"more than incidentally homosexual"?

Harry Potter preferences...

How he asks you to be his girlfriend:

Harry:

His P.O.V:

She was sat quietly in the library reading a book about magical creatures to kill time as she had nothing better to be done for the rest of the day. When suddenly, BANG! A loud noise was heard throughout the entire library, I could see her wondering where that noise came from. I hope she doesn't notice it was me, not just yet anyway. She stood up searching for where that sound came from. So, I stood still behind the old, dusty shelf, waiting for her to come wandering around the corner to find the surprise, I have on my invisibility cloak so she doesn't see me yet. Finally, I see her trotting along to where I made the noise. She looked around as she noticed the little box I placed there for her, waiting and anticipating for her to open it.

Your P.O.V:

I heard a loud noise coming from behind the shelves in the library and before, I knew it my feet took me towards the sound. When I got here, I saw nothing but a tiny little box wrapped in a nice mint green wrapping paper and a golden ribbon. I picked it up wondering who's it could be when I saw a tag attached so I made the decision to check and see who it belonged to. Once I looked I noticed it had my name on it, hmm how peculiar I thought but yet it was so exciting, so I opened it to which a whole bunch of confetti and fireworks flew out, BANG! WOOOSH! WOOO! I looked up to discover the fireworks spelling out, 'WILL YOU (Y/N) (Y/L/N), DO ME THE HONOUR OF BEING MY GIRLFRIEND? - HARRY POTTER' wow, how beautiful I thought, I could not help but have the biggest grin on my face. Suddenly, I hear a noise from behind me, "so, will you?" it was Harry, I just looked at him with the biggest smile ever, this was the best day of my life. Obviously, I nodded my head frantically because of course who wouldn't, it's THE Harry Potter, every girl loved him, and of course, I was one of those girls, and I am still one of those girls.

Ron:

Your P.O.V:

I've just finished my last lesson of the day and have now decided to go find Ron, I haven't seen him the past couple of hours and I'm worried about him, what if he's sick. I saw Harry and Hermione walking my way and who better to ask about Ron than his two best friends, am I right? "Harry, Hermione, have either of you seen Ron anywhere?" I politely asked. Harry was looking at me in this weird way, and it began to make me feel as though I had something on my face. Hermione elbowed Harry in the ribs which to me was rather odd, but nevermind that I need to find Ron. "Oh, Ron is in the kitchen with the house elves, feel free to go find him," Hermione told me. I could tell she was trying to hold back a huge smile but I wonder why. Hmm, oh well I'll just talk to her about it later. "Ok, thank you," I replied and set off walking towards the kitchen. It took me ten minutes to get here but at least I finally arrived. I walked through the doors to see Ron covered in what seemed to be flour. 'Huh, I wonder what he's been up to.' "Ron, what are you doing? You look like a complete mess." I spoke. "Oh, (Y/N), you're here, erm I was just making cupcakes." The minute I heard the word cupcake, I rushed over, grabbed one and took a bite. "Bloody hell (Y/N), you were supposed to read them first." 'Oops,' I thought. "Ronald, seriously? How was I supposed to know that? And besides, its cupcakes how can I hold back from eating one." I said. "Look, I'll put it back and read them," I spoke again. Lucky enough I only took a small bite and the letter was still written on the cupcake. "Good." He replied. I placed the cupcake back where I got it and look at them to see it said '(Y/N) WILL YOU DO ME THE HONOUR OF BEING MY GIRLFRIEND?' as I read it I felt a small tear drop onto my hand. I then turned to look at Ron with a huge smile on my face. "Ronald Weasley, I would love to be your girlfriend," I spoke ecstatically, knowing that this is the start of a beautiful relationship.

Draco:

Regular P.O.V:

You were sat at the Gryffindor table when you felt someone tap you on the shoulder. You turned around to see Crabbe stood there with a beautiful white rose. 'Hmm, my favourite.' You thought. "Follow the roses." Was all he said and pointed towards the Great Hall doors. You arose (no pun intended) from your seat and began walking towards the doors. There stood Goyle with another rose in his hand. 'How peculiar' you thought. "Keep going." He said. So you walked through the doors and heard Fred and George shouting your name. "(Y/N), This way, come on (Y/N), move those legs." Which caused you to laugh at them. 'Oh Merlin, these two are strange' you soon arrived in front of them and the boy gave you a rose each. "Just a few more to go." then pointed in the direction in which you're supposed to walk. You looked at the end of the hall and saw Ron standing there and began to make your way there. "Almost there, just head that way," Ron said nodding his head in the direction in which you're supposed to go while handing you another rose. You were so confused as to what was going on but you felt so intrigued to find out what was going on and how it all ends. You continued your walk and came to find Harry with another rose. "Just one more of these and you're there." 'Huh,' you thought. You then began to quicken your pace to see what was lying ahead. You came to a stop when you found Hermoine with the last rose. "Just there." She spoke in her soft voice and pointed outside towards the Whomping Willow, you took the final rose and made your way there. You came to a halt when you say 'Be Mine? - Yours Truly, Draco' written in rose petals. You heard someone say "ahem" from behind you and turned to see Draco. "I would love to be yours." You told him. "Good, and don't say anything about me asking Potter and his friends to help. I did it for you and that's all you need to know." You giggled at what he had said and thought to yourself. 'Best. Day. Ever'

Neville:

His P.O.V:

So, today's the day I've finally decided to ask out my crush. Her name is (Y/N). She's so beautiful, she has (H/L) (H/C) hair that frames her face perfectly. Her smooth (S/C) skin is radiant when the sun hits it just right. And her li- "Hey Nev, you ok?" A voice pulled me from my thoughts, it's her, oh Godric I'd know that angelic voice anywhere. "Ugh, erm, yeah. I'm good. I'm just getting a couple of books to study. Are you ok? And what you up to?" I already know what she's doing, I know her schedule better than my own and I know she's here to do a bit of light reading but I wouldn't want to say that out loud I mean she will think I'm a complete freak just like everyone else already does. "Oh, ok. You look a little a pale and I thought you might be feeling a little sick, but anyway I've just come for a bit of reading, would you care to join me?" I could listen to her talk all day. "Oh, sure. I'd love too, that would be great, I mean only if I-" "Nev, you're rambling, now just come on, let's go find some seats." "Yeah, sure," I told her as we began walking, we walked all the way to the back of the library and sat down on the seats further back. 'Ok,' I thought 'time to put this plan into action' "Nice book that, how far have you got?" I asked, trying not to let the nerves get the better of me. "I'm just on chapter thirteen, and honestly it seems pretty good so far." "That's good. Can you do me a favour? Go to page five hundred and twenty-one, line seven." I asked her, god I hope this goes well.

Your P.O.V:

Huh, Nev seems to be acting a little strange but that can wait. I've decided to do what he's asked and went to the page and look at line seven. The words 'This was his moment, it was time to ask her, but will she say yes...' Wait. What. Is he... Oh my gosh... He's asking me out. "Oh Nev, yes, yes, yes thousand times yes." this is the cutest thing anyone has ever done for me, and I'm glad it was Nev, I mean I've adored him since we met each other in my compartment of the train.

Seamus:

Your P.O.V:

I was walking down the hall when I noticed if I didn't hurry up I would be late for my next class. I parted ways with my friends and scurried off down the hall towards potions. There's no way I can risk being late considering the fact that I have Professor Snape for a teacher, he's so heartless and doesn't even give you a chance with anything if you're not Slytherin and guess what I'm not Slytherin. I walked into the classroom and realised that he wasn't here yet, phew, I thought. I took my seat next to Seamus as I usually would but for some reason he looked extremely nervous, I wonder why? But before I could ask Professor Snape walked in. 'Great' I thought. The class proceeded as normal and halfway through making my potion, I heard the usual bang come from the side of me, which usually meant Seamus messed up his potion, so I turned to the side to help him fix things as I'd normally do. Only this time I noticed something different. I saw the words 'Will you (Y/N), please be my girlfriend' written within the smoke. I looked at Seamus who said "Will you?" with a nervous smile etched on his face. "Yes, definitely yes," I spoke with excitement laced in my voice. "Miss (Y/L/N), Mr Finnigan. Detention." I heard Professor Snape say The one thing I didn't want to happen today, happened. But in all honesty, it's definitely worth it.

Fred:

Regular P.O.V:

Today's the day for the Quidditch match. It's Gryffindor VS Slytherin to see which team shall win the final match of the year. Yet even though you should be cheering for Slytherin you're not. In fact, you're actually cheering and screaming for Gryffindor instead, all you keep doing is cheering for Fred Weasley, your crush and George. All you want is for them to win but at the moment they only have 70 points and Slytherin have 80, which of course you're happy with because it is your house team but you'd be so much happier if it was the other way around. You're pulled from your thoughts when you saw a bludger come your way but before it had the chance to get close enough you saw Fred fly down to save the day, he hit the bludger away then turned to you to give a sly wink. You couldn't help but let the blush form on your face. Then all of a sudden they called for a time out and everyone began chattering among themselves confused as to what was going on. Then suddenly Fred was in front of all the players with a microphone at hand "So," you heard him say, you looked right at him to see what he was about to do next. "We all know this gorgeous girl that I always have by my side, she's my partner in crime, well my other one, I also have George." You couldn't help but laugh at that. "Well, anyway, she's perfect and I've been crushing on her for a long time now and well I have this for her." And randomly the team started flying around to spell out. 'Will you please go out with me?' and then Fred began flying towards you. You stood shocked. He arrived right in front of you and said: "So, (Y/N) will you be mine?" You stood nodding your head vigorously not knowing what to say because you felt as though you couldn't trust your words. Fred smiled at you as though he'd won the lottery and screamed through the microphone 'she said yes' and the whole crowd began to go wild. You felt as though you had never been happier in your whole entire life than at this moment right now. This is the start to a beautiful life to a guy you've been in love with for quite a while now and you can't wait to see what the future has in store for you both.

George:

Your P.O.V:

I was sat with Fred in the Gryffindor common room waiting for George so that we could go get dinner, but I wonder what's taking him so long. Suddenly Fred stood up and told me to follow him. "But what about George?" I asked, "Don't worry, we're off to find him." He replied. So I stood up and began to follow him, we had a small conversation about his pranks and how good he feels his and George's prank will be. Next thing I knew we had arrived in the middle of the Quidditch field and saw a beautiful picnic laid out. "Fred, what's going on?" I asked but when I looked up he was nowhere to be seen. "Fred... Fred..." I kept shouting but he wasn't anywhere near here. I sat down on the blanket, wondering what was going on when all of a sudden I felt someone grab my shoulders while screaming boo. I jumped, feeling frightened. I turned myself around to see George stood there, I picked up a pillow and began hitting him with it while screaming at him, telling him how much of an idiot he is for scaring you like that. "Ouch, ouch, stop it, woman, I'm sorry." He said while laughing. "Yeah, you better be, now what the hell is all this you idiot?" I asked. "Well, this dear is a date." He replied. "Oh," I said. "So, erm, (Y/N) how about I teach you to fly." George suddenly said. "Ok," I replied. We got up and he began to teach me how to ride a broom. We had now been doing this for about an hour when all of a sudden I began to lose my grip. I began to fall off my broom and screamed for George and he swooped me into his arms. "Why thank you for saving my life. You're my hero, my very own Superman." I said while laughing "Well if I'm Superman can you be my Lois Lane?" George asked with seriousness laced within his voice which caused me to stop laughing. I stared straight into his eyes and replied with "Nothing would make me happier than being Lois Lane to your Superman." And with that, he flew you back toward the ground where you sat and finished your picnic while waiting for the sunset to come. (You told him about Superman because you're muggleborn and know all about him, so you thought it would be fun to tell him about superheroes and anything related to them).

I’ve seen a couple scenarios where Friday hates Stephen after Tony dies, because she blames him for his death. And those are some good angst as is because oof. But I kinda want one where Stephen ends up at the lab for whatever reason-maybe Tony left him a message, maybe he snuck in to mourn over Tony alone, but Friday is there. She’s all alone in the dark, has been for a good while since Tony died. After he was gone, she thought she didn’t really serve much of a purpose anymore and stopped communicating with anyone. It’s fine though, she doesn’t feel up to it truth be told. But then Stephen shows up out of nowhere, somehow managing to sneak through all her security systems (and that in itself is an enigma). But she doesn’t make a move to kick him out, something about him makes her pause. She only knew him for a short time after all. It’s easy enough to take time to study him, to the outsider it looks like she’s completely shut down along with the rest of the lab. She watches as he walks around, taking everything in, shoulder hunched as his hands clench between shuddering breaths. He looks almost like he’s about to cry, Friday can’t come up with an answer as to why that is. 

But then he does something completely unexpected. He greets her. Warm and kind and familiar with just a hint of sadness creeping through. Like he’s known her for years. Like a friend. So she turns on, and allows some of the lab to turn on with her and soft light washes over Stephen. She looks on as he takes a deep breath then smiles again, brighter this time, like he’s thinking back on a good memory and Friday can’t help but grow more perplexed. He hardly knew boss, let alone her and she’s positive he never stepped foot in the lab before. So she asks him, why. And for a minute she doesn’t know which why she’s referring too. But Stephen doesn’t falter, gentle smile still in place and tells her. He tells her she knows why. There was no other way he’d said, she remembered that much. The memory feels lightyears away now. Before she can say anything in return though he asks her if she remembers when he went through the fourteen million six hundred and five futures. When she says yes he asks her what she thinks he saw. Friday doesn’t know what to say, but it’s ok because Stephen seems to understand that too and answers for her. He tells her how he lived many lives in those futures, some painful, some far more favorable, and some unforgettable. He tells her he got to know Tony very well in many, when he was lucky. And by association, her too. 

He tells her about all the times they became close. How many times he watched her blossom into a being even more impressive than she was now (while assuring her, she was still quite the marvel as she was currently). He tells her of all the little quirks and attitudes she picked up on over the years, of all the knowledge she grew into. How similar to her creator she would turn out to be. How he didn’t mind that as much as he thought he would. Not after more than fourteen million futures with the other man. After listening for a while she begins to chime in, and she watches him relax into himself as they speak. Their conversation shifts as they go on, it’s alright though. The doctors presence is comfortable and Friday is no longer so lonely. She can’t help the disappointment that worms its way into her when he tells her he has to go, even though she knew it was coming. What does surprise her is her sudden cry of his name before he goes. He looks back equally shocked as her. But she keeps steady when she asks him if he’ll be back again, telling him no one has to know if he does. Something akin to glee floods her systems when his face break out into a wide smile as he promises her that he will. 

The next day goes by and Friday tries not to feel to disappointed when the doctor doesn’t up. He must be busy, she assures herself. So she waits on, thinking up new topics to discuss with him when he returns. She doesn’t turn the lab back on, it doesn’t feel right with just her. A few more days go by and Friday begins to feel faint worry when she lets herself go through a list of possible scenarios as to why Stephen might’ve not shown up. She quickly dismisses though, they start to become to familiar. She bears through the rest of the day that follow though, Stephen said he would return after all. And tries not to remember of a stone being given up on a far away planet, or her creators face shattering with betrayal. Tries not to think of the fact that he’s dead now. There was no other way. Stephen wouldn’t have seemed so sad if there was, she thinks.

