#and the last lines are tragic in some ways and prophetic in others
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I don’t fear the devil, Hannah.
I fear the neighbor who would accuse me.
I fear the mother, that would let her daughter hang.
I fear Union.
They lead us like lambs to the slaughter and expect us to just follow. Well, they will see.
I am no lamb.
When this is over, we will leave this place. We will go far away and we'll dance every night and kiss in the broad daylight.
#fear street#sarah fier#hannah miller#deena johnson#samantha fraser#sapphic#I really liked these lines#and the last lines are tragic in some ways and prophetic in others#fear street 1666#fear street trilogy
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I can't help but cringe when I see some people trying to push Aegon v. Aemond or Helaena v. Alys in these online spaces. Each character in the show has their own role in the storyline--and it's absurd to think they could be pitted against each other. It's just too weird.
Aegon v. Aemond isn't a thing because despite these two hating each other's guts, they fight besides each other till their last moment. Aemond fights this war in Aegon's name -- and despite him thinking his brother is nothing more than a drunken wastrel, this fool still offers this challenge to Luke by asking, "did you really think you could just fly about the realm trying to steal my brother's throne at no cost?" In F&B, the conflict is mainly panned out between Aegon v. Rhaenyra and Aemond v. Daemon. Helaena's role is much more passive all while being extremely crucial to how the Dance ultimately ends. Many are quick to point out that Lucerys' death was the catalyst that jumpstarted this whole civil war (even though in truth, it had been simmering since that Driftmark incident) but fail to notice that Halaena's end is what cements the final conclusion of the war.
I have acknowledged my hesitation in discussing Helaena-centric topics on my page because I have always felt like I understand her the least out of all the Green characters. But the way some of y'all go ahead and make assumptions about her relationships with her family -- and make up fake conflicts to justify your own crackship is truly bizzare.
I cannot even comprehend how stupid this forced competition between Helaena and Alys is. People really need to stop injecting Aemond into Helaena's storyline. Her loss, grief and trauma is separate from her brother's struggles -- and Helaena's tragic end is one of the turning points that change the tides against Rhaenyra. Infact, I suppose in this Aegon v. Rhaenyra clash (where Rhaenyra is unbashedly favoured in the show), Helaena's presence might be offered as a false positive for Team Black after the fall of King's Landing. Helaena's death comes right before the Storming of the Dragon Pit that ultimately sealed Rhaenyra's fate -- what remains to be seen is how the show is going to depict the events leading up to that point? In the book, Helaena is more or less a passive figure who is reduced to a grieving queen after the culmination of B&C. I had previously suggested that Helaena's role is going to be bigger than what was depicted in F&B - and given the fact that she has prophetic powers in the show, I assume she will be playing a much bigger role! Helaena is a seer who can see into the future -- and since the show is already exploring the 'song of ice and fire' (a la the long night), it needs to be seen how else are they going to use Helaena beyond season 1. Does she see her line ending after the Dance? Is she aware that dragons might cease to exist after the war? Does she see the eventual demise of her house? Does she see the Dance's conclusion as some sort of inevitable truth that must follow to achieve Aegon's dream?
Alys on the other hand has a completely different role all together. She is either Aemond's high-calling or his partner in chaos. Much of her story is shrouded in mystery. We don't even get a full account of how her story concluded; what happened to her and her child during Aegon III's reign. She becomes the witch queen of Harrenhal but for the next thirty years, we do not know what happened before the castle was eventually given to Lucas Lothston.
In conclusion, I will once again remind folks that each character serves a distinct purpose in this war. The common denominator between these character is unfortunately their father, Viserys -- and this story is essentially a run-down on how the prophetic king himself dooms his entire family (and eventually his house) into the path of self-destruction. For most of his life, Viserys' main aim was to ensure both stability and longevity for his line, and despite his efforts, he failed at that task quite remarkably. Each one of his kids possessed that distinct Targaryen 'trait' and yet this is a king who places his oldest daughter above the rest out of the guilt for killing his first wife. In the end, it was his choice that ultimately doomed his own house.
#hotd discourse#aegon ii targaryen#helaena targaryen#aemond targaryen#alys rivers#helaegon#alysmond#pro team green#team green#anti viserys i targaryen#hotd analysis#fandom bs
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this doesn’t get mentioned enough either because it’s very blink and you’ll miss it but we do know goncharov’s first name.
throughout the film he’s only called by his last name because his first is “complicated.” we, the audience, think that’s just a rare cheeky line from an otherwise sullen, stoic character. it’s poking fun a bit at how he’s trying to keep a low profile AND how his first name might be difficult for his italian acquaintances to pronounce.
but briefly we’re shown some papers in his study addressed to vsevolod and in katya’s final chance for him to turn back and maybe change himself, she doesn’t call him goncharov like she usually does. it’s hard to catch but she whispers “sevochka” which is, you guessed it, a diminutive for vsevolod.
now this name is actually an interesting choice from scorsese. he could have just been picking a much more rare and interesting sounding russian first name BUT if he did this to be clever (which i believe to be the case), there’s quite a bit to unpack here.
vsevolod is an ANCIENT russian first name that directly translates to “ruler of everything.” it’s believed to maybe be the origin of the more modern name vladimir and was frequently used by royalty but is now considered very uncommon, even in russia.
this whole film is about goncharov’s misguided quest for power and structure and identity so him being given a prophetic name like vsevolod is certainly interesting and almost tragic. he’s quite literally destined for power but it keeps eluding him because of both his own flaws and the way others seem to not see him fully and clearly. he’s destined for greatness but he’s also turning away from it by forgoing his given name in favor of the simpler surname he possesses, goncharov.
it’s almost a wolf in sheep’s clothing kind of deal. he himself doesn’t always seem so sure in his fate either. he doesn’t realize until the very end when andrey comes for him but by that point it’s already too late. he accepts this, though. it’s beautiful the way he lets death come for him. it’s not just because its andrey of all people but because he’s finally making a choice. he’s not dying as some great and powerful leader like he always thought he would or even as sevochka the loving husband: he’s dying as simply goncharov, the man who wanted so much and fought so hard to be ruler and master over everything in his life but realized too late that none of it was worth it in the end.
#goncharov (1973)#goncharov#70s movies#robert de niro#martin scorsese#criterion collection#film classics#film discussion#vsevolod goncharov
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yeah. yeah. and i feel like people really.... idk. they view lottie lee as something more... wholesome? than the other yj ships because like yes laura lee is dead. but while that preserves her "goodness" in lottie's eyes because she dies selflessly and before they start really crossing those morally transgressive lines together and she dies on good terms with everyone like... people don't see nearly as much how the natural progression of that relationship would've been just as complicated and bad for both parties despite being grounded in love, the same way most other yj ships are. AND how like. laura lee's good intentions and desire to do good in the world and her faith lead to lottie beginning on her path to girl prophet and girl godhood AND laura lee's deliberate public undermining of coach ben lead to what little remained of his authority officially being shattered like. even though she remains "good" in death in not only lottie's eyes because she died before things got really bad, but also in the audience's, like... laura lee's good intentions really initiated the chains of events that lead the yjs to where they end up, which i rarely see acknowledged? and even less do i see acknowledged how that would naturally progress if she lived longer. something so so tragic about laura lee's earnest faith and love and good intentions leading to. all this. she gets to remain good and innocent in death in the audience's eyes and most importantly in lottie's eyes but even then. those comforting, well-intentioned words are, at least in some part, the reason lottie ends up in the position she does with the weight of expectations that she does and eventually with the intense guilt that she does. it starts with the guilt from laura lee's death, but each subsequent guilty feeling also starts with laura lee's words being the very first to start to lift her up on that pedestal where she's responsible for what happens in those woods in the first place. anyway. i am normal about yellowjackets and lottie matthews and her relationships. -cannibal laura lee anon DJFGLS
YES LITERALLY AND ALSO. i feel like in terms of denying her moral complexity it's similar to jackie. they die before they're forced to make those really fucked up choices! they die before things truly spiral out of control! well jackie doesn't really because she's there for doomcoming but she's the only one who ISN'T unintentionally drugged by misty lmao like they're spared those influences and circumstances and so we are left with only assumptions about what they'd do. but especially with laura lee it's like... because she IS a good and kind person people don't seem to realize how potentially dangerous her conviction can be in the right circumstances. she's incredibly strong willed, she has confidence that jackie lacks and she seemingly rejects any authority - at least in the wilderness - that isn't connected to her faith. and i absolutely adore laura lee i Love her i want to hug her but she very much has this like. christian entitlement (i think one of the girls who die in the plane crash has the last name that suggests she might be jewish and yet i think it's laura lee who leads this sort of christian themed funeral for her? and like even if she simply doesn't realise which i believe is the case it's still that very specific christian entitlement) and does push her faith onto others in ways that kind of suck! she's kind and she's sweet but telling someone you know isn't religious that they're "beautiful in the eyes of the lord" is actually quite shitty like fbsjdjs i love her but she's not an angel and her faith and conviction already HAD a dark side to it and that could get much worse if she survived
#me lovingly: laura lee kind of sucks#i genuinely adore her but thats bc i see the layers ok#yellowjackets blogging#cannibal laura lee anon#<- this is the greatest tag on my entire blog#laura lee
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Infinite rewrite part 2:
Elizabeth~
Okay, so let’s cut to the chase: there is no way Columbia, a fascist, fundamentalist society that focuses on ‘traditional values’ is going to be pumped to have Elizabeth as their girlboss when women aren’t even allowed to vote in mainland America. Get out of here with that.
Comstock was so utterly disappointed that Elizabeth was a girl when he finally looked under the blanket that he was actually going to just drop her off the side of the railing until Robert Lutece intervened in his last moments before losing consciousness.
Comstock wanted a son. Only a son would keep his line and political power. This was his only chance to find a son and Lutece promised him it was a boy. Rosalind may have lied.
He keeps her hidden from Lady Comstock for a while until her powers begin to show and he sees through the tears that an Anna and Elizabeth will give birth to a son in the future. A very special son with extraordinary powers. Comstock is suddenly very interested. If this boy is born with her powers, well, this would be fantastic for his goals. If Lady Comstock won’t give him a son, Elizabeth will give him a better grandson.
Lady Comstock doesn’t hate Elizabeth, it’s really a misunderstanding. She’s one of the few besides Robert (Rosalind does not care) who is genuinely disturbed by Comstock and Columbia obsessing over this child being set up to give birth to this Christ like figure. She’s ready to tell everyone that the baby was bought to collapse the house of cards, but she’s murdered before she can be a whistleblower.
Comstock’s plan is to brainwash Elizabeth to think like him so that when he passes on from cancer, she’ll be able to then brainwash her children. Especially that very special, future Boy Mayor of Columbia, who will infiltrate the US government to reign nuclear war down on them. He’ll then pick a husband so that they can actually make a baby only to then have the... Vox... ‘tragically’ kill him when he’s no longer useful. He winds up choosing Fink’s eldest son, and the less influence and power Fink has the better for him.
Being raised on Comstock’s beliefs, Elizabeth has a very narrow view of the world. She is convinced Daisy killed her mother, that the Vox are scoundrels, and has some pretty bigoted views. At least, until she actually interacts with others and sees that what she was taught was all wrong. She’s also unaware about the whole “giving birth to the Messiah” thing, all she knows is that her father is entrusting her with an important task that only she can carry out for the good of Columbia.
She hates Daisy and everything she stands for at first, believing that she murdered Lady Comstock, tried to kill the prophet, and is out to destroy Columbia for Satan. It’s only seeing Daisy’s backstory unfold and getting to know her does she realize Comstock fed her lies. Seeing the brutality first hand of Comstock’s followers and the living conditions of those in Shantytown disturbs her greatly.
She carries around a book and when nervous holds it close. She’s a romantic still and believes that she’ll marry a handsome prince like figure who will take her to Paris. The man she is arranged to marry is handsome like a prince but his personality is hideous. Her entire arc comes from relying less on the men around her and allowing them to control her, and more on fighting for the freedom to chose her own destiny.
She starts to come around to Daisy after the latter reveals that she read and dissected Les Miserables, Elizabeth’s favorite book. It causes a discussion which then turns into them sharing their admiration of Latin.
She doesn’t take the reveal very well. She’d never want to fail her father and disappoint him, not after all he’s done for her, but being forced in an arranged marriage and having to birth Jesus 2.0 is not what she wants. Especially when she sees how obsessed these old men are with her uterus and the “divine fruit that it will ripen.” Finding out Comstock was the one who killed her mother and was going to kill her as well is the biggest betrayal to her. At that point, she’s realized the only ones who are making the world rotten are people like him.
Elizabeth is actually pretty shy since she grew up in a tower. Even when she went through tears as a child, Comstock drilling in how those on the “sodom below” were damned to eternal hellfire made her uneasy about interacting with anyone. Most people she encountered on the surface were very kind to her, but she saw it as them trying to lower her guard to corrupt her. She does remember one little boy who taught her how to skip rocks and invited her home for dinner. She got so nervous of Comstock finding out and punishing her though, that she left.
When meeting new people and in crowds, she’ll cling onto Booker. The arcade in Battleship Bay is pretty overwhelming with all the sights and sounds and smells, so she really attaches herself onto him. She’s also very apprehensive about new things. Booker has to convince her to try cotton candy by buying some for himself and eating it in front of her.
After interacting with other people and with encouragement from Booker, she does start to open up a bit more. She even begins to get friendly with some of the Vox members around her age, though, for Booker, she’s getting a little too friendly with one of them. She tries to teach him how to read and he invites her to dance with him during a Vox party. They step on each other’s feet while Booker grumbles in the corner.
Elizabeth doesn’t hate Songbird, but she is conflicted about him. She considers him to be the only one who will ever really understand her, but he keeps her locked away. He’s her warden, her shoulder to cry on, her friend, and her other father. Even through all control Comstock has on him, Songbird is the one who comforts her, listens to her, and sneaks in little gifts. Booker and the others only see a monster, but she knows the truth.
The Columbians worship her as the Mother of the Deliverer. More and more, they begin to believe that the child born from her will be Christ himself. A lot of Mary and Jesus type of imagery of Elizabeth and The Son is littered all over the city. This is especially upsetting for those such as the Catholics, who are vocal in seeing it as blasphemy.
Surprise, surprise, the proclaimed messiah is literally the anti-Christ. If Booker can’t stop Songbird, Comstock will abuse Elizabeth to the point where she goes through with the wedding between her and Fink’s son, she’ll birth the Boy Mayor of Columbia, and New York will burn in nuclear fire after he is elected as president. Old Lady Elizabeth knows her children, especially her eldest son, are vile, horrible people who cannot be redeemed and she feels guilty for raising them to be this way. However, she does not have the heart to kill them herself because she loves them too much, even as they hurt so many. That is why she asks Booker to stop the wedding, so that they will never exist and she will be free.
Elizabeth displays her powers fully after the Vox aide Booker in controlling Songbird by blaring the CAGE notes on the speakers of the airships. They get Songbird to destroy the siphon, crash the wedding at the cathedral, and watch Elizabeth object to the wedding by opening the twister tear that sucks most of the guests, including her soon to be husband and Fink, out. She then lashes out with Songbird and takes out more and more people. Comstock, knowing that he is surrounded, tries in a last ditch effort to kill them all by using Songbird. Songbird, however, gets back some control of his free-will for a moment and uses it to kill Comstock.
Elizabeth knows, however, that it is not over until Comstock never existed. No Comstock means no Elizabeth, which means no anti-Christ. Songbird goes into a frenzy and tries to kill everyone left alive so she takes him to Rapture. Most of the events of the ending play out like normal. The answer of Anna actually being in the crib or not is revealed in Burial at Sea.
#bioshock#elizabeth comstock#booker dewitt#daisy fitzroy#zachary comstock#songbird#abuse//#tokophobia//#the boy mayor of Columbia
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why you should read the heartless divine
hello guys! i haven’t used tumblr in a while, so i hope i tag this correctly, but i really needed to write this post to promote a book i think many, many people will enjoy reading for a number of reasons, and i figured i should give it a shot.
the heartless divine is varsha ravi’s debut novel, self-published last november through amazon. it is a ya fantasy romance inspired by mythology and sangam era india, and you can purchase it as an ebook or as a physical copy on amazon.
i 100% recommend it to anyone who enjoys mythology, reincarnation/soulmates, tragic but tender star-crossed romance (and not in a generic ya way either), or just anything with complex plot, character, and relationships—which, i realize, basically means everyone, but in my defence it is really good and worth a read no matter who you are.
what’s it about?
the heartless divine follows two paralleling narratives. the first is set in the distant past, and follows suri, a princess forced into being an assassin by her warlike family, as she is betrothed to the boy king of a neighbouring land after being assigned the task to kill him once the wedding is complete, only to find her plans going off-kilter when she encounters kiran, a strange prophet who predicts his own incoming death and the catastrophe soon to occur. the second is set in modern-day, and follows a reincarnated suri, with no memories of her past life, who finds her life inexplicably tied to a changed kiran, who she does not remember but who remembers her.
the plot is a bit more complex than this, and this is really just a quick summary, but more than that it’s a story about humans and our relationships to each other, to mortality, and to fate.
i highly recommend it - it can be a little slow to start off with, but once the historical plot starts going i found it pretty much impossible to put down. even though it’s been a few months since i read it, i find myself going back to it pretty much constantly. it’s fantastic both as a ya novel to read for fun, and as something far more complex with so many themes, characters, and dynamics to unpack.
but if you need a bit more encouragement:
why should i read it?
as i mentioned, the plot is incredibly engaging. unlike a lot of ya, as well, the heartless divine is super character-based and has incredibly strong characters in its protagonists. the past storyline also has a running mystery - and the reveal at the end as to who is the real villain definitely caught me off-guard on my first read. the past storyline is also deeply tragic in many ways, hitting you emotionally to great effect, and the climax is absolutely one of the most impactful climaxes of any ya book i’ve ever read—i’m making an effort not to spoil anything while writing this, because the pure emotional punch of the climax should be read completely blind.
ravi’s writing is absolutely gorgeous. she has an incredible command over the written word and wrote some incredibly amazing prose in this book. her writing is at once poetic and also incredibly versatile, fitting into beautiful romantic declarations and sharp dialogue and tense scenes of conflict. i won’t include any massive chunks, but here are some of my favourite lines:
Where does the divinity go, then? he had asked her. She had shrugged. To the sky. That is where all divinity goes after it is dead. But the sky was too far away, and there was not enough left of him, divine or not, to guarantee safe passage on a trip so long.
