the raindrops batter against the window, he hears a loud thud outside of his door, like it’s coming from the corridor. It makes him jump, he sits bolt upright in bed, quickly switching on the light that sits on his bedside table.

A few seconds pass by, and John listens carefully, his eyes wide and darting as he watches the crack beneath his door - looking for any kind of movement.

Another thud. He summons his wand into his hand, and despite the silencing charm on his chambers, he stays deathly quiet as he stalks towards his door. Another thud, heavy footsteps it sounds like, the beyond ancient floorboards of the school allow no one to sneak around.

John thinks himself stupid, it’ll just be a professor, or someone else wondering around the school. It’s probably Roach, a resident ghost, although he was mute and had never said a word throughout his whole living and dead existence, he made up for it with every other kind of noise he was able to make.

Just as John peels himself away from his door to go back to bed, a deep guttural growl bleeds through the crack under his door. It makes his blood run cold, the saliva in his mouth dries up instantly and his heart begins to race a mile a minute.

He’s heard that growl before.

John groans, suddenly clutching for his head, a deep shooting pain lodging itself behind his bad eye. Something inside of him cracks, whatever is causing the pain is connected to the nightmares and the strange beast he keeps seeing.

Without thinking, he swings open his door, wand in hand and poised to strike. Sweat gleams over his bare chest, he’s wearing nothing other then his ratty-plaid pajama bottoms, his chest heaves and his lips are bitten back into a sneer - not feeling at all ready to deal with whatever awaits him on the other side of the door.

He’s right to feel that way.

Simon stands alone in the darkness, illuminated by the soft amber light of the lamps that line the corridor walls. He looks oddly disheveled, sort of out of place. His clothes are askew and there’s mud on his hands, his hair is tousled and wet with what looks like sweat and - blood?

John is taken aback, he flushes with embarrassment, looking like a jumpy idiot, even an ex-Auror shouldn’t react quite as extreme as that. But he doesn’t know what to say or do, he lowers his wand and straightens his posture, eyes fixed on Simon’s face - it’s been so so long.

Simon’s face is devoid of any emotion. Even his eyes don’t shift or move upon seeing Johnny, nor does he react to having an Auror pointing a wand in his face, fully capable of blasting his head off if he had mis-identified him.

Simon simply stands still, and when his eyes do move, it’s only to look Johnny up and down entirely. From his bare feet to his wide-heaving chest, right up to his now mismatching eyes. His gaze lingers on the scar, on the mark of his curse, but still - Simon’s expression doesn’t change at all.

It’s only seconds that pass but it feels like hours to John. He stands stock still, processing the man that’s standing in front of him, a man he once called his friend.

Were they even friends anymore?

John watches as Simon moves forward, heading straight for the door that sits beside John’s room. He watches him unlock the door and step inside, without a single word.

John is left alone in the dimly lit corridor, his heart thumping against his sternum, wand gripped tightly in his hand.

What the fuck is going on?

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #alternative universe #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #john soap mactavish #cod modern warfare #cod mw ghost #cod mw soap #cod mw2 #hogwarts professor au #hogwarts au #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #ghoap fanfic #ghoap au #simon ghost riley x john soap mactavish #ghoap fic #ghoap #lichwrites

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liorlen · 6 months

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I kinda like the whole sorcerer!gale idea. I don’t have it as a headcanon bc, personally, I just think he was a super fucking nerd as a kid and decided reading magic textbooks was fun so he ended up casting spells quite early and not by accident like a magical bloodline sorc would (I think??).

But I like thinking of a sorc!gale au. It’s really funny and even a bit sad. I genuinely don’t know how someone with a sorcerer bloodline who trains as a wizard would work. I’d think his bloodline would either be very weak or he simply doesn’t have the charisma to control the sorc magic (sorry gale. your charisma is NOT high enough to multiclass into sorc).

#sorc gale au I think maybe he accidentally taps into sorc magic post orb/worm because the orb maybe cuts him off from his wizard training #in some way #and the magic feels different bc it’s sorc magic but he thinks it’s because the orb has permanently corrupted #and changed his ability to channel the weave #and he’s quite a bit weaker not only because of the orb consuming his wizard abilities but because #he never trained his sorcerer abilities #like an artist who can draw in pencil trying to learn how to paint #it’s a different skill set #I also like the alternative idea that the sorcerer magic had been supplementing him the entire time #but the orb consumed it #but that kind of downplays how powerful a wizard who properly studied can be I think #like ‘oh he was only a prodigy because he had sorc magic’ I think if it were that obvious he would have known #whereas if his bloodline was too weak to really be obvious early on and he just focuses on wizardry because he likes it #then it makes more sense to me #also. storm sorcery but post orb/worm wild magic #Len text

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enjoylifes-world · 8 months

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Harry Potter potion classeroom 🪄

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aeide-thea · 7 months

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(okay the crotch sashiko post is making me a little insane bc like. huge love and respect for visible mending but i gotta say i would Not personally wear a pair of pants out in public ft. a swathe of bright yellow Xs drawing onlookers' attention to my groin unless i really and truly had no other option????)

#like maybe some ppl DO feel totally unfazed by that prospect‚ and more power to you if that's you #but it just seems like there's a wide range of possible approaches btwn 'do a bright yellow crotch repair' and 'buy brand new pants'?#and suggesting that ppl‚ say‚ thrift a replacement pair instead of buying brand new ones #or alternatively buy from companies who are working to reduce how much water it takes to produce their denim #(and hang onto the old denim to use for patching future rips in less sensitive areas)#seems like it might be a more plausible approach #for ppl who are trying to mitigate their environmental impact but also‚ you know‚ exist in the ordinary social world #(i mean clearly the BEST approach = 'be tumblr user fourpatch & deploy yr astonishing textile wizardry to produce genuinely subtle mends')#(but like. we cannot all be 4p‚ alas)#anyway. hashtag normieposting i realize #but it just seems 2 me like. probably there are ppl out there who would like to be less wasteful but aren't ready to become full-on hippies #and like probably it would be more useful to present those people with paths that feel possible for them #than to be like 'actually you can totally become a full-on hippie‚ it's great and i recommend it!!'#like. true! but. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

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akechiguro · 1 year

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In The Shadow of Kin

oneshot | alternate universe, hurt/no comfort, character study

Synopsis | An alternate universe where Sebastian’s Killing Curse was intercepted by Anne.