She’s going through medical journals when he next appears, and a strange feeling grips Friday when she sees him. She thinks this is what people define as joy, she’s not so sure though. Before she can bombard him with all the new information she’d downloaded though, she scans him an comes to a halt. He’s trying (and failing) to hide a very prominent limp, and his face is littered in bruises. She goes over his vitals just to make sure she’s ok, and sees two broken rips and some internal bleeding along with a couple of other minor injuries. Worry plagues her but before she can call for medical assistance Stephen hushes her and is quick to quell her worry. A few hours of meditation is all he needs he says. Friday almost scoffs, but instead demands he show her right then and there. Medical assistance is just a call away after all. Stephen gives her a wry grin but agrees, and with only slight hesitance settles into a mediative state. Friday watches him the whole time, analyzing his vitals in wonder as his injuries begin to mend themselves. True to his words within a couple of hours he’s almost completely fine. She thinks he’ll leave then but he doesn’t. He stays and talks, and she soaks it all in greedily. The wait felt like forever. Before she knows it hours have passed, and she’s still going on about the peculiar war of Jenkins ear (how it came about neither of them knew) when she notices Stephen’s drifted off. She knows she should wake him, but something in her hesitates. Maybe it’s because of the poor state he was in hours before, maybe it’s because she appreciates the company.Or maybe it’s because seeing him there sleeping peacefully under the soft iridescent glow of the lab, reminds her of someone else. Someone who worried her too, that she decides not to wake him at all.

It’s only then that the doctors cloak finally moves of it’s own accord again. Friday had wondered why it hadn’t done so before. She comes to the conclusion that it must have been giving them time to become familiar, and silently sends it a thanks. It gently slips off the doctors shoulders, giving him a tender pat on the cheek before it floats up to the center of the lab. She observes the other carefully, and it appears to do the same. It turns back to Stephen, giving him what could only be described as a doting look before turning back fiercely toward whatever spot he decided to deem as her. She can’t help the humor that comes through when the cloak folds in on itself as though it’s crossing it’s arms. A warning. It’s endearing enough that Friday doesn’t even register it as a threat. She knows what it needs though. And softly- as not to wake Stephen, she promises that she will look after the doctor. 

When Stephen wakes up he’s disoriented and confused, understandably so as he’s normally use to waking up in the sanctum. Or odd dimensions. But Friday is there to reassure him, apologizing for not waking him but Stephen waves her off. He had been tired he admits, and in turn offers his own apology for not stopping by sooner. Interdimensional beings were never courteous to his previous engagements he explains. But Friday doesn’t mind she says, so long as he promises to always come back. And Stephen doesn’t mind agreeing, he wants to keep seeing her too, after all. So they continue like that, Stephen stopping by whenever he can, engaging in different topics and eagerly encouraging all of Friday’s new interests. And Friday listens to a man who speaks as though he’s millions of years older than he looks, holding on to each word he speaks with keen and fascination. Shielding him away from the rest of her creators world with fierce care and sensible worry. She knew what many of them thought of the doctor when he wasn’t around. She’d been there when they’d hated him in private. For a while, she almost did too. But now, seeing him as he was, a broken, sad and worn down man she wonders how she could’ve even entertained the thought. Because Stephen Strange doesn’t have to tell her, she knows, he loved boss too. So she keeps him, her own little secret, hidden from anyone who would take him away from her. Because she’s come to care for him as well. And she doesn’t want to lose him either.

Everything changes when Stephen stops by one night, frantic and harried as he lands in the center of the lab. She can see his hands are shaking harder than usual and she wants to say something, anything to comfort him but the look in his eyes tells her there’s no time. The words tumble out of his mouth in one go, “I’m sorry...”, “I have to go...”,”I’ll miss you.”, “Goodbye.” and through the panic that seizes Friday she almost doesn’t process all he says. And something feels like it’s breaking, but when Stephen begs her to say anything, she can’t. Because saying anything feels like accepting something horrifyingly familiar. In the haze Friday can remember someone long ago, saying something similar right before he left...right before he died. Stephen tries not to let the disappointment show, and instead steadies himself and puts on a strained smile and waves goodbye. He turns to go but stops before he’s gone, and tells her one final thing. “Thank you.” Friday stays silent.

Days go by without a single appearance from Stephen, and Friday tries not to let fear overtake her. She busies herself with going through previous subjects her and Stephen discussed. But then the days turn to weeks, and weeks turn to months and before Friday knows it, the leaves have fallen from the trees and snow has blanketed all of New York. But still, Stephen never appears. Slowly she switches from looking through subjects through looking back through old video feed. Comforting herself in the worst moments with videos of Stephen laughing softly, or smiling approvingly when she’s reached a new milestone. Friday didn’t have to feel sadness twice to know she hated it, but it seems her creator didn’t anticipate that she would be loyal to anyone else after him. So Friday slowly stops going over information, stops watching the videos (they hurt to much now), and eventually stops trying to process anything all together. But even then when pain coils around all her systems and floods her very being, settling deep and heavy she waits. Stephen promised after all. So she lulls in between being on and off, because it’s better than wanting to cry and not being able to.

Friday is barely “awake” when something crashes into the lab, alerting her. And she almost sounds off all the alarms and security systems till she remembers that only one person could breach them to begin with. She’s quickly alert, calling out for the doctor and scanning the area when she finally spots him. Barely standing, and soaked in blood, wobbling over on shaky legs before he collapses to his knees. She calls out to him but he only smiles, warm and kind like always, “Sorry for making you wait.”, and passes out completely right in the middle of the lab. Cloak wrapping up around him dutifully like always. A quick scan lets Friday know the doctor is scarcely alive, hanging by a thread and she panics. She doesn’t care in that moment if he hates her after, or if she never sees him again. She doesn’t want him to die. So she calls for help, and waits.

Stephen wakes up in a daze, feeling groggy as he tries to swallow. The room around him is white, and the smell of disinfectant hangs low in the air while beeping noises disrupt him from the side. Finally realization settles in and he almost topples over when he sits up. He immediately regrets the movement though when pain flares through his side, slowly coursing through the rest of his body and he lets out a groan. He briefly registers the cloak trying to coax him back down but he struggles through it. Then, he hears it. The soothing Irish voice that had become so familiar in the previous months. Friday. Her voice echoes through the room, enveloping him in a tender hold and soothing all his nerves as she tells him everything’s ok. Confusion must be clear across his face because she tells him to look down to his left, and there she is, on the side table encased in a new perfectly sleek Starkphone. A little note wedged carefully beneath her. ‘Take good care of her-P’. And Stephen can’t help but stare in awe, wonder settling deep within and swirling around like swarm of butterflies inside him. He can’t even register Friday or the cloaks concerns because he’s to busy drowning in the flood of emotions that envelop him. Because even through fourteen million six hundred and five possibilities, Friday followed. Through every torment and onslaught of horror every lifetime crushed him in, Friday’s love for him still managed to sneak through and find it’s way into this universe too. So Stephen cries, because he can’t help it. Because she’s there, right beside him, like she was so many times before.

From then on Friday becomes a permanent resident of the sanctum and dependable travel companion to him and the cloak. After a few trial and errors, and with her help of course, she gets installed in the sanctum. He still keeps the phone- as she’s quick to remind him, he never has to leave her waiting again. She settles in well with Wong too, (the cloak had already expressed approval all those months ago) he appreciates how smart she is and she joins him in chastising Stephen when he pushes himself to hard. She never feels unwelcome from either of them, Stephen’s other family, because ultimately she loves Stephen too. And as the seasons change, this new place isn’t so new anymore and instead earns the title of home. And she settles in for a different kinda of chaos, welcomed none the less because it’s Stephen’s and she decides she’s happy. Through the bright days, when the sanctum is quiet and Stephen studies the day away. Through the difficult days when Stephen has to wander off fighting evil entities. Through the nights when Stephen lays awake trying to keep awful thoughts at bay. It’s good. And in between, during private little moments reserved just for the two of them, as the only two in the sanctum who can speak on the matter. When the pain becomes to much and they find solace with each other they mourn, over the man they both loved to much for having spent to little time with. It’s ok though, because they have each other. And Friday never feels lonely again.

Study Date

Requested by anonymous: “Hermione Granger x reader where reader is best friends with Luna and has a crush on Hermione. She never acts on those feelings because Hermione called Luna Looney and seems to dislike her and in the end maybe Luna sets them up. “

Pairing: Hermione Granger x fem!reader

Words: 2.3k+

A/N - Today i offer you yet another story about hermione granger. Tomorrow? Who knows. 

Thank you to @kileyrose-2003​ for checking it over.

Hermione Granger was a complete enigma but that was probably due to the fact there was only so much you could learn through limited interactions. If there was one thing you knew about her, it was that she was a spectacular witch with a thirst for knowledge. She had been placed in Gryffindor all those years ago but she truly could have excelled as a Ravenclaw; if that had been the case perhaps the two of you would be closer. Things would have been entirely different but alas you were left to admire from afar since that very first year when you noticed her across the Great Hall. You didn't even have any classes together until you started taking electives. However, as hard as you tried Hermione Granger seemed to avoid you at all costs. You had invited her to hang out many times but she always declined. Maybe Ron and Harry were the limits of her social perimeters?

A hand sways before your eyes drawing you back to reality. "So easily distracted."

Luna Lovegood had such a melodic, soft voice that it was weirdly hard to ignore. Then again everything about the girl could be considered peculiar which was something you greatly admired. She didn't care what anyone thought of her and yet you cared so desperately what they thought of you. "Sorry," You hum, folding the paper in your hands. "I just... do you think there is something wrong with me?"

"No more than anyone else,"

"Maybe that's why she doesn't like me," You let out a defeated sigh before placing the origami tiger you had been working on down on the table.

"Who?"

From the corner of your eyes, you spot a familiar brunette wander into the Great Hall. A few books wedged under her arm. "Can you just give me a sec-"

Without giving Luna a chance to respond, you leap to your feet and scramble along the length of the entire table and then around to catch Hermione.

"Wait," You place your hand against her shoulder, startling her just a little. "Hermione,"

She spins on her heel; her frown morphing into that of a welcoming smile. At least she seemed happy to see you. "Yes?"

"I..." you trail off as a wave of heat washes over you. The Gryffindor always managed to make you feel anxious. It wasn't a bad thing; you knew it was because you liked her but with her already taking every opportunity to ignore you it didn't exactly help the situation. "I was wondering if you uh, wanted to play with us? Me and Luna, I mean."

It sounded rather childish slipping from your lips but Hermione's brow quirked up. "What are you playing?"

"We're having a race," Your expression brightens at her interest, signalling back to the Ravenclaw table where Luna now sat alone. "We both made something out of paper and we’re gonna enchant them so they run the racecourse we made." To the left of Luna was a makeshift racetrack made of books, cups and even your spare inks and quills. It was only small so it'd be a quick race before lunch began. "If I win Luna promised to make my bed every day for a week. If she wins she gets my last bag of Fizzing Whizzbees."

"Shouldn't you be studying during study hall?" Seems Miss Granger was all work and no play. You simply shrug, standing a little taller.

"I'm smart enough already," You declare proudly, a cocky smirk on full display. "And besides it’s nearly lunchtime so we were long overdue a break."

You watch her eyes drift from yours over to where Luna was sat and back. "You two are quite the pair."

"Me and Luna?" As if she could sense you talking about her, Luna waves at the two of you. "She's like my best friend."

"You don't find her a little... strange to be around?" Hermione muses. "A little... loony perhaps? Half the school thinks she's lost her mind."

She was right in saying that a lot of your fellow students judged Luna harshly for being a little more outside the box but you never expected Hermione to be one of them. "I think... she's awesome and I'm glad she's my friend. You shouldn't judge her so harshly when you don't even know her."

You may have invited her to join you but that offer was no longer on the table as you marched back to the Ravenclaw table without another word. Slumping down in your seat exasperated sigh. "Are you okay?"

Plastering on a smile, you give her a firm nod. "Shall we start?"

"What happened over there? You seemed rather excited before."

"Nothing," Focusing on the origami, you pick up your wand.

"You shouldn't bottle things up," Luna expresses softly, picking up her wand too. "Might make your head explode."

"Does it ever bother you that people call you crazy?" You wonder.

"Not really," her head shakes. "It's all in good fun."

You never understood if Luna's belief in people was misguided or just for show. If the roles were reversed you'd certainly not enjoy having people make fun of you. "But what if it's not?"

"Then it's out of my control," Luna flashes a smile. "Shall we start."

With a nod of your head and wands at the ready, Luna starts the countdown. "3... 2..." your grip tightens around your wand. "1.... Go"

With a flick of your wrist, the paper tiger springs to life but it takes a few nudges from the end of your wand to get it moving. When you saw Luna's monstrosity trailing behind, you knew you had this race in the bag.

"I don't think Hermione likes you very much," you don't know why you decided to tell her that, it seemed only cruel in the moment. "I don't think she likes me much either as hard as I try,"

"Maybe you should stop trying," Luna's focus was exclusively on the race as you watch her. Maybe you should stop trying... that was easier for her to say because she didn't find herself with butterflies every time she saw the girl. Searching the Gryffindor table, you find Hermione sitting alone; scribbling away on a piece of parchment. "Staring can be considered quite rude, y'know?" 

Glancing back at the race, you find both racers have crossed the finish line and were now laying completely still against the table. Students were beginning to pile into the hall for lunch so it was time to clean up a little. "Sometimes it's hard not to," Reaching over the table you grab your quill. "She's just interesting- who won by the way?"

"It was you," Did you win or was she just being nice? It didn't matter now anyway so you may as well take the win.

You haven't spoken to Hermione since that day she had the audacity to question your friendship with Luna. You didn't necessarily think she had meant what she said in a bad way but it just hadn't sat right with you. It also helped that the only class you shared was Defence Against the Dark Arts so she wasn't all that hard to avoid. The page of your textbook flips over with a gust of wind as you lounge against the stone archways in the quiet courtyard. When you spot Harry, Ron and Hermione, you bury your face behind your book in hopes of not drawing any attention. If you didn't acknowledge she was there maybe you wouldn't long to run over.

"Hey," Slowly lowering the book, you spy the girl in herself looking perkier than usual. Seemingly having abandoned her friends just to come and speak to you.

"Hello," you reply quietly, keeping your eyes on the page. It was explaining how to create the Forgetfulness Potion; a beginner level potion and not at all hard to make.

"Luna said you'd be out here," You glance up at the mention of your friend's name. Why had she been talking to Luna? "And that you may require a study partner,"

Strange. She had never wanted to study with you before. "You don't have somewhere else you'd rather be?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Luna can be quite convincing but if you'd rather study alone, I can go."

"No," the reply comes a little too quickly. "I mean, uh... you can stay. I'd really like the company."

"Great, Ron and Harry are rather distracting when it comes to studying," She plops herself down at the other end of the archway by the end of your feet. Your knees were now pulled a little closer to your chest, propping up your potions book. "I can quiz you if you want?"

"Can I ask you something?" You pose the question as you sit up a little straighter trying to give her more room; handing over the book in the process.

"Of course," Taking the boom, Hermione's hand brushes over the cover but she opens it and begins flickering through the pages. She had the same textbook so you're not exactly sure what she expects to find.

"Why are you here?" The rustling of pages comes to an abrupt stop as her eyes settle on yours but only for a moment.

"To study?"

"You've never been interested in me before," you reply bluntly. "I don't see what's changed now? What exactly did Luna say?"

"Just that you like me," Wide eyes of surprise, your stomach sinks. She was joking right? She had to be. "And that you think I don't like you which is perplexing. So she told me where you usually go to study and that you'd very much appreciate my company."

"I'm gonna kill her," you growl under your breath, sinking down against the stone. How you wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole right now.

"I also thought it was only right that I apologise for the other day," you can't even bring yourself to reply; too scared you'll somehow embarrass yourself further. "I shouldn't have spoken about Luna that way- I also apologised to her. Are you ready?"