She had always been afraid of hope, in the same way she figured most people were afraid of black holes. Desire was something that consumed, she knew, and to desire impossibility was to let it consume you entirely. hearts splintered with love and splintered with loss, and to fear one was to fear both—it was safer to resist them both, to draw thick, black demarcations in shining permanent marker, explicit, clear lines that gently reminded her of what could and could not be desired.
“You live as though you are already dead,” she whispered. each word sunk into him, cut through his heart with clean, sharp blades. “You live as though your life is nothing but a prerequisite for death, for true purpose. Have you ever fought to stay alive? Have you ever allowed yourself to think of life as something to love?”
They had the same fine boned face, hollow-cheeked and haunted, the same air of a saint that had burnt away to nothing and held the ashes himself. And yet, they were not the same. It was a twisted, imperfect projection—it was him, but not all of him. This was his savage divinity laid bare.
What were love stories but dreams of worlds where the sun and moon could linger beside one another long enough to learn the language of the other’s heart?
ravi also has an incredible grasp on the themes that she’s writing with. above all, the heartless divine is about humanity and what makes people human—our relationships with each other and with our own place in the world. and in my opinion, she expresses these ideas with great maturity and wisdom.
however, for the most part, the heartless divine’s greatest strength is its characters. kiran is a deeply complex character, a prophet caught between his duty to die as a martyr and his desire to make his own choices and follow what he truly loves. he has a complicated relationship to humanity, but no human more than himself, as he struggles to understand the parameters of his own humanity—the place where his mortality ends and his divinity begins. at first, the kiran of the past and the kiran of the present seem deeply separated from each other, but as the story progresses you begin to understand the tragedy of how kiran became who he is in the modern-day.
at first, suri seems like a typical ya female protagonist, but as the story progresses and she begins to let her guard down a bit more, you really start to see how interesting and complicated she is as a character. she doesn’t believe in gods or fate at the beginning of either storyline, but by the end she slowly starts to accept hope into her heart—ending in two very different ways—and advocates for ignoring fate and following the life you want, desperately searching for the happy ending that you deserve. she also has a deeply captivating character voice, and was, certainly at the beginning, my favourite of the three pov characters.
but my personal favourite character is viro, the primary antagonist of the past plotline (though—no major spoilers—he finally makes an appearance in the modern plotline very close to the end). most people i know who have read the heartless divine feel similarly about viro. ravi makes him a deeply compelling character, fleshing out his motivations and reasoning and in turn writing one of my favourite relationships in the book in his complex brotherly relationship with kiran. i don’t want to spoil much about him, but he is a really interesting character and, though technically the antagonist, is just as compelling as the protagonists.
on the same note, before i talk about the romance in the book, i have to mention viro and kiran’s dynamic, as i feel it drives the past plot in many ways and is deeply interesting. the two are adoptive brothers, and find themselves butting heads almost constantly over their different ideological stances; and though it’s clear they love each other, soon enough you start to worry if love is enough.
onto the romance, and of course i have to talk about suri and kiran, because—how could i not. they’re literal soulmates! two souls who find each other in every lifetime! they’re kindred spirits no matter what, in both past and present, two people who understand each other deeply on a metaphysical level, and no matter what their scenes together were a great joy. they’re a romance where both of them help each other grow, even when surrounded by chaos and catastrophe. here’s one of my favourite lines in the book in case you need some more explanation. this is romance.
“‘Love is dangerous, blinding,’” he quoted, voice soft against her cheeks in an empty semblance of amusement. He pulled back slightly, just enough that she could see the gentleness, the raw warmth in his gaze. The clean lack of regret. “And yet, I see you so clearly.”
it’s perhaps less explicit—but bear in mind this is the first book in a series—but ravi also sets up the dynamic between viro and his guard, companion, and best friend tarak in a way that...is practically impossible not to read as romantic. i won’t spoil it because it is something you have to see in person, but some of the most emotionally charged scenes in the novel deal with their dynamic. here’s another line for good measure. they really said we do it for the girls and the tenderyearning gays that’s it.
Tarak let out a ragged sigh, lost and despairing. Viro reached up and put a hand on his, traced the lines of his fingers. he watched him do it, entranced by the movement and saddened by it as well. Finally, he asked, “If I begged, would you stay?” Viro’s fingers stilled in their movement, suddenly hyper-aware of the way Tarak’s hands shook upon the embroidered fabric of his tunic. as if he couldn’t bear to hold him tighter, as if the mere action would wrench him away.
the world building is also incredibly well done, as is the mythology ravi sets up and the folk stories she tells. also, for good measure, ravi is an indian writer and her story is, as aforementioned, deeply inspired by sangam india. i don’t necessarily have the cultural context to interact with the worldbuilding completely, but from where i stand it’s immensely well done.
the second book in the series is currently being written, and i recommend picking up your copy of the heartless divine soon before the series continues. once again, it’s available on amazon, and here is its page on goodreads and thestorygraph in case you want to add it to your tbr!
also, for good measure, shoot me a message here or on twitter (where i normally am) if you do decide to read it and want to discuss it! for good measure, here’s one of my favourite lines from the book—just as a closing statement.
“I want to hear all of your stories,” she said, fierce as fire. “Every single one. I don’t care whether they have happy endings or not.”
#bookblr#book recommendations#book recs#yalit#ya lit#diverse ya#diverse fantasy#ya recs#booklr#ya recommendations#books#the heartless divine
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Fitz, Nighteyes, Fool and Time
“...To free humanity of time. For time is the great enslaver of us all. Time that ages us, time that limits us. Think how often you have wished to have more time for something, or wished you could go back a day and do something differently. When humanity is freed of time, old wrongs can be corrected before they are done.” - Kettle about the role of the White Prophet, “Assassin’s Quest”
For at least a year now I wanted to make a post about time and how it relates and affects my favourite fictional trio so that is what I am doing today. This post will contain SPOILERS for the entire series so if you haven’t read all the Fitz books - you have been warned. Time is overall a very important theme in the series, but I want to foccus on these 3 characters because it is what is more interesting to me.
Fitz - Past
“The knowledge that he had left me with no intent ever to return had come over me in tiny droplets of realization spread over the years. And each droplet of comprehension brought its own small measure of hurt...He had wished me well in finding my own fate to follow, and I never doubted his sincerity. But it had taken me years to accept that his absence in my life was a deliberate finality, an act he had chosen, a thing completed even as some part of my soul still dangled, waiting for his return.” - Fitz, “Fool’s Assassin”
One of Fitz’s characteristics is how he is more often than not stuck in the past. This is partly because of trauma, but is still important. Even before the story starts Fitz already made an attempt to reject the past by claiming he forgot everything about his mother. He didn’t really. The memories just hurt him too much, but Fitz was never able to forget or let go of past events (even after giving part of his memories to a stone dragon in AQ). Fitz gets stuck in the past and is hard for him to move on. Molly was his first love and he is stuck with that, Kettricken is still Verity’s wife until the (end even though the man died in book 3), Beloved is still a bit under the shadow of the court jester no matter how much he has changed since RA, etc. Fitz’s past affect his entire life.
Fitz can’t help but be reminded of Molly when thinking of red skirts or the Fool when seeing black and white. These are the colors he associates with them and that had initial impact in his past memories (even Molly being known as Nosebleed as a kid has the hint of red in there).
Fitz’s connection to the past is not as easy to observe in the Farseer trilogy since he is still developping and usually either Nighteyes or the Fool are around him. The Fool and Nighteyes influence him and make him not drown in past memories. Fitz holds on to the people he met as a kid and as the trilogies go on he seems to give less and less importance to new characters (so much that the ones introduced in the last trilogy barelly feel like characters at all in Fitz’s POV).
Fitz going back to Molly at the end of “Fool’s Fate” is partly because of this attachment to the past. When the Fool leaves and Nighteyes isn’t around what does he do (as seen in “Fool’s Assassin”)? He gets a room just for himself where he can write and cry about the past. That is one of the most painful books to read when it comes to Fitz because he is so lost in past memories without Nighteyes or the Fool being around to stop him and bring him new perspectives that he just brings me down with him.
Nighteyes - Present
“Come, hunt with me, the invitation whispers in my heart. Leave the pain behind and let your life be your own again. There is a place where all time is now, and the choices are simple and always your own. Wolves have no kings.” - Nighteyes, “Royal Assassin”
Obviously Nighteyes has a strong connection with the present. As he says, wolves live in the now. So, when he is with Fitz he influences him and makes him live in the present. When Fitz is living in a cabin with just Hap and Nighteyes, he says he foccuses on the present and the routine of it (not for the first time, he mentions it in AQ before too). Fitz, being Fitz, still writes about his past, but since Nighteyes is around there is a balance between how often he thinks about the past and how often he foccuses on the present.
Fitz’s connection to the past also affects Nighteyes. When the wolf starts to gain human like qualities these are associated with past memories - like Fool saying something in AQ in the lines of “I didn’t know he would remember that” about Nighteyes showing his gratitude for Fool giving him cakes in the past, for example. Or that time Nighteyes remembered his family.
Even Fitz’s stupid plan in “Assassin’s Quest” has the foccus on the present all over it. He knows he wants revenge on Regal because of what he has done to him in the past, but instead of having a plan for that future, he says he will think of something when he gets to where Regal is currently living. Completelly living each day as it presents itself. No future planning because guess who isn’t around?
Fool - Future
“If he had not come to see me, I would never have recalled how much I missed him. I would have continued to pine for the past, but I would not have begun to long for a future.” - Fitz about the Fool, “Fool’s Errand”
Of course the White Prophet is strongly connected to the future. The Fool has visions about the future and his constant concern and dedication about what he must do keep him from thinking about the past or the present. the Fool feels blind when his dreams stop. He has no concept of living beyond his "time", of a future he doesn't see. He is so anxious about it that he would not allow himself happiness and the society he wishes for because he is constantly considering what each of his actions would mean for the future and that paralyzes him.
The times Fool seems to be enjoying himself on the present is when Nighteyes is around and still alive (”Assassin’s Quest” and “Fool’s Fate”) - there is the water fight in AQ and overall the fun he seemed to be having on the adventure in FE. Take Nighteyes away and Fool is constantly worried about the Future or remembering his past because of Fitz.
Fitz is the only person we know that the Fool opens up about his family or his mission as Amber, for example. Fitz even unlocks the Fool’s tragic backstory slowly. Being around Fitz makes Beloved think of his past memories even if he has been avoiding them like the plague for years. There is this person he tells about it because they influence each other that much.
In Liveship Traders, Amber is 100% thinking of her goal the entire time, which makes it feel a bit different than how Beloved usually acts if Fitz is around. Fitz and Nighteyes surprise him and make him slow down a bit and think of something else no matter how few minutes it lasts.
In the same way, Fool makes Fitz plan for the future. When the Fool is around Fitz has always something to do (usually according to prophecies). Fitz also thinks about a future living with the Fool in AQ, FE and AF. Take away the Fool and Fitz drowns in the memories of his past, unless Nighteyes is there to help him.
So, does that initial quote from Kettle about getting rid of time connects with the ending where Fitz and the Fool end up in the stone wolf and basically die? Given the strong connections these 3 characters have with time I guess I could say that now that they are not around the White Prophet mission is trully complete. I am not sure what this means for the new prophet (Bee)’s future goal though. Unless that there is no future goal. Bee herself was a new entity entirely given that she was called the destroyer. I see her as having the powers of both catalyst and white prophet. So, it can really mean the end of white prophets and, like Kettle said it was their mission, the end of time itself.
PS: I also don’t see ghost!Nighteyes as being trully Nighteyes. Nighteyes died in FE and to me that ghost is the personification of the memories the Fool and Fitz had of him. But that is another future post entirely.
#rote#Realm of the Elderlings#Fitzchivalry Farseer#the fool#beloved#nighteyes#analysis#I could have searched many more quotes and give more examples#but i figured this was long enough already
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the killing kind
A post-canon Drarry fic. Read on AO3 here.
Harry would like one day away from the press, from being the Boy who Lived, to just be Harry. Polyjuice would work, but it's disgusting and difficult and also possibly illegal, but wizards are bad at recognizing anything non-magical, so this might work.
At least, that was his reasoning for walking into Diagon Alley with a Muggle stage prosthetic that makes his chin look completely different, a fake mustache, and his hair enchanted to be long enough to finally, finally cover his scar. He's sure that last one will wear off in an hour, but that should be enough to get an ice cream at Fortescue's and sit outside and eat it without being swarmed.
You'd think, years after Tom Riddle's death, that they'd stop caring about him. But no, they need to report every little thing he does. Harry Potter rushed through Auror training. Harry Potter quits Ministry work, possible run for Minister? Professor McGonagall had tried her best to keep his professorship at Hogwarts under lock and key, but after his first day, the papers had a tell-all. He's not sure which student it was, but they're children. He can't blame them.
The first Prophet reporter he sees, a woman with shockingly long hair he recognizes as taking photos outside a restaurant near the Burrow (preceding an article about his break-up with Ginny that made it seem like something tragic and not like school sweethearts amicably parting weeks before the photo was taken), doesn't give him a second glance. He has to force himself to walk normally past her and not rush.
It's the one thing Auror training actually taught him. People won't pay attention to you if you act like everything's fine. One art thief he'd caught in the three weeks he'd actually worked at the Ministry had just walked into places and taken paintings, not bothering to sneak or disguise himself whatsoever. They'd assumed he must have been there. Harry had felt bad taking him in, actually; he was taking better care of the paintings than the rich assholes he was taking them from.
"Was going to take one from the Malfoys next," the guy'd said. "I know apparently the wife and the kid aren't actually, you know, Death Eaters, but they sure don't need all that art, don't they?"
"Don't suppose you'd let me catch you right after you stash that one somewhere," Harry'd joked.
"Nope. Sorry, mate," he'd said, and sounded so much like Ron that Harry made idle conversation about how Animagi tended to find it pretty easy to escape from wizarding jails, and how Azkaban was much more--ethical, now that the Dementors were gone and Hermione had aggressively campaigned for prisoners' rights. (With Harry's quiet support and financial backing, remembering how haunted Sirius had looked.)
Anyway. He's getting lost in his thoughts again. It does mean he doesn't notice if there's any other reporters on the path to Fortescue's. It also means he doesn't process the words on the sign in front of him for long enough that he's getting a couple weird looks.
Aguefort's Chronomantics Romantic Novels
Books to Transport You Through Time, Space, and Dimensions!
Harry blinks at it, looks around. This is the corner where Fortescue's was--and he briefly considers hexing himself when he remembers that Florean was one of the people who disappeared, back in the war, who never came back after. Sure enough, there's a little in memorial metal plaque on the front door of the bookshop.
He swears under his breath. He should have remembered this. But no, he's stuck.
There's probably some other shop he can grab something at, right? Other than what looks like overpriced romances? There's a few sit-down restaurants, but he needs to be in and out in forty minutes, max.
He wanders aimlessly down the streets, hoping to catch a whiff of something. Churros, tacos, some sort of street cart or something. Diagon Alley's not really that type of place, but he hasn't been here in a year and a half, so maybe someone's pushing convention.
There doesn't end up being any cheap little shops on the side of the road, but fifteen minutes later, he does see a place that sells chips and has outdoor seating, and that'll have to do. When he walks in, the place is packed, but the line's moving quickly enough that he should still be fine, if he eats quickly. Worse comes to worse, he can just Apparate away when his hair starts to act up.
He gets through the line, pays, gets his chips, adds some more salt to it, and sits outside in under six minutes. (He counts. Also, he has a watch that he remembers to look at three minutes in.) Outdoor seating's a little cramped, and he can feel himself tense, shoulders higher than they should be. He lets himself sit with his back to the wall, eyes on everyone, ignoring the reminder for CONSTANT VIGILANCE in his head from old Mad-Eye, and begins to eat.
Now that he's got some food in him and he knows...well. He's pretty sure that no one's watching him from behind, he's able to look around and appreciate his surroundings, being in the world without being stared at. It's then that he realizes a few things:
1. Most of the people here have notepads next to them, quills writing notes on their own.
2. The building across the street has a sign in looping, dramatic script that reads Daily Prophet.
3. Draco fucking Malfoy is at the table next to him, and
4. He's looking right at Harry.
Harry tries to express please, for the love of God, don't make a scene with his face. Malfoy doesn't seem to pick up on it from the way he leans forward, drawing the eyes of someone nearby. Harry casts a quick Muffliato around the pair.
"Potter," Malfoy says.
"I'm just trying to grab a bite," Harry pleads.
"What, you think they wouldn't serve you if you showed up?" Malfoy asks, arching a brow at him like he's said something oh-so-intelligent. Harry wonders if cursing him is worth the attention. But Malfoy being annoying isn't enough to get him on the front page of the Prophet, probably, and Harry didn't speak at his trial for nothing.
"No," Harry says. "But sometimes someone might like to eat without everyone staring at them, yeah?"
Malfoy narrows his eyes at him. "I can understand that."
That was more than Harry'd expected. His shoulders drop a little. "Good. I'll be out of here in just a few minutes anyway." He looks back down at his chips.
"Why?" Malfoy asks.
Harry looks up at him. He hadn't exactly anticipated a conversation with Malfoy. With a glance at the Prophet next door, Harry says, "Hungry."
"I didn't mean why here, Potter, have you really not gotten any smarter since we were at school?"
"Have you really not changed since Hogwarts either?" Harry snaps, knows it's a low blow right after it's left his mouth. Malfoy's face blanches, and he turns back to his book with a pinched expression that Harry doesn't feel guilty about. Decidedly not guilty. Not even a little. His hero complex has gotten better, and he can tell Hermione that later.
One minute and fifteen seconds later, Harry caves and hands Malfoy a chip. He has to lean way too far, two of his chair legs leaving the ground, but the scrape of that means at least Malfoy glances up and he doesn't have to say anything to get his attention. Malfoy takes the chip with an expression of distaste. He doesn't seem to have any food.
"Did you come here for food and get turned away?" Harry asks, connecting a couple things in his head like those mystery boards Ron still uses at work.
Malfoy glares at him. "No, I'm sitting here because I'm fond of being by a bunch of reporters."
"You could leave," Harry says. "It doesn't look like you're chained here."
"That would be conceding, Potter," Malfoy says primly. "I don't expect you to understand."