Word Count | 2.4k.

Content Warnings | heavy arguments, angst, hurt/no (very little) comfort, depression, attempted murder.

also posted on ao3!

Sebastian’s breath was hard and heavy, each inhale felt like a ton of bricks weighing on his lungs. His mind was clouded by judgment, a poor one at that, and practically all he could see was red.

Pure hatred coursed through his veins. His wand felt heavy in his hands, grip so tight he was certain he was going to snap the poor thing. Sebastian huffed, shooting Solomon an angry glare before the demon on his shoulder took over.

He barely thought about it before the words left his mouth, before his wand was raised offensively in the air; “I won’t let you hurt her…” He muttered, voice laced with the venom of a thousand snakes, “AVADA KEDAV—“

“Expelliarmus!”

Sebastian staggered, wand knocked completely out of his hand with the force dragging him with it. He groaned, bringing himself back to focus to see who did that. Did they know what they were doing? Did they know what they were condoning!? Solomon was going to hurt Anne, he wasn’t ever going to allow her to get better, she will die in his care—

“Sebastian, what in Merlin’s name were you thinking!? Don’t tell me that’s the spell I think it was!” The voice was feminine, fiest laced underneath pained groans. It was all too familiar.

He froze, staring just past a stunned Solomon as he processed. His hands trembled like mini earthquakes in his muscles, mind still fogged and rotted with dark thoughts and deadly impulses. If he didn’t know better, he would assume one glare from his person would kill a man. The thought ingrained itself so far into his brain that he couldn’t even bring himself to look at his attacker.

He had to eventually. Though it was probably only a few seconds, it felt like an eternity of watching the small spiders on the wall crawl past Solomon into their webs. Solomon was staring at him, sure, but her gaze was digging into him like knives. If Sebastin moved an inch in her direction, he was almost certain it would pierce the skin, sending small drops of black blood into the catacomb’s sand. He couldn’t face her. Not now. He didn’t want to, not while he wasn’t himself, but…

Sebastian turned slowly, his head moving before his eyes actually did. He didn’t like what he saw. Anne Sallow, hunched over in pain with one arm held in the other, looked furious. It was bittersweet, looking at her; he hadn’t seen her use her wand this intensely in years. The color returned to her face, hollow cheeks and sunken eyes finally filled with emotion. Only, his wand laying on the other side of the room was a result of her (very little) strength. The expression on her sickly face was clearly one of rage. The healthiest she’s ever looked, ironically, is the maddest she’s ever been.

Sebastian didn’t say anything for a while. He just stared at her, then to his hands to try and process what he was about to do. Murder Solomon Sallow? Could he live with the burden of taking the life of his caretaker? Anne’s more than his— Solomon’s been taking care of Anne far better than he has. If his spell made contact, it would’ve ruined her life far worse than it would’ve ruined his.

All he could muster was a pathetic, “Anne, I…”

“Anne, you…what!? Sebastian, what were you about to do!?” She demanded, stomping over. A small part of him felt pride watching her walk with such determination. The other knew what would follow wasn’t going to be good, and ultimately, it trumped over the pride with ease.

He panicked, shooting a glance between her and Solomon. “I was…I was just trying to—,”

“You were going to kill him!” Anne shrieked, clear disbelief in her words. “You were going to kill Solomon, weren’t you!? Did you think about what that would do at all!?”

“Listen, please—,”

“What was your plan, then? Kill Solomon and then take care of me in his stead? What about school? What about Ominis!? Do you think it’s fair to him for both of us to be withdrawn from school because of something so stupid!?” Sebastian, in all his 15 years, had never seen Anne so angry. Actually, this is probably the most intense emotion he’s ever seen from her.

“I wasn’t thinking!” He managed to yell, taking a step back. She looked catatonic, like a ticking time bomb except if she exploded Sebastian was sure it was going to be nuclear. “I— it…it was a heat of the moment thing. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t—“

“The curse wouldn’t have worked if you didn’t mean it. I saw the green sparks flying out of it before I knocked your wand out of your hands! Clearly you weren’t thinking, Sebastian. I’d be surprised if you have any brain in that bloody head of yours,” She spat.

Solomon, finally out of shock, stomped over to Anne’s side. He offered her a hand, which she took to lean on for support. “Boy, do you know what kind of trouble you’ll be in for this?”

Sebastian’s breathing picked up again. Hard, heavy, and angry, the rage slowly being replaced with fear was quick to bubble back up from the surface. Trouble? He didn’t do anything! The relic is destroyed (not by him, mind you) and his stupid plan of action didn’t actually happen. What kind of trouble could he possibly get in for this!? Who the hell did Solomon think he was?

“You’re not letting me talk,” Sebastain growled, clenching his fists in aggravation. “If you let me explain the bloody situation then maybe you wouldn’t—“

“There’s nothing to talk about. What you just did was attempted murder.” Solomon stated, and the venom in his tone felt familiar. It felt like Anne, only he didn’t get this angry every time she talked to him. Solomon had a way of digging under his skin and strategically getting on every single one of his nerves.

Sebastian could only roll his eyes. Nothing to talk about!? They had everything to talk about! Nobody ever communicates with him, things would be so much easier if people just let him talk… “Can you just let me and Anne sort this out alone?” He groaned.

Anne’s face showed pure offense. “Do you really think I’d feel safe having a moment alone with you?” She snarled, brows furrowing lower if that was even possible. “You really have gone crazy, Sebastian,”

Sebastian stared.

And stared.

Until it hit him.

I almost killed my uncle.

I Almost killed Solomon Sallow.

He almost killed Solomon. He almost took away his sister’s only source of safety, the only one who can…

…the only one who can actually help her.

Deny was the first course of action he wanted to do. He wanted to say, “this is a big misunderstanding and we should move on”, “I said the wrong spell”, “I never meant to hurt him”, but he’s smart enough to know he couldn’t. How do you come back from that? From almost killing the only thing keeping your sister safe, besides yourself?