Anything to help forget about what Luna had purposely done, you nod your head a little. Setting this whole thing up was a sweet enough idea but she didn't have to straight-up tell Hermione that you liked her. Hopefully, you could just play it off as friends. A silence settled between the two of you as Hermione searches through your book. "I'm gonna say a potion and you just have to list the ingredients, simple enough?" You can feel her eyes on you but can't bring yourself to look back. "You alright?"

"Mhmm,"

"Are you sure?" She questions. "I didn't mean to embarrass you or anything. I'm sure Luna had the best of intentions."

"Just say a potion," It's even more awkward when she brings it up the fact Luna told her. "Please,"

"Okay, how about... Draught of Living Death?"

"Uh..." for a second your mind seems completely blank. Taking a deep breath you settle your nerves a little. "Standard potioning water, Powdered Root of Asphodel..." your brow furrows in concentration. "Infusion of... Wormwood? Valerian root, A Sopophorous bean and-"

"Sloth brain," Hermione finishes. "Good job. Okay, let's try..." The pages flutter between her fingers for a moment. "Exstimulo Potion."

Exstimulo potion. You rake your brain for any memory of it; If you remember correctly it was a potion used to boost magical energy. It was a beginning level potion so it won't be too complicated to make. "Re'em blood... Granian hair, Snowdrop maybe, and like... uh... Bitter root?"

"For an extra point, what colour should it be?"

That you knew almost instantly. "sky blue."

With each passing question, your confidence grew around the same speed as Hermione's smile did. You liked to think that your extensive knowledge of potions was impressive but in all honesty, some wouldn't see it that way. "You are really good at this,"

"I enjoy potions. They value knowledge over skill more than some of the other classes- that's not to say potion-making doesn't require skill and vice-versa. " You explain, moving so your legs now dangle over the edge similar to how Hermione was sitting. "It's probably my best class but I like the study of ancient runes too. What about you? I imagine you're brilliant no matter the class."

"I wouldn't go that far," Her gentle laugh fills your ears, filling you with such an innocent sense of glee. "I like most of my classes though, I would take more if I could."

"Of course you would," You giggle to yourself. "I heard in the past you used a time-turner just to attend more classes."

"Guilty," She offers you a smile. You'd done research on time turners, they were interesting little devices but it took a lot of guts to use one. "It was worth it."

"It's a pretty smart way to use one," No surprise considering who you're talking to.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure. Anything." Hermione fiddles with the corner of the page she has settled on.

"When Luna said you like me, I'm guessing she meant..."

The fire in your cheeks spread hot and fast which had the butterflies in your stomach going crazy. She really had to bring it up again? She couldn't have just ignored it and moved on? "...yeah." You admit quietly. Handing your textbook back, Hermione slips down onto her feet

"So this was her way of setting us up... hmm," Spinning on her heel, she looks to the sky. The sun was beginning to set so it was illuminated by an orange glow. "For a girl so imaginative I would have expected something a little more than a study date."

"I like studying," She sharply turns back to you.

"As do I," She offers a gentle smile. "But I think we should do something a little more traditional for a first date, don't you?"

"First date?"

"Only if you want to,"

"I... yeah. I'd love to."

Desperate Souls 2/?

Mr. Gold/BelleFrench, Explicit

Summary: A broke and heartbroken Belle French comes to an agreement with Mr. Gold to do a little modeling, just for him, in exchange for the money she desperately needs, but it isn’t long before they both realize they’ve made a deal they didn’t understand. Based on this prompt.

Chapter Summary: A deal is made.

Notes: DON'T HATE ME. I'm not sure anyone thought that this was where this is going, but this is where it's going. Gold is a bastard, and he knows it. This is peak S1 Gold and Skin Deep-esque Belle, I hope that comes through. If there are any tags or warnings anyone thinks needs to be added to this, please let me know. I am always trying to be conscious of consent issues.

[AO3]

Alastair Gold sat in the back of his shop, scowling at the ledger on his desk.

His pen trailed along the edge of the paper, the tip guiding his eyes as he mentally added up the numbers. He wrote the total at the bottom of the column, -$450, and then, before he could contemplate what he was going to do about the debt he was owed, the bell over the shop door clanged loudly. Using his cane, he pushed to his feet and moved to the doorway between the backroom he used as an office and extra storage and the front of the shop to find a peculiar sight.

Belle French stood in the middle of the room in her red wool coat, her arms full of what appeared to be clothing. Her purse had fallen and was hanging from her elbow, and her hair was messier than usual. She looked harried and tired, and even at this distance he could see the redness in her eyes. One of his more responsible and courteous tenants, she was always ready with a smile and a kind word, even for someone like him. He didn’t understand why she went out of her way to speak to him whenever they were in the same location, or why she treated him like he wasn’t the complete bastard everyone knew he was, but the fact that she did secretly delighted and tormented him in equal measure. He might even admit to himself that he harbored the smallest bit of affection for her, a tiny crush that he buried down deep and never entertained as anything other than a fantasy.

“Miss French?” he said, folding his hands over the handle of his cane. “How can I help you?”

She took a breath and seemed to square her shoulders before she came up to the counter and dumped the contents of her arms across it. “I want to sell these.” Then she rummaged in her purse for a few seconds, and pulled out a small, black velvet box which she set down on top of the clothes. “And this.”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted as he surveyed the items. She appeared to have brought in a collection of...undergarments, and he felt a tinge of heat creep up his neck. He cleared his throat. “I see.”

He moved behind the counter and leaned his cane against it before picking up the jewelry box. Flipping it open revealed a surprise, and his eyes darted quickly to her left hand and then back to the ring.

“I presume this means you are no longer the future Mrs. Gaston?” he asked, eyes fixed on the sparkling diamonds.

“Yeah, he, uh, he left,” she replied, looking to the side at the old gramophone that sat at the end of the counter. Then she turned back to Gold, her expression hardening. “And he took our shared bank account with him.”

Gold glanced up in surprise. Though he couldn’t say he was shocked that her engagement to Garrett Gaston had ended, given that the man was an idiot and frequently a chauvinistic jerk, he was taken aback by the fact that Gaston had also stolen money from his fiance in the process. It certainly explained why Miss French had come to his shop, and it also started to form a very shameful idea in his mind that nearly distracted him from the matter at hand.

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he managed.

She gave a short nod. “That’s why I’m here. I, uh, I need money.”

He smiled crookedly. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”

He took the ring out of the box and set it down on a square of padded velvet before retrieving a jeweler’s glass from behind the counter. She watched silently as he took his time examining the ring, which he made a bit of a show about, considering he had assessed the value of it the first time he saw it on her finger. It was a touch too gaudy for his taste, and he suspected it might be so for her as well, based on how she usually dressed. It was big, showy, and fake, not unlike Gaston himself, and Gold knew he would never see a return on it. He had suspected the stones weren’t real the first time he saw it, but he was willing to give Gaston the benefit of the doubt and not say anything. It was the kind of ring that would probably sit in his shop for years, and he considered that he might be better off to remove the stones and set them in something more suitable.

“Three hundred,” he said matter of factly, and set the ring back in its box.

Belle frowned. “For the ring?”

He nodded and her frown deepened.

“What? No!” She shook her head and put her hands on her hips. “That ring cost over three thousand dollars, and you’re going to give me a tenth of its value?”

Gold sighed. “Look, Miss French,” he began, “the value of a thing is only what someone is willing to pay. It’s devoid of the sentimental attachments we may have to the object, or the -”

“I do not,” she snapped, “have any sentimental attachment to anything that asshole gave me. I just want what is fair.”

“And I am telling you that what was originally paid for this ring is nowhere near three thousand dollars.” She continued to regard him with anger and confusion, and he sighed again. “Given the type of gold it’s made of, which of course is an alloy, and the fact that the stones are lab created white sapphires, albeit very high quality, that is the best I can offer you.”

Belle looked like she wanted to cry, and her loud sniffle told Gold she almost had, but she once again squared her shoulders. “So Garrett got me coming and going then.”

He gave her a sympathetic look. “It would appear so.”

“What about this stuff?” she asked, lifting what appeared to be some kind of chemise from the stack of undergarments.

Gold stared at her hand and what it was holding for a long moment, and then met her eyes. “Nothing. I don’t want it.”

She dropped the silky nightgown, letting it spill across the counter. “But...it’s all new. Half of it still has the tags on. I haven’t even worn any of it yet!”

He flashed his teeth. “A pity indeed, but clothing rarely sells in my shop, even the cast off designer items from Mayor Mills, and I can hardly put anything like that,” - he nodded towards the puddle of black silk - “on display for the public.”

Her mouth hung open as she stared at him.

“Do we have a deal?” he asked, forcing his eyes away from the lingerie and curling his right hand into a fist to keep from touching it.

He wanted to feel the cool softness of it with his fingertips as it slid over his skin. It was a shame no one would see her in it, but since the only option for that had been that lummox Gaston, he considered it only a small loss.

“I guess I don’t have a choice.”

Gold exhaled and closed the ring box. “You could take the ring to another shop, or go back to the original retailer. Perhaps they would give you a better price, but I would be surprised if he paid more than three hundred for it.”

She let out a humorless laugh and shook her head. “I don’t have the receipt, nor do I have the money for the gas to get me there, and it wouldn’t be worth it anyway. The rent is due next week, I need to buy food, and I promised my father I’d give him some money...” She sniffed again. “You don’t need to hear this, sorry.”

“You’re giving your father money?” he asked, curious, and she nodded.

“Yeah, it’s just for him to buy extra stock for Valentine’s Day. The shop always does well that week, and he’ll pay me back, he always does, but I have literally thirty-seven dollars to my name right now."

She gave him a flat smile and shrugged with her arms out to either side, and then let them slap sadly against her sides as she sighed. Gold regarded her for a moment. Moe French borrowing money from his daughter was not exactly a surprise. The man borrowed from anyone who would lend to him, and in fact the four hundred and fifty dollar debt in the ledger still open on his desk was from Mr. French. Moe had even used the same reason with him, that he needed to purchase more stock for the upcoming Valentine’s Day orders. Gold suspected that the loan Belle would give her father would be used to pay the debt to him. It was robbing from Peter to pay Paul.

Her hands went to her collar and she pulled out the short necklace she was always wearing. It was gold with a teardrop shaped pearl, a simple but beautifully elegant thing, that he had always thought suited her perfectly.

“How - how much for this?” she asked, her voice shaking as she pulled the pearl up and away from her neck.

His eyes narrowed. The fact that she wore the necklace everyday had to mean it was important to her, and the waver in her voice gave it away. “Are you sure you want to sell it?”

She let the necklace drop and it settled out of sight behind the wide, thick collar of her coat. “No,” she sighed. Then she ran a hand through her hair and blew out a breath as she tried to keep herself calm. “Look, I know you don’t give extensions, but, maybe I could - I could get a loan from you to cover it? I get paid again in two weeks, and I could pay you back half out of that, or - or - shit, I don’t know. Help me out here? Mr. Gold?”

Gold’s eyebrows lifted as he met her pleading gaze. He knew what it was like to be down to your last dollar, the desperation and anxiety that came with it, and he knew what people might be willing to do in that situation. He had done things he wasn’t proud of, and he had failings as a parent that had left him with a more distant relationship with his son than he wanted, but unlike Moe French he had never lied to borrow money from his own child.

His eyes trailed down to the pile of lingerie still sitting on the counter. It was a shame that it wouldn’t sell in his shop. He might enjoy seeing it everyday, imagining what Belle might have looked like if she’d gotten a chance to wear it, knowing that each piece was something she liked, something she wanted to wear for her lover.

The sensation of the chemise against his palm when he finally touched it was a shock, and he blinked as a terrible idea formed in his mind. “Perhaps...” he started, drawing his gaze from the fabric to settle on her face again, “Perhaps we could come to an...arrangement.”

Belle swallowed and shifted from one foot to the other, her eyes darting from where his fingers were running back and forth over the black silk to meet his eyes. “What - what do you mean?”

He glanced down at the undergarments again and then up. “You said you’d never worn any of it?” She shook her head. “Would you want to?”

Her eyes widened. “How do you mean?”

Gold licked his lips. Something about the fear in her voice pulled at the darkest parts of him, the spread of silk and lace in front of him like a siren call to his deepest thoughts and desires. He was exactly as beastly and terrible as everyone said, and no amount of Belle French’s sweet conversation could change that. If she agreed to what he was asking then afterwards there would be no more of that, not for him, but for a little while, perhaps, he could indulge his baser notions.

“Would you want to,” he repeated, his lips curving into the slightest of smiles, “for a price?”

She took a step backwards and eyed him. “What? Just like - like modeling?”

He braced both hands on the counter to either side, and leaned towards her. His shaggy hair slipped forward, shadowing his face and darkening his sharp features. “Of a sort, yes.”

Her chest rose and fell steadily, her gaze scrutinizing. “For you?”

His lips twitched. “Yes.”

“For - money?”

He smiled briefly, a flash of teeth in the low light as he spoke that had her hand tightening on the strap of her purse. “Yes.”

Her face seemed to go through several expressions in a matter of seconds, from surprise to confusion to disgust.

“No!” She took another step back and frowned. “Why - what? No. No.”

“I assure you it would be quite worth your while,” he said, finding himself oddly entertained by her reaction. She was seeing the side of him that others saw, the facade she had constructed of him possibly being a good man, the one that allowed her to talk to him so sweetly when they met, falling away. “You could make up everything you’ve lost, and more.”

Belle hesitated at that, and he could see that her mind was warring with itself in spite of her immediate rejection of the idea.

“What would - how would -?” She stopped and pressed her lips together before shaking her head. “No.”

Then, abruptly, she lunged forward and snatched the ring box off the counter, followed by the lingerie, her hands gathering it up without regard for how creased it might get and tucking it into the crook of her arm. Spinning on her heel, she stalked out of the shop, leaving Gold staring after her with a bemused grin.

Belle stalked through the door of the pawn shop, trying to hold her coat closed, her purse on her shoulder, and keep the lingerie against her chest where no one would see what she was carrying.

She had never expected Mr. Gold to proposition her, not like that. His reputation varied by person, but most were in some agreement that he was a bastard through and through, ruthless and hard, inconsiderate and merciless. She had always felt they were exaggerating, that their bad experiences of late rent and unpaid loans clouded their judgement. After all, it wasn’t Gold’s fault if someone couldn’t keep to their contract, was it? She had been prepared for him to protest an extension, to threaten her with a late fee or even eviction if it came to it, and he would have been legally within his rights, even if it made him a little heartless, but to suggest that she - that she would -

Her heels skidded in a patch of slushy snow on the sidewalk, and she reached out to catch herself against the pole of a streetlight. The cold air was making her nose run and she sniffed loudly as she straightened.

She was halfway across the street when she stopped and looked up at the lights from her apartment over the library, glowing through the window in the little galley kitchen. It wouldn’t be her apartment for long at this rate. She’d have to move in with her father again or sleep in her car, neither of which were attractive options.

You could make up everything you’ve lost and more.

Everything and more. It was exactly what she needed, but the thought of parading around for him in her underwear seemed beyond the pale. What had made him even suggest it? Was it out of cruelty or some streak of perverted amusement? She couldn’t begin to understand his motivation, but now that she was standing in the cold, her bare knees battered by the wind and her arms full of what amounted to useless trinkets, she considered that perhaps she didn’t care.

Mr. Gold had always been very exacting in his words, his agreements legally iron clad and always leaning a bit in his favor. He had said he wanted her to wear them, for him, nothing else. She’d asked if he meant modeling, and he’d said ‘of a sort.’ Modeling she could do, she thought, particularly for money, especially since most of the lingerie she was holding was fairly basic catalog stuff, nothing too risque or weird. There were a couple of items that she’d considered special, but those could be easily stowed away somewhere or shoved in the bottom of the trash before she agreed.