"Alright," Harry says. "Look, I just wanted some food, the charm on my hair's wearing off soon, and I didn't mean to rub it in your face." After an awkward pause, he adds, "Also, wizards don't notice anything with Muggle prosthetics, so. You could try that."
"Is that why your chin looks like that?" Malfoy asks, horrified. "It's horrific, Potter, you're better off just taking off those glasses rather than completely destroy your appearance."
"It's temporary," Harry says, ignoring the little thrill up his spine when Malfoy almost-implies something nice about how he looks. "And I'm trying not to get looked at, git."
Malfoy gives Harry a quick up-and-down look then flicks his wand. Harry braces himself, but instead feels his hair cool a little, like a more pleasant disillusionment charm. When he glances at the shop's window, he can see it's fallen even further flat.
"Thanks," Harry says. Malfoy nods at him. "Sorry."
"What are you talking about?"
"That that happened," Harry says. "The shop thing, not the--not the hair thing."
The corner of Malfoy's mouth quirks up. "I'm used to it."
Not for the first time, Harry's struck with a quiet sense of injustice that he doesn't really know what to do with. In school, it was simple: pass his classes, defeat Riddle, and try to win the House Cup. But there's things he can't tackle quite as easily, or at least the path towards them are less clear. The right of blood over anything else in wizarding families, the existence of house elves, the way people are judged years later for what they did as a child in war.
Harry's under no illusions about Malfoy being a good person; he was still a bigoted little git in school. But he also knows he's made an attempt to do better, to be better.
"If you want," Harry says, wincing at how awkward and halting his voice sounds. "Next time the Prophet corners me, I can say something nice about you. Might change things."
"Why?" Malfoy says, brow furrowed, the picture of distrust.
Harry shrugs. "Dunno. Seems unfair."
"You really do have a hero complex," Malfoy says despairingly. "I thought it was just a pathological need for attention, but no, you really do have to step into situations that don't need you if you have even the slightest inkling someone might be a bit upset."
"I don't have to," Harry says, rolling his eyes. "It was an offer. You know, something people do when they're trying to be nice?"
"Gryffindors," Malfoy sighs. "This is why you lot end up being Chosen Ones."
Harry wants to yell at him or just throw a hex, reporters be damned, but Malfoy's smiling slightly, and his tone was almost joking, maybe.
"At least we didn't have to live in a dungeon," Harry says, and meets Malfoy's gaze with a slight smile back.
#okay gonna crosspost a bunch of my stuff from ao3 all at once BUT it's 1am so hopefully no one's up <3 i just need to for my adhd#drarry#harry potter#harry james potter#draco malfoy#my fics
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The Silmarillion as a TV/Netflix Show (Part 5)
Season 5 centres on Túrin, Tuor, and Dior - and, later, Elwing and Eärendil. The last two seasons have looked hopeful for a while but ended on tragic notes (the Bragollach and the Nirnaeth); this season is going to flip things by being almost unremittingly tragic but ending on a hopeful note.
There are a few key things to do here:
1) Draw out parallels and common threads between our main characters. At first I wanted to shift the timeline a little and have key events in Túrin and Tuor’s lives happening at the same time: Túrin as outlaw, Tuor as thrall and then outlaw; Túrin in Nargothrond, Tuor in Gondolin; Túrin and Finduilas, Tuor and Idril. But it felt like there were too many big events happening simultaneously, and it was hard to fit them all in. Still, the parallels between the cousins are present.
Dior needs more characterization in order to be able to hold his own, narratively speaking; we have very little on him in canon.
2) The Fëanorians will be very important in the last few episodes of the season, so they need to be worked into the storyline of at least some of the earlier episodes to keep them in view. I’m going to go with them being based on Amon Ereb for this period; it fits some of Tolkien’s versions, and having them in Ossiriand at the same time as Beren and Lúthien and Dior would feel like a massive Chekhov’s Gun that is never fired.
So, with that in mind:
Episode 1: Túrin is going to take centre stage here, with the episode covering everything from his departure from Hithlum up to the death of Saeros and Túrin’s departure from Doriath. (And the episode will start with the Words of Húrin and Morgoth.) There will also be a few scenes from Tuor’s and Dior’s childhoods, which were comparatively more stable. Since Beren and Lúthien had such a large part in the last season it will be nice to see their experiences of parenthood. Lúthien, never having met mortal children, will be shocked at how fast Dior grows up. (He definitely ages on a Mannish scale - he’s married at 22, a king at 27, and dead at 30.)
Near the beginning, the episode will also include a scene where the Fëanorians attempt to invade Doriath and are turned back by the Girdle of Melian. It doesn’t function as a direct, physical barrier; it causes confusion and disorientation and strange visions and a loss of sense of direction, and you look around and find you’ve ended up outside Doriath again. This eerie, hallucinatory quality fits Melian’s background as a Maia of Lórien, Master of Dreams. (And hey, if you can work some subtle prophetic/ominous foreshadowing into the visions, all the better!) The purpose of the scene is to show that the Fëanorian’s aren’t idle; they do want pursue the Silmaril, but for the moment it is beyond their reach. The brothers will have varying levels of enthusiasm about the plan, with Celegorm and Curufin being the ringleaders.
Episode 2: Heavily focuses on Túrin’s time as an outlaw, from his first meeting with the bandits through to Dor-Cúarthol, the fall of Amon Rudh, and the death of Beleg. This is a lot of material - joining the bandits, becoming their leader, the first meeting with Beleg, finding Mîm and Amon Rudh, Dór-Cuarthol, and the fall of Amon Rudh and the death of Beleg. There may be a need to streamline it, with Beleg only finding the outlaws once they are at Amon Rudh, and staying with them then.
There’s a lot of good characters here, and a lot of good personality confllicts - it’s practically a short movie in itself. Particular care needs to be taken with Mîm, who cannot be allowed to become a caricature.
This episode introduces Anglachel, so it would be good to have a short Gondolin scene with Maeglin (bearer of Anguirel) to establish the symmetry. And also to keep Gondolin in the viewers’ minds. A short scene in Nargothrond showing their reaction to Dór-Cúarthol (positive: it is or was their realm, and he’s doing more to defend it that they are) will set up later events,
Episode 3: The focus splits between Túrin in Nargothrond - particularly his relationships with Gwindor and Finduilas, and his growing prominence, with him becoming de-facto in charge at the end of the episode - and Tuor as a thrall and later outlaw. Tuor’s personality really comes to the fore here: he’s patient, and steady, and kind. He puts up with considerable abuse an a thrall, escapes when there’s an opportune moment, and can’t be effectively pursued because he’s made friends with all of his captor’s hounds. (I especially like that last fact.) The episode ends with him leaving Dor-lómin by the Gate of the Noldor.
This is also a good time to build up the romance between Dior and Nimloth. Nimloth must be Laiquendi, as those are the only other people Beren and Lúthien would meet in Ossiriand; I rather like the idea of them being childhood friends, to offset some of the more love-at-first-sight romances. Dior is now in his late teens and - this is important - very, very good-looking, even by elf standards. He’s also very interested in his Doriathrin heritage, and asking his parents a lot of questions about his grandparents; that sets up his determination to be Eluchíl later on.
Episode 4: Tuor’s meeting with Ulmo and his coming to Gondolin, the Fall of Nargothond, and Túrin in Dórlomin. The fall of Nargothrond and deaths of Gwindor and Finduilas form a nice counterpoint/contrast with Tuor’s meetings with Voronwë and Idril and his arrival at Gondolin. Túrin’s impulsive actions in Dor-lómin contrast with Tuor’s approach in the prior episode as well.
Episode 5: Focus is on Túrin’s story. Journey of Morwen and Nienor to Nargothrond and its consequences, and Túrin in Brethil, through to his slaying of Glaurung and his and Nienor’s deaths.
For extra bonus irony points, parallel the wedding of Túrin and Níniel with the weddings of Idril and Tuor and of Dior and Nimloth.
Episode 6: Wanderings of Húrin through to the Sack of Doriath and Beren and Dior’s fight with the dwarf-army. (Dior isn’t mentioned as being part of this fight in the Silm, but it’s an excellent moment to include him here.) The Fëanorians reenter the scene, attempting to intercept the dwarf army carrying the Silmaril, but arriving too late. This is the best chance they’ve had st recovering a Silmaril yet - they’re not going to ignore it.
The line “while Lúthien held the Silmaril no elf would dare assail her” is typically read as it just being something no one would consider on a moral level - and that’s a valid reading - but I like the idea that the Fëanorians aren’t going after her because they’re freaking terrified of her. This is the woman who defeated Morgoth single-handedly! Holding one of the most powerful artifacts ever created! Who knows what she could do! (The Fëanorians absolutely make concessions to practicality when it comes to the Oath - otherwise they would have attacked Angband sometime in the 400 years of the Siege, or after the Nirnaeth as a way to die pursuing their oath in a decent way rather than slaughtering kin. It’s only the final attack by Maedhros and Maglor after the War of Wrath that they attempt in the face of impossibility, and by that time I think suicide-by-Valarin-army makes up a solid portion of their motivation.)
Episode 7: The refounding of Doriath, the Second Kinslaying, and the capture and treachery of Maeglin. Broad theme of the episode being Bad Elvish Behaviour all round, with elves doing Morgoth’s work either directly (Maeglin) or on their own initiative (the Fëanorians).
My idea on the refounding of Doriath, and on Dior’s title of Eluchíl (Thingol’s Heir) is that this quickly and breifly becomes the core of Elvendom in Beleriand. Dior, as Lúthuen’s son and Melian’s grandson, likely has some degree of ‘magical’ power beyond what is usual for elves. Not enough to reestablish the Girdle of Melian, but enough to provide some general deterrance against evil forces. Doriath is also, for the first time, open to all the other free peoples of Beleriand, and is the only true realm remaining aside from secret and mysterious Gondolin. Not only do the Doriathrin Sindar and some of the Laiquendi and the northern grey-elves unite around Doriath, various Noldor, remants of lost realms and destroyed armies, join them. Dior is becoming in truth what Thingol claimed to be: King of Beleriand. All the more so when the Silmaril comes to him and Doriath blossoms like a memory of Valinor in the Ages of the Trees.
And this would fit with why the Fëanorians would regard Dior as ‘proud’, this would offend them more than anything, because what he’s achieving is exactly Fëanor once boasted that he would achieve, long ago in Tirion. This would fit with the sheer visciousness of the Second Kinslaying, with the abandonment of Dior’s young sons in the forest. Celegorm’s people aren’t even thinking in terms of hostages; they just want to destroy Dior’s entire family line, because his existence, his kingship, what he’s achieved are such an affront.
But Elwing escapes, and the Silmaril is still out of their hands.
(The attack is at Yule, whuch sets up a strong and deliberate parallel - Morgoth’s earlier attacks on the Lamps and the Trees were also at times of festival/celebration, so the Fëanorians’ actions are being deliberately equated with his.)
Episode 8: The Fall of Gondolin. This is your absolutely epic big battle scene. Balrogs! Dragons! Eagles! Maeglin acting like a cackling B-movie villain! (I have not read The Fall of Gondolin, but I’ve hear that Idril swordfights Maeglin in it, and this absolutely needs to happen.) Ecthelion kills a Gothmog! Glorfindel kills a balrog! It’s tragic, but it’s also extremely exciting television (unlike the kinslaying the previous week, which was mostly just really depressing and horrific.)
The episode ends with the survivors of Gondolin making their way to Sirion, where the survivors of Doriath have already settled. I think that the survivors of Nargothrond should also be there, to keep things simple and allow for some extra drama.
Episode 9: This one starts with a timeskip, so we can have adult Eärendil and Elwing. The episode is a quieter one, mainky setup for later events: the departure of Tuor and Idril, the marriage of Eärendil and Elwing, the birth of the twins, and Eärendil’s departure to seek the aid of the Valar. The voyage of Eärendil is dramatic and can take up some of the episode.
Episode 10: The Third Kinslaying, the destruction of the Fëanorian base on Amon Ereb, the voyage of Eärendil and Elwing to Valinor, and the Valar’s decision to go to war. The nain reason I wanted the Nargothrondim in Sirion is so that we can get Celebrimbor fighting against the Fëanorian forces here, because that just increases the level of emotional drama. The whole thing’s a traumatic mess. Fëanoruan solidiers throwing down their swords and surrendering. Fëanorian soldiers switching sides to defend the people of Sirion. It’s hard to overstate how teagic this is - here is almost the last remnant of elves in Beleriand, and they are being destroyed not by Morgoth (from whom they would be protected by Ulmo’s waters), but by their own people.
But at the end of the episode, Valinor is marshalling for war, and things are finally. finally, looking like they could get better.
#tolkien#the silmarillion#edain#elves#túrin#tuor#dior eluchil#eärendil#elwing#sons of fëanor#nargothrond#fall of gondolin#idril#maeglin#adaptation
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I finished the five parts to The King in Yellow -- according to the copy I checked out through the library (regional ILL). Wikipedia claims that there are five more, but not only have those gone entirely unmentioned in this book (and it collected other short stories by Chambers), but every other listing of works I had looked at only listed those five ("The Yellow Sign," "The Repairer of Reputations," "The Demoiselle d'Ys," "The Mask," and "In the Court of the Dragon").
The five are listed as "supernatural horror," but for the most part they aren't. Only "The Yellow Sign" really is.
"The Yellow Sign": A painter and his model (who fancies him) discuss seemingly prophetic dreams involving seeing the still-living painter getting transported in a hearse driven by a man whose face looks like a grave worm's. They find a copy of The King in Yellow (the play) in the artist's library that he knows he didn't buy, knowing its reputation. The model reads it first and goes semi-mad. He then reads it. Somewhere in this she gives him The Yellow Sign. The corpsy man breaks in and tries to kill the artist, but is clearly already dead. The model dies of fright, the artist of some nebulous disease a day or so later.
"The Repairer of Reputations": Somehow, The King in Yellow and another work involve some line of succession, which would be the protagonist's cousin. The protagonist, however, has suffered head trauma that has radically changed his personality and details he claims turn out to be utterly untrue, so it's unclear what is really going on. "Horror" in the same way that having a villain protagonist is horror. No supernatural elements.
"The Demoiselle d'Ys": The only connections to The King in Yellow and Ys are people's names. It's otherwise the story of an 1890s man who somehow steps back into the 1500s, only to return to his time upon being bitten by a snake. Not horror, definitely supernatural.
"The Mask": Two sculptors are in a love triangle with a woman who ends up falling ill. One of them (the one she loves more) has somehow created a chemical (and it is treated as chemistry, not alchemy) that will preserve living creatures immersed in it, transforming them into what seems to be marble. The girlfriend falls in the chemical, the chemist-sculptor shoots himself, and the other inherits their house. After a couple of years recovering from disease and trauma, the inheritor returns, lives there for a while, and in the end learns that the chemical's effects are temporary (but last years). Borderline supernatural (more soft sci fi than fantasy), mostly tragic.
"In the Court of the Dragon": Guy has a nightmare in Church; he's not sure if it's real or not. However, at the end he somehow winds up in Carcosa. Up until the end, the entire thing could just be a dream. Supernatural at the end, horror in the middle, but neither are done in ways that are altogether frightening or egregiously magical and they only kinda overlap (mostly in that you aren't sure it's a dream until the end).
Is it worth reading? No. I found it middling. The worst Lovecraft is better than this.
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-- CHARACTER --
Name: Seraphina Parkinson
Faceclaim: Devery Jacobs
Age: 24
Blood Status: Muggleborn, masquerading as a Pureblood
Affiliation: Deatheaters
Former School & House: Hogwarts, Hufflepuff
Occupation: Owner of Acid Nightclub and Professional Quidditch Player
-- BIOGRAPHY --
It was an early frost. The sun had only just set and each breath exhaled produced a puffy cloud of steam from the nostrils and lips of the hospital patrons as they entered and exited the sleek, upscale building. It was the Griffiths’ third child. The private birthing suite at the hospital had been reserved for a day and a half by the time labor started.
They were the picture perfection muggle family for a short time. Both mother and father bursting with pride at the three perfect, healthy offspring. It lasted in bliss until the first time that infant Seraphina laughed. Her raven dark locks shifted to a bright, inexplicable pink. It was the same color as a cloud colored by a sunset. No expense was spared as they took her to doctors and experts in various fields to attempt to explain her shifting features. It was when things started floating off of shelves, rattled off the wall, and zipping up from the ground that the Griffiths could take no more.
A friend of a friend of a friend who was in the know took the babe to a magic adoption agency. The Griffiths paid well to ensure the trail back to them was nearly impossible to discover. They didn’t want an angry witch or wizard coming after them some time down the line. That was how the Parkinson’s discovered the babe.
Archer and Merritt Parkinson had already given birth to two children when they came to the decision for a third child. The social elite of pureblooded society, they were well known for their philanthropy. The Daily Prophet had done plenty of stories on the couple’s generosity. While some claimed that the very publicized adoption was just another stunt to gain public appeal, the truth was that they couldn’t have another child due to complications that Merritt faced when she’d had her last child.
Of course, that wasn’t a reason to avoid using the adoption to their advantage. They needed a child and a pureblooded one at that. It was the bundle of swiftly changing hair that caught their heart. An infant metamorphmagus was a rarity, and they were told of her pureblooded parents who passed from dragon pox in another country had been a tragedy. (An insignificant lie if it got the babe adopted, right?) What reason would they have to doubt it? Obviously the infant possessed magical abilities and that was a safer bet than potentially adopted a squib. It was a win all around. Thus, Seraphina Diana Anastasia became the newest and welcomed member of the Parkinson family.
Childhood for the Parkinsons was not all too different from any other pureblooded family. They were often flaunted in the name of their parents’ many pureblooded charities, but they never wanted for anything. Despite how public her adoption was, Sera never felt unwanted or out of place with her family. She was never made to feel anything less than a Parkinson. Seraphina embraced her role. She was ever the dutiful daughter, although she had a penchant for not thinking things through very well. But why would she need to? Any trouble that she came across, her parents would find a way to fix.
As they got older, Seraphina grew prone to long periods of boredom as her siblings became old enough to go to school. It was during this time that she first discovered her love of flying. Soon enough it became time for Seraphina to go to Hogwarts. While she’d somewhat expected to get sorted into Slytherin with the rest of her peers, she wasn’t upset when the Sorting Hat decreed her a Hufflepuff. Her marks were always average in everything but flying. Frankly, she didn’t care to practice anything except Quidditch. She joined the team her second year and it has been her passion since.