Wishful thinking. Sebastian couldn’t keep Anne safe, not anymore. She didn’t even feel safe enough to be alone with him right now, and honestly he couldn’t blame her. He wouldn’t either…

…He wouldn’t feel safe if Anne had used an Unforgivable Curse…

He’s kidding nobody but himself. If Anne even knew the Unforgivables, it’s because he would’ve taught them to her. Encouraged their usage. It’s more accurate to admit he’d feel less safe if Anne didn’t know the curses, since it meant she wouldn’t have the ultimate self defense at her disposal. He would need to be there for her. But the thing between him and keeping Anne safe is that bastard Solomon Sallow.

He took too long to respond. “You’re not even going to say anything back?” Anne shouted, gripping the sleeve of their father’s brother and holding her stomach with the other. She was wincing in pain, but too angry to do anything but yell at Sebastian.

Solomon whispered something to her, still glaring daggers into Sebastian before she shook her head and yelled at him to leave. Though reluctantly, he obliged.

Sebastian watched him walk off, a sick sense of joy filling his mind when he was out of sight.

It was quickly stomped out. “What happened to the Sebastian I grew up with? The careful, kind one who always made sure he would protect me?”

“I was trying to protect you,” He pleaded, walking closer. Anne took a step back, only making him feel worse. “You’re never going to get better if Solomon doesn’t let you try anything to get healed!”

“Sebastian, how many times have we talked about this!? Nothing is going to work! You’re getting yourself in trouble for nothi— AGH!” She screeched, gripping herself harder as she fell to her knees. She groaned, trying to keep herself steady.

Instinctively, Sebastian ran over, a hand outstretched and ready to help her— only for her to swat his hand back and scooch away. The way she looked at him, it was clear she harbored no positive feelings in the moment.

Sebastian blinked, too sad and confused and angry to move closer or away. “There- there has to be a way, Anne, and I think I’m close to a breakthrough! The- the relic didn’t work, but the new fifth year, the one I introduced you to— they have an ability that can take away the pain of others!” He explained, mood swinging right back to excitement. “Once they learn how to control it, or…or even how to do it, you’ll be healed—“

“Can you please give it up, Sebastian?” Anne whined, hobbling back upright. “I don’t want your friend’s help. This…ability sounds fake, anyway—“

“I know! But I’ve seen them do it—“

“Solomon accepted a long time ago that I…I’m not ever going to be cured. He’s trying to make me more comfortable before…” She trailed off. Sebastian chose not to auto fill the rest of the sentence in his head. “I understand you’re worried, Sebastian, but nothing you’re doing is going to help. It’s all pointless.”

Pointless? No, it couldn’t be. She didn’t know what the new fifth year was capable of. She didn’t know what Isadora Moganarch could do, and since she and the new student share the same power, certainly that meant they could heal Anne—

“I’ve lived with you long enough to know when you’re still thinking about things, Sebby,” Anne chuckled lightly, the episode of pain sapping away any of her previous anger— or perhaps, her energy. She sounded exhausted from such a short burst of energy. “For my sake, give it up.”

Sebastian shook his head, oblivious to the tears welling up in his eyes. “No…no, Anne, I can’t give up. I can't watch you suffer for the rest of your life. A cure is so close, if you just give me a bit of time…” No matter how much he tried to explain it, his words fell upon deaf ears. Anne just wasn’t listening to him. Why has she given up so easily? Why was she just accepting her own pain, her own death?

He didn’t know when it happened, but he broke down sobbing. Ugly, disgusting sobbing that made it hard to recognize himself. His legs buckled, and it felt almost like an out-of-body experience, like his own ghost was watching him break down on the floor— because of what? Because Anne wasn’t listening to him? Because he almost killed Solomon? Because he was probably going to go to Azkaban for this? Too many reasons.

At some point, Anne sat next to him, rubbing his back. He felt lightheaded. He could hardly catch his breath, and he couldn’t stop the tears from coming. It was so visceral, such a deep reaction, he felt embarrassed having it happen. He clung to Anne like a Niffler to treasure, burying his face in the crook of her neck. And he sobbed. He couldn’t think of anything else. Her warmth felt nice, comforting. Her scarf was soft. He felt like a baby in her arms, crying and crying without stopping for what felt like hours and all she did was sit there and comfort him.

When did it become about him?

…

Some time passed. Ominis came at some point to help Anne get Sebastian back to Feldcroft without him running off the nearest cliff, or even just to help him up, he didn’t really have the energy to remember.

The new fifth year was there when he woke up the next morning, accompanied by Ominis. Anne and Solomon were nowhere to be found. Ominis explained, rather harshly, that they didn’t feel safe in Feldcroft at the moment and are temporarily staying somewhere else. The new student told him they managed to get him out of going to Azkaban, though, it took a lot of convincing and an Obliviate threat for Solomon to agree not to press charges. That must’ve lost favor with Anne.

He felt himself sinking into a gutter, or maybe to the bottom of the Black Lake, or maybe the pressure was just in his head.

He didn’t deserve to roam free. Someone had to know that. He didn’t want to be free, he needed to atone for something. He blatantly disrespected the boundaries of his best and oldest friend, forcing the use of the Dark Arts around him despite knowing Ominis’ trauma with it. He manipulated the new fifth year, far worse than he could ever see himself realistically doing. He thought he was better than such cruel methods, playing with feelings. He almost killed Solomon. Surely attempted murder was enough to make everyone realize he needed to be locked up?

He didn’t know what to do. Nothing felt right. He didn’t know if he was grateful for what his friends did for him or if he wanted to strangle them and bash their heads in for not holding him accountable for something so…

Anne told Ominis she couldn’t forgive Sebastian, or at least not anytime soon. She left a note, but the new student wasn’t letting him read it for fear of how he would react. Anne would never talk to him again. Not for a long time.

Really…was there any reason to keep going?

#harry potter #hogwarts #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #hogwarts au #hogwarts legacy spoilers #angst #hurt #hurt/no comfort #character study #alternate universe #au #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #takes place during in the shadow of the relic

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withlove-iza · 9 months

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stargazer — ssle

SYNOPSIS. in which lily evans doesn't know what to make of her brilliant academic rival severus snape.

WARNINGS. academic rivals to lovers , might be slight toxic , possessive lily evans and possesive severus snape — nothing else that i know of yet !!