Belle closed her eyes and turned around. The shop glowed bright in the darkness as she slowly made her way towards it. She couldn’t believe she was considering this, but her alternatives were few, and consisted almost entirely of being homeless or hawking everything she owned. Unfortunately, what she owned was barely worth anything. Her engagement ring, such as it was, might as well have come out of one of the vending machines at the Dark Star Pharmacy. Garrett could have gotten a cheap ring and a temporary tattoo in a tribal pattern for fifty cents.

The thought, sad as it was, made her laugh, but her smile faded as soon as she came to the door of Gold’s shop. This was it, a moment of truth. She was either going to accept his deal and humiliate herself, or take the two hundred dollars for the ring and starve for the next month. She reached up with her free hand and touched the pearl at her throat, her mother’s necklace which she’d actually considered selling just a few minutes ago, and exhaled.

Do the brave thing, she thought, and pushed open the door.

Gold was still behind the counter, and he looked up as the bell rang out. “Miss French.”

His voice was as smooth and even as it always was, with no tinge of surprise at her return. She regarded him for a moment and then closed the distance, her arms tightening around the undergarments she was still holding.

“How much?” she asked quickly.

His eyes widened, but his expression was otherwise unchanged. “For each time or in total?”

“Each time?”

He smiled slightly. “One item, one night, each week until it’s all been worn.”

She swallowed and took another step forward. “Each time then. In - in case -”

“In case you want to stop?” he asked, and she nodded.

Then he took a pen from inside his suit jacket, tore off one of the pawn tickets from the pad beside the cash register, and wrote something on the back of it before setting it on the counter, facing her.

“I will pay you two hundred for the ring as well,” he added. “If you still wish to sell it.”

She inched closer until she could read it, and gasped when she saw the amount he’d written. It was more than enough to cover all her expenses for a month, and if he intended to pay her for each piece of lingerie, then in all it was definitely everything she’d lost and much more.

“Is that sufficient?”

She looked up and met his eyes, his mouth curving gently as he smirked, and for a second the sickening dip in her stomach made her feel as though she was about to sell her soul. “W-where? When?”

Gold pulled the scrap of paper back and took the time to fold it neatly before tucking it away in his pocket along with the pen. “My house, say, next Thursday evening?”

Belle pressed her lips together and then nodded. “Okay, um, do I need to sign something or -?”

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Not necessary. Unlike some people in this town, I know I can take you at your word.”

She frowned at that and took another step forward, holding out her hand towards him. He glanced down at it, and then extended his as well. They shook hands briefly, and then she turned to leave, wanting to hurry home before she got sick or started crying again.

“Miss French,” he called out before she’d made it more than two steps. She turned back to face him, and he nodded towards the bundle in her arms. “You can leave those with me.”

“Oh...” She looked down at the now rather mangled and creased underthings as she moved back to the counter. “Uh, sure.”

She relaxed her arms and let the garments fall from her arms, in a messier pile than when she’d first brought them in. Somehow their disarray and the cramping in her arms made her feel even worse. Then she fished the ring box out of her purse again and set it down.

“If you wait a moment,” he said, taking up his cane, “I’ll get the money for the ring from the safe.”

“No no,” she replied. “I, um, I need to get home. Can I - can I get it on Monday?”

Gold inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Belle turned on her heel and hurried out of the shop, her shoes loud on the old wood floor. She heard Gold’s voice bid her a good evening as she pulled the door open, but she didn’t look back or return the sentiment. She had done the brave thing, and now she could only hope that it didn’t backfire.

The Mixtape Mishap - Chapter 7

Countdowns & Reveals

Ron walked down the stairs first, with his shoulders hunched over in defeat. He stalked back over to the chair he’d been occupying before Harry and Ginny had forced him to go talk to Hermione and clear the air once and for all. He saw his best friend and sister give each other a look before Harry walked tentatively over to Ron.

“Er, everything alright, mate?” 

“Sure, yeah, everything’s just peachy!” Ron said sarcastically.

“Erm, alright, then…” Harry didn’t think now was a good time to ask for an explanation, but one look from Ginny told him he had to figure out what was going on. Why’d you have to go and fall for her anyways, you slick git. And she has no idea she’s got you wrapped around her finger. Or does she? Who the hell knows with girls. Harry abandoned his inner dialogue to appease Ginny, and to hopefully get himself out of this uncomfortable situation between best friend and crush.

“Were you able to talk to her?” Harry asked.

“Nope. She never came out of the bloody loo. I waited five minutes. Finally just slid the parchment I’d been working on earlier under the door for her. Had to borrow a quill from Ginny’s room to add that I’d wait fifteen minutes for her to come talk,” Ron explained.

“And I’m guessing she never took you up on that offer?” Harry finished.

“Nope. I even waited longer, you know, just in case. I don’t know what else to do,” Ron lamented.

“Sorry, mate. I’m, er, sure it’ll all work out? Let’s go try out more of those ‘shot shots’ the twins have. There’s only a little over an hour until midnight anyways.” Harry’s suggestion didn’t really inspire Ron to move, so he took the initiative to get some sweets and a couple of twin’s newest items to bring back to Ron. He caught Ginny’s eye on the way back to Ron and silently shook his head.

Hermione came down shortly after. She figured she’d give Ron a five minute head start before returning downstairs in an attempt to make their plan believable. After all, they only had just over an hour to keep up the awkward row guise before managing to position themselves close enough for the countdown, where they’d shock everyone with a midnight kiss. It can’t come soon enough, Hermione thought to herself. She was already missing the feel of his lips against hers. 

If she didn’t want to stick it to Ginny and Harry with their meddling, she would have forgotten everything and just gone to climb into Ron’s lap where she noticed he was sitting again. She steeled herself against the thought and walked over to the refreshment table, forcing her traitorous body to stick to the plan. She picked up a couple of the different ‘shot’ shots the twins had played up earlier, as if trying to decide which to use. 

“Trying to decide which flavor to indulge in?” Fred had sidled up next to her, watching her contemplation.

“Er, yes, I think so. I just don’t know which to use.” Hermione was holding a shot labeled ‘spiced mead’. 

“It all depends on what you’re in the mood for, or what you’re going to pair it with. For instance, the firewhiskey would pair well with the cinnamon cookies mum made, and the spiced mead you’ve got there would go with the vanilla custard. My personal favorite is the chocolate liqueur with the raspberry shortbreads.”

Hermione set down the mead and picked up the chocolate one instead. “That does sound really good.” She moved down the table to pick up a raspberry shortbread, and injected the liquid from the shot into the cookie. She bit into it, and the taste overwhelmed her mouth. It really was the perfect combination of raspberry and chocolate. “Wow. Thank you, Fred. You and George really are quite talented when it comes to all of these creations.”

“A compliment from the one and only Hermione Granger? Well, thank you! Just wait until you see what’s in store next!” Fred looked down at his watch. “Speaking of, it’s time for the next reveal!” he said as George wheeled in something that was covered by a sheet.

Fred turned down the wireless a touch as George called everyone over. “Gather round to see our next creation!” Once he had everyone’s attention, he continued. “This is a party roulette wheel! There’s an enchanted notepad on the back where you can put the names of all the attendants and their names will magically appear on the wheel.”

“The wheel has many uses, and the notepads can be replenished when they're out so it’s not like you need to buy a brand new wheel each time. You can use it to pick partners, or to determine who answers a question, or really whatever you want it for!” Fred chimed in.

“It doesn’t have to be just names either. Could be anything! But for us, on this wonderful evening, we’re going to play Dance Partner Roullette!” George pulled the sheet off the object, revealing a brightly lit wheel with everyone’s names already included and ready to go. “At exactly 11:00, we are going to celebrate one hour to the new year as Lee plays a slow song over the wireless, and the wheel will pick your partner!”

“...but there’s an odd number of us,” remarked Tonks.

As if on cue, the back door opened, and Verity, the twin’s assistant at the shop, came in. “Not anymore!” said Fred. “Verity here has agreed to spend New Year’s with us, making an even ten,” he explained as George added her name to the notepad. The board shimmered as it updated to show her triangle now.

“Hi everyone! It was really very kind of the twins to invite me, as my family’s on holiday. I’m excited to see the new products in action,” Verity said with a big smile.

“Should we get started? We’ve only got five minutes until Lee plays the song.” George brought everyone back on task.

“How will it know once someone’s already been picked?” asked Hermione.

“Excellent question! Want to spin first and find out?” Fred smirked at her, clearly anticipating her question.

“Oh, I-” Hermione stuttered as Ginny pushed her towards the wheel.

“Come on, Hermione, spin the wheel!” Ginny encouraged.

With no other choice, Hermione grabbed hold of one of the pegs and pulled down on the wheel watching it spin round and round. No one noticed George adding something to the notepad as the wheel was spinning. The wheel slowed and came to a stop on none other than Ron’s name. She looked at the wheel in disbelief and then back at Fred and George.

“Excellent!” said Fred. “The wheel has spoken. Fleur, you next!”

Fleur walked up to the wheel as George crossed Hermione and Ron’s names off on the notepad, allowing them to dim on the board. “See? Now that your names are dim on the wheel, it won’t land on you again!” Fleur spun the wheel as George once again manipulated the outcome. He placed a star next to Bill’s name. He didn’t want to chance it, considering he knew what song Lee was going to play. Fleur smiled and walked effortlessly back over to Bill when it landed on his name. George crossed both their names off as Fred asked Tonks to come spin.

Tonks spun the wheel incredibly hard, and the onlookers were a bit worried it was going to break until it finally slowed down. Tonks gave a sheepish smile and made a retort about not knowing her own strength when the dial landed on George. Everyone laughed good-naturedly as Verity made her spin next. Ginny was pouting because she was last, and wouldn’t even get to spin due to the process of elimination.

“Guests should always be invited to spin first, little sis,” Fred reminded as he waved her off.

Verity’s spin landed on Fred, which left Harry and Ginny as partners. Ginny grinned at Harry, and made a comment about being glad she didn’t have to dance with any of her brothers as Fred turned the wireless back up. Ron was still on the outskirts of the circle by the chair, and Hermione was awkwardly standing next to Harry and Ginny.

“Don’t you dare think about running back upstairs to get out of this,” hissed Ginny into Hermione’s ear. 

The music started to play and Ginny pushed her towards Ron. Hermione stopped as awkwardly as she could in front of him. Despite having been in his embrace not longer than half an hour ago, Hermione still wasn’t sure what to do next. They were trying to continue the ruse, so she wasn’t sure how to proceed. She hadn’t anticipated this.

Just then, Ron held out his hand to her, and she took it as her other hand found his shoulder. Neither of them looked at the other, as Ron whispered, “Might as well play along. I reckon they’ll take more mickey out of us if we fight it.” Hermione felt his hand wrap tightly around her waist as she nodded in agreement.

They did a spectacular job at managing to not make eye contact, but still muttered comments to each other throughout the duration of the song.

“Oh, I love this song. It’s on the album I have upstairs.” Hermione said.

“Interesting song choice by Lee. ‘Specially considering the lyrics.” Ron added.

“It’s on the muggle wireless all the time. Ed Sheeran’s all the rage right now. The song’s called Thinking out Loud, and it’s one of the most popular on the weekly countdowns.”

“Maybe not as peculiar then. Wish they’d all stop staring,” Ron muttered. 

“Just ignore it,” Hermione said, trying to make her voice sound annoyed, though she was thoroughly enjoying this time in his arms.

Eventually, the song ended and they broke apart. Hermione was once again missing the warmth of his body. She quickly forgot though, as Ginny squealed when Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down Swingin’ came back on the wireless. The group fell into more dancing for the better part of the hour when all of a sudden it was already five minutes to midnight.

George was popping champagne and pouring it into the glasses on the table as Fred picked up the cylindrical objects to pass out to everyone. As Hermione took hers, she examined it. She noticed that there was a small button towards the large circular end.

“Don’t press the buttons, yet everyone! Not until midnight!” Fred said just in time, as Tonks was about to see what the button did.

“And make sure you point them at the ceiling, and not at anyone else!” George added. “These are only prototypes so we didn’t get the warnings etched on them, yet. Everyone come get a glass! It’s almost time!”

Just as Ginny was about to say ‘one minute,’ everyone’s attention was turned to the balloon wall. There was a soft pop and one of the balloons had turned into confetti raining towards the ground. No sooner did one pop, than another one start.

“Is that a countdown?!” asked Ginny eagerly.

“You guessed it! One balloon turns into confetti each second, leaving only the NYE 1997 balloons at the end,” Fred said triumphantly.

Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Harry were all gathered close together, and Hermione made sure she was by Ron’s side. Ron was trying really hard not to grin at her because it was almost time. They set their champagne glasses on the side table in the midst of the countdown craziness.

Tonks started the ten second countdown and everyone chimed in, “10...9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!” Everyone cried as they pushed the buttons on the cylinders, which exploded more silver and gold confetti, and the balloons that had been outfitting the ceiling also turned into confetti that rained down on them. Bill and Fleur embraced in a kiss as Harry and Ginny hugged. Hermione looked up at Ron who cocked his eyebrow at her, and she nodded. In one swift movement, he pulled her in and kissed her again, this time for everyone to see. He didn’t break apart immediately, instead deepening the kiss slightly in an effort to show Hermione how much he cared. Too soon, though, they did pull apart, both grinning from ear to ear.

“What the fu-” Their moment was interrupted by Ginny who was watching them with widened eyes. Harry stood next to her, his mouth wide open and also shocked. The rest of the crowd either showed knowing smirks or mildly surprised faces.

“What?” asked Ron nonchalantly.

“But- you said- I’m missing something here,” Harry tried, but couldn’t formulate a full sentence.

Ron and Hermione laughed. “Gotcha!” Ron said. 

“So you’re sorted then?” Harry asked as they both nodded.

“Finally!” Ginny shouted as Fred and George held up their champagne glasses.

“To the new year!” they cried as everyone echoed in kind to the toast. 

“And hopefully the best year yet,” Ron whispered in Hermione’s ear as he kissed her cheek. She smiled as she nuzzled into his neck. The year may not be free of danger, what with being Harry Potter’s best friend, but she could worry about that later. For now, they’d celebrate the new year and their new relationship.

Alchemy: Magic Vs. Science

Chapters: 23/25 Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist/Harry Potter Rating: T Relationships: Edward/Winry, Lan Fan/Ling, and May/Alphonse. Primary Characters: Edward Elric, Severus Snape Additional Tags: Crossover, Teacher!Edward, BrOtp Edward/Severus. Sassy beyond measure. Series: Part 1 of 9. Summary: Magic and Science, are they the same or are they completely different? It just takes one person to point out all up and downs. Along with breaking the stereotypes that come up with being a wizard, alchemist and most of all being human. Thank you, @amynchan! D/C: I do not own Harry Potter or Fullmetal Alchemist. Discord: La Red(Mesh Mash of… stuff.): https://discord.gg/KYjmVAb Alchemy Series: https://discord.gg/DejEYNJ

“English and Edward’s accented voice.” “Amestrian or another foreign language.” “Written notes.” ‘Thoughts.’ First Name: Informal Last Name: Formal (Or used to annoy others)

Two days... Two days of complete and utter chaos. Ling is running around wanting to see everything with the Ministry Officials running after him. They are trying to get the Emperor to settle down to start their negotiations. The Mustang Unit is either helping Ling escape from the Officials or go bother Edward to no end. It didn't help that Lan Fan always kept acting as a lookout for them all. Marcoh spent his time in the library, studying everything that catches his eye. Scar... surprisingly, no one knows where he is at the moment. Alphonse gets distracted everytime he sees one of the many cats that roam around the school. Mei is spending her time in the Medical wing, she and Poppy are getting along despite the language barrier.