Life was normal. Well, as normal as it could be for a young, shapeshifting witch until the summer before her sixth year. An attack decimated an old orphanage not too far outside of Godric’s Hollow. Her mother was fast to say it was tragic that they’d lost the place that Seraphina had been adopted from. It was strange. Her adoption had never been the focal point of her life. More of a mere passing fact in the biography of her story. However, that sentence planted a seed in her. The attacks that were popping up over the nation, her father’s beliefs he became more and more vocal about, the tension of her peers… it all made one point abundantly clear. Blood was becoming more important by the day.
It was time to discover just precisely what bloodline was hers. Seraphina began digging. There wasn’t much to be recovered from the incinerated files of the old orphanage, but galleons greasing the palms of the right people supplied her with the right direction to continue her inquiries. It took time. It took money. It took resources that her mother was not always so willing to arrange. Eventually, Seraphina uncovered the not so pure history of her past. Then she destroyed every evidence of it. No one could ever know lest her own life or the life of her family be forfeit. She wouldn’t let that happen, no matter what. Besides, it didn’t change anything. Not really. Seraphina was what she’d always been raised to be.
It was less than a week later that she began to ask her father about taking the Dark Mark. While hesitant to allow his youngest daughter into the less savory nature of his organization, Archer Parkinson was proud of her tenacity. However, it was the rest of her that impressed the right people under the dark hoods. Seraphina became notoriously able to take a hit and keep going. Her temper could shift at the drop of a hat, and there no were apparently no lengths to which she would not go. She was an incredibly loyal and malleable follower in more than one way. It was swiftly agreed that her loyalty would be an asset. Sera took the Dark Mark the month before her last year of schooling was to begin, a fact which was easy to hide given her particular abilities.
Her marks swiftly fell to below average as Sera struggles to come to terms with the truth of her existence, with what she will do to hide it, with her ambition towards her quidditch career, and with her new found responsibilities. The girl who has always stood out by nature, is desperate to fit in. Survival became the only thing that mattered. Luckily, those with the mark stuck close together, and she relied more heavily on her friends than ever before despite the secret she kept from them.
Once she graduated (barely), Seraphina was offered positions on several Quidditch teams. She was marketable. They wanted her name, her style, her skills on the pitch, and eventually Sera decided to become a permanent member of the Falmouth Falcons as the Keeper. Between her matches, Seraphina worked for the Dark Lord’s desires. There had never been a hesitation to do what she was told to do. It grated on her a bit. Then when the season was over, Seraphina realized that she needed far more distractions from her extracurriculars and the fear of her secrets. That’s when she discovered Acid. Owning a club was just the right fit for her. It was perfect and soon it too was growing in popularity. Never had it been more difficult to keep a secret in the spotlight.
-- TRAITS --
Negative - Egocentric - Irascible
Positive + Resilient + Cooperative
Seraphina Parkinson is taken by Lex.
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charactersssss (a constant wip)
annie morris … twenty-five. currently haunted by her paintings and doodles. how embarrassing! waitress, artist, medicated for an illness she doesn’t has. is actually just from a bloodline of cursed female creative types. more info can be found @tghluck. (fc: mary elizabeth winstead)
edward ainsley … sixteen years old, is actually fifty-seven, vegan vampire. utterly disliked by his vampiric peers due to his being turned into a vampire in his youth, rendered sixteen years old for life. has a tendency towards alcoholism in order to silence his cravings for blood since he deems vampirism altogether unethical. more info found @pastytwat (fc: craig roberts)
robbie moore … fifty. always one of those too big for his own boots kinda guys – one of the ‘i’m jumping ship as soon as hit eighteen’ types. that’s what he did, and that’s when he absolutely fucked it. ran his mouth too loud for too long and ruined any chances he had anywhere he went. robbie is a writer but his unwillingness to compromise with his work leaves him unable to find any real place in the industry. an absolute self publishing expert. to pay the bills he’s an english teacher but there’s no real passion for it. he came back to his hometown after struggling his way around the country and settled down in a marriage with his high school sweetheart that turned sour quickly. the pair never had children and were heading to a painful divorce when his wife passed away suddenly. years down the line and he’s still trying to wrap his head around it. jesus fuck this guy. (fc: marc maron)
tara shaw … thirty-four. owner of SHAWSPB, an independent publishing company ran (run? past tense…? it’s confusing) by one tara shaw, someone who needs to work on her social skills. as it seems, you can actually only reject so many people so many times before it bites you in the ass. more specifically (and more accurately), you can only reject so many people so meanly after you fire the companies’ reader because they’ve let one too many trashy reads out of the slush pile and you have to start wading through the heaving thing yourself. opening manuscripts seemed well and good and safe enough because all you’d be facing is words that were crappy in a worst case scenario, until late one night, you stumble upon something that a sour faced rejectee (yes, one that landed themselves with a personalised handwritten and very specific rejection from the woman herself) gets their pages in the pile. tara opens it and finds that it’s no story at all. it’s a string of nonsense – words that don’t exist, script she’s not sure she’s ever seen before, but transfixed on the page, tara shaw reads the thing front to back and the second she puts the papers down is hurtled into the space time continuum, left to float around in there til something grounds her back into the real world, when or wherever that is. it’s an act of karma, or something, and whenever she lands she pukes her guts out because that’s what that kind of thing does to the human body apparently. (fc: natasha lyonne)
genevieve walsh … seventeen. was made fun of in year six for choosing to go to an all girl’s catholic secondary school, her classmates saying that she would end up a lesbian. she did, though it was unrelated to her formal teaching. very unrelated. she has too much going on and is too moody for her own good. extra info can be found @genegrieve.
morrigan kenny … age unknown. bringer of the apocalypse. wanders earth with her way too long hair (it collects twigs and mud) looking for someone to spend the rest of the end with.
alex … thirty-odd (undisclosed actual age) years old. she is yet to learn to do her taxes, and is for all intents and purposes: a con-woman. arguably not an ethical profession, charging the old and the gullible for exorcisms and that of a supernatural variety while having no knowledge of the subject. but a girl’s gotta make a living — volunteering yourself for stand up gigs at the same place night in night out with little to no compensation doesn’t provide much. she’s a kind person, if you ignore the conning, and is decent to talk to. will give away any information. whoops. (fc: jenny slate)
lou webster … seventeen. modern prophet. refuses touch with good reason (skin on skin means she see the other person’s skin melting off, right to the bone). regularly sees the end of the world and it gives her stomach aches. (fc: natalia dyer)
liv o'dell … twenty-nine. screaming messy would probably win the lottery (the luck of her) if she ever tried it, multiple time accidental murderer. makes no sense. is rude. is annoying. has a surprisingly sweet daughter (kitty). more info @heavyroads
betty cloverfield … a twenty one year old motormouth who can’t hold down a single thing she’s meant to. she happens to have recently induced some type of magenta sensitive dissonance in her sensory processing that she can’t shake. it’s speculated by many that she’s taken one too many poppers and it’s taken its toll. (fc: kat dennings)
aiden ryder … seventeen years old. the angstiest, quietest idiot with four fully charged portable chargers to hand at any moment you will ever know. heavily associated with @optimistsclub (fc: jack kilmer)
mert james ... 21. a children’s author, the writer and illustrator of the BEWARE GIANT CREATRUES series. he has many reasons to not want to leave his house and most surround the obvious images conjured in the phrase hatemyself1999 — hate myself (explanatory) and 1999 (dexter ‘mert’ james’ birth year. also self explanatory once you know this fact). all that said, he does in fact leave his house. teaches drums to kids. none of them practise and it makes him insane. in a running circuit of bands where none of the members are committed. that, or he’s misjudging their commitment and giving them nothing when they do in fact care and then he is the dick. music snob, deadpan snarker, karma houdini, middle child syndrome, world of cardboard, can’t get away with nuthin, i coulda been a contender!
lazyguts / victoria ... suicide/eating disorder mention. i’m writing her through ages 17-19 and here’s the brief overview/context: lazyguts lost all of her friends the year before she went off to university as a result of her total withdrawal [causes being a) her brother attempting to kill himself (he survived but it’s very confusing to grieve a hypothetical especially when you’re not supposed to talk about it) and then b) her already struggling with food issues getting worse worse worse. these two things alone are not the reasons as no one else explicitly knows about them, but the adverse effects of these things combined make her difficult to be around/hard to maintain a friendship with her. all very tragic, but still happens. uno].going to a uni where she doesn’t know anyone seems like the best move. she does. she makes friends with a girl called olivia and they become mad close very quickly. this lasts maybe two months until lazyguts starts locking herself away in uni room and doesn’t see much of anyone at all. she has to drop out on mental health reasons just before the end of her first year. she moves back home and lives miserably and very solitary. she and olivia have long lost touch by this point. a few months later she sees an in memoriam post up on olivia’s social media from some of olivia’s friends saying how tragic the loss is, etc/ olivia had killed herself. the post had said something about a project for the close friends of olivia and she tentatively sends a message despite having never really known the girl. anyway, after quite a few ‘exaggerations’ and then a few straight up lies, she ends up super into the friend group of olivia’s based on the lie of being a long-time friend of hers. she’s not sure why the lie comes out nor why she keeps it going. it’s something to cling onto so she does. best way to put it is she’s very dear evan hansen about it, lying lying lying lllyyyinng. eventually she’s caught out but we’re not there yet (fc: odessa a’zion)
dale knox ... 30ish. painter/decorator. info literally not ever written out before. he’s lovely and in a constant state of stress! affiliated with @fullyfungi (fc: aidan turner)
lenny gata ... 26. lonely funeral poet. followed by a select few of the unknown dead #irl after an accidental latin spell read out at a graveside (not her fault, literally not her fault - she read this out in good faith). caught ignoring them/walking them to their homes depending on the day. (fc: aubrey plaza)
millie matthews ... 17. half part antichrist. the other half is her twin sister (#MISSING). currently, unfortunately, sadly, disappointgly, worryingly, being tracked down.
more tbaaaaaaaa thank you thank you
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12 Days of Christmas Anime, Day 5: Sword Art Online
Because I’m a hopeless SAO fanboy, I’m writing about Sword Art Online‘s Christmas episode…again. I did so last year, and others have done the same three and five years ago. But I couldn’t let the chance to write more about SAO slip past me. To recap: In the third episode, “Red Nosed Reindeer,” Kirito joins a guild of lower-level players, only to witness them die in an ambush. The following Christmas Eve, chasing rumors of a unique revival item, Kirito tracks down and defeats an axe-wielding Santa boss, only to suffer bitter disappointment upon learning that the resurrection item only works within ten seconds of death. Finally, Kirito receives a message from his late friend Sachi (made before she died), urging him not to blame himself for her death.
In the first part of the episode (before the Black Cats guild gets its TPK), Kirito and Sachi have an important conversation. She asks “Why?” Why can’t they leave SAO? Why do they have to die? What’s the point of it all? These are common questions we all face. One doesn’t need to be stuck in a VR deathtrap to struggle with the problem of death, or to wonder “What’s the point of everything?” As a certain fantasy novel I read many years ago put it, no one gets out of life alive. Sooner or later, we must all wrestle with these big “Why?” questions about suffering, death, and meaning. Coming back to the episode, Kirito has no answers for Sachi, and responds “I don’t think there is a point.” But he’s wrong, as Sachi herself goes on to indicate.
Moving on the to the second part of the episode, after the heartbreak of obtaining the time-restricted resurrection item, Kirito gives it to his friend Klein. As Kirito walks away dejected, a tearful Klein begs him to go on living. “You have to survive! Survive until the end, please…” Later that night, Kirito wakes up to a prerecorded message from none other than the late Sachi. She foresaw that she’d probably die and that Kirito would probably feel responsible, and thus prepared this message to encourage him. Her plea is similar to Klein’s, though it adds something significant: “So even if I die, you keep living, okay? Live to see the end of this world, and to see why it was born… The reason why a weak girl like me ended up here… And the reason you and I met.” Sachi’s message serves as a tragic contrast to Keita, the one member of the Black Cats who wasn’t present for the massacre: Upon learning what happened, he blames Kirito for everything and then commits suicide.
There are two important points here. First, Sachi, like Klein, urges Kirito to not give up. Second, she affirms that there is meaning to their experiences. There is a reason these things happen, even if they don’t know what it is right now. This provides a motivation to keep enduring until the end, when they’ll get answers. Sachi shows that surviving has a goal bigger than just, “Don’t die for the sake of not dying.” She’s not urging Kirito to live on merely out of fear of death, or stubborn resistance to Kayaba’s scheme, or some other equally trivial reason. Eventually there will be an “end of this world,” and much that for now is incomprehensible will make more sense. There is a point, and that knowledge should help Kirito, and us, persevere.
This brings us to Advent—which, technically, isn’t precisely the same thing as Christmas, but the two are inseparably intertwined. Advent, the weeks prior to Christmas, places a lot of focus on waiting. Advent encourages us to look back to ancient Jews, enduring one pagan empire after another, waiting hundreds years for the messiah God had promised. It was a time without answers, a time of divine silence, with a gap of around 400 years between the last of the Old Testament prophets and the coming of the messiah.
And Advent highlights the fact that we are waiting, too. While the ancient Jews awaited the first coming of Jesus, we await the Lord’s second coming. Moreover, we likewise wait with no answers to our “why” questions. It’s been around 1900 years since the last book of the New Testament was written, so from our point of view, God has been “silent” for nearly five times as long as what the ancient Jews endured. We’re still waiting, which is why we’re still observing Advent.
There are many ways to describe what we’re doing. Klein’s “Survive until the end,” and Sachi’s “Keep living,” are just lines from a great anime. But the Holy Spirit offers strikingly similar exhortations:
“Wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 1:7)
“Let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up” (Galatians 6:9)
“Endure suffering” (2 Timothy 4:5)
“Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord” (James 5:7)
“Be faithful unto death” (Revelation 2:10)
Amid trials and unanswered questions, we’re awaiting “the end of this world” that Sachi mentioned. Advent, and Sachi, encourage us to keep fighting. At our Lord’s return, we’ll learn the meaning of whatever might seem for now to be pointless suffering, and we’ll receive healing, comfort, and reward. That’s what we’re waiting for. That’s why we can do as Sachi says and “Keep living.”
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Sword Art Online can be streamed through Crunchyroll.
#Anime#Christianity#Sword Art Online#Christmas#Advent#Christmas Anime#Waiting#Hope#12 Days of Christmas Anime#Articles#Author: Jeskai Angel
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SURREPTITIOUS - DRACO MALFOY
CHAPTER ONE: PLATFORM 9¾
SUMMARY: Arriving at Platform 9¾ , Leslie and her father exchange words with an old friend.
WORD COUNT: 3.02k
NOTES: Ahhh the beginning! Make sure you read the prologue first! I hope that the next few chapters start creating questions and theories about what happened and what’s to come involving the Greyscale and Malfoy families. If you want to be added to a taglist, please let me know! Thank you for reading!
WARNINGS: mentions of death
MASTERLIST
AT PRECISELY 10 O'CLOCK ON the first of September, sixteen-year-old Leslie Greyscale maneuvers herself through the flocks of non-magic people to get to a specific platform at a very popular train station in London, England. Her mind is as clear as she can make it, only focusing on the location to direct her cart towards. Relatively not too long ago, the girl enjoyed listening to the thoughts of Muggles, seeing how differently they live their lives and what sort of problems they have in comparison to her. However, she lost interest in reading the non-magical people when she turned fourteen, their lives all too similar to each other. Where the common Muggle may worry about what's for dinner or whether their boss is mad at them for not meeting a deadline, Leslie and other people like her are looking over their shoulder every minute in case of danger, as the wizarding world is not the safest place to live in as of recently. If the newspapers weren't enough to drill in this message, there is one other who took it upon himself to remind her every day during her summer holiday.
Right behind her is the man who continuously cautions her of the dark times: her father, a middle aged man named Janus Greyscale, who couldn't be more proud of his daughter and her gifts, though hidden.
Leslie loves her father dearly, but her time at Hogwarts always felt more like a vacation, more so now than ever. For weeks at a time Janus insisted on staying indoors, even considering pulling Leslie out of Hogwarts after the infamous mass murderer Lord Voldemort apparently rose from the grave. Fifteen years prior he was vanquished by a mere one year old boy whom Leslie happened to be friendly with at school. In no time at all, the news spread like wildfire across the globe that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned, alive and well. Janus and his daughter may have survived the First Wizarding War, but there is no telling what could happen this time around.
"And you're sure you have everything? All your robes? Books? Oh, what about—"
"Dad, if you ask me if I've forgotten anything one more time, I will surely find a reason for you to head home before I can say goodbye." Leslie turns her head back, her long brown hair held in a loose swinging braid. On her lips is a loving smile to her father, coaxing him to let her be. She's sixteen, after all. Next year she'll be an adult in the eyes of the wizarding world. Despite this, Leslie knows she'll never be anything but a young girl to her father.
Janus smiles at Leslie, placing an arm around her shoulders to hug her tight. This causes Leslie to skid to the side, her whole cart wobbling and her scops owl Perry caws fussily.
"Watch it, old man! Could have tipped the whole thing over," Leslie laughs lightly, angling her cart towards a platform entrance once again. This platform, however, isn't the same as the rest at King's Cross Station. Merlin's beard, no! Wizards are a secretive people, living among Muggles in hiding, some in plain sight yet still maintaining secrecy. Everything they do has to be kept a secret from the regular world, from their government to using a spell to reach something high on a shelf. Platform 9¾ is just the same.
Arriving at a specific brick column is the entry to the Hogwarts Express, a beautiful red steam engine that carries all Hogwarts students to their school. One side of the column reads a black printed "9" and on the other side reads "10." Between the two posted signs is Platform 9¾. This train isn't on the same tracks as the rest of the trains at King's Cross: there is no door, no wand waving, not even a secret staircase. In order to get onto the platform, all Leslie has to do is run straight into the brick barrier. Simple enough, she tells herself every year. It never gets any less nerve wracking, running into a brick wall, especially after hearing how it once closed on a couple students. Leslie couldn't imagine the embarrassment or bruises after taking a hit like that.
Janus places one hand on the small of Leslie's back while the other wraps around the handle of the cart. "Together?"
"Really?" Leslie asks, humored by his over-fatherly mannerism.
"It's not every day I get to drop you off at the station," Janus replies, half heartedly.
Leslie rolls her eyes in a very teenage fashion. "Why's today any different? I figured next year would cause a bit more sentimental tears. It's not like this is the last time."