STATUS. ongoing

EXTRA. there is only one thing that LILY EVANS cares the most about : her grades. nothing gets her more on edge than not knowing something. her best friends, REMUS LUPIN and TERESA BERLITZ would never understand the thrill she get from being a supposed know—it—all.

although, there was only one who can be a potential threat to her being the most intelligent student. SEVERUS SNAPE. for some reason, he is just as smart as she is, if not more! and nothing irks her more than this.

but as she gets close to him owing to the fact that they are both prefects, she must decide if she is willing to change her opinions or not.

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catofadifferentcolor · 1 year

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Terrible Fic Ideas #13: Harry Potter, but make it Tudor

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I'm fascinated by domestic history. It's part of why I tend to rewatch Victorian Farm, Tudor Monastery Farm, and the like at least once a year, and why I'm currently reading Judith Flanders' brilliant Inside the Victorian Home.

All of which, naturally, made me wonder: what if the wizarding world really was that backwards? Or more accurately: what if the wizarding world doesn't just look backwards? What if almost everything about it failed to move past, say, the year 1500?

Bear with me:

If you go back and read the accounts of just what it took to maintain a household even as late as 1899, it quickly becomes very clear that magic in place of a small army of servants and/or farm laborers is not only exceptionally efficient, it is possibly the only way to maintain the level of aspiration the guidebooks of the time suggest.

Contrariwise, there is very little that modern technology can do re: housekeeping and/or farm labor can do that magic can do substantially better. (For one example, any muggle has the means to handle any vermin problem that may occur in their home, whereas pre-1900 magic might be the only way to not have a vermin problem.)

Ergo, given the separation between wizards and muggles, its not inconceivable for wizards to believe they truly have it better - and, indeed, are better, because they don't spend half their life living in their own filth &c.

So just imagine what an HP that followed this logic might be like:

Much of the early years at Hogwarts are spent teaching children household and/or farming charms - things students would really have needed to survive even 100 years ago - or things that help build up skills needed to do household charms. As a consequence, the average Third Year student knows spells to black a stove, separate coals from cinders, chop vegetables, keep knives sharp, do the washing, and keep soot and ash in the chimney, but knows very little of magical theory, or indeed how to do much of anything with magic that can't be done as quickly and just as well with modern technology.

In fact, in this universe Third Year is when OWLs are held and is school leaving age for most. After all, only those with means have use for the magical theory and advanced studies that come after, much as how a very small percentage attended university in the Middle Ages.

As a result, most muggleborns and muggle-raised witches and wizards leave Hogwarts after Third Year and return to the muggle world. There's just nothing in it for them, and with how insular everything is only a handful ever realize there's more to magic than enchanting your brooms to sweep themselves. This does not help the opinion most purebloods have of muggles or muggleborns.

I really don't have much, or anything, of a plot beyond this. Mostly I just want to see an HP that, for all anyone in it is concerned, hasn't moved beyond the early Tudor period.

Perhaps that's all the plot would be: Harry reconciling himself to this strange new old world he's found himself in, wherein no one has ever heard of the Church of England (wizards practice a curious syncretism of Catholicism and Celtic paganism, complete with monasteries and the wheel of the year) and still think plagues strike the muggle world with considerable regularity. The Hogwarts Express remains a painful bone of contention between traditionalists and modernists, with most on both sides absolutely certain it's only magic keeping the muggle invention traveling faster than 20 mph and not exploding at any given moment.

In this world, Hermione and her ilk try to explain that the muggle world has advanced - you don't need spells to keep the heat from the fireplaces circulating throughout the room, central heating is a thing; I can just buy my own cheese, I've never seen a cow in my life; &c - but they are very firmly shot down each time, with some professors going so far as to give them detention for telling tales. Only the most stubborn stay even through Third Year to get to the good stuff.

Harry's not overly fond of more cleaning either, but it's better than the Dursleys, and admittedly with his rich Potter background he's shunted into some of the more interesting classes as well - the ones purebloods with house elves to do the cleaning get to take.

The only reason Weasleys do all seven years is because Mrs Weasley has aspirations for her children, even if they rarely follow it.

Voldemort in this universe is a little less I hate muggles than he is I hate that muggles have advanced beyond what magic can do, and therefore I fear them, though he plays into the first to get followers. There're no Horcruxes, just a Voldemort that advocates complete separation of wizarding and muggle, with muggleborns not being allowed to return to their parents after discovering magic - indeed, being taken away from their parents and raised by wizards after the first expression of accidental magic. He also advocates magical research that will keep wizards ahead of the muggles, which his opponents consider Dark or unnecessary or both.

Dumbledore in this universe is the mirror of Voldemort - he too sees that the muggles are clearly outpacing wizards, but his way of handling this is to make the wizarding world seem unthreatening to muggles. He wants to adapt on the surface - Yule to Christmas - and bide their time until the muggles are no longer a threat, either from successful reintegration or superior magics or the inevitable muggle plague that regresses their society. (In his world, there is no doubt wizards will come out ahead, because they've been at this for millennia whereas muggles only just figured out how not to live in their own filth. The average wizard is superior to the average muggle in every way, &c.)

...Okay, I guess there is some plot, but only in as much as failure to notably advance changes the shape of Voldemort's goals.

Bonuses include: 1) coming to terms with Tudor/Victorian clothing, most notably Hermione ranting at how is she supposed to do anything in a thousand skirts, corset, and heels? to which an adult or older student replies, why would a witch need to do anything? Possibly with the addition of physical exertion is dangerous for young women. 2) Harry taking the top of the class in household charms. 3) Ron letting slip that they learn things like magical theory in upper years after Hermione gets frustrated at it's lack, and instead of SPEW Hermione tries to advocate for teaching anything but household magic before most muggleborns drop out. (Nearly everyone in power thinks she's acting above her station, and what kind of witch fails to realize that household spells are the most useful and important magic separating them from muggles anyway?)

That's really all I have - an HP with a culture that's not so much evolved separately as stalled out of lack of need to evolve, and a plotless exploration of those cultural differences. Or maybe a plot concerned with now that we're faced with the need to evolve, how do we do it?

As always, if anyone choses to adopt, please let me know.