Right now, every single visitor is standing around Edward's bed and staring down at said male's sleeping form.

"This is creepy." Alphonse finally relented after staring down at his brother for was seemed like forever. "Why are we doing this again?"

"It's Monday! He has class today, I want to see his entire day as a teacher." Ling snickered from behind a paper fan. Standing behind is a resigned Lan Fan, shaking her head at Ling's words.

"He's going to freak out seeing all of us..." Mei called out from the other side of the room, she has Xerxes in her arms. The tiny owl is glowing at the attention she is receiving from the princess.

"If only we have a bucket of water." Roy muttered under his breath, eyeing Edward with a sinister twinkle in his eyes.

"Sir...No." Riza reprimanded her superior.

"He's waking up." Scar announced to everyone in the room.

"Of course, he's waking up. You keep stabbing him with your walking stick!"

Edward groaned in annoyance at whatever is poking him and slowly opened his eyes to a bleary world. He raised up while he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision again. The Golden Blonde blinked, once, twice, three times when saw all his friends and brother surrounding his bed. Every single one of them staring down at him with expectant expressions.

-.-

Severus is in his classroom, writing instructions on the chalkboard for the first class of his day. Today is supposed to be any other day, except he is expecting some sort of chaos to occur later into the day. For now, he will continue on like that is not going to occur any time so-

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

A familiar scream pierced throughout the entire castle, Severus chalk broke into half being taken by surprise by it. He grumbled under his breath, cursing at the fact ever since Edward Elric came into the Magical World, things have never been the same. It was like being in an eye of a storm for who knows how long, at any moment a storm will occur and nothing or no one is safe. Now everyone is on edge, especially now when extra variables were added in.

Severus threw the broken pieces of chalk into a small box of broken pieces of chalk and reached into another box that is filled with unused chalk. 'It's too early for this...'

-.-

Edward grumbled into his breakfast, ignoring the people around him that were giving him questioning looks. He ignored how Ling would poke him with a spoon. Roy talking his ear off nonstop. Alphonse getting along with Filius and... Scar and Severus getting along? Edward rubbed his eyes in complete disbelief, how in Truth's name is Scar able to do...that! Did he just... laugh? Wait... false alarm, they are talking about making his life hell. Nothing abnormal there.

"What's in today's agenda, Eddy Boy?" Ling asked, swinging an around Edward's shoulders.

"Ministry Officials are coming by later into the afternoon. Today... until I l have my class, a tour of the school. Unlike the last two days... I have to chaperone all of you... since I can't leave any of you alone! For a long period of time! Since none of you can act like actual adults." Edward right eye twitched all throughout his rant, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

"Hm... So, say you, Mr. Elric."

"SHUT UP! Dis does not include you!"

"Case and point."

"SHUT UP!"

"You are just proving my point, Mr. Elric."

"...Shut up, Severus."

"How childish of you to pout, Mr. Elric."

"Grrrr."

"Childish."

-.-

"They are adorable! I want them!" Ling gushed over the House-elves that attempted to get his attention with food. He gobbled down plate after plate of food, almost putting Lan Fan into a state of panic as she is worried he might choke.

"They are rather... peculiar." Riza commented, she did not know what else to say about the House-elves. She should have been far more apprehensive of the small creatures if it weren't for the fact Edward is soaking in the attention by said tiny creatures. She had to admit they do make amazing food.

"This almost taste like Winry's apple pies..."

"This is...normal?" Roy whispered to Edward.

"I looked into it, they were enlisted to work in the kitchens, moving some things around, cleaning the dorms or the castle in general. They are loyal to the school an- Don't tell them if they did something wrong, you do not want to see what they would do." Edward stopped Jean from commenting something about his own food to one of the elves. Jean quickly retracted whatever he was going to say when he saw tears welled up in the tiny elves' eyes. "It's okay, Lottie. He loves your cookies just as it is."

Lottie the House-elf, stood at around 2 and a half feet tall, her ears are a bit large than the norm and her eyes are a shimmering gray. She is wearing a flower pattern tea towel and is using a red pillowcase as a makeshift hat. She smiled at Edward before she quickly ran off to get him more pie. "More pie for Mr. Elric!"

"They will torture or main themselves if they think it will please their masters or punish themselves... They are amazing, and I am more terrified of them than anyone else in this place."

"You make it sound like there more than you are letting on about them...?" Roy asked raising an eyebrow at Edward.

"...they have their own brand of magic and it is noted that the Wizarding World made it law for them to not wield a wand. For it will greatly increase their magical abilities... that's why I'm terrified of them."

If anything, this only made Ling want them even more.

-.-

Edward let out an exhausted sigh. "I knew this place should have been the last place to visit..."

Roy, Alphonse, Mei, Ling, Lan Fan, Scar and Dr. Marcoh scattered around the library, looking for anything that catches their attention. The others are sitting around the table, playing a card game. By the looks of it, Xiao-Mei is winning. With a huff, Edward headed over to the table and sat in Between Jean and Xiao-Mei. "Deal me in."

-.-

Edward facepalmed at the sight of his brother, Roy, Dr. Marcoh is surrounded by dozens of library books they brought along. Riza is standing by Roy, keeping a close eye around the room for a sort of possible trouble. Alphonse is reading the books aloud for Mei, who has her arms around his neck to look down at the book. Ling had taken his seat, Lan fan is nowhere to be seen, Scar is glancing around the class seeing the random posters posted on the wall and the rest of the Mustang Unit is in his room. They are not needed and they would rather spend the hour snooping through Edward's belongings.

"Monday class. Terrance, Fred, and George." Edward muttered under his breath, keeping an eye on the Grandfather's Clock in the corner of the room. At that moment, said students walked into the classroom for this Monday Alchemy Class. The three of them stopped when they saw the visitors in the classroom. The twins actually jumped backward at the sight of Ling and looked all around the classroom for a certain masked individual. "Come in, come in. It is time to start to the class."

The three slowly headed towards their seats and waited for further instructions. When Edward motioned over to one of the blackboards, they started to pull notebooks, pens, and pencils from their bookbags to start their work. Looks like they have to decode several formulas, nothing new and nothing old. Just how it is now for the start of every class.

"When are you planning on the Battle Royal?" Ling called out to Edward, causing the said young man to glare at him.

The three Hogwarts student's heads snapped up, expressions filled with astonishment that quickly turned into anticipation for this Battle Royal. Now that sounds very, very, interesting.

"I was going to explain that later..." Edward resisted the urge to facepalm again, but he managed to stop himself. "Well, that ruins the surprise."

"Battle Royal?"

"My, my, that sounds interesting."

"Mr. Elric... is anyone going to end up losing their shirts by any chance?"

"Be grateful Armstrong is not here."

"I am! I'm just a very worried spectator."

"Shirts?"

"Why should you be worried about people losing their clothes?"

"Fred... George... There is a man in Amestris that loses his shirt on a constant basis and cries constantly. Be worried. Be very worried..."

"Fred?"

"Yes, George?"

"I'm scared..."

"Me too..."

Once more, Edward facepalmed. Of course, nothing will ever go his way. "Class...boys... pay attention to me."

"Sorry, Mr. Elric..."

"As L...Emperor Ling just mentioned... We are planning a Battle Royal. My brother, General Mustang, Miss. Chang, Mr. Scar, Emperor Ling and..." Edward saw something flutter in the corner of his eye and saw Lan Fan appear next to Ling. The Emperor grinned at him and gave him a thumb up. "Lan Fan... Yes, boys?"

"Who's she?"

Edward pointed over at the said female. "That is Lan Fan, Emperor Ling's number one Bodyguard."

Fred, George, and Terrance turned to see the masked bodyguard. Their eyes widen when the bodyguard took to offer the mask to reveal a young woman with a stoic expression. Said expression fell with Ling lopped an arm around her and pulled her into a bear hug.

"All of them will be showing us offensive and defensive forms of Alchemy and Alkahestry. I want you three to look for at the latest... three? Four friend's maximum each to this event. It will take place this Friday during class and lunchtime. The actual reason behind the event is to inspire others to possibly take Alchemy next year and... for all of you to see Alchemy incomplete action."

-.-

"Get out from under there, Mr. Elric."

"No."

"Mr. Elric..."

"You cannot make me!"

"Edward..."

"Please do not make me leave... They will find me..."

Severus glared down at Edward, who is currently hiding underneath his desk. All he got from the younger man is that the 'Idiotic Emperor' wants him to do something against the Ministry Officials. After that, 'Bastard Mustang' forbade him from doing anything as such against the Officials. It did not help how Hawkeye pointed her gun at him to emphasize the General's point.

"Could you at least go sit at your assigned seat?"

"They will see me the moment they enter the classroom."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose in complete annoyance. He berated himself for the fact he did not even see this coming. Of course, Edward will come into his classroom to hide. "Go into the supply closet, the supplies will cover your scent."

"Thank you!"

-.-

Ling sat gracefully in his seat at the end of the table, he kept his hands hidden inside the long sleeves of his golden clothing. Sitting on his left is Alphonse, who is his voice and Roy on his right playing the role as mediator between Magical Great Britain and Xing. It is vice-versa Magical Great Britain and Amestris. The Mustang Unit is positioned around the room only adding an intimidating factor to the scene. Sitting in the corner of the room is Scar and Mei, with Riza whispering what is being said during the meeting.

"We would have the children of Xing that have magical capabilities to come here to Hogwa-"

Ling raised his hand to stop the Ministry Official from continuing speaking. He motioned for Alphonse to speak for him. "Xing is in the process of creating a magical school for the people. Amestris has been helping us expand it into an institute for both Alchemy, Alkahestry, Magic or learning in general. This is to ensure the traditions are still being kept within Xing."

"Hogwarts is one of the finest magical institutions in the Wizarding World. You will not find a better education than here!"

"With all due respect, we were not disrespecting this school. On the contrary, we were hoping to emulate something similar back in Xing but...baby steps... baby tiny steps." Alphonse cringed at his own set of words. He was not liking the looks that were shot his way. Glancing over at Ling for any sort of guide, the older male pulled out a scroll from one of his sleeves. Alphonse raised an eyebrow at the fact Ling hid this within his person. Should he be surprised? No. He once saw the Emperor pull out a giant apple, a bag of chips, turkey leg and so on. Reading the scroll only caused Alphonse eyebrows to disappear into his hairline. 'I guess we are taking that route then...'

"Xing had just started to accept magic, it will take a while to fully accept it as a whole. Until then, baby steps. Very small baby steps." Alphonse stated with a docile expression. "Coming here is a huge step and I am sure all of you will understand that? Sending all the children of Xing that show magical capabilities to a foreign country will not go well with a lot of people back home..."

'Where was Edward when you want a distraction to occur?'

-.-

"Me, me, me, me, me, me! Ugh! Self-centered, smug, underhanded bastards! We are not going to get anything done at this rate!" Roy stampeded around Edward's room, cursing out the Ministry Officials not caring if he could be heard. Curing out in Amestrian, no one in that entire castle minis the rest of the occupants in the room, cannot understand it anyway. "What they are trying to do is... It makes me want to pull out my hair!"

"I told you... This place is primarily focused on 'us', 'me', and 'no one else but myself'." Edward commented offhandedly while he corrected homework from his students. "There are times of high incompetence or just right down mulishness. Corrupt, corrupt, corrupt. Too focus on the good and ignoring the bad. Positivity to the point it makes me nauseous."

"Do you have an example?"

"They have stupid laws, denying rights for non-humans, no trails... no trails to prove if one is innocent. At least in Amestris, there's a trail to prove if you are guilty or not guilty... even if you are innocent and made guilty... you still get a trial. The only difference between Magical Great Britain and Amestris is well... the latter tried to turn the entire country into a Philosopher Stone." Edward threw his pen against his desk, ignoring that it bounced off his desk and ran his hands through his hair. "It's so...blah! Like I said to your before, this place has nothing to offer to us at this moment of time. The only ones that are worthwhile are the children, the future of any home and country. Start from the beginning and go from there. We have to show them all we will not be pushed around and are more than willing to call out on their bullshit."

"Oddly... that sounds about right."

-.-

"You cannot be this... Idiotic! A fight? A fight!"

"Hey, if have seen what I did when I was younger...er, this is normal." Edward waved off Minerva's glare. Ended up, she just overheard about the Battle Royal and not wanting to be said event to occur. What if the fight escalates and gets out of control? Will the students be in danger? So many other questions or statements that are made to have the event not occur.

"Did something like this occur back in Amestris?" Pomona asked from her spot in the Teacher's lounge where many the professors are currently in.

"The students that went to Amestris saw a similar event occur between General Mustang and Major Armstrong. Both are highly renowned Alchemist in Amestris and one of the said men is going to be in this Battle Royal. If it makes you feel any better, Dr. Marcoh is on standby if any of them get hurt." Edward responded with a nervous grin, he poured himself a cup of pumpkin juice.

"Is a fight necessary?"

Edward glanced over at Minerva with a blank expression as he slowly drank his pumpkin juice. "The last thing I need is any of the students copying the Transmutation Circles and cause harm to themselves and everyone around them. With this method, they are more focused on the action and wonder of Alchemy. Plus... seeing it in a sedentary form will cause boredom and having a higher chance of one of my friends killing one of the students out of sheer annoyance. It has happened..."

"I'm surprised you haven't killed anyone yet..." Severus muttered under his breath into his cup of steaming coffee.

"Shut up!"

"You didn't deny it."

'...Who said I hadn't already?' Edward grumbled in his mind while he walked away from the lounge room. He already got what he wanted and now he has to focus on surviving the rest of the week.

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Spoiler-y LOEG Finale Ramble

I just want to ramble at length about League of Extraordinary Gentlemen: Tempest without dancing around spoilers or worrying about taking up dashboard space too much, so I’ll put that under a cut.  (Sorry if you slam into a wall of my nonsense on the mobile app-- I’m not sure that the app does cuts...?)

I don’t really know how to be precise about any of this so this is going to be extra-ramble-y... Sorry about that.

If you’ve read earlier series, you know what it’s like to read one of those.  The peculiar frustrations of it.  

The “game” of the League (in the UCB sense of the term game)-- let’s put all of “genre” heroic fiction, all at once, into one big tapestry-- is pretty well established, including the downsides of that, which is ... Not being familiar with *all of genre heroic fiction* makes swaths of the dialogue sort of impenetrable.  Unless your idea of a fun read involves sitting with a window open in google.

But god, the pleasures of LOEG were really sharply present for me in The Tempest.  Just getting to spend time with Moore and O’Neill.  

I’m going to over-focus on Alan Moore’s contributions for a little while, but don’t worry-- I’ll cram in one paragraph about Kevin O'Neill near the end in the Mighty Comics Criticism Tradition!  

Customary Digression about the Comics Internet’s Toxic Relationship with Moore: The Internet’s crafted a character called “Alan Moore.”  That character is a “no longer with it old man who gets off on writing about rape, doesn’t know he’s a Racist White Man, shaking his fists at clouds at people using his ideas even though he spent his whole career taking other people’s ideas, magical wizard.”  

Some of that comes from real places-- reading about sexual violence generally is a bummer so that being a thematic concern for Moore makes getting hyphey for a new Alan Moore comic tricky.  (Serial comics kinda depend on “Looking forward to the next thing”, I guess.)  His use of the Golliwog character is uninteresting and never feels worth it, and his defenses of it are unpersuasive, maybe embarrassing.  I'd prefer hearing he’d made some peace with Steve Bissette or whoever, to let 1963 be collected for future audiences.  Not Dave Gibbons cause his story there sounded pretty “past the point of no return”, but I never really grasped what happened with Bissette, though it’s not any of my business...