Janus goes to argue, wanting to mention that fate works in many ways, but Leslie beats him to the punch. "Together, then."
With a bit of a run, Leslie and Janus aim her cart straight towards the brick column, a moment being caught in darkness before emerging on the other side, a warm light flooding the magical platform. Spinning the cart a one-hundred-eighty degrees, the Hogwarts Express gleams in all its glory, steam rising from the train as if to welcome Leslie back.
But the train is the only thing manifesting a form of joy. Across the platform, mothers, fathers, and guardians alike share a look of solemn, holding their children close and whispering softly in their ears. This was like no other time Leslie boarded to head back to school. The past five times she walked through, there were spits of laughter and shouts, goodbyes and love-calling. Now, the station is uncannily quiet. Not quite silent— of course, her gift never lets her actually experience silence in a crowded room— but deafening in comparison to memories. A deep disturbance settles in her gut.
Dark times lie ahead, Leslie notes, remembering all that she read in the Daily Prophet over her summer. While she tried to make sense of the wrongs going on, she couldn't. The evil Dark Lord Voldemort is back and there's no telling what he will do this time to rule not only her world, but the entire globe as well. Shivers run down her spine when she passes a mother who thinks of regret sending her only son to Hogwarts.
Breaking her concentration, Janus patiently pushes the cart towards the dock where a man is seen in a red uniform helping students lift their trunks onto the steam engine.
However, it isn't long until Leslie notices her father is distracted by something in the distance. Turning her head, Leslie doesn't see any face she is familiar with but the pleading in her father's eyes causes her to break the silence. "You seem a bit preoccupied, dad," she says softly, waiting in line to load her belongings.
Looking back down at the case in his hand, he shakes his head. "No, no. I just thought—"
"I don't have to look to see there's something you need to do," she reminds him. Janus, after discovering his daughter's talents, proceeded to learn Occlumency, learning how to magically hide his mind from any nosy witch or wizard. Leslie used to wonder what her father would be hiding from her, but her small mind as a child rationalized that she didn't want any spoiled surprises on her birthday. And since, she never felt the urge to question nor try and prod at his mind. After all, he would know if she were. "Go on, I got this," she tells him.
Janus leans to press a kiss to her forehead, pointing a finger lazily at her before setting her suitcase down. "Just a single moment, darling."
"I'll be counting." And with that, his dark cloak blends into the crowd, his body gone from her sights.
It's all a matter of lifting and handing off her items to the young man in the uniform, but to Leslie, it felt like a real workout. Her trunk is by far the heaviest even though Janus put an undetectable extension charm on it. How it never seemed to lose weight is beyond her. Janus would tease that eventually even the charm won't be able to hold all of her belongings. Leslie couldn't help but partly believe his word.
Leslie hands off Perry to the man. The sweet bird squawks and ruffles his feathers as if saying "see you later." Leslie smiles at the small bird. "See you, Perry," she says softly. Perry makes another sound in return.
Turning on her heel, Leslie goes back to find her father to say goodbye. Glancing at her watch, there's just short of thirty minutes before the train pulls itself out of the station, enough time to say goodbye and to find a seat.
"Every year, there's more and more," Leslie acknowledges to herself so no one can hear, sliding between cracks in the mob. Once she is digested out, Leslie straightens out her coat before looking up.
Leslie never considered herself a lonely outcast, a weirdo, nor strange. She had her friends, some close and some distant, and even managed to earn the heart to a funny red-headed twin. Leslie Greyscale just preferred the silence of isolation. This has always been the case for the young mind-reader, but unfortunately, her favored posse made others have extremely loud thoughts on the girl. Her gift, though immensely rare and potentially powerful, was not always her friend. Sometimes, Leslie was not given the option to use or not to use her gift, the girl's gifts having a mind and thoughts of their own, picking up tidbits or full backstories on random people. In time, this only became more common. She had no control over her gift on one tragic day, the sudden influx of thousands of voices frightening her beyond belief. While Leslie has attempted to regain control, she hasn't experienced as much luck as she hoped, her mind flooding with people's thoughts constantly, though now at a dull roar. In this moment, it was no different.
It isn't like Leslie wanted to see that Narcissa Malfoy thought that the daughter of Janus and Barbara Greyscale was odd, but it simply happened.
Awkwardly shuffling up to her father's side, Leslie approaches the duo as the pointed-faced woman looks from Janus to his only daughter. Her blue eyes widened in surprise, taking a look-over at the sixteen-year old girl. "Oh, Leslie! You have truly blossomed, I see."
Truth. It is also true that she had not seen the rich woman nor her husband in many years. Narcissa had not had a chance to see how charming the girl had become, her round edges and untamable mousy hair evolving into sharp corners and neatly straight brunette. A flash of two children playing together pulls Leslie out of Narcissa's mind immediately, not wanting to linger in the past.
"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. You are looking lovely yourself, as always," Leslie responds politely, but meaning every word. She hopes she will age as gracefully as the woman, especially given what has happened to the Malfoy family in recent months.
Mrs. Malfoy smiles kindly. "Your father says you achieved O.W.L.'s for all your courses."
Leslie nods, but remains neutral. Her scores were high amongst her peers, but she wasn't one to boast. "Thanks to weeks of studying, yes. I--"
"I'm very proud of her. I know I did not get nearly as good marks when I was in Hogwarts. Too busy pulling shenanigans, I'm sure you remember." To her annoyance, Janus interrupted what Leslie was about to say. This act was not uncommon, though. While Leslie appreciates her father's worry, it is beyond frustrating that she could never get more than a sentence in when they converse with others.
It appears Narcissa took notice, her gaze lingering on Leslie's frown. Her head nods slowly. "Well, I was too happy to see Draco had passed his O.W.L.s. Perhaps you two will find yourself sharing a couple classrooms this year."
Leslie forces the tight line her mouth instinctively formed into a smile, hopefully one that passes. A white scar across her right hand burns a memory. She forces down the flinch trying to break free from her stone exterior. "Perhaps."
There came a pause in the conversation. It was heavily introduced by Narcissa Malfoy, the woman's thoughts shifting fast, wondering if her words would be appropriate or taken well, or perhaps neither. Of course, Leslie knew what the woman was about to mention. But, she still braced herself, though not well enough as her hands begin to shake and her eyes turn red from irritation.
Looking down to her clasped hands for just a moment, Narcissa sent the girl before her a caring, yet sorrow-filled smile. "I'm also sorry to hear about Ms. Amin. I heard you and her were very close."
Her mouth dries up, all words evaporating off her tongue. Leslie nods, swallowing the air that kept her from responding verbally. "Yes," was all she could croak out.
Narcissa's face flashes a look of sorrow, conflict, and, most importantly, guilt. The woman knows who screamed the curse and she knows them well. Leslie did not have to look to know this fact. While the culprit's identity is hidden just by a mere flash of images, the young mind-reader refrains. She does not have the heart nor mental capacity for such truths at the moment. Perhaps she never will.
"It was good to see you, Narcissa. Please write if you need anything. The Greyscales are always generous to friends." Leslie didn't have to read her father to know he spoke in half-truths.
"Thank you, Janus. I appreciate your concern. Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters to attend to." Before waltzing away, Narcissa paused to briefly smile at Leslie, as if reminiscing in some flashback. "Take care of yourself, Leslie. Have a wonderful school year."
And with that, the witch departs from the pair, leaving a loud silence.
When Janus looked back to Leslie, her eyebrows are raised, questioning the motivation he had to speak with the wife of his old best friend, maybe the wife of her friend's killer. "Don't give me that look. You know what's become of them."
What he is referencing to is a story no one has escaped from. It wasn't like the same story filled all the papers: "Lucius Malfoy: Death Eaters Are Among Us!" You'd have to be hiding under a rock to miss out one of the biggest scandals of the decade. The reporters were eating up the case like chocolate frogs. Part of Leslie felt some remorse for the family, considering it was her friends who helped put the man in prison. But one of those friends includes a girl Leslie will never see again. Lucius Malfoy was working alongside the Dark Lord, along with other Death Eaters like himself; it's only just that he would pay for his crimes. And still, part of Leslie felt for Narcissa, the woman who helped raise Leslie and treated her with kindness and a nice smile.
To this, Leslie nods in some understanding. The Malfoys and Greyscales had always been somewhat close over the past couple centuries, both maintaining a presence where the other may go, until just over twelve years ago. While Janus removed himself from the Malfoy family's relations, it is clear Narcissa still holds a place in his heart, remembering her just as Leslie does. Besides, one once said it's wise to have friends close, but enemies closer. It just appeared Janus wasn't open to letting all of them in.
The rather slightly uncomfortable silence was broken by Janus creating a smile, lightly tugging his daughter towards his chest. Leslie exhales a sigh, finding herself calm in her father's embrace. Sometimes, it felt like he was using his shielding abilities to ease the ones entering her head, to which she is thankful for in this moment.
"And you're sure you still wish to return? No one would blame you," Janus tells her softly, knowing the pain of loss all too well. Part of him hopes Leslie would change her mind about going back to Hogwarts this year. After all, these are dark times and so far, she was one of the unlucky to taste its bitterness.
Leslie closes her eyes, still embracing her father. "Yes, Dad. I wouldn't if I thought any different. I'll be okay. Promise."
A smile forms on Janus's lips, pulling away from his only daughter. He sighs lightly, pressing his calloused hand to the side of her head before pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Make it a good year, darling."
"As you wish." As she pulls away, her thoughts trail off, then become vocal. "Let me know if you hear anything about Zee, please."
There is a tight smile upon his face at the mention of the elder child who disappeared out of spite a year ago. Neither Leslie nor Janus had seen him or heard from him since. Dead or alive, Leslie does not know and part of her does not want to. Zelos Greyscale was always talented in the art of starting fights with the family (or anyone, really), but before he would start his last year at Hogwarts, he left home. For what reason is something else Leslie is unaware of, as her father told her it would be too painful for him to relive. She had simply nodded her head and did not ask any questions ever again.
"As you wish," Janus replies, though it felt forced.
Leslie steps up on her toes to give her father a goodbye kiss on his cheek before walking towards the train. Right before merging with the crowd of students, Leslie waves her hand, sending a grin.
With a loud roar and a puff of steam, the Hogwarts Express departs from Platform 9¾. Inside, Leslie made for a compartment, luckily finding some friends to aid her search. Outside, her father watches as the train slowly disappears from view, knowing his daughter will be out of harm's way. At least for now, he hopes.
#surreptitious#draco malfoy#draco malfoy fanfiction#draco malfoy x oc#draco x reader#draco x oc#draco fanfiction#chapter 1#tom felton#hogwarts#harry potter
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Of Mice & Snakes. Part Two — The Mice
pairing: Michael Langdon x fem!reader x Tom Riddle
warnings: crossover, third-person narration, character death, smut, dub-con, dirty talk, fingering, oral (male receiving)
words: 11.5k
summary: The Dark Lord and his gray eminence are coming to end the regular world order. While the Slytherin Heir might have already put the crown on his head, keep in mind that it’s the Knight (Michael Langdon) who’s the most powerful on the grand chessboard of the wizarding war. When money, power, glory, and love collide, what will win in the end?
mood board by the one and only @micheallangdons
“No, please, don’t! No! Pleaaase!” Her deafening scream pierced through the thick, fetid air of the pit. She clawed onto the muddy walls, but her fingers slipped and she ended up falling to her knees, smearing the dirt all over her bony kneecaps and bruised thighs. The squelching sound of mud and mucus rang in her ears and mixed with the threatening hissing behind her. She squeezed her eyes and let out a desperate animalistic howl, trying with all her might not to look over her shoulder and see them — two huge serpents making their way to her small, trembling body.
“Did you miss us, kitty?” Her blood ran cold at the sudden sound of a human voice echoing in her head. Her body jolted up, and she covered her ears with her dirty hands, but she could still feel the snakes approach her, come closer, their boneless bodies gliding along the ground. Like a trapped bird, a little prey with no chances of survival, her mind tried to come up with some, any plan to get out of this nightmare, but every thought was hammering against the gold cage of her subconscious without the slightest idea of the possible escape.
Her heart raced like mad, pumping the thick blood, shackled with fear, through her veins.
“Go away!” She cried out and whirled around, facing the beasts. Her breath hitched at the sight of the snakes with their big heads swaying slightly from side to side as if they were trying to hypnotize her. One of them was jet back, with the silver scale on its head, and the other was emerald green with spikes. She knew it was a dream, but the creatures looked so real, that the thought of actually dying there and never being able to wake up crossed her paralyzed mind.
The serpents had become the frequent guest of her nightmares, none of which had been as realistic as the current one. She looked up at the rift above her head, through which a faint streak of light was coming. It was too high for her to reach. Having moved the gaze of her wide eyes back at the snakes, she gulped heavily. Their maws were not moving, but she still could hear their voices. They were whispering something like “we are coming, we want you, you are ours”.
She put her hands in front of her and leaned forward, standing on all fours, digging her fingers into the goo; her hair covered her face like curtains. A shiver ran down her spine as she noticed from the corner of her eyes that the serpents had come closer, they were several inches away from her, their forked tongues darting out. There was only one way to end this. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Empty yourself from emotions,” she heard Snape’s voice and tried to concentrate on it as if it was the lively beacon that could guide her through the nightmare. Her nostrils flared when she felt the beasts crawl closer, facing her. She knew if she opened her eyes she would be welcomed with the stare of two pairs of slit-like eyes.
She had never been good at controlling her emotions, but at that moment, on the verge of death, she had to do it. Although it was almost impossible to calm the racing heartbeat down, she tried to tell herself to relax. At least a little bit, so her mind could jostle her out of the lucid dream. She gasped at the blow of cool air fanning over her ears.
“Y/N...” they hissed, “silly, little girl...”
And then...
“Legilimency,” another voice drawled, and a blinding spark of light flashed before her eyes.
She shook her head violently, resisting the intruder. A pounding headache shot through her temples — it felt like as if someone was trying to cruelly scatter her thoughts and memories all over the ballroom of her mind and destruct her from her attempts to gain control over her subconsciousness. It became harder to breathe as if her lungs were held with a steel vice.
She ran the tip of her tongue along her dry, chapped lips and grunted through the gritted teeth, “Protego!”
A loud, primeval scream bordering on terror that rippled through her sweaty body and shattered her brain, made the blood drain from her face, and before she was aware of making a conscious decision, her legs were pounding furiously in the mud.
Her body bolted up in bed, and her wide eyes welcomed the darkness of the Prefects’ bedroom. She was panting heavily, her mouth rigid and open, her face gaunt and sulky, fists clenched with blanched knuckles. Her mind was still in the snake pit, so it took her a while to focus her eyes on the small window in the opposite wall that gave the view of the silver band of the Black Lake sprawled out in the distance. With a look of disgust, she glanced at her nightgown clinging to her body and hooked her fingers under the hem of her collar to take it off. She ran her fingers through her messy hair and slid her hands over the chiseled lines of her face, scratching her flushed cheeks as if she wanted to rip her skin off to get rid of the crawling feeling under it. She sighed and hanged her legs off the bed, placing her feet on the thick emerald green carpet.
“Aguamenti,” she whispered and poured some water into a tall glass on her desk. It was down in one gulp, and as she put the glass back onto the polished surface, she leaned her hip against the corner of the oak table and blankly stared through the window, her back slouching.
Why was it all happening to her? Standing there with her toes flinching on the carpet pile, she reminisced to that ill-omened day when she found the accursed diary in her bag. Why was the universe so merciless to her? The moral cancer of dispiritedness had been eating into her heart for months, turning her into a malignant ball of fear.
The burden of silence had become unbearable at some point and after she had heard the mysterious whisper calling her name in the hallway on her way to class, she decided it was time to share what had happened to her in the Chamber of Secrets at least with someone, otherwise, she would have gone mental. Winona Flint, who had seen the diary when that second-year student brought it to Y/N on the following day after the incident, was the first person the girl shared her experience with. Well, not in detail, of course. Fling’s reaction was quite predictable — as a reasonable witch, she told Y/N that the best thing to do was to let Dumbledore, or Snape, whom she always had a good relationship with, know. Little did Winona know that the poor thing was too scared and worried that the professors could find out that she had been fucked by two entities and really enjoyed it. When she admitted that shameful fact to herself, she forswore that she would never discuss it again.
She tried to get rid of the diary. On one of the gloomy Sunday mornings Winona and Y/N went to the backyard and spent two hours trying different charms to destroy the artifact.
“Insendio!” She pointed her wand at the diary. The lively flames licked the hardcover, turning the grass around it into yellow patches of straw. When the fire went out, it revealed the notebook without any slightest traces of distortion. Not even a scratch was made.
They tried to find something about the diary in the library, but eventually, lost their privilege of using the Restricted Section. Irma Pince, the librarian and Study Hall observer, tracked the search history of the archives and demanded the explanation of why two Slytherin students had been fishing for the information about the darkest artifacts.
The rules became stricter as more students were attacked by the mysterious creature. All Prefects were told to be more attentive to the first and second-year students, who always tended to sneak out late at night, and make sure that everyone was in their dorms after curfew. No matter how hard the professors had been trying to cover what was happening in Hogwarts up, panic started to rise in a geometrical progression. Scared students wrote letters to their parents about the “weird atmosphere at school” and some of them even stayed home after Christmas break.
The usual spirit of mirth and joy that had always reigned in the Great Hall was replaced by the dark and gloomy atmosphere. Even the candles flowing in the air seemed depressive as if they were mourning the petrified victims.
Everything went downhill after the first death. Ginny Weasley, a Gryffindor student and one of many Weasleys who were studying at Hogwarts, was found dead in the abandoned bathroom. It was the day when the Headmaster made the tragic news public. The reporters from Daily Prophet and other magazines flooded the castle like locusts. Rita Skeeter was in her element, interviewing Gryffindor students and then Molly and Arthur Weasley whose hysterical cries could be heard from afar.
“I heard she had asked them if they were sad because they lost a chance to be a part of that Family program Mr. Weasley had applied for last summer,” said Cedric Diggory to one of his mates, and Y/N who was leaning against the doorway and watching Ms. Skeeter pose with the crying Weasleys, snapped her head at him.
“Are you serious?” She asked in disbelief, and to her disappointment, Cedric nodded.
“I’m telling you,” he glanced at the woman, “she’s fucking sick.” They all simultaneously looked back at the blonde woman who was flashing her pearly white teeth at the camera.