More Terrible Fic Ideas

#plot bunny #harry potter #fic ideas #hp #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #wizarding world #wizarding society #tudor history #alternate universe #society and culture #hermione granger #ron weasley #albus dumbledore #voldemort #tom riddle #technological advancements #technological progress

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moonlightfaust · 6 months

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ブシン〜ウィザードリィオルタナティブ〜 Wizardry: Tale of the Forsaken Land (PS2, 2001)

#ブシン〜ウィザードリィオルタナティブ〜#BUSIN: Wizardry Alternative #Wizardry: Tale of the Forsaken Land #Wizardry #Racjin #Dungeon Crawler #DRPG #RPG #Playstation 2 #PS2

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j-runes-stele · 2 years

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Expect the Unexpected Part 1 (Mattheo Riddle)

TW: cussing, cheating, and violence. Sorry if I missed any!!

Word Count: 861

The Riddle name? Need I say more? Mattheo's brother Tom has terrorized everyone at the school, and so you just assumed that Mattheo was like his brother. With Voldemort being their father, there was little to no compassion when the boys were growing up. However, that still did not stop you from fearing them. Mattheo could not stand you because you were a goody-two-shoes and privileged. Mattheo assumed you never had to lift a finger and have been told no. That was his rationale as to why he would bully you because you have never felt like he felt.

So, when Snape had assigned you to tutor Mattheo, you groaned in annoyance. Him? Why do I have to help him, of all people? I am his victim, and I now have to help him?

After class, you worked it out, and Mattheo would come to your dorm room at 8:30 so you could tutor him.

You were walking back to your dorm after dinner. It was 8 at this point, and you walked past your boyfriend's dorm and heard two voices moaning. The door was opened ajar, and you saw your boyfriend in bed with your one and only friend.

'What the fuck?' You thought to yourself, pissed. You are seething in pure rage as you get ready to tutor your bully. You were sharpening your pencils and setting them on the desk in a neat arrangement when you heard knocking. You looked up to see Mattheo. It was only 8:25; he was actually early?? He rolled his eyes as he walked in and took a seat. You were helping him with his homework when you heard your boyfriend at the door. You are still furious and grab the first thing your hand touched, which was the sharpened pencils. As Mattheo leaned back in the chair to stretch, he watched the pencil fly past him and impale the wooden doorframe. The sharpened pencil was a mere inch away from your boyfriend's face.

"Babe, what the hell is your deal?" Your boyfriend snarls.

"How is y/f/n (your friend's name)?" You interrogate.

"I have no idea what you are talking about?" He spits back.

"Now that is bullshit. If you want to cheat on your next girlfriend, I highly recommend closing your door all the way." You comment and see your boyfriend's eyes go wide.

"It is not what it looked like." He pleads.

"Really, it is not what it looked like? Cause what it looked like to me from my point of view was you cheating on me with my one and only friend here! It looks like you were really enjoying her." You counter, now on your feet, gripping the desk so you don't do something you will regret.

“Why do you think I was with her? She doesn’t have so much baggage from her past, unlike you! You are so fucking insecure; I am actually finally glad you found out, so we are officially over.” He states as your eyes widen.

"How long? How long have you been cheating on me with my friend?" You ask, not wanting to hear the answer but knowing you need to hear the answer.

"About a month." He flatly answers.

"Get out." You mutter.

"What bitch?" He asks.

"I said GET OUT before the next pencil I throw lands in between your eyes." You seethe and see him bolt back to his dorm room. You walk over to the window, shaking like a leaf, and run your hand over your face and then rub the back of your neck. When you turn back around to face Mattheo with a fake smile plastered on your face.

"So, where were we?" You ask, trying to forget the past hour.

"I-I think I got the hang of it," Theo responds.

"Oh, that is great. Can I see it?" You ask.

"Yeah, sure." He says, knowing that he did not completely grasp the concept.

"Theo, you lied. You have half of the answers wrong." You say after checking his work over.

"Sorry, can you go over it again?" He asks, and you nod your head. Appreciating the feeling of being needed, unbeknownst to you, Theo knew you needed to feel needed right now, so he purposefully put down the wrong answers for half of them.

After 30 minutes, Theo said he finally told you he understood the concepts and started to gather with schoolwork.

"Thank you, Y/N," Theo says when he stands up.

"No problem, that is why I tutor." You explain.

“You do know that you are not a burden?” Theo suddenly blurts out, as if he didn’t have control over what he said.

"What?" You ask, and Theo restates the question.

"Uhm, yeah- yeah. I know." You stammer out, trying to sound convincing, but your faltering voice gives you away.

"Well, let me just tell you. You are not a burden." Mattheo says as he walks out of your dorm and closes the door behind him. As soon as the door closes, you lean against the wall and collapse on the floor. The wave of emotions finally crashes into you as you process the day's events.

#mattheo riddle #y/n #alternate universe #enemies to lovers #hogwarts #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #mattheoxreader #slytherin

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eject19 · 2 months

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I am begging for someone to write a fanfic au on the band members of queen if they wnet to hogwarts(their houses: Rog-Gryffindor,John-Hufflepuff,Freddie-Slytherin,Brian-Ravenclaw)Based on the au art by @svetanda

#queen band #alternate universe #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry

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silaslich · 25 days

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Where There is Light, a Shadow Appears

Ghoap Hogwarts Professor AU

Part 3/10 - Old Habits & Old Hauntings

Part 1 - Here Part 2 - Here

Wc - 4.2k

No warnings

Taglist - @siriuswritingandart @wheezytomato

For the first time in a long time, John had awoken with the rising sun, buttery rays drifting through the gaps in his curtains, stinging his eyelids.

Despite this, there’s something heavy that sits in his chest, perhaps it’s anticipation, but John is wholly convinced it’s his fraying nerves and ever increasing anxiety.

He’d woken up feeling fine, albeit a little tired, but fine nonetheless. It was just as the day went on, something was nagging in his chest, making his stomach flip and roll any time he thought about meeting all of the students and the entirety of the faculty together for the first time. John supposed it was normal, to feel some anxiety, he had never been good at first impressions.

His ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude wasn’t going to cut things, because he needed to care, and he needed to make a good example.

It’s in the confines of his classroom that he begins brewing Draught of Peace. He has a good amount of time before he needs to prepare for the sorting ceremony and feast, but he knows how temperamental the aforementioned potion can be to brew - so he won’t take his chances.