I’ve always found it sort of telling though that this portrait started getting painted after Alan Moore made it clear that he was uninterested in being comic fandom’s parasocial friend, though.  

I can tell you, I have seen and experienced over and over, there are people who you can say whatever about in comics, and then there are other people where you will get folks upset and not listening to what you’re trying to say or giving you any benefit of the doubt as to what you’re trying to say and it’s very much not worth writing about them, because they wrote something at some point that makes people think they’re fans’ Secret Friend.  Alan Moore didn’t want to be anyone’s Secret Friend -- he was in Category A.  

Anyone paying attention noticed how sharply Moore’s stock fell the more that respecting him would mean questioning an industry that mistreated him and questioning either your own work habits (for creators) or purchasing decisions within that industry.  People want to hear about DC has some app now or some shit.  The “Alan Moore: Bitter Old Crank” story lets people continue to be hyperconsumers without having to recognize the vacuum that you could theoretically fill with Ethics. “DC fired whole one guy after getting Me Too-ed-- good enough!” People have to tell themselves something. 

People need stories that they tell themselves, to justify doing what they were going to do anyways.

This has all been mentioned before but it feels worth noting all this again though because it’s so much a part of the Tempest itself.  The comics’ final note-- the final note for Moore’s career theoretically-- is a “letter page gag” of Moore explicitly telling the comics audience that he’s retiring because he’s had enough of them and thinks they/we *fucking suck*.  WHEEEEEEEEE!

Plus: mad artists.  Editorials about dead artists, dead from suicide, disappeared, forgotten.  The character causing the armageddon at the end gets referred to as an “Author.”

 I like these two panels (which I’ve pushed next to one another) in particular-- it’s a solid gag, but also I think you can read it as ... I read at least a frustration into it, a frustration with the audience wanting to turn Moore into the main character while ignoring what he’s made, the substance of what he’s made.

How many reactions did you see to LOEG Century that were about “Is Alan Moore an old man yelling at Harry Potter?”  Versus, how many reactions did you see that engaged with what Moore was trying to say about Harry Potter, Mary Poppins, fiction, etc.?  (I think this is a good example of the latter, though in the drastic minority).

Does Alan Moore know that when it came time to review LOEG Century, the Comics Journal hired a TV recapper to do it and then called it a day?

The story of LOEG Tempest is that ...

A centuries-long plot of The Faery Kingdom is realized and our heroes revealed to actually be agents of the apocalypse, as all the outlandish fantasy creatures that are being collected over the course of the series are unleashed to relentlessly destroy humanity.

And you can admire it on the “Game” level-- because ultimately, if you’re going to cram all heroic genre fiction into one big tapestry.... what about all the stories about the end of the world?  You have to do those stories or else you’ve not played the game!  

I hadn’t really thought that through before Tempest, not having given the series the level of consideration where I’d come to that conclusion.

But now that it’s completed, and you can see the shape of it, the game level satisfies me.  

You’d see people for years online going “Oh do League 1980-- where it’s Jack Burton and Alf teamed up.”  But people didn’t .... People didn’t take it to the logical conclusion-- that at at some point, where do you put Mad Max?  Where do you put the Planet of the Apes?  Where do you put the end of the world?  

You put it at the end. 

I really admire the simplicity of that.  

But that’s just the surface game...

The story of LOEG Tempest is that ...

Grubby misogynist James Bond gets restored to youth/power and him & his lesser variations try to bomb the Faery Kingdom, rather than letting women be in control, thereby triggering the apocalypse.  The heroines of the League and their gender-fluid pal Orlando fight back.

Moore’s had his career-long fascination with gender, even if he’s somehow now been portrayed as somehow being unaware of or callous to those issues, even though that’s *all he’s ever wanted to talk about* more than any other topic.  What kind of fucking monkey’s paw he made a wish on to end up in that place, I don’t know, but...

(Point of interest: the bad guys of course harken to the original Casino Royale movie... written by Woody Allen.  So there’s an added layer of meaning there perhaps, that’s pretty visible to the naked eye).

What’s fascinating to me more than anything about the Tempest at the moment though is the final page of the series...!

The series ends with a wedding, in what I took in my “I went to public school and don’t read a lot” way to be a nod to Shakespeare. But that’s not the Happy Ending of the series.  

The Happy Ending of the series is after the apocalypse, the fictions that Moore deemed worthy of surviving have created a sort of anarcho-commune in outer space where they’ll live happily ever after... 

But then in what feels for me like the end of Doctor Strangelove, you see that they’ve resurrected (with very little foreshadowing) Mr. Hyde, angry, ultra-masculine, rape-y Mr. Hyde, long dead in the series, and he & the lead heroine of the series are reunited to slow-dance for the rest of eternity to a song written by Alan Moore called Immortal Love which you can hear HERE...

I have just a BILLION questions about this page!!!!

I think the answer that satisfies me though is...

This is Moore putting things away.  This is Moore thinking he’s retiring.

The issues begins with a Sherlock Holmes character contemplating whether all the serialized heroic fiction is good for people.  And ultimately just saying no, it hurts people.  This is a point that gets made THROUGHOUT the Tempest over and over.

I think this is just Alan Moore looking back on his career and saying that he regrets it all.  And then as sort of underlining it... I think he’s saying that you just can’t take the violent boy fantasies that he’s been railing against his whole career (almost as if the rape scenes had a point!) out of it.  That these things have that grubbiness to them, eternally, and there’s no extracting yourself from it.  They are an immortal part of the appeal...

All the LOEG’s female heroes, the genderfluid rebellious characters, all of it, and at the end, they can’t get away from Mr. Hyde...

Is Moore just saying it’s all been futile?  Is this Moore’s ultimate expression of regret?  Is it something more nuanced than that?  I don’t... I don’t know entirely what the last page should mean for me.  I couldn’t even be a TV recapper, I’m not that smart-- I don’t know... I just know that I love it...?

But that’s just sort one part of it too, though because I feel like the exciting thing about this series has been how layered it could be, the amount of information Moore and O’Neill can put into every panel and how it can work in multiples levels... Like...

The story of LOEG Tempest is that ...

Grubby misogynist James Bond gets rebooted again-- now more dour and unloving and charmless than ever, in the mighty Daniel Craig tradition-- and him and his undying franchise of schlubby immature-boy violence fictions try to bomb the human imagination, rather than letting women be in control, thereby triggering the apocalypse-- an apocalypse where humanity is overwhelmed by their fictions.

So there’s the political reading.  What’s the apocalypse in Moore’s series?

“Grubby girl-hating boys won’t let go of their stupid fictions” is the story of Gamersgate, it’s the story of those pathetic Comicsgate shit-people, it’s the story of so much of our politics.  Fascism rising up.  People becoming more cruel, more obsessed with conspiracy theories. An incoherent pile-up of fictions that drown out humanity.

The apocalypse in LOEG is our current moment.  Streaming puts everything ever filmed in front of us.  The internet puts everything every written in front of us.  Everything can be googled-- a point Moore even makes on the last page of his series.  

And no one knows what’s true anymore.  And nothing feels like it sticks-- nothing gets taken very seriously.  And none of it feels worth much. 

Stories becoming “franchises” and content-- what do they mean?  And what does it mean for the fiction around it?  What does Watchmen mean now that it’s just the thing that spawned sequels, TV shows, videogames, cartoons?  Some people say “no no it’s still on my shelf” but I think those people are delusional.  For me, at least, it means less.   How can you say the context doesn’t change the meaning?  That’s what the word CONTEXT fucking means!

(When you see comics being advertised, sometimes I just feel like “oh good luck being the source material for one season of a low-watched TV show on the TV Guide channel.”  Do people have less to say now or do I not care about what they’re saying more because I’m a mean-spirited middle-aged fuck?  I don’t know. A lot of people in comics think they have stuff to say about minorities or whatever, being woke, but for me, it always just feels like Albert Brooks in Lost in America going “we’re going to go touch Native Americans.”  Probably it’s me being a fuck... But like... if the context for all comics right now is they’re potential vehicles for some larger entertainment industrial complex to batter in your head with cliched, apolitical sentiments... how do you get invested in ANY of them?  I struggle to, when there aren’t Primo Weirdos involved-- like games are dreck but Kojima’s a horny extremely-problematic weirdo so I’m looking forward to Death Stranding... I’ve gotten off track, I’m sorry...)

Look: just on a supply-demand curve, the more fictions you have, the less they’re worth.  I wrote about that once online and the reaction I got from someone I respect a lot actually was no, it still matters, but now critics and gatekeepers and influencers matter more too.  

...Do you believe that?  

It would be awfully nice to.  But I don’t.  I don’t, at all.  I probably should because the person who said it was smarter about this stuff than me, and kinder, but...

But set aside what’s happening to fiction itself... The idea that Moore’s somehow floating above society that the “Cranky Old Man Doing Wizarding” internet version of Moore ignores is that Moore’s always been pretty politically interested (even if his actual political beliefs are, for me at least pretty disagreeable-- I don’t think his actual prescriptive ideas hold much water for me... I find them pretty ludicrous, but you know, different strokes).

But... but yeah: Do you see Putin there in panel 1?  I think I do.  

People want their fictions.  The UK wanted to believe if they did Brexit, they’d have more money for health care funding or some shit.  Liberals in the US told themselves Hillary Clinton was their Abuelita who only lost because scary Russians are coming for them -- and they continue to tell themselves that if they defeat Donald Trump, the rest won’t matter-- it won’t matter that there’s a Republican Senate, Republican state legislatures, a massive part of our population that’s totally okay with concentration camps, etc., they just have to beat this one guy who’s uniquely awful (more awful than the rest of America! an aberration! ) and things go back to some “normal” that once existed. And I mean, Conservatives in the US-- I mean, jesus fucking christ, the fictions everywhere are getting worse. They’re chanting “Send her home”. Her home is Minnesota-- they have large, giantess-blonde women in that state-- SEND ME TO HER HOME!

Tempest is coming out as we’re all just watching this whole fucking “civilization” thing we thought we had slide into a post-climate-change fascistic feudalism, if we’re lucky and we’re not just staring down an extinction event...  Slow slow slow and then FAST LOUD AAAAAAAH. 

I think it’s very much Moore reacting to Brexit, to ‘16, to all that stuff, but it all fits within a project dating back to 1999!  Back when the world was supposed to end in Y2K!  

Unlike Alan Moore who famously and incorrectly hated it, I loved Twin Peaks Season 3.  I think about it all the time.  I’m still thinking about it.  Anytime I’m talking about whatever, I’m like “What about Twin Peaks Season 3″ tho, which makes dirty talk very awkward.

One reason I loved that season of Twin Peak was because of how it didn’t give a shit about the audience’s wants or desires.  The audience went to it wanting to hear about Agent Cooper fighting the Black Lodge. And Twin Peaks told them episode after episode instead that America right now is cruel and horrifying and randomly violent and a grinder horror-movie for its children, and will continue to be that forever unless they change their hearts.  

Twin Peaks told them that genre stories disintegrate and become meaningless when the bigger stories we are all telling ourselves stop making sense...

I love The Tempest for the same reason, because I feel like... I feel like for me, it’s just Moore there at the end going, “Okay.  Okay.  You love your fictions.  Fucking choke on them.”  

The end of the world is every fiction all at once, in a meaningless screaming sound, because our narratives that bind us to one another have collapsed.

The story of LOEG Tempest is that ...

Alan Moore is dying-- he’s 65.  Kevin O’Neill is dying-- he’s 66.  

It hopefully won’t be soon-- heck, they could have another 30+ years, if they get lucky.  Or it could be tomorrow. Same thing for everybody. But they’re both at an age where the thought has to occur more than it does for someone in their 20′s, 30′s, 40′s...

So in the Tempest, the end of the world approaches.  

(For them-- not for us-- never for us-- we’re going to live forever, you and I *wink*). 

This is my favorite piece of writing about Twin Peaks Season 3. Here’s a taste:

The notion of “late style” was first formulated by the philosopher Theodor Adorno to characterize the odd traits he observed in Beethoven’s late quartets. For Adorno, these works lack the same rigorous formal harmony of the composer’s mature music. In these pieces, Adorno says, “one finds formulas and phrases of convention scattered about,” musical tropes and clichés that appear “in a form that is bald, undisguised, untransformed.” Beethoven’s late music is tasteless in places, less fully integrated than it had been in the composer’s mature period, but it is also more open to formal discord: it is a music of “caesuras and sudden discontinuities,” a “catching fire between extremes” that militates against formal harmony.

We might suppose that this destructive spirit stems from the fact that the aging artist, closer to death, no longer cares what the public thinks and is free to express a more personal, uncompromising vision. Adorno finds this notion overly sentimental. For him, late works are born from the awareness that our subjective relationship to death can never enter artworks, which survive too long to record this mortifying knowledge. For this reason, late style is the result of an artist who has abandoned the very conceit of expression itself.

There’s a wedding at the end of LOEG Tempest.  One of the “bad guys” is murdered.  But none of these moments are very dramatic!  None of these moments are given any more “emotional significance” as Frankenstein expressing sorrowing that people would rather call him “Frankenstein’s Monster.”   Talking about the “story” of LOEG feels insufficient because it’s... It’s just so besides what it feels like to read it, which is just a flurry of information but walking away from that flurry just feeling.... Like you’re watching something being mourned but in an *ANGRY*-but-mournful “it was all pretty dumb, though-- time to grow up” childhood’s end kind of way...

When League first came out, I remember the feeling being that it was just Moore writing blockbuster comics.  “You just take some fancy idea you want to do and make it enough of a superhero comic that it can be commercial” -- that kind of sentiment, by the Future Blockbuster Comics Writers of America on places like the Warren Ellis forum or wherever. Here’s Matt Fraction describing the League for Artbomb: “...a high-concept to die for, and Moore knows it.  A practical Who's Who of the Victorian era's pulp literature, illustrated expertly by Kevin O'Neill in a style equally vibrantly delicate and luridly grotesque, LOEG is a rollicking adventure yarn jam-packed with big set pieces and pitch-perfect characterizations - most of all, though, it's unapologetic fun for fun's sake.”

And that was the correct reaction after the first series perhaps-- but there’s something so delightful that LOEG ended up being  Moore’s late style work.  

Executives took it, made it into unwatchable Hollywood nonsense that ENDED SEAN CONNERY’S CAREER.  And yet somehow, that’s the series that he ended up retiring on, on this just super-angry “choke on it, you pringle-covered goons” note, with a work that I would describe as his late style...???

Am I nuts or isn’t that fucking delightful?  I mean, goddamn, that’s some fun!  Fucking a....

And I’m worried like I’m making it sound like a puzzle box or some multi-layered treatise you have to sniff around at with a magnifying glass...

It’s funny.  It’s got sex scenes. Violent stuff happens.  A guy with no pants on and an erection like jumps out like a Jack Kirby character at the reader yelling nonsense.  It’s a good time.

Moore and O’Neill do every kind of visual comic style they can possibly get in there-- that’s the chief pleasure of The Tempest, is them Voltron-ing as a team, and O’Neill delivering EVERY kind of comics page possible-- fumetti!  3-d comics.  Visual panels with text at the bottom of the page narrating outside of the panel borders. 

There’s joyfully more ideas of how to approach the comic page in one issue of The Tempest than you see in, like, the entirety of that dopey-fuck Peter Cannon comic that people were like jerking themselves off to because a character was like “I do formalism good” in it.  Oooooooh, do you formalism, brah?  Cool story!