Y/N frowned. How easy it was for one person to depreciate other people’s grief. In times when they all were in danger, unity was supposed to be the only thing that could help them, yet the voice of one of the most famous newspapers belonged to a heartless bitch who would never learn such words as sorrow, sympathy, and support.
Over the past months, death had become a frequent visitor of Y/N's life. The familiar feeling of distress and pity that had been eating her from the inside like a nasty warm reminded her about itself on the following morning after she had been awoken by the nightmare. It filled her body like quicksilver, making every limb of hers heavy, nearly pinning her to the wooden floor. Looking through the small window, she was watching the faint sunlight trying to break through the thick blanket of the grey sky that was looming over Hogwarts. What if she was next? She could feel something inside of her, crawling its way out — the sickening fear of the unknown. She highly doubted that Tom and Michael were done with her, but it was not the worry about herself that made her insides flutter in terror. She cared about her family and the thought that something could happen to them was making her head spin. She wanted to make sure that her mom and dad were okay thus she was sending them letters every three days, asking if everything was alright. Every time her white owl brought the yellow envelope tied to its clawed paw, the feeling of relief washed over her.
When Ginny died Y/N's mother wanted her to go home as soon as she could, but the girl had a strong feeling that she would not be safe away from Dumbledore and other professors. Besides, she could not use magic outside Hogwarts without passing her O.W.Ls*, so it was another reason why she chose not to leave.
Having pushed the buttons of her white shirt into the holes and pulling them through absentmindedly, she got dressed and span around on her heels to take her black cloak with a green serpent adorning the breast pocket. She adjusted the cuffs and took a deep breath. How the hell she was supposed to go through the day when every fiber of her body was paralyzed with anxiety? The collar of her shirt felt too tight, suffocating; the laces of her shoes were like shackles, making every step torturously heavy, and the corners of her eyes tingled with upcoming tears. She ran her bony fingers through her messy hair nervously in a weak attempt to calm down.
There were going to be so many people, and the professors would be watching her like hawks — she could already feel their stares and it made her physically uncomfortable, so she hugged herself tightly and rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Unfortunately, she could not spend all day in the bedroom no matter how badly she wanted to do so. It was the day that would go down in history, and she should have been there to witness it. Probably one of the most important things the Slytherin House had taught her was the ability to wear a mask of a stone-cold detachment on her face even in times of grief.
She cleared her throat, shrugged her shoulders as if she wanted to brush the weight of the burden off of her shoulders and made her way to the door. When she wrapped her fingers around the silver knob and twisted it, opening the door with a helpless squeaky sound, she froze and looked over her shoulder at the nightstand by her bed. That was where she had been keeping the diary, which no longer belonged to her. Dumbledore confiscated it from her on the day she confessed that she knew what creature had petrified the students.
“There’s no guarantee she’s telling the truth, Headmaster,” her haze lingered over Snape’s pale fingers gripping onto the arms of the chair she was sitting in with such force that his knuckles bled white. He kneeled before her and looked her in the eyes through the greasy strands of his raven black hair. She shivered under his stare and looked away, focusing her attention on Dumbledore who was walking around the room with his hands behind his back. “Truth serum will give a loose to her tongue.”
“Severus, she’s not an enemy,” professor McGonagall intervened, arching her thin eyebrow in a reproachful manner, “miss Y/L/N is your student and her reputation is implacable.”
The remark did not seem to convince Professor Snape who knew more about the dark arts than anyone in the headmaster’s office.
“We’re dealing with dark magic,” Snape hissed, his eyes still glued to Y/n’s face overshadowed with fear, uncertainty, and shame. She slouched her back and looked down at her trembling hands, that were clutching onto the hem of her pleated skirt, suddenly looking so small and vulnerable that McGonagall’s heart sank. “Why all of a sudden miss Y/L/N decided to bless us with her confession?” He narrowed his snake-like eyes at Y/N. “Who is going to prove that she is not their ally...”
Her head flew up so unexpectedly that it made professor Snape recoil in surprise. Her wide, e/c eyes looked at him in disbelief. How could he even think such things of her? Her mind went back to the humiliation she had gone through in the Chamber of Secrets and the grievance of the unfairness washed over her. Why did she have to deal with false accusations when it was /her/ who should have been protected and taken care of? Her bottom lip started trembling, the omen of an approaching tantrum.
“Severus, that’s enough!” Dumbledore barked and raised his right hand, calling for silence. For a second the only sound disturbing them was the ticking of numerous magic objects in headmaster’s office and Y/N's quiet sobs. He squatted to her level, the draped fabric of his long, lilac gown polling around him, and softly touched her hand.
“Professor Dumbledore,” she started, hesitantly looking into the older man’s watery eyes that were studying her face attentively through his half-moon spectacles. There was something in his gaze that made her visibly relax — the noble calmness of wisdom and understanding. “I swear to Merlin, it wasn’t me... I just...”
She didn’t finish because of the lump in her throat and uncontrollable tears she had not even noticed at first.
“It’s alright, Y/N,” his voice was croaky, yet managed to sound gentle, “please, tell us if Tom and Michael had told you when they were going to come back?”
That question had been bothering her ever since. It felt like every day had turned into the exhausting waiting for Riddle and Langdon to strike. As she walked out of the Prefect’s bedroom, she made sure to check if the hallway was clear and only then headed out to where every student was going. To the Courtyard. The lapels of her school gown rustled with every step; she shoved her hands into the pockets and wrapped her fingers around the wooden handle of her wand — the small gesture made her feel safer.
“Good morning, Mister Nicholas,” she greeted the Gryffindor ghost who pouted unhappily in response.
“Hardly, Ms. Y/L/N.”
“I’m sorry for the loss of your house,” she added, but the Nearly Headless Nick only shrugged and disappeared into the nearest wall. She bit her lip thinking how awkward it was for her to express condolences. She felt somewhat embarrassed by such things because it was difficult to find the right words that would not be too sentimental and too formal at the same time.
The soft flames of the torches hanging on the walls were casting shadows on her face. The sound of her steps echoed through the semi-empty hallway matching the drumming of her racing heart. As she got closer to her destination, the sound of voices humming in the distance became clearer. Her nerves were tight as the violin strings when she made the last turn and the numerous rows of chairs, placed all over the yard, came in sight. She pushed her way through the crowd of students toward Slytherin pews.
Thick grey clouds moved in the afternoon sky, kissed into brilliant white by the sun. She pulled the collar of her cloak a bit higher to cover her neck — the chilly air made her a bit cold. She looked around, spotting a messy mane of bright ginger hair of Ron Weasley next to Hermione’s head. The kids were sitting next to each other, wiping off tears with the back of their palms.
“Today we have gathered to acknowledge a terrifying loss,” Dumbledore’s voice thundered, drawing everyone’s attentioт. “Harry Potter was, as you all know, exceptionally hard-working, intricately fair-minded, and loyal student. But most importantly he was a great friend, Hogwarts Quidditch champion, and the outstanding young man with the bright future ahead of him. Only a few of you know how he died, so before we proceed to say goodbyes I would like to tell you about Mr. Potter’s heroic act of bravery. He was killed by two former Hogwarts students,” a shocked whisper rolled through the crowd, and Dumbledore had to wait until everyone calmed out.
“Heroic? I bet Potter slipped and banged his stupid head,” Draco Malfoy smirked addressing Crabbe and Goyle who immediately nodded in agreement. “My father says Dumbledore will do his best to present the story in the best light with a bow on top.”
Y/N leaned forward and tapped his shoulder. The boy looked back and raised his brows at her.
“If you don’t shut your mouth, I’m gonna take ten points from Slytherin,” she sneered, feeling annoyed.
Malfoy pursed his thin lips in disgust; he looked at her hand still placed on his shoulder and shrugged it off.
“That’s robbery,” he noted, giving her a sidelong glance, “you aren’t going to take the points from your house, are you?”
“Try me.”
He was about to say something but the headmaster’s voice cut him off.
“Michael Langdon and Tom Riddle, whom you may know as Lorde Voldemort, were Slytherin students many years ago. With the help of a dark artifact they had managed to trap their souls in the Chamber of Secrets and waited many years to come back.” At the mentioning of Riddle’s and Langdon’s names Y/N shivered. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and leaned back into the chair, wishing she could disappear. Deep inside of her, she felt extremely guilty for Harry’s death. If she had told the professors about Tom and Michael it would have been possible to avoid many victims.
“Harry Potter was killed by the person whose attack he had once survive. The dark times are coming. All students will be dismissed before the official end of the semester, the exams are to postponed until the next school year...”
Hot tears of feebleness burned in the corners of her eyes and she had to look up at the grey sky to let them dry. That was the moment when she noticed how weirdly the clouds were gliding along the silvery surface. The grey hues obscured the sky, covering the last patches of where the faint light tried to get through. The unexpected sound of thunder interrupted Dumbledore’s speech and made everyone lift their heads. A violent gust of wind raised a pile of leaves and swirled it in the vortex — Y/N had to cover her face with the palm.
“Look!” Pansy Parkinson exclaimed and pointed at the patch of darkness that erupted from the sky in the form of a colossal skull with a serpent protruding from its mouth. The Courtyard was shaken with a loud CRASH. Y/N turned her head at the source of the sound, and her eyes widened at the sight of a huge fiery ball flying in the direction of the Astronomy Tower.
Many people were only just realizing that something strange had happened.
“What is going on?” Someone shouted and the helpless cry died down in the noise of the extended thunder that was coming from beneath the ground. The concrete floors started to crack.
“Holy shit.” Y/N cussed and drew her wand. Panic ensued quickly as the ground shook up and down as if the entire place suddenly fell from the sky. Scared students rushed to the main entrance of the castle.
“Everyone, go inside! Now!” Professor Dumbledore cried out. “To the dungeons! Use the passageway to Hogsmeade. Prefects, listen to your deans for the further instructions!”
Y/N was pushed away and nearly got swept off her feet. She saw the smoke transform into tall, dark figures whose faces were covered with silver masks adorned with arabesque ornament. Her heart skipped a beat; she could feel the sweat drench her skin, and the ringing screams vibrating in her ears. She got a strong grip on her wand and curled the fingers of her other hand into a fist, nails digging into her palm. Pushing through the crowd, she made her way to the stairs ignoring the conciseness that was telling her to fulfill her duty as a Prefect and help the students. Images of her nightmare flashed before her eyes, and she gulped heavily, realizing that they came for her. Fear engulfed her body, churning her stomach in cramps. The only thought “Run! Get out!” was pounding in her head like a gong. The only person she cared about at that moment was herself.
Her scream from deep within that forced its way from her mouth was so loud that she had to press her palm to her lips to muffle it. Her eyes widened at the body of a student that fell before her feet. She looked back and gasped at the sight of the Courtyard ignited by the flashes of green, red and white lights.
She sped up making her way to the Pendulum and then behind it toward the big wooden door. “To the left, and then forward, then again to the left” she was running faster than the wind, her mind racing. The plan she had come up with the other day was not thought out, in fact, she did not have any plan besides having her bag packed and kept in the wardrobe in case of emergency. She headed out to the Prefects’ bedrooms to pick it up and then go to the secret passageway to Hogsmead where she could apparate from.
She stormed into her bedroom, the heavy door swinging open. She slammed it shut with a loud noise and locked it from the inside. Only when her back felt the wooden surface she let herself take an erratic breath. Her eyes skimmed through the room and she stopped her gaze at the big wardrobe that stood proudly against the wall. Her trembling fingers rummaged through the piles of neatly folded clothes; she grabbed the bag and tossed on the floor beside her.
Suddenly she heard a noise behind the door and turned her head at it worryingly, instinctively gripping her wand tightly. The short hairs on the nape of her neck stood on end when the door flew open with a loud noise, and the clouds of dust obscured her vision, filling her nostrils. She started coughing, and before she could mutter “Protego!” someone’s familiar, stern voice said “Expelliarmus,” disarming her. Her wand fell from her grip and landed several feet away from her.
As soon as the dust cleared, two tall figures walked into the room. Both were wearing the same masks she had seen on those wizards who had appeared at the Courtyard. They took them off with a delicate flick of their glove-clad hands, and a strangled yelp left Y/N’s lips when she saw who was in front of her. The arabesque masks revealed the features of those who she had been trying to forget all that time. It seemed like they had got even more handsome. Michael’s blonde hair styled in short, soft waves looked almost silver in the light that was splashing through the small window. His locks and vibrant blue eyes emphasized the beauty of his porcelain skin. He had a subtle hint of blush on his cheeks which she had not noticed in the Chamber of secrets. He was alive. Michael Langdon stood before her in flesh.
She moved her gaze at Tom starring at her with his rigid and cold eyes. The color of them matched the shade of his hair of the purest ink. She made a couple of steps backward but impaled herself onto the corner of the nightstand that hit her hip painfully.
“Well, well, well,” Tom said in a sing-song voice, and her insides fluttered. He looked around the room and pressed his lips into a tight line. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere. It’s not polite to hide from your friends, sweetheart.”
She wrapped her trembling fingers around the lamp on the nightstand and pointed it at Tom in a threatening manner.
“Don’t you dare do anything to me,” she hissed, her eyes traveling back and forth from Michael to Tom. From Tom to Michael.
“Michael, seal the door,” Riddle ordered without looking at Langdon and made a couple of steps toward her. She shivered at the feeling of the weird deja vu — everything resembled her nightmare, except for the human guise of Tom and Michael. “We don’t want Dumbledore to interrupt our fun, don’t we?” He arched his brow at Y/N.
“What do you want from me?” Her question came off as a piercing screech.
“You want me to announce the list?” He smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on her. Tom thrived off of the sight of her trembling lips and bright, e/c eyes gleaming with tears.
“I don’t understand,” she sobbed, “Why me? I didn’t do anything, I...” She froze to her spot when the sudden memory of what had happened in the Chamber of Secrets flashed before her eyes. She saw herself with her legs wide open, Tom thrusting into her worked up ass, and Michael taking her soaked pussy. She had been trying to forget it, the delicious stretch of both of her holes and intoxicating smell of the boys, for months. She was looking at Riddle with wide eyes and then she realized that he had sent that vision to her on purpose.
Y/N shook her head and imagined a stone wall surrounding her mind. It was another trick professor Snape had taught her to block her subconscious from Tom’s intrusion. Anger flashed in Riddle’s eyes when she shut him out of her thoughts.
“Not bad, not bad,” he hummed, crossing his arms against his chest, “turns out Snape has taught you a thing or two.” It took his long legs just a couple of strides to approach her, his broad figure towering over her. “We would’ve never thought that you’d be so stupid and tell Dumbledore about what had happened,” he spat out. “If it hadn’t been you, many students wouldn’t have been at the hospital recovering from Basilisk’s attack.”
He knew what buttons to push. Even though she understood that Tom was aware of her weaknesses only thanks to Occlumency, she still felt guilty. She readjusted her fingers on the handle.
“You could’ve used anyone instead of me, and the outcome would be the same. Now, back off,” She barked and took a swing at him. When she was about to hit him, a pair of strong hands got wrapped around her waist and pushed her forward from the nightstand into Tom’s embrace.
“Not so fast, kitty,” Michael whispered in her ear, his colossal hands landing on her hips. The lamp crashed on the floor, the crystal beads of glass scattering over the emerald green carpet like morning dew.
She cried out and tried to push Tom away, pressing her small hands against his chest, but he did not even flinch. He laced his fingers around her slender wrists, and for a second, she thought he was going to break her bones.
“You are so pretty,” Riddle cooed, tracing the pads of his fingers along her features almost lovingly, ignoring the way she scrunched up her nose at his caresses. His eyes lingered over her face and stopped at her parted lips; he slid his thumb along them. Riddle smirked. “Too bad such a beautiful doll face has no brains,” and with those words, he blew some blue powder in her face.
She did not even have time to process what was going on before a thick blanket of mist clouded her vision. Her eyesight blurred, everything became fuzzy, floating before her. Then she saw nothing at all. Her consciousness was swimming through a space filled with a thick static.
It was the beginning of the end.
xxx
Slap!
She winced at the harsh tap on her cheek and the pounding headache in her temples. Slowly, as if at any given second her head could explode, she opened her left eye, and then the right one. Everything was unfocused, although she was hyper-away of the fact that there was a wooden surface of the polished floor in front of her face, her left cheek was resting against it. No wonder every muscle of her body was sore and felt as if she had been beaten up for hours — her wrists were tied behind her back, arms bent outward at the most uncomfortable angle, and when she tried to move them, a hot wave of piercing pain shattered her body.
Slap!
Another tap and she let out a muffled moan. Her throat was dry as The Sahara — she gulped heavily and licked her chapped lips.
“That’s enough, Bella,” she closed her eyes at the sound of the familiar voice. So it was not a nightmare — they had kidnaped her. “She’s with us.”
A desperate yelp fell from her lips, when someone’s strong hand gripped at the roots of her hair and forced her upper body up from the floor, forcing her to kneel. Her heavy-lidded eyes flew open and she faced a pair of expensive leather shoes and the bare feet of the house elf before her. She traced her eyes higher up the black slacks and the bony, slender frame of a creature that must have been responsible for slapping her. The elf looked angry, her eyes narrowed suspiciously at Y/N. Bella looked as if she was ready to rip Y/N’s throat out at any given second if the girl attempted to attack any of her masters.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” Michael placed his long fingers under her chin and used his index and thumb to get a strong grip on it. He carefully examined her face. “You gave her too much of that powder, Tom.” Langdon noted critically, tilting her head to the side and pursing his lips disapprovingly at her puffy features. “She shouldn’t be so swollen.”
He looked over his shoulder and she followed his gaze. Riddle was sitting cross-legged on a big velvet armchair, his pale, aristocratic hands resting atop wooden armrests. He pensively rubbed his pointy chin and shrugged.
“It’s the last thing that bothers me. As long as she‘s more appeasable than her father, she shouldn’t have any problems.”
Her whole body bolted up at the mentioning of her dad.
“What did you do to him?” Her hoarse voice roared through the room. It sounded so foreign and raspy that she could barely recognize herself. The elf hissed at her threateningly, but she ignored it. Michael was looking down upon her, a faint smirk ghosting over his plump lips.
“The old man was so sensitive. Couldn’t handle even two minutes of the charming effect of Cruciatus. By the way, he was right at this spot where you are now.” He flashed his perfect teeth at her.
She could not understand what they were talking about. She had been receiving letters from her family every three days. Y/N pressed her lips together.