John has brewed this potion a hundred times over, it had been a common supply for all Aurors, to take the edge off and calm their minds. It’s no trouble for him; he adds his ingredients in the correct order and with the exact measurements required, just an extra grain of powdered porcupine quill could make the entire mixture explode.

He stirs the mixture seven times clockwise, and then another seven times counter-clockwise. Then he adds the final ingredient, hellbore, and he finishes it up by lowering the flames and letting it simmer for exactly seven minutes. Not a second longer.

He’s relieved when he’s met with a silvery vapour pouring upwards from his cauldron at the end of the seven minutes. He leaves the mixture to cool, letting it bubble away as he fetches and cleans some bottles to decant it into, he’s made enough for roughly ten small doses - he’s not overly optimistic about his mindfulness for the next few days.

John realises, as he’s buffing his bottles and putting away his ingredients, that this is what he’s been missing. He hadn’t had any time to properly get stuck back into his potion making, he hadn’t done it for a long time even before he came to Hogwarts, due to the incident.

It soothes him. Having his mind busy, letting it get lost in the myriad of memorised recipes and ingredient usage write ups.

Now that he’s in the midst of it, it seems like it was such a simple solution all along, to get his hands dirty.

The Scot has managed to brew his own creations entirely; potions that melt skin and draughts that simulate the worst kinds of emotions and scenarios anyone could ever wish upon anyone. Yet, on the other hand, he’s also brewed a cure for broken bones and created an elixir that stops internal bleeding. For every bad thing he’s created, he’s made something good from it too, it’s a give and a take.

John wants to get back to that. Back to the boy that didn’t sleep for three days because he had to, just had to, read the latest publication from one of his favourite potioneering authors; he wants to get back to the teenager that flew threw his potions N.E.W.T. with flying colours, with one of the best, if not the best, scores and grades in the history of Hogwarts itself. He wants to get back to the Auror that was feared by enemy ranks, knowing he was capable of much more than just curses and hexes.

He was made for this, and he finds it’s time that he got back to it, so he starts as he means to go on. While his cauldron is still hot from the burner, he begins brewing Draught of Living Death - for his seventh years.

Two hours pass by him in what seems like the blink of an eye. He doesn’t even register the time, he’s too engrossed, too enthralled in his books and his potions. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled messily to his elbows and his fingertips are sullied with murtlap syrup and bezoar juice, some of it is splattered as far up as his tattoo. The one on his forearm, the crest of his Auror division, they’re all marked the same, matching. John huffs, annoyed at his hair, he uses the back of his hand to press his hair back out of his face, it’s getting too long.

Through the plumes of green smoke and the sizzle-crackle-and-pops of his cauldrons, he hears a knock against the creaky-old-door of his classroom. “Come in!” He shouts over the chaos, he has three cauldrons on the go now, his books are strewn about his work surface and although he hasn’t noticed it, a stray leech is making its away across his desk. His back is to the door, and as much as he’d like to greet his visitor with a smile, he can’t stop stirring the mixture just yet. “Gimme a second I’ll be right there” he says tongue in cheek as he squints his eyes to focus, making sure the mixtures colour stays a consistent pale blue. John is met with only silence, but he thinks nothing of it.

Once he’s finally satisfied with the state of his potion he grabs a cloth from across his work surface, cleaning his hands and fingers as he turns to greet whoever has paid him a visit.

John’s eyes land on his visitor before his mind can process what to say, he’s face to face with Simon once more.

Unannounced. Uninvited. Unwanted.

Simon stands a good foot taller than John, and it’s made even more obvious in the way Simon chooses to hold himself. He takes up so much space, his wide shoulders are offset by the thick of his arms as he stands with them crossed over his chest. Dark tattoos peek out from under his sleeves, John’s eyes find a specific one first, drawn to it. Simon looks down at John, physically, tilting his head and looking past him, scanning over the mess of his bubbling cauldrons and the scattered chaos of all of his books. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, “still a bookworm then?” It’s a rhetorical question, and the way he says it makes it seem like it’s a bad thing.

Not all of us can be dumb as a rock, John thinks.

Simon’s expression flattens, “careful Johnny”.

Shit

John has never been great at occlumency. Simon had tried to teach him when he first joined up, but John’s mind was a perplexing one. It was just so busy. It was so hard for him to focus on shutting everything away, he couldn’t discern what was worth hiding and what wasn’t. He focused too much on the wrong things, hiding away memories such as breaking his mother’s favourite vase when he was eight or accidentally setting his charms professor’s classroom on fire in his fourth year. While his mind would subconsciously free up the darker subjects, the ones he should keep buried a little further into his memories, it meant that John wasn’t trusted with extremely delicate information - the chances of him getting caught and his mind being ripped apart for such information just wasn’t worth the risk.

Simon on the other hand, it was second nature. Born gifted with talents for both legilimency and occlumency. Due to that fact it had often been a subject of contention amongst the team, mainly between Simon and John.

He was too good at it in John’s opinion, it got to the point that he didn’t know when he was speaking to the authentic Simon or the one that shut his mind off from anything and everything. He supposed it’s one of the many things that made Simon a great Auror, to have such power over his own mind and too over other peoples, he could sift through someone’s mind completely undetected; and could also string someone’s mind into tatters to get the information he wanted.

John leans his hip against his desk, mimicking Simon in the way he crosses his arms across his chest. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t use legilimency on me Simon” he tries his best to seem stoic, but even without reading his mind, Simon can read John like an open book.

The older wizard squares off his shoulders, nodding his head just once. “Force of habit, I suppose” he says cooly, shamelessly staring at John’s bad eye and the scars that go with it. Simon wears his own number of scars, accumulated from not only his Auror career - but from his youth too, John only hopes that it is curiosity alone that peaks Simon’s interest.

John nods, looking down toward the floor, but he can still feel Simon’s eyes, it makes his face burn. There’s a silence that descends, while it’s awfully stifling, it isn’t as awkward as John had thought it would be. He had been dreading seeing Simon, more so dreading the first interaction after not seeing each other for so long, but he finds that he’s telling himself that it could be worse. He isn’t counting their encounter in the corridor the other night, he can’t really say that it was real, they both surprised each other - now that one was awkward.