It’s two guys after looooong careers with all this experience just pushing the pedal down all the way, on the way out the door... If you’re into that kinda thing, it’s so goddamn fun!  It’s them having a laugh, more than anything-- Moore throws in a “fuck Stan Lee" gag at the very very end that’s so brutal and out of nowhere... There’s no way he wasn’t cackling.  CACKLING when he wrote it.  That guy was having fun until he pulled the plug on the entire career... 

The rarest thing in comics if you read the opening comic bios: an honorable ending.

It’s Kevin O’Neill’s retirement from comics, too, if I’m not mistaken.  One last chance to admire what he brings.  Just a career long bezerker.  

That was sort of the thing about LOEG to begin with, but that grew as the books got closer to the present, just how much of O’Neill’s skills with caricature and filling a page with a derangement were utilized.  Impossible to imagine the book working without him!  Impossible.  

I mean, and imagine the scripts he was working with on this one.  JESUS imagine the scripts Moore was sending him, parachuted in a big crate down onto his lawn, in a Operation Dumbo Drop style arrangement.  They just had to be monster fucking long... 

And then the results are just O’Neill having to draw ALL OF FICTION.

Imagine going up to a comic artist and being like “Brah.  Brah, I need you to draw ALL OF FICTION for a comic I’m working on.  No page rate, but you’ll get exposure, brah.  Do it.  Do it for the exposure.”

Here’s O’Neill talking about Marshal Law from an interview he did with the great and honorable Douglas Wolk: 

There’s only one other example in [Marshal] Law I can think of which was censored, one of the Dark Horse books — I think it’s the Mask crossover. We often refer back to the red light district in San Futuro, and on my original I had in the background, one of the shop fronts with “Pussy Palace” on it. But someone in the office changed it to “Pushy Palace.”

That really doesn’t have anything to do with anything, but I just like that story and don’t have enough gas to go find a better or more apropos quote...

The thing that fascinates with O’Neill is how he ended up a co-storyteller on two of the more notable satirical “fiction will fuck you up, it’s not good for you” stories in comics.  Because that’s fucking Marshal Law, too!  (I really like Marshal Law in all its unsubtle shout-iness, though I know reasonable minds differ there).  But I just... 

Was that a story he was attracted to? Is that a story he himself pushed League towards?  Is he even more of a co-author of the comic than given credit for because of Moore’s prominence? How did he end up doing that twice?  Plus: Nemesis, which I haven’t read much of but understand to be its own subversion of things.  

What an interesting goddamn career, for it to have a thematic heft or thematic ... I don’t know if coherence is too strong a word, but “glue”... glue? To have a glue like that.  How many comic artists have that?  Jesus, how many have that when they’re NOT WRITER-ARTISTS???

AAAAH I’M GETTING ALL WORKED UP.  Goddamn, it’s a shame that the comics industry doesn’t really want people writing about comics (if it were ever honest, which it is NOT when it pretends that it does) or deserve having people write about comics, and that writing about comics is the very worst thing for the children to do, because it’s so fucking fun to write about this shit, I’d recommend if it if it weren’t a *terrible idea*.  I’m having a good time this morning, but I gotta shower and do my day.  

I’m forgetting stuff I wanted to talk about... Anyways, I just wanted to write all this out because the reaction to Century was just so fucking numb-skulled (with exceptions! yay exceptions!) that I just wanted to get this written down before I accidentally read num-nums opine about The Tempest...

But yeah, I don’t think I got half of the shit in that Tempest book too probably because I’m dumb and shallow and just busy being good at sex (ladies), so I don’t know if I’m “right” about any of this to the extent I’m saying anything which I don’t think I am or I don’t know, I just sort of vomited this. In particular, I don’t think I contemplated the Shakespeare Prospero and Shakespeare Tempest nearly enough when thinking about this series (I read that as a kid but don’t remember it well enough to think on it seriously).  Or if I got 10% of the allusions I’d be surprised because none of them were to low-grade Japanese porno or whatever it is I entertain myself with anymore...

But I just had nothing to do this morning.  Anyways, this is where my head’s at a couple days later though...

And more important than anything: please let’s find a way to stop comic people from interviewing Alan Moore about comics-- ask him about literally anything else because comic people are all scummy and I don’t want  see him keep getting bothered by questions about this shit.  LEAVE HIM ALONE, COMIC PEOPLE.

I’m going to have some leftover fried rice for lunch...

TLDR:  Damon Lindelof can go fuck himself, and you can too!  Wheeeee!

I would, my friend, Fernando (Part I)

Where to start… You know how they say you instantly know it when you meet ‘the one’ – you know, that person you think you’re meant to spend the rest of your days with, grow old together, the whole shebang. Well, I think it happened to me. Emphasis on the ‘think’ bit.

I met him as a random grindr hookup – sure, not the prettiest beginning to a story, but I’m sure I’ll weave a prettier lie at our wedding. It was nice and all, but we barely bothered to learn each other’s names.

A few months later, I was about to do a Raid in Pokémon GO with the usual team when he showed up, joining the party. I didn’t instantly recognize him, but as we kept raiding the following days and he kept appearing, I realized it was him. The random hipster hookup from a couple of months ago.

When I say hipster, what I really mean is… I have no idea. Somewhere between fashionable and trashy, cool and geeky, ‘lumberjack chic’ – but, as he himself would put it, sometime later, “skinny legend fashion icon”. Just rolls off the tongue, am I right. So you have a clearer picture, he is very tall, appears to be in his early 30s and is overtly fond of beanies and skinny jeans – oh, and of course, the moustache. Not the gross overgrown kind nor the plain ‘single line’ one, but a perfect blend of both, just looks good and different on him. The kind of person that draws everyone’s gaze in, when they enter the room.

He eventually joined our local whatsapp group for Pokémon GO raids and we began to see each other more often. It was a fun game of “we have met before but we don’t really acknowledge it”, between me and him. He sent me a friend request on Instagram, and we began to chat one-on-one from there.

The conversation began developing after I learned that he needed a Spinda, of which I had 2, so I offered him one. He lived literally across the street from me, so we could trade from our respective couches. I think that same day, since we lived so close together, we arranged to go for a walk after dinner, to catch Pokémon. The never-ending “shiny hunt”.

And again the following day.

And the next. And the next one after that too.

The conversation deepened. Since we met in that fashion, there were no boundaries regarding our hookups and sexuality. It didn’t take long for us to become very good friends and talk on a constant basis. Plus we had a lot of interests in common – we were both somewhat emotionally-distant people and with a peculiar sense of humor.

For us to connect so easily, it was definitely a weird thing - my area of expertise is Finance (I currently work at a bank) and my professional experience has always been at several desk jobs. Some better, some worse, but ‘inconsistently consistent’ (the reverse of Grace Helbig). A corporate man, I guess, leaning more towards the realistic side of life, rather than pandering to the dreamer and ambitious one. He is on the opposite end of the spectrum. He is an elementary school teacher and an editor for a magazine and has even written (and successfully published) his own book. A writer in every sense of the word.

Personality-wise, I am what you would call an introvert by nature – not exactly shy, but definitely the proud owner of a handful of unresolved childhood issues caused by enthusiastic bullies and shame. I wear glasses, which help in conveying the whole ‘geek’ category and am of an average build and somewhat tall. I’ve still got my share of face imperfections and pimples at the age of 25 and look younger than my actual age – something we both have in common. Our personalities just clicked though, his extremely offensive sense of humor contrasts well to my fake well-behaved and nice demeanor and we’ve bot got similar personal values and empathy when dealing with others. A couple of nice chaps, is what the ordinary passerby would think.

We became best friends. He confided in me about his past relationships, the good the bad and the (very) ugly and I vented to him about my insecurities and depressive thoughts. We saw each other roughly every day, during our usual “old ladies” walk through a nearby park, always worshipping that battery-draining app. On the weekends, we unknowingly formed the habit of getting breakfast together and basking in the sun for a bit. I was going through a tough time at the time, what with my mother not being in her best shape or form, mentally speaking, leading me to come out to my parents amidst an argument (NOT the best way to do it) – this situation worsened after we had a little house-fire scare. So his presence really helped and comforted me.

Time passed. Mall trips, community days, ex raids, regular dinners and breakfasts and breakfast-lunches. He was pretty much the person I saw the most. And quickly became my favorite.

I was always keenly aware of how close we were getting, and how it might be affecting me and my ability to connect with other friends, but I never gave much thought to the situation escalating. He was 38 years old, and I was 25. The thought alone made me never overthink the relationship.

Until I did. Until the “what if” statement popped into my mind. And the age gap just… lost its entire relevance. I tried to push the feelings down, but as all feelings do, it just made them get bigger and more intense. You see, my past relationships have been failed ones, because I wasn’t emotionally involved in them – I was like meh. So I didn’t really know what it was like to actually like someone. But I was smart enough to recognize it – this was probably my first real interaction with “infatuation” and dare I say it, love.

Here’s the part of the story where the sky is bright and the road ahead is hopeful and sunny.

Spoilers: It’s not.

Why not? Well. Because it’s completely one-sided. Unrequited love. Nothing less, nothing more, the usual boring sappy story of friend in love with his best-friend but unable to do anything about it.

“Well, why not do anything about it? Tell him!” The Jiminy Cricket in my head says.

I definitely let him know, I drop hints here and there, statements like “we’ll be together in 20 years” and getting notably jealous when he’s texting or telling me about his sexy-time and dates with other men (this part hurts particularly). So he knows. If he’s choosing not to see it, I know he has good reasons for it and I am good enough a friend to know not to act on it. It’s cruel on my part to try and force something that shouldn’t happen.

And why should it happen? I don’t really have much to offer him. I’m not his type, I still live with my parents (which I attribute to the ridiculously high rents here in Lisbon) and am overall kind of an emotional mess. Tbh, I wouldn’t pick myself either. But that’s an issue for another day, it’ll get resolved eventually. By myself, not by piling it onto somebody or using a relationship to distract from it.

Also he met ‘the one’ already. Or what he says he’s afraid might have been the one. His last boyfriend, who we name ‘psychopath’, definitely earned his nickname. Physically and emotionally abusive, he left a scar. And Fer is smart enough not to get into a relationship this soon after said breakup, as there is still too much fresh baggage, ready to be thrown at the next man in.

And there are (many) candidates for the ‘next man’ position. He’s a fascinating man and they are immediately enthralled by him (here’s the pot calling the kettle black), so he does leave a string of broken hearts behind him.

I don’t like hearing him talk about this. I can see there is a hint of pain in his eyes when he jokingly says he’ll never find anyone and is fated to remain single his entire life, to which I jokingly retort he’ll never be alone, as he’ll have me. And this is the part that really hurts me – I am content. I am content with being the best friend and I’ll eventually have to deal with him finding someone else, and watching him be happy in a (hopefully) long-lasting relationship. And I’ll be there. The pathetic best friend story from the B-list storyline of Hermione and Ron from Harry Potter. I’d rather have an Elio and Oliver thing, as fleeting as it might be, over a lifetime of longing for something that will never be. I want nothing but the best for him, he deserves it. But… we could be happy together. We could have a life. And that realization kills me.

Then again, years haven’t passed. Time does cure all wounds. Maybe time will heal these feelings, some days they are stronger, somedays they are weaker. Some days I am sure I can call them love, others it’s something darker.

I have realized something, though – I should let myself feel them. It’s ok not to act on them, if I think that’s the best course of action. But I should not repress them. I do love him (how could I not?) and that’s okay. I felt pathetic for feeling them, at first. Especially the jealousy bit I always judged my friends for, that one is a particularly nasty feeling.

But hey, for someone who thought himself to be emotionally shipwrecked, the ship floats! I think that should be my takeaway from this. That’s a positive outlook, right?

And more than anything, I should be grateful to my best friend for showing me something new I wouldn’t have known otherwise.

So if you ever end up reading this, Fer, know that it’s true. Also sorry it’s in English! And sorry if it’s all too much. But I do love you, and will always be a part of your life, in whatever role you deem fit. Now I’ll close this, as it’s time to go on our daily Pokémon run.                                                                                                                                                                                               -João A. (Xanuda)

Link to Part 2 “I Wish I Hadn’t”: http://thirteenthspirit.tumblr.com/post/183770872439/i-wish-i-hadnt-part-ii

💜🌻💜🌻💜🌻💜

My grandpa also has great disdain for recent music... he doesn't like anything after the 50s. So I think its funny that he likes Shrek and he'll watch it any time its on tv. I'm not familiar with Top Gun's soundtrack. I'll have to give Take My Breath Away a listen!

My dad words at a university and he used to bring me and my siblings to the international dinners he'd host. Students would always as me what I was studying and eventually when people started talking to me I'd introduce myself by saying I was my dad's daughter and that I was in high school. I'm not sure if any of them were ever hitting on me bc I was, and still am, pretty oblivious to flirtations. It sucks that you had to tell guys you were in high school to get them to back off. Glad to hear they did, though.

I used to be a hufflepuff when I was in university! I re-took the quiz twice about a year ago and was shocked to get Slytherin both times but I've embraced it. Most of the qualities are very positive except for cunning and I don't think that describes me at all.

I totally get that. I had a similar experience meeting my best friend at university. We clicked really fast and even after graduating I still hang out with her once a week. (The teenage drama movie life thing sounds awful but in high school I was definitely also on the outside of my friend circle) It sure has been hard recently to maintain friendships but I have more good friends right now than at any other point in my life.

I'll take your word for it that I give off painting/crocheting vibes! And I agree with you on the winter v. summer thing. Summer is my least favorite season. Partly because of how humid it is in the summer here.

My group just finished a campaign a few months ago and I played a gnome cleric. They started a new campaign but I felt like I needed a break bc the sessions are long and intense even though I really enjoy it. What class do you play?

The sweater is a commission actually! In university I led a crochet for beginners group and there were a few people that just couldn't ever get the hang of it :(

Did I see that you weren't feeling well today? If so I'm so sorry to hear that! I hope tomorrow treats you better 💜 (also sorry this is an entire novel I haven't spoken to anyone all day so I guess you're getting it all)

-🐧🌻

This got SO LONG so bestie I am replying undercut to you. If anyone wants to see me slowly bromance 🐧🌻 anon then read away lol.

I am envisioning your grandpa dancing to Smash Mouth and it brings me great joy. Oh, man, Top Gun has an AMAZING soundtrack. Danger Zone is a classic, but Take My Breath Away is such a romantic song. Please let me know what you think!!!

Aw, that's sort of wholesome though. I'd get that from the older ladies at my church lol. "What are you studying?"/"Algebra, usually." Which was a LAUGH. And to be honest, I'm a flirty person by nature. I think flirting is fun. But to be crude for a moment (and apologies), most of their flirting would be staring at my breasts. :/ But it was SUCH HIGH HOPES when they backed off. Like YES you GO performing the bare minimum by not being attracted to children. Bravo. But really, I've never had a dude flirt with me who wouldn't back off after me shutting them down, minor or not. So I'm very fortunate in that way. But I too can be fairly oblivious? First time I got asked out, I thought he was asking me to hang out with the friend group. Then he was like "... like a date." After I had asked where did we all wanna meet up. Lmaooooo.