“If you think that I’ll buy another lie, you fucker...” She spat out and earned one more slap across her reddening cheek.
“Bella, stop,” Langdon rolled his eyes at the elf who did not understand why her Master was so forgiving of the girl’s rudeness. She glanced at him with her big eyes that looked like two baseballs.
“Bella can’t let this filthy girl talk about Master and his friend like that,” she frowned, curling her fingers into tight, little fists.
Langdon hummed and traced his the pads of his fingers over Y/N’s face, barely touching her.
“She’s not filthy, my darling,” he told the elf, and Y/N tried to shy away from his featherlight touch. “She comes from a pure-blood family where there have never been any encounters with muggles. She’s a pure lily-white to some extent,” he muttered.
Y/N did not know how he had known anything about her family. She was a pure-blood witch indeed and knew her family tree by heart because it used to hang next to the crest in the living room of her parents’ mansion where she had grown up. Her father was a famous wandmaker, always competing with a half-blood family of the Ollivanders, the owners of the well-known store located in Diagon Alley. He had a penchant for studying the psychological aspect of wanders, how they chose wizards and the way the core of them resonated with the personalities of their owners. He believed that the wands had souls.
“What happened to my father?” She barked, the slimy hand of fear grasping around her spine. “I received letters from mom, she said everything was fine,” tears tingled in the corners of her eyes.
Tom chuckled, clearly finding her naive nature amusing.
“Your honorable mother writes whatever she’s told,” he explained, “under Confundus. It does wonders to those unwilling to compromise,” as Tom spoke, he was examining his perfectly trimmed nails with a bored look on his face. “As for your father, we needed some information only he could provide us with, but he refused to share it, so...” he smiled carnivorously, “he’s at St. Mungo’s recovering from his visit.”
His words knocked the bottom out of her made-up self-control. Her howl that ranged through the room made the blood of everyone present in the room run cold. A scream of hysteria and disbelief. She wriggled her back trying to get rid of the ropes, but it was impossible — she ended up beating her body against the floor like a fish that needed oxygen. She cried as if her brain was shredded from the inside, the emotional pain of realization that Langdon and Riddle had tortured her father flowed out of her every pore. The living room turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. She could only hear the blood drumming in her ears. Tears burst forth like water from a dam, spilling down her face. Her throat burnt, forming a scream, her breath got heavier, as she fell on the floor and rolled over on her side. It felt like a part of her was dying inside.
“Oh, c’mon,” Michael scoffed at her lying before him. Y/N looked so helpless that it was getting on his nerves. He stepped aside, afraid that her tears could stain his shoes. “He’s doing alright. Besides, you can help him if you behave and do as you are told.”
Langdon waited till she stopped crying. The girl stared blankly at the wooden surface, letting out small hiccups from time to time. Tom sighed and covered his face with the palm, already regretting having messed with her. A fucking cry baby was on their hands.
“You’re monsters,” she finally whispered and closed her eyes. “I’m gonna kill you and make sure that your death won’t be easy.”
“Sounds like a promise,” Michael mused, “and a good start for the negotiations.”
The next moment she found herself sitting on a chair, hands still tired securely. She looked over the shoulder and noticed that the ropes were glowing. No way she could untie them. She bowed her head lowly, admitting her defeat.
“Don’t be so pouty,” Tom said in a mocking tone, “you’re going to benefit from our deal, too.”
She snapped her head at him.
“I’d rather fucking die.”
Michael tsked.
“It would be such a waste of the precious blood of yours,” he clicked his tongue, crossing his hands against his chest, the fabric of his cape tightening around his strong arms. “You need to practice more self-love. In that case, you won’t be willing to die every five seconds.” His deep tone vibrated with a silvery clang of veiled satire.
“If you continue with this stupid sarcasm,” she sneered, “I’m going to smash my head against the floor and die like that.”
“That’s not an appealing way to die.”
“Better than listening to you.”
“That’s enough!” Tom interfered and stoop up to his feet. The sound of his boots echoed through the room, as he approached her and Michael. He bent over at the waist to the same level with her face. “You are much better when the only sound leaving that pretty mouth of your is your pleas to be fucked harder.”
Her cheeks turned bright red and she could not find anything to contradict with, which made Riddle extremely satisfied with himself. He straightened his back and cleared his throat.
“You have no idea how similar you are to us. You can tell yourself all you want that we are monsters because, perhaps, to some extent we are,” he smirked, “but everything we do is for the bright future ahead of us. The world without mud-bloods, muggles, and other rubbish. And you,” he slid his thumb along her bottom lip bruised from biting, “are not a saint you try to portrait yourself to be. Forgive me, angel, but I don’t remember you helping the students when the Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts. Where were you, a noble Prefect of Slytherin?”
She gulped.
“I...” Y/N started, but Tom did not need her remarks. He raised his hand, forcing her to shut up.
“You were saving your ass,” he said nonchalantly as if he was talking about the weather. “You are selfish and cowardly, but that’s what makes you a human being. Save the puny bravery for Gryffindor. Those fools never miss the opportunity to get into a fight without even thinking of the consequences...”
“Don’t make my fear of getting killed equivalent to the horror you and Michael are responsible for.” She interrupted him.
Tom’s nostrils flared. She looked at him with wide eyes, when he brutally grabbed her by the chin and made her look up at him.
“Next time you interrupt me, I’m going to cut your tongue off, am I being clear?” He had waited for her to nod before he let go off his grip.
“They are fighting and losing their people when they could join us and help us built something greater,” Tom raised his hands as if he was showing her the scope of his ambitions. “We’ve been oppressed by muggles for centuries, and it’s time to end it. We’ll annihilate everyone...”
“That’s where there’s mischief or the deity of things — nothing can be entirely annihilated; — not even a thought.” She murmured loud enough for Riddle to hear.
Michael sighed.
“Crucio”
A shot of blinding pain went through her body and made her choke on her scream. It felt like hundreds of needles were stuck under her nails and her skin got ripped off at the same time. It subsided as quickly as it had started when Michael pointed his wand in a different direction, leaving her breathless.
“Much better,” Riddle said, nodding approvingly at her fucked out state. “Where we were? Ah yes, the annihilation. Here’s the thing. To build the new word, you have to destroy the regular order of things. Those who choose to join us are very welcomed because they are going to be the ones building up the new life based on my and Michael’s commands. Human beings are very easy to manipulate, my dear. You will learn it soon enough. Our society has created a system that shapes every single one of us since the day we are born. It gives us our name, believes and determines the role we are going to play. A man in his origin is a blank canvas, nobody, who will be shaped in whatever form we want them to be,” his dark eyes sparkled mischievously.
She could only imagine the destruction they wanted to bring into the world.
“Has your father ever told you about the Elder Wand?” Michael asked, slowly circling her chair. She shivered when he brushed his hand over her tense shoulders.
“The one from the fairy tale?” She asked, her eyebrows frowned.
“Yes, the one originally owned by Antioch Peverell, a loyal subject of Death. The most powerful wand that has ever existed,” notes of anticipation threaded into Langdon’s voice. His boyish features illuminated with excitement as soon as he mentioned the wand.
“You are talking about it as if it’s real,” Y/N responded timidly. The last time she had heard anything about the Peverell brothers was when she was seven.
“It exists,” Riddle said gloomily, “and your father confirmed it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t said much before he lost his mind.”
A new wave of boiling anger raised within her. She tried to get her wrists free by rocking on the chair back and forth but failed. Her only desire was to punch Tom in his handsome face.
“And what do you want from me?”
Michael came closer and put his hand on her shoulder, holding her in place, his fingers dipping into the hollows of her collarbones firmly.
“Any information about it, the access to your father’s archives,” his blue eyes were drilling into her soul, “they are charmed and we can’t break into them. We need to know the possible location of the wand or its current owner.”
She was looking at them in disbelief. Two the most powerful wizards she had ever come across, really indulged in the idea of finding the wand from a fairy tale. She nervously licked her lips.
“I don’t know anything about it,” she started slowly, “Dad never talked about it and...”
Tom let out a frustrating groan. He was so tired of hearing the same damn thing from every captive. He hid his face in his palms and took a deep breath.
“Fucking cru—...”
“No! Please, don’t!” She yelled at him and squeezed her eyes tightly, waiting for a new wave of agony wash over her body, but it did not follow. She opened her right eye and saw Tom pointing his wand at her.
“Name one reason why I shouldn’t help you join your father at St. Mungo’s right now,” he hissed.
Y/N sobbed and only then noticed that she was crying again.
“If I give you access to my father’s archives, will you promise that you’ll leave me and my family alone?” She asked, her voice breaking. The voice in her head kept telling her to shut up, but she tucked it away. “That’s the only thing I need. Do whatever you want, but promise that in the anarchy you two will create, my family and I will survive.”
A defeating silence followed her question. She felt weak and defeated. Maybe they were right and she only cared about herself indeed? But who could blame her for that? Dumbledore was right about upcoming dark times and having seen Tom and Michael in flesh, as powerful as they were, she realized that it was time to make a choice. The choice every wizard would face soon enough. She had never wanted to be a hero and if there was a small chance for her and her family to survive. She would do anything for it, even if it meant making a deal with Satan.
“Seems like there’s an ounce of common sense in you indeed,” Tom finally mused. When he raised his wand again, she expected him to torture her, but he only flicked his wrist and untied her ropes. They fell helplessly on the floor like two coiled snakes. She lifted her eyes at him.
“Tomorrow we will make the Unbreakable vow in front of our followers. We will grant you a chance to live, but if you break any of your promises, you will die. You have time till dawn to think it all over.”
It was all he said to her.
xxx
Sitting in a huge bathtub filled with scented foam and oils the house elf had added for her, she was thinking if it was possible to drown in there or Michael and Tom would come and save her because they needed her for their plan. She leaned her head against the marble edge of the tub and closed her eyes. At least she had bought some time till morning, but she still had no idea what to do. On the way to her bedroom that Tom and Michael had prepared for her, she managed to take a glance at their mansion. It looked impressive. There must have been more than one elf because taking care of all those carpets, shiny polished furniture and jacquard curtains that framed big windows required a lot of time and effort. She doubted that Michael and Tom had neighbors, so she eliminated the attempt to scream and cry for help from her list.
What if she tricked him into believing that she was supporting their ideas and then found some floo powder and used in the fireplace she had noticed in the living room? She could let Dumbledore or Snape know what had happened to her. But Tom and Michael were masters of Occlumency. There was no way they would not control her mind. She sighed heavily. Y/N was too tired and drained out to think of any plan. She looked at her palms under pink foam and stroke the water with such anger that it got splashed overboard.
Fucking assholes.
She froze to the spot at the sudden sound of Riddle’s and Langdon’s voices behind the door.
“I don’t think she will mind,” and the next moment two men brazenly ruined her fragile peace.
They had got changed into more comfortable clothes, yet still managed to look implacable. A loose fit grey t-shirt was hanging off Michael’s collarbones contrasting with the icy blue flames in his eyes. There was a wide grin on his face when he entered the bathroom, he looked so young that if Y/N had not known what he was actually like, he would’ve tricked her into believing that he was a real-life angel. He shoved his hands into the pockets of linen trousers he was wearing and closed the door with a push of his hips.
Tom did not even bother to throw a shirt on. He leaned against the sink with his hands crossed against his smooth chest. His pants were hanging lowly on his naval, exposing the deep V of his muscles. Y/N nervously tried to cover her nudity with foam, hoping that they had not caught the glimpse of her pink, perky nipples, poking through the white and pink clouds of bubbles.
“Get the fuck out of here!” She exclaimed angrily, sinking deeper into the water, leaving only her head above the surface.
Michael rolled his eyes.
“No, not happening,” he said and bent over to sink the tips of his fingers into the water, checking the temperature.
She gasped at their audacity and demanded the explanation.
“What are you doing here?”
She could feel the blush creep over her cheeks at the heavy-lidded look of Tom’s dark eyes; for some reason, it seemed like he could see her through the water and foam mixed together, and she felt extremely embarrassed by it. She brushed her fingers through her hair, trying to cover her breasts with it.
“We decided to come help you with your decision,” Riddle said, licking his lips.
Y/N shot a sidelong glance at Michael who nodded in response and hooked his fingers under the waistband if the pants. She did not have to think twice to understand what he was up to.
“Don’t you dare!” She protested, instinctively pressing her back against the bathtub. She looked over her shoulder and nervously bit her bottom lip, thinking if she could slide to the side and thus get away from Michael, but the tub did not have much space. Langdon rolled his pants down his long legs and quickly stepped out of them, revealing himself in his full glory before her.
“Oh, my God,” she whined and tried to look away. “Put them back on for fuck’s sake!” Y/N pleaded, feeling the panic rise within her. She tried her best not to share at the impressive length of his half-hard cock hanging heavily between his parted thighs. It looked just as she had remembered it — long and thick with a pink, shiny head and a prominent vein on the underside. Okay, she did not see the vein this time, she just remembered it from the Chamber of Secrets, how it had felt against her wet, velvet tongue.
The cheeky grin ghosting over Michael’s plump lips was a sign of him being perfectly aware of the effect his naked form had on Y/N.
“Move,” he beaconed his fingers at her, and she shook her head.
“What?” Y/N’s question came off in a more high-pitched tone that she had intended, “No! Don’t you even think...”
“You need to be more appreciative of the fact that we have saved your life,” Tom said, and she wondered if he would join too. God forbid. So far, he was still standing against the sink, watching Michael and her.
“You are the ones who have put it in danger,” she reminded, eyeing Langdon suspiciously. He put his one leg over the edge of the bathtub, forming the ripples in the water.
“Then you understand how fragile your position is.”
Arguing with them was pointless, but it did not mean that she would give up so easily. She curled her fingers into fists and brought them against her chest when Michael fully got into the tub and headed toward her.
“Stay where you are,” she warned. He approached her, his broad chest covered in transparent beads of water; he dipped his head into the water, his blonde hair getting a shade or two darker.
“Or what?” He scoffed and extended his hand to her. It took him a couple of seconds to wrap his fingers of his one hand around her wrists and hold her in place. She looked at him in fear, but he only tilted his head to the side, his whole look asking “So what now? Go ahead and try me.” Michael used the time of her confusion to push his body off the bottom and press himself against her.
“Michael, please, don’t,” she begged, calling him by his name. Langdon’s cock twitched at the sound of his name falling from her lips, and he maneuvered both of them so he positioned himself behind her, holding her closely against his chest, her hands still in his firm grip.
Tom leaned forward, putting his hands on the edge of the tub, his muscular arms flexing at the weight of his body; the black strand of his hair fell into his face.
“C’mon, kitty,” he cooed, “didn’t you miss our time together?”
She arched her back and whined helplessly, trying to get away from Michael’s steel grasp. She wriggled her shoulders, but he wrapped his arm around her waist, pinning her to the spot. She could feel his erection pressed between their bodies and the way his chest was rising and falling within steady breathing.
“Did you sleep with anyone else after that?” Langdon whispered in her ear, grazing his teeth over the earlobe, his breath fanning over the sensitive spot. He nipped on the soft skin and then moved his lips to her neck, peppering it with sweet, teasing kisses. She rolled her head to the side in an attempt to prevent his manipulations.
“I’ve been trying to forget that experience like a nightmare.” She managed to mumble. He laid his hand on her stomach, slowly stroking it, his fingers dangerously close to her pubic bone. Michael used his thigh to spread her legs and make her straddle him, a position she was so used to.
“Hmmm, to forget?” He mused, massaging her tummy lazily, getting dangerously close to her womanhood with each circle. Langdon cupped her left breast in his free hand and rather harshly squeezed it, moving his fingers to her pink, soapy nipple to give it a pinch.
“We’ve seen every darkest corner of your mind,” Tom reminded her and stroke her cheek painted in scarlet hues of blush. “You loved the feeling of our cocks inside of you, didn’t you? The fullness? The way we moved together in your tight little holes that were begging to be ponded,” as he spoke his pupils were blown wide, turning his eyes into dark abysses; his voice dropping a few octaves lower, vibrating through her bones. By the way he licked his lips and brought his face so close to hers, she knew he was getting off to the filth that was coming out of his mouth.
“Stop, just stop it,” she whined and kicked Michael with her elbow, earning a disapproving groan from him.
Immediately, Langdon’s hand flew to her neck and wrapped around it securely, his thumb pressing right on the pulsing point of her sinew. She gasped in shock and reached for the edge of the bathtub, scratching her nails against the fine marble.
“You can lie to yourself all you want,” she gripped onto his arm, but it only made him more aroused. He rubbed the tip of his nose against the nape of her neck and then moved lower to where her neck connected with her shoulder to bite the sweet spot, sinking his teeth into the warm flesh.
“She’s so cute when she’s trying to resist us,” Tom chuckled, sliding his hand over his bare torso down to his tense stomach, and then to the prominent bulge in his pants. He pumped his throbbing erection through the fabric without taking his eyes off of Michael who was toying with Y/N’s nipples. Having made sure that she was not moving, Langdon put both of his hands on her waist and raised her a little, so her breasts would appear on the same level with his lips. He attached his mouth to the hardening bud and sucked on it, circling his tongue around her flesh with a wet, ringing sound.
“I know,” he smirked against her mounds and playfully jiggled them in his palms, brushing his thumbs over the swollen nipples. He squeezed them and then let them go, clearly being amused by the way her tits bounced in front of his face. “Trying to fool us into believing that she’s not a little slut who craves being double penetrated, isn’t it so, angel?” He wondered, cocking his eyebrow at the nearly crying girl in his arms. They were doing it again. Mocking her. She sobbed, realizing that there was no escape, and dropped her hands, sinking them into the water and resting her palms on her spread thighs. She threw her head back on Michael’s shoulder and looked up at him tiredly.
“Just be a bit more gentle,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. His hands roamed over her body, contouring her sides and the curve of her silhouette. He groped her ass and parted her cheeks, stealing her breath away.
“We can’t promise it, sweetheart,” he winked at her and brushed the side of his palm over her crease, touching her most intimate parts.
She had to put her hands in front of her for leverage when Michael’s hand cupped her crotch, his long, skillful fingers digging into her folds. He pressed the heel of his palm to her center, mere inches away from her clit, electing a moan that mostly resembled a muffled gasp from her. Y/N turned her head at Tom, as she heard the sound of him undoing his zipper, and her mouth involuntarily fell agape at the sight of him. He wrapped his veiny hand around the impressive length and gave it a few tugs at the base, his fist meeting the neatly trimmed pubic hair. The sloppy sound that his hand was making mixed with the splashing of the water, as Michael started moving the V of his fingers up and down Y/N’s pussy, was filling the room.