When John gazes up, Simon is still looking at him. He tilts his head, “there somethin’ on my face?” John asks, and for a moment, Simon doesn’t respond. He blinks hard, “Price told me what happened” he says, John shakes his head, “did he now?”.

He’s not bothered that Price told Simon about the incident, he would have ended up hearing about it from someone eventually, especially if he’d seen the cover up pasted all over the front page of The Daily Prophet. John just wished that he could pretend it never happened, but he knew that the scars would bring questions, so he supposes he may as well just crack on with it.

Simon hums an affirmative, “he said you took a nasty curse to the head” John’s brows knit together, “yeh, somethin’ like that” he mumbles, not wanting to dwell on the subject. He can tell in the way that Simon lets the silence drag for a few seconds that he’s waiting for John to elaborate more, but he soon realises that the incident is probably the last thing John wants to be talking about.

John watches as Simon clears his throat, “listen Johnny-“ he starts, demeanour shifting, just slightly. John tries hard not to focus too hard on the nickname, it seems it hasn’t died away over the years. He watches as Simon moves off, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets, he makes his way toward the shelves that are stacked high with bottles and jars, some filled with potion ingredients and others with specimens. Simon looks up, trailing his eyes over the many rows before sighing heavily, “there’s no easy way to go about this” he starts, an out of place laugh huffing from his chest, “but I need your help”.

It’s strange, seeing him again, it seems like it was all just yesterday. John can’t comprehend it, the thought that things will never be as they once were, for better or for worse. It feels like it was just yesterday that they were heading out together; as partners, a routine patrol to a known smuggling ground to see if they could dig anything up to get any sort of lead. Everything was as it usually was, time was slow, and they laughed together over the small things, John found that he never wanted those sorts of days to end. Perhaps that day never did, because the events that transpired seemed to have followed him everyday since then, everyday for seven-hundred and forty-eight days straight John has regretted everything that happened - because it’s all his fault.

“You need my help?” John is taken aback, genuinely, unsure of what Simon could possibly what him to do after everything’s that’s happened between them.

Simon doesn’t turn to look at John, he simply nods, still feigning interest at the vast array of bottles and ingredients on display. From where he stands, his back toward John, the slight sliver of a scar peeks out from the collar of his shirt. It’s a silver-pink, worn by age, the sight of it makes John’s heart sink. Simon clears his throat, “I had an arrangement with the prior potions master here” his tone is flat again, his stone facade back in place, “I was hoping it could continue despite her departure”.

John processes the words, intrigued, what could Simon possibly need from a potions master?

Then, like the strike of a match, realisation hits him and his heart sinks completely.

How could he have been so stupid?

“You need Wolfsbane” John swallows thickly, watching as Simon nods silently, still not looking at him.

Two and half years ago

It’s eerily quiet. A fog laden morning that sits heavy against the backdrop of a cruel winter storm that has just passed. They’re both cold and miserable, having lost their will hours ago, unable to comprehend what this lead could possibly do to help them better their chances at getting the one up on Makarov.

He was nothing but a thorn in their sides, crossing dangerous artefacts and illegal beasts over seas to try and smuggle them from Europe to America and back again. Makarov was worse than an eel, Simon had always said, slippery and always impossible to keep a hold of - they couldn’t prove much in a court at the Ministry. Typical.

The two of them were going into this with the same preconceptions, whatever they found wouldn’t be enough for the Ministry to do anything about, but Price had sent them here; so they’d humour him and search the docks for any dodgy activity.

It’s as they both walk side by side in idle conversation, sheltered by great hulking trees whose branches sway with the breeze, that they hear something crash in the distance. It’s a sharp sound, it vibrates through the air, catching them both off guard. They slow, only for a moment, waiting to see if the sound echoes toward them again - it does, and this time it’s closer.

Simon poises himself, retracting his wand from where it’s nestled in his breast-pocket, John mimics the movement, taking Simon’s lead, as always. He’s only a handful of years older than John, but Simon has been in this game much longer.

There’s movement ahead and beyond the thick bushes and shrubbery there’s lights flailing, likely from wands or torches. The pair move closer, tentative and quiet, not wanting to interrupt whatever they’ve happened across this time. Before they can get too close however, something disturbs the ground up ahead, snapping twigs and crunching leaves. Simon flattens his palm to Johnny’s chest to stop him moving any further forward, instinctively inching him behind himself, shielding him.

Then, without any warning, a huge beast jumps forward. Its stark white teeth are the first thing they see, dripping wet and sharp as anything, it’s gnarled mouth gaping and heaving. The creatures eyes glow a bright yellow, almost gold, they pierce through the men as they’re stared down - it’s sizing them up. There’s a deep growling noise, it rattles out from the beasts open mouth, vibrating in its chest. Its paws are humongous, impossible to ignore as it begins to inch closer, crushing leaves and sticks beneath its feet.

John’s mouth dries, “is that a-“ “werewolf” Simon cuts him off, speaking in a hushed tone, as if the creature can’t hear him.

Simon starts to step back, pushing John too in the process, it triggers the very thing they were trying to avoid.

The beast surges forward, snapping its jaws, “run!” Simon pushes John away, out of the beasts line of attack, immediately casting depulso in the direction of the charging werewolf, it knocks it back only a few feet - but it gives the pair a chance to catch their bearings.

And despite being told to run, John is rooted to the spot, digging around in his satchel that is slung over his shoulder, desperately looking for a potion he can use against the beast. Simon notices and anger blooms in his chest, “Johnny go!”, he knows that whatever John has won’t be enough, they don’t have a plan and they don’t have much time.

Yet, John still doesn’t move to run. Instead, he makes a dash for Simon, flanking him, his own wand to hand now too. Simon throws another spell toward the werewolf, watching as it circles them, “confringo!” He lurches forward but the beast is too quick, the spell barely catches its tail as it jumps out of the way. John takes a step, “Levioso!” He predicts the werewolf’s movements and manages to hit it, watching as its paws leave the ground, another quick flick of John’s wand - “depulso!”.

The beast is sent hurtling backwards, its body disappearing into the bushes beyond, a low rumbling noise follows soon after, they’ve pissed it off.

Simon whirls around, now face to face with Johnny, “we need to go” he says hurriedly, “this isn’t worth it”. He’s right, although there’s two of them and only one werewolf, Simon’s observed how high and full the moon sits in the sky. John nods, meeting eyes with Simon, he sees fear in his eyes, and there wasn’t much that scared Simon Riley.

Simon can see it in John’s mind too, fear, he’s scared because Simon is. It rings in his mind like alarm bells, rattling his brain as he desperately scrambles for any idea on how they can get out of this. Running would entice a chase, but trying to fight it directly would be another story entirely, given the beasts speed and size.

Without warning, the werewolf barrels toward them, practically shaking the ground, and before either of them can dodge it - it rams the two of them with its head. They fly backwards, spines connecting with the hard earth, they’re winded and dazed but the beast advances again. It’s headed straight for John, he sits up, trying his best to scramble backwards, but he can’t catch any leverage on the dewy ground. He watches in horror, staring into the open mouth of a werewolf as it closes in, he squeezes his eyes shut as he waits for the impact. It never comes.

There’s a wet splat against his face, it’s warm, his eyes fly open. It’s a sight he will never be able to forget for as long as he lives, the werewolves teeth are imbedded deep into Simon’s shoulder, encapsulating almost half of his torso. Simon’s back is to the creature, having blocked its path as it tried to get to John, his eyes are wide and his mouth is agape - suffering an immeasurable amount of pain. He groans, staring right through John, his adrenaline is kicking in.

John’s wand is still gripped tightly in his fingers, but he feels frozen, almost crushed by the weight of not just Simon’s body shielding him, but also the werewolves entire mass as it sinks deeper and deeper into the leverage it has on Simon’s shoulder.

He can’t think, he can’t process what is happening, it’s the same when his wand is suddenly raised, aimed directly at the werewolf when a sudden burst of scalding heat and bright green light explodes from the tip of his wand.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The pressure dissipates almost immediately, and John’s mind seems to clear when the sound of a large thud meets his ears.

Just a few feet behind where Simon’s still straddling John, the werewolf lays dead.

Simon’s body slumps forward but John catches him, hugging Simon close to his chest, his mind running a mile a minute. There’s only so much John would be able to do, and he fears he’s already running out of time, he consoles Simon as he winces in pain - his right shoulder completely mangled. John tries his best not to touch it as he rolls Simon sideways off of him, making sure to be gentle when laying him against the ground. “It’s gonna be okay Si I promise” he tries to remain solid, but it’s more likely he’s trying to convince himself rather than Simon.

John goes to grab his satchel from his shoulder, only to find that it’s missing. “Fuck!” he shouts through gritted teeth, he jumps to his feet, scrambling to find his grubby leather satchel, he darts through the grass and steps tediously toward the werewolf despite it being very much dead.

Something ripples through John’s entire body as he frantically searches, it washes through him, a symphony of dread and guilt and regret all rolled into one - he’s never felt it before, but he tries to push it to the back of his mind.

“You fuckin’ beauty” John spots the bag as it lay in the grass, quickly grasping it and pelting it back toward where Simon lay, his heart sinks. His eyes aren’t open anymore. “Fuck” John breaths, sliding on his knees across the grass, quickly accessing Simon’s vitals. He’s breathing, but it’s shallow, and when he checks his eyes they flicker when interacting with light. “You hearin’ me Si?” John asks, flinging open his satchel as he watches the blood continue to pump out of Simon’s body, the wound is deep, too deep for him to treat entirely here.

He has dittany, but he doesn’t have anywhere near enough powdered silver for the size of Simon’s wound. Regardless, he tries not to panic, quickly and sort-of carefully ripping away Simon’s coat and shirt, exposing his entire chest so he can better treat the bite. John mixes the dittany and silver into a paste with his hands, smearing it into the wound and packing it into the individual lacerations. It continues to bleed, covering from John’s fingertips to past his wrists, he starts to think that it’s a saving grace that Simon is so out of it.

It suddenly hits John. As if his mind is handed back to him, everything rushes him, the overwhelming sense of guilt that Simon had saved him and the fear that no matter what he tries it won’t be enough to heal him.

His chest constricts and his breath catches in his throat, panic beginning to set in, his hands shaking as he applies pressure to Simon’s wound. He can feel it, the burning sting as tears well in his eyes, “steamin’ jesus” he whispers to the sky, feeling as rain spits down across his cheeks.

He tries to even his breathing, trying his best to keep it even, but his lungs burn and his ribs ache, this can’t be happening.

It just can’t, not to Simon.

Then, it all washes away, as Simon’s fingers close around John’s wrist, his thumb lazily brushing back and forth across his blood stained skin, a sign of comfort, an attempt to calm him down. It works to a point.

“S’fine Johnny” Simon slurs, his eyes closed and his own breathing uneven, he’s trying to keep John as calm as possible. As good as his intentions were, it’s only breaks John’s heart further, and when the tears start to spill he can’t hold them back.

“I’m so sorry” John mutters, his chin to his chest, still applying pressure to Simon’s bite wound via his hands, the tears land on Simon’s throat. Simon doesn’t say anything, he continues tracing shapes over John’s wrist with his fingers, taking his own mind off of what’s happening.

“This is all my fault” John’s chest hiccups, his lips quivering as he loses touch of himself, he squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, the tears continuing to spill. Simon huffs, it whistles in his lungs, “come off it Johnny” he’s trying to sound stern, but the words are empty. It’s hard for John to see through his tears, he sniffles, unable to wipe his face, “I’m so so sorry” he repeats, still not opening his eyes.

Then his hands are moving, sliding through blood and dittany, they slide down Simon’s chest as he sits up, a heavy grunt blowing past his lips with the effort. As quickly as John opens his mouth to protest Simon moving, their lips meet; and Simon kisses John with a palpability he’s never tasted before. It’s hungry and it’s possessive, and it’s been a long time coming, backed up by so many other emotions that’s it’s hard to place each and every individual one.

Simon cups John’s face with one hand, angling his jaw, smearing blood across his cheek as he deepens the kiss, it pulls a breathy moan from John that gives Simon exactly what he wants. Room for more.

It’s a goodbye kiss if ever there was one.

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