The fact that they were in the tub made it a bit difficult for Langdon to understand if she was wet or not, but as he worked his digits faster, each time grazing her clit, he felt the beads of her juices collecting around his knuckles — consistency of her liquids was thicker than water. He swirled the tips of his fingers around her entrance and rubbed the arousal into her clit with tight, circling motions. She moaned and shifted on his thigh, instinctively wanting more.
“One thing that we’ve learned about you for sure,” Michael mewled, sliding his index inside of her tight heat, “is that you are submissive as fuck,” and just to emphasize his words he added another finger, stretching her walls out. She clenched around his digits, but he scissored them on purpose as a sign that he would still do as he pleased.
Tom’s hand found its way in her hair as he grabbed a fistful of it and pulled her toward him, her roots stinging at the piercing pain. Working his palm up and down his length, pausing at the slit to smear pearly precum all over the head, he crushed his lips against hers, his tongue possessively pushing on her bottom lip. She parted her mouth for him, and he let his hand, tangled in her wet locks, cup her cheek. Riddle wrapped his plush lips around the tip of her tongue and sucked on it, making her moan into the kiss.
She had to cling onto his shoulders when Michael’s fingers suddenly left her aching core. Tom was the one to break the kiss. She was panting heavily, as he pressed their foreheads together. Her eyes fluttered, lashes casting long shadows over her cheekbones when she looked down at his cock resting heavily against his abdomen. Riddle noticed her stare.
“Yes, Michael,” he grinned, his fingers stroking the blue, pulsing vein on the underside of his dick. “Give her what she wants.”
Langdon slid inside of her with ease and a low throaty groan, some water got splashed into the floor, but none of them cared. She could feel every inch of his delicious length and the head of it protruding its way into her quivering heat. The lack of lubrication, because of the soapy water,r made it harder for him to penetrate her with one thrust like he had wanted to do it. She winced at the burning stretch but did not ask him to stop.
“Just like that,” Tom praised, his fingers squishing her face and making her look up at him. “Take it, little slut. Take it all.” He smiled carnivorously, wiping the salty tears off of her cheeks.
“Oh, God,” she cried out when Michael, who had got tired of the slow pace, nestled his hands on her sides and forced her down on his length, making her sit fully on his cock. She heard the obscene “slap” of his balls against her ass cheeks.
“Fuck,” Langdon cussed behind her, throwing his head back. “Still the tightest kitty I’ve ever fucked.”
Her pussy clenched at the compliment, and she mentally slapped herself across the face for having reacted to his praise. She wanted to lean back against his chest, but Tom was holding her. He shifted forward and bent down on one knee.
“Bend her over a bit more for me,” he instructed Langdon who pressed his palm to her lower back, helping her position herself before Tom; her face appeared inches away from his cock. She lifted his gaze at him, and if it had not been for his self-control, he would have cum at the sight of her. Michael adjusted himself, too — he was standing behind her on his knees, his cock buried deep inside of her. He smoothed the foam all over her butt and gave the meaty flesh a couple of loud smacks.
“Come here, have a taste,” Tom called her and guided his cock to her lips. He ran the tip of it over her mouth, contouring the plump shape of her cherry lips, and for a second it seemed like he was going to be gentle with her. But as soon as the head of his flesh met the velvet of her mouth, he thrust his hips forward, hitting the back of her throat. Y/N did not expect that and ended up recoiling from him thus skewering herself onto Michael’s dick. She cried out with a mouthful of cock and placed her hands on Tom’s thighs in an attempt to push him away. It was almost impossible to concentrate. Not when Riddle was holding her firmly and Langdon pounding her so perfectly that each time the head of his cock brushed against all the right spots, making the knot in the pit of her stomach tighten.
He let her pull away just for a moment to recollect herself and get her breath steady, but then he threaded his fingers through her hair and wrapped it around his fist. This time she was more prepared and started breathing through her nose, hollowing he cheeks around his shaft. She laid her tongue flatly and let him slide the length along with rapid, brutal thrusts. She did not know how they were doing it, but Tom and Michael managed to work in sync — as Langdon was taking her from behind, the Slytherin Heir was using her mouth. She could feel the slightly bitter taste of him. Tears were streaming down her face, the air filled with the smell of sex and strawberry foam filled her nostrils.
“Oh fuck, oh shit,” Tom murmured, squeezing his eyes when she swirled her tongue around the head and stroke the rest of the length with her hand. He snapped his hips and forced her to stay still, making her gag on him. The muscles of his stomach tensed at the sound of her struggling to take a breath, and he tightened his grip, feeling the way her throat convulsed around him. She was drooling all over herself, and Michael hovered over her back, to reach for her breasts and smear the liquid all over them.
She gasped when Tom let go off of her hair. Her eyes were red, lips bright pink and swollen, wet hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. Her body was jolting toward Riddle each time Michael’s dick penetrated her. She let out a low moan, her voice sounded hoarse and raspy when Langdon pulled his cock out of her completely and then shoved only the tip inside. He did it a couple of times with the most vulgar sound.
“Look at me,” Riddle demanded. By the hazy look in his eyes and the erratic movements of his hand, she knew he was close. Tears welling up in her eyes made everything look blurry. The ripples of pleasure piercing her body also made her feel weak and pliant, leaving her all worked up and needy. In the state of pure euphoria, she could admit that she loved the way Michael was taking her on all fours. “Stick your tongue out.”
She obeyed and darted her tongue out at the command, giving Tom her best doe-like look.
“Fuck I’m so close,” she heard Langdon’s ramblings, and her tummy fluttered in anticipation. “Go ahead, kitty, work that pussy for me,” he smacked her. “Clench that little hole.”
Right at that moment, with a low growl, Tom came all over her tongue. The white stripes of his cum painted it like pearly ribbons, staining her lips and chin. He looked ethereal with his mouth formed into a perfect “o”, dark eyes sparkling with lust. His broad chest was rising and falling rapidly as he was coming down from his high. The salty taste of his milk and the whole scene, in general, sent her over the edge too. Y/N clenched her pussy around Michael so tightly, that he had to dig his nails into the flesh of her hips from how good it felt. A string of “fuckshitiamcumming” accompanied his last thrusts, and she whimpered at the throbbing between her thighs as Langdon’s cock erupted with his hot, sticky seed and filled her up to the brim. The coil in the pit of her stomach snapped, and the earth-shattering wave of pleasure flooded all her senses. Her arms gave up, and she would have nearly dropped her head in the water if Tom had not caught her.
For a while, it was only their erratic breathing and tired limps intertwined together. She was standing there with her ass still up and pussy covered with Michael’s cum on full display for him, when she slowly started realizing what had just happened. She turned her head over the shoulder to meet the blissful expression on Langdon’s face. He licked his dry lips and ran his fingers through the damp hair, putting the disheveled strands of blonde locks in place.
“Tomorrow,” he cleared his throat, “at the meeting with the Death Eaters you shall not say a word to them even if they address you, understood?” He rather clumsily rose to his feet, letting the mix of foam and water run down his lean body. He waited for her to nod and then looked at Tom.
“Give it to her.”
She did not know what he had meant until Tom scooped Michael’s pants from the floor and snaked his hand into the pockets. Langdon reached out for one of the fluffy towels folded neatly by the sink and wrapped it around his hips. Y/N watched him step out of the tub and join Tom. Two of them were facing her like the snakes from her dreams. Riddle fished a small black box out and quickly opened it, reveling to the dim light of the room a silver bracelet in the shape of the serpent.
“Don’t ever take this off,” he told her and made a gesture with his index and forefingers to give him her hand. She did not have the strength to hold his palm, so she just let him put the fine piece around her wrist.
“What’s it for?” She whispered, feeling the warmth radiating from the snake.
“Something for you to wear until you get the dark mark.”
*In Harry Potter universe the underage magic is considered as any magic used by a wizard or witch who is under seventeen years of age outside of school, but in this series, it’s required to pass an exam first.
Taglist: (my regular taglist + those who expressed their interest in reading part two): @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @divinelangdon @ccodyfern @sammythankyou @kaigitana @ms-mead @sebastianshoe @langdonsdemon @starwlkers @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon @sojournmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @rocketgirl2410 @theghostoflangdon @americanhorrorstudies @bbyduncan @nightsblackroses @langdvnshepherd @ccodyferns @isoldedax @omgsuperstarg @1-800-bitchcraft @wroteclassicaly @ticklish-leafy-plant @elena-75s-blog @peachesandfern @your-daddy-langdon @hexqueensupreme @icylangdon @littledemondani @hecohansen31 @mega-combusken
#michael langdon smut#michael langdon fanfic#tom riddle smut#michael langdon x reader#harry potter smut#Michael x Tom x reader
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The Archer - Analysis
I was nudged to write out my thoughts about “The Archer” and I’m honestly glad for the push. This song is so beautiful yet haunting. I don’t see people appreciating it as much as I think it should be appreciated.
Standard disclaimer that this is my own personal reading of the song. You are free to disagree with any or all of what I say. There are many good interpretations of this song out there. It helps that it’s a very evocative track 5!
This analysis is not short. Sorry.
——
Combat, I’m ready for combat
I say I don’t want that, but what if I do?
‘Cause cruelty wins in the movies
I’ve got a hundred thrown-out speeches I almost said to you
——
Unlike other tracks on Lover, there’s no concrete imagery such as a garden gate or prom dress in this song. Taylor is sharing what only exists in her mind. This is a story told purely with metaphors. It’s important to lean into them.
The purpose of the first verse is to contextualize the rest of the song. She introduces the idea of being torn about wanting a fight. She would only want to fight someone if she has a really good reason to do so. Her driving force is “cruelty winning in the movies.” Her thrown-out speeches are the thing that would start the fight. Tossing the speeches implies that she is unsure not of the content of the speeches but of entering the fray of battle that would ensue after delivering them.
It’s very hard for me to see these speeches as anything but coming out speeches. Coming out (even as a non-celebrity) is often stressful. Cruelty winning in the movies is a nod to the fact that mainstream media depicts LGBTQ characters meeting tragic ends. Taylor, as a wildly famous celebrity, has cultural influence. Her coming out would impact the culture; it could change the endings of those movies. But her impact would only be measurable years in the future.
This verse is also where she first addresses the “you” in the song. I think the “you” is essentially a random observer/everyday Joe Schmoe. It’s nobody in particular because it could be anybody. The only thing remarkable about “you” is that she’s directly addressing them. That makes this story personal.
——
Easy they come, easy they go
I jump from the train, I ride off alone
I never grew up, it’s getting so old
Help me hold onto you
——
If the “you” in this song is a random person who has some benign preexisting opinion (whatever that may be, including a non-opinion) about Taylor Swift, then the “they” refers to arbitrary people who are on the fan/hate train. “They” come and go easily and represent flux in interest in her. I read the metaphor about a train with momentum as the implication that general interest in Taylor waxes and wanes but is inherently self-sustaining because of her celebrity. In this song, “they” aren’t necessarily the enemy like the public was, for example, in reputation. She just doesn’t concern herself with “them” anymore. It’s the “you” who has her full attention and who is sticking around to hear the story.
Finally, we get the first of many “help me hold onto you”s. This one is her articulating why she’s telling this story in the first place. It’s “I want you listen to this story and try to understand.” It’s “help me,” but in a chill way.
——
I’ve been the archer
I’ve been the prey
Who could ever leave me, darling?
But who could stay?
——
The archer is the zodiac symbol for Sagittarius, the centaur, Taylor’s astrological sign. Taylor exists in parts, just like a centaur: she is part her celebrity persona and part her real self, an amalgamation who is a Taylor different than either of the constituent halves. To the “you” it’s Taylor in her purest form. It’s impossible to completely separate her celebrity from her person at this point.
The chorus is about the duality of Taylor’s being, her actions, and others’ investment in any part of her. As the archer (hunter) she has aggressively exercised control over her public persona. As the prey (hunted) she has been a passive victim chewed up and spit out by the public/industry/etc. for things outside of her control. Sometimes it is her own actions that drive people away or attract people to her. Sometimes it is by individual choice that people board or leave the train.
The archer, Sagittarius, is also symbolic of a prophet who can predict fate. The prey is a victim of a terrible fate that, by nature, cannot be changed. I prefer to think of the archer/prey metaphor as commentary about the duality of fate rather than intense combat (for which a bow and arrow would probably be insufficient). This song is Taylor trying to reconcile the certainty of her future with distress about the unknown consequences of present-time decisions.
(Note that this first chorus is where the bass drum beat starts. It represents anxiety about the future. The first part of the song is exposition. The drum only comes in when she starts worrying about the “what ifs.”)
——
Dark side, I search for your dark side
But what if I’m alright, right, right, right here?
And I cut off my nose just to spite my face
Then I hate my reflection for years and years
——
Nobody Joe Schmoe has no obvious reason to hate Taylor for anything that she just said. But Taylor knows what comes next in the story. She’s anxious about Joe Schmoe’s reaction to what she’s about to say.
Taylor admits to doing self-destructive things. Because of the context she provided at the beginning of the song, I believe this is a reference to staying closeted. The “reflection” could be the literal reflection of her now-noseless face. Hating it is pure personal regret for self-destructive actions. The “reflection” could also be the mirror which her fans/the public hold up to her. Her self-destructive choices manifest in others’ toxicity. Hating what they’ve become starts with hating the ways she enables that behavior. (It’s really both “reflections.” The duality of man, yadda, yadda, yadda…)
More important than blaming herself for any (*cough*) past decisions, she articulates the pain of being in the closet in two simple lines. Burying a significant part of yourself by hiding behind a carefully constructed lie is exhausting. It’s sad. It also provides protection and safety and it’s unfortunately all too common. Cruelty wins in the movies, thus people are cruel to themselves.
——
I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost
The room is on fire, invisible smoke
And all of my heroes die all alone
Help me hold onto you
——
I think people consistently underestimate just how morbid “The Archer” is. Taylor reveals that her prophetic future is death—specifically, becoming a ghost, thus leaving an imperceptible trace of herself. She already feels suffocated by that possibility. Her suffering is invisible. She might just be left to die a slow, agonizing death via asphyxiation. Worse yet, what happens afterwards? Asphyxiation from invisible smoke would make it seem like she just dropped dead of her own accord. Or if the smoke somehow became visible….well, if you could see a ghost in the first place, a smoke-filled room would make that impossible. The implications are staggering and they’re all sad.
Few, if any, of Taylor’s heroes have literally died alone. I’m going to go out on a short limb here and say that Taylor probably sees parts of herself in her heroes. Therefore, the “heroes” in a song supposedly about the dilemma of coming out are other famous people who were/still are closeted. Taylor identifies herself as a potential role model for the younger generation like her heroes are for her. Her heroes’ lonely metaphorical deaths are exactly what she fears. Dying alone is being in the closet indefinitely. It’s being misunderstood and not having any way to rectify that situation. Perhaps this song is about the mortifying ordeal of remaining unknown.
As evidenced by the invisible smoke in the room, she thinks her metaphorical death is certain and imminent. The “help me hold onto you” is now “help me,” but in a very unchill way.
——
‘Cause they see right through me
Can you see right through me
I see right through me
——
As a reminder, “they” = random people in the public and “you” = nice, ordinary Joe Schmoe whom she wishes could understand her predicament. Being see-through is being seen without substance. Therefore, what the bridge is not saying is “don’t you see how obvious it is, isn’t it wild that people don’t pick up on me and/or my lover being loud in public?” It is saying “I am literally a ghost to ‘them’ because ‘they’ look at me and don’t see any of this pain, I’m basically dead to myself too because I feel like I’m already doomed, you’re my last hope so please say you see me.” Who cares about reaping the benefits (love, adoration) from the mortifying ordeal of being known? At this point she’s pleading simply to be seen as herself. “I see right through me” is her worst fear. This is why this line breaks out of the bridge and bleeds into the surrounding choruses.
(The bridge, to me, is where it becomes clear that treating the “you” as her lover with whom she could come out does a serious disservice to the rest of the song. Her lover as “you” inverts the meaning of the bridge. This makes the story inconsistent. I appreciate the gravity of the “help me hold onto you” line if it were spoken to a secret lover. However, being seen/understood is more intimately tethered to being out as an individual than being out with another person. In my mind, it makes more sense for this attitude to be an invariant of the song.)
——
All the king’s horses, all the king’s men
Couldn’t put me together again
‘Cause all of my enemies started out friends
Help me hold onto you
——
The Humpty Dumpty rhyme is basically “anthropomorphized egg sits on top of a high wall, anthropomorphized egg falls off the wall and shatters irreparably.” Taylor as Humpty Dumpty makes the wall she’s on top of the pedestal of fame/success. She’s saying that coming out would topple her from her pedestal. Her image as a woman who became famous for writing heterosexual love songs is as fragile as an eggshell. When it breaks, what is left behind?
“All the king’s horses, all the king’s men” might be a reference to her fans whom she once considered as friends but whom can also be incredibly toxic. I read it as a catch-all for anyone who isn’t Taylor. The key of this verse is her musing on why an eggshell can’t be repaired. It’s not for lack of manpower. It’s that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men—everyone, literally—are enemies and don’t want to reconstruct Humpty Dumpty. They simply don’t believe Humpty’s death is so tragic that they would spend effort to change his fate.
Taylor fears that darling Joe Schmoe, a friend to whom she is addressing this story, could become an enemy by conscious choice. She can give Joe Schmoe the truth and plead to be seen, but Joe Schmoe can still choose to see right through her anyways. It’s terribly frightening to be honest yet have that vulnerability go unacknowledged. Taylor coming out is her facing the prospect of instant confirmation that good people do not care. She could die a ghost despite efforts to be visible.
——
Who could stay?
You could stay
Combat, I’m ready for combat
——
Coming out is a choice but being gay is not—it is fate. She has no control over how others react to that. Taylor slowly acknowledges throughout the song that her future isn’t in her hands. She ultimately shifts away from the prophet/victim binary by reiterating that she’s sure of herself and that whatever happens, she’s not going down without a fight.
Lover the album isn’t just about romantic love. This song is not construing an inherently unequal and sometimes toxic relationship with fans/the public as love. “The Archer” romanticizes the possibility of someone reacting to honesty with kindness and understanding. Love is being seen.
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