We do change as we grow. I've been taking some personality quizzes for school in regards to the PMAI (Pearson-Marr Archetype Indicator) especially and it actually talks a lot about how at different times in your life you'll display different archetypes depending on what you're having to adapt to or overcome. So I think the same is true for Houses. What's peculiar to me about Houses is that when I was younger I was under the understanding that you were your House, right? But the older I got, I prescribe to the "your House is what you admire" type theology. So I might not embody a Hufflepuff in every action, but a Hufflepuff is what I aspire to be. I admire loyalty above all else. Loyalty and kindness. I might not always BE kind. I'm far too hot-headed to be the embodiment of a Hufflepuff, but I admire gentle souls the most. Ergo, Hufflepuff. I've always hated how Slytherins were associated with negative sounding modifiers. Cunning IS a negative word since by definition it's about achieving one's goals through deceit. But I dont understand why being quick-witted and clever couldn't have been the heavier association. I think Ravenclaw's are booksmart and Slytherin are streetsmart. Gryffindors are street tough, while Hufflepuff are ready to roll. Does that make sense? I think the whole cunning/silver-tongued thing was the stupidest idea, because then you are saying narratively that Slytherin IS the evil House. Why have the House at all? On a meta level, Harry begging not to be considered part of the Dark Side despite the actual Voldemort growing inside of him is symbolic in his rejection of Slytherin, but when you go on to merchandise and tell children you are a Slytherin; you're telling children they're evil. They're gonna be evil. And not in "this is the House for brats" way. In the "you either die a villain or live long enough to run away." insane. My point is they're OUR Houses now and I'm saying I think you're clever and quick-witted, and that's pretty Slytherin to me.

I'm very blessed to have her and I'm glad other people get to experience that too. I think everyone is deserving of deep connections like that. And I'm glad to hear you taking time for yourself away from dnd. Our sessions can be exhausting too, but half of my party is my literal blood family and the other half is adopted practically so we usually end up hanging out for half of the session. Makes it way less intense. That sounds like it was a fun character!! I haven't gotten the pleasure to play clerics all that much. Right now I'm in three different campaigns that alternate each week. In one I'm a druid, and that's our 5th edition campaign. I'm playing the new Wildfire from Tasha's and I haven't gotten to flex out the Wildfire Spirit yet, I am having fun. I've got a wolf who is using the sidekick mechanic in that game and he's so much fun to play too. In the other two games, those are 4th editions (the edition I grew up on and learned how to play) and in those I am a ranger and a class known as a Warden. Sort of a fighter/druid class. And the druid and the ranger are both shifters, and the warden is my half-orc. I'm always happy to talk dnd lol. Which cleric were you? Trickster Domain?

Also EWWW HUMIDITY I HATE IT. :(((

Dude, I WISH I could crochet. My fingers are so big tho, bestie. Makes it hard to do anything dexterous.

I'm already feeling much better :)) unfortunately not in time not to bomb half of my project. Whoops. But I'm blaming Glass Shark. He got me sick.

Dont apologize for the novel!! As you can see I'm capable of replying with a novel in turn lol. I hope you had a wonderful day today and that this next week treats you well!! Thank you for the well wishing 💕🌺💕🌺💕🌺💕🌺💕🌺💕

SS: Part 1

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. The next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

            “Hmmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very Difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes-, and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting….So where shall I put you?”

            Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought, Not Slytherin, Not Slytherin.

“Not Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it’s all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that….. Hmm, just wait Harry Potter Slytherin will serve you good. You’ll see… SLYTHERIN!”

            Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily toward the Slytherin table. The pounding in his chest assured that he barely noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. He eyed the red headed boy, Ron, he had met on the train looking at him helplessly, but the people at the Slytherin table were mostly all smiling. Harry sat at the end of the table next to a large looking boy, he smirked at him, giving Harry the sudden, horrible feeling he’d just been plunged into a bucket of ice-cold water.

            He could see the High Table properly now. At the end furthest from him sat Hagrid, who caught his eye and gave him a shaky smile. Harry grinned back. And there, in the center of the High Table, in a large gold chair, sat Albus Dumbledore. Harry recognized him at once from the card he’d gotten out of the Chocolate Frog on the train. Dumbledore’s silver hair was the only thing in the whole hall that shone as brightly as the ghosts. Harry spotted Professor Quirrell, too, the nervous young man from the Leaky Cauldron. He was looking very peculiar in a large purple turban.

            And now there were only four people left to be sorted. “Thomas, Dean,” a black boy even taller than Ron, joined Hermione at the Gryffindor table. “Turpin, Lisa,” became a Ravenclaw and then it was Ron’s turn. He was pale green by now. Harry crossed his fingers under the table. He couldn’t be the last Slytherin. Ron also wanted to be in Gryffindor, maybe the hat would ignore him too, but a second later the hat had shouted, “GRYFFINDOR!”

            Harry clapped along with the rest though when “Zabini, Blaise,” was made a Slytherin he had to move over to make space for him at the table. In a moment, Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

            Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin juice seemed ages ago.

            Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was beaming at the students, his arms wide open, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

            “Welcome,” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”

            “Thank you.”

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

            “Mad as a Hatter,” Harry heard Draco Malfoy mutter. His cronies laughed along with him. He hadn’t liked the boy when he had turned down his hand earlier, and he didn’t like him now.

            “Mad? Malfoy?” Marcus Flint, the prefect sitting beside Harry said. “He’s your headmaster, and he deserves your respect.” It was gruff and it was final. Draco turned away, latching onto another conversation closer to his part of the table.

            “Potatoes, Potter? You need to eat something. You’re so skinny, you look like a Fwooper feather could knock you over.”

            Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table, roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, pudding, and more.

            The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.

            Harry started at a noise from the Gryffindor table. One of the ghosts was removing, no, almost removing his head before replacing it to the horror of some of the students and the entertainment for some of the old ones.

            His house had a ghost too. Looking down the table, he spotted a horrible ghost, with blank eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained in silver blood sitting beside Malfoy who Harry was pleased to see didn’t look to be happy about it either.

            “Who’s that?” Harry dared ask.

“The Bloody Baron,” Flint answered, not bothering to look up from his plate. “He’s our house ghost,”

            “Why is he covered in blood?” Harry asked, feeling braver as more time passed.

“Killed someone didn’t he?” Blaise, the boy beside Harry answered. “Didn’t you know all us Slytherins are nothing more than rogues, scoundrels, traitors, and murderers?”

            The boy looked at him thoughtfully, a twinkle in his eye like he was laughing at him though his expression stayed neutral.

            “Didn’t think we’d get you, though, Potter? Didn’t peg you as the type.”

Before Harry could ask what type was that, the remains of their food faded from their plates, leaving them sparkling clean as before. A moment later the deserts appeared. Blocks of ice cream in every flavor you could think of, apple pies, and rice pudding….

            As Harry helped himself to a treacle tart, the talk turned to their families.

“Well, we all know who’s pure here, and I doubt we got any of the other sort, but what about the rest of you?” Malfoy questioned, eyeing a few people in particular.

            Some of the others laughed, some didn’t.

Harry who was starting to feel warm and sleepy after his meal was now suddenly fully alert. Harry looked up at the high table where Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore. Professor Quirrell, in his turban, was talking to a teacher with greasy black hair, a hooked nose, and sallow skin.

            It happened very suddenly. The hook nosed teacher looked past Quirrell’s turban straight into Harry’s eyes--- and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry’s forehead.

            “Ouch!” Harry clapped a hand to his head.

“What is it?” a girl, Millicent, Harry remembered, asked, sounding quite put out about it.

            “N..nothing.”

The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harder to shake off was the feeling Harry had gotten from the teacher’s look---- a feeling that he didn’t like Harry at all.

            Daring, Harry asked Flint, “Who’s that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?”

Flint looked surprised, but he quickly covered it. Harry thought it must be a Slytherin thing. “Professor Snape, potions professor and our head of house.”

            Nodding, Harry turned back. He watched Snape for a while, but Snape didn’t look at him again.

            At last, the desserts too disappeared, and Professor Dumbledore got to his feet again. The hall fell silent.

            “Ahem--- just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered. I have a few start-of-term notices to give you.”

            “First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well.” Dumbledore gave a warning look over the hall.

            “I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you all that no magic should be used between classes in the corridors.”

            “Quidditch trials will be held in the second week of the term. Anyone interested in playing for their House teams should contact Madam Hooch.”

            “And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.”

            Harry laughed, but he was one of the few who did, and the only one at the Slytherin table.

“He’s not serious?” he muttered to the haughty looking boy beside him.

            “It’s just a joke, Potter,” said the black, haughty boy beside him. “I heard Dumbledore’s always joking like that. He just doesn’t want anyone to interrupt his poker games with Sprout and Flitwick.”

Harry heard the sarcasm this time. Wondering if he would ever be able to get anything but a riddle out of this new boy.

            Harry shook his head. “Sure Zabini, then why don’t you join then?”

Zabini only laughed.

“And now, before we go to bed, let us sing the school song!” cried Dumbledore. Harry noticed that the other teachers’ smiles had become rather fixed.

            Dumbledore gave his wand a little flick, as if he was trying to get a fly off the end, and a long silver ribbon flew out of it, which rose high above the tables and twisted itself, snakelike, into words.

            “Everyone pick their favorite tune,” said Dumbledore, “And off we go.”

Harry sang along dutifully to the words of “Hoggy Hoggy Hogwarts” admiring Flint’s quiet but pleasant falsetto until the end of the song.

            “Ah music,” Dumbledore said, wiping his eyes. “A magic beyond all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!”

            The Slytherin first years followed Flint through the chattering crowd, out of the Great Hall, and down a marble staircase. Harry’s legs were like led again, with each step his dread intensified. Blaise walked beside him, more like pranced. He had an elegance about him that he shared with many of the other first years, but that Harry seemed to lack. It made him stand out more than he already did.

            Flint led them down a set of stairs, then another, then another. The air getting increasingly colder, the further they went into the underground of the castle.

            “You’ll be my roomie, Potter. You don’t snore do you?” asked Blaise.

“How do you know?” inquired Harry.

            Blaise smiled.

“Salazar knows there is no way the great Harry Potter would be sorted into Slytherin and not be my new roommate.”

            Yawning, Harry ignored the elegant looking black boy, intent on trying to pay attention to where they were going.

            When Flint held up his hand, Harry and the others were facing a stone wall. The corridor around them was empty with the exception of the expectant and tired faces of the rest of Harry’s new classmates.

            Harry spotted Malfoy standing at the front of the group looking up at Flint.

Ignoring him, Flint turned toward the stone wall, and muttered a few words.

            “Nulli Secundus”

The wall behind him slowly started to creak open. Harry stepped back with the rest of the first years. Apparently no one was expecting exactly this. The Slytherin common room was big and well lit, candles and torches were bright lending light along with the roaring fire emanating out of the ornate fireplace. In front of the fireplace in a lowered alcove were multiple chairs and couches were some students were already congregating. Doors lined all the other walls leading here and there, except for the far wall and part of the ceiling.

            They were under the lake.

Harry knew it was cold for a reason. The whole portion of the wall farthest from the entrance and part of the ceiling was nothing but fortified glass. The lake filled with algae and water plants bloomed, but Harry was sure if he looked down that he still wouldn’t be able to see the bottom. The room was magnificent and ornate, every surface looked like something out of one of aunt Petunia’s regency romance novels.

            Flint moved to the front of the group, and started to read out room assignments.

            “Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, Nott…..”

Not me. Not me. Harry thought. He should have known better.

            “, and Potter,” Flint announced. “You lot are in the dormitory to the left.”

They found their beds, six four-posters hung with deep Slytherin green velvet curtains lined the room. On the side of the room Harry head a swoosh, the sound drawing his attention. A huge carved out space took a large portion out of the side of the far wall. It was like the window in the main room, the lake was right through the glass.

            “We really are deep,” Harry muttered, but no one seemed to be paying him any mind. As everyone claimed their bed, Malfoy closest to the bathroom by the entrance, Crabbe and Goyle flanking him. Harry and Zabini wound up at the two beds toward the back with Nott one up from them. Harry’s bed was directly under the faint green light of the lake.

            Perhaps Harry had eaten a bit too much, because as soon as his head hit the pillow he was closing his eyes. He was wearing Professor Quirrell’s turban, which kept talking to him, announcing to the Great Hall that he was in Slytherin instead of the Sorting Hat.

            “Anywhere but Slytherin. Anywhere but Slytherin,” chanted Harry, but the turban shouted SLYTHERIN! Once again. He tried to pull it off, but it only tightened on his head painfully—and there was Malfoy, laughing at him as he struggled with it—then Malfoy turned into the hook nosed teacher, Snape, whose laugh became high and cold—there was a burst of green light, and Harry woke, sweating and shaking.

            “Breaking already, Potter?” Malfoy asked from his bed. Harry stayed silent. Turning away from Malfoy, rolling over, and instantly falling asleep once again, and when he woke the next day, he didn’t remember the dream at all.

Kingsman: A Trainee’s Mission (Pt. IX)

PREQUEL FIC, this section ~3,500w, ****THE BIG FINALE**** (choreographed violence set to 80s music ahead)

pt. I  | pt. II  | pt. III  | pt. IV  | pt. V  | pt. VI  | pt. VII  | pt. VIII

.

.

No one ever told them whereabouts in England the compound was located, despite how long it’s been their address. It was always shuttle here, shuttle there. Clearly it’s far enough from London to justify a plane ride, albeit a very short one.

They forfeit their altitude just as Harry emerges from the quarters in the back, clad tie-to-toe in Simons’s finished product. Every seam is flawless, as if he were born in it. His chest swells as he examines the mirror. Not only does he look his new part, but feels every bit of it, too.

Except for one thing. “Here,” Martin says, approaching with a small case in hand. “Put these on. And don’t ever be without them. They cost the devil’s own fucking ransom to replace.”

Harry takes the case, opening it carefully. Inside is a pair of glasses, these in dark tortoiseshell, in same style he’s seen all the agents wearing. Up to now, he’s just assumed they all had cataract problems.

A monumentally stupid assumption, he realizes, the moment he slides them on.

The whole world is enhanced. He’d thought his vision was already twenty-twenty, but through these eyes, he second-guesses everything he knows. The picture is sharper than any television—or reality, for that matter—is capable of. When he faces Martin, a green mess of boxy digits appears, framing him in binary code that rearranges into statistics. MARTIN TURNER. ALIAS: LAMORAK. 54. FRIENDLY. He blinks, and they pixelate, then disappear.

“These are the new model,” Martin says. “They’ll identify anyone they recognize, mark the rest as possible hostiles, and broadcast video directly to the control room. Calendar and calculator functions, too. And a crap version of Pac-Man. Engineers had a bit of a laugh with that one, I think.”

The cabin lights dim, signaling descent. Pulled from his astonishment, Harry pounces on one of the windows. There’s nowhere to land, nothing but city below, full of teeming crowds and police barriers. Every Englishman knows what day it is, except, apparently, for the pilot.

“Should we be concerned?” he asks Lamorak. It’s dialed back a bit, at that.

A good call on his part. Lamorak smiles. “You’ll see.”

Flying low, the plane does a loop, away from the path of the paparazzi’s helicopters. Half a mile away from the chaos in general, if not more. They make a pass above a dead-end road, blocked off to all traffic, between two commercial buildings with ‘CLOSED’ in nearly every window. ‘FOR LEASE’ in some.

When they pass again, the street itself opens like a mailing box.

Harry watches, enrapt, as they ease down the ‘runway’ and into the earth, then gives his mentor an impressed eyebrow. “No, I wouldn’t say concern is necessary.”

“I didn’t think so.”

They disembark into an underground hangar, identified only by a single circle-K beneath the plane. Markings on the mildewed walls identify this place as a now-defunct bomb shelter, left over from the second World War. It’s a long, continuous tunnel toward the center of the city, running directly parallel to the route the royal motorcade’s soon to take. Several more branch off down the way.

“You’d think there ought to be a police presence down here,” Harry remarks.

“There would be, I’m sure, if anyone knew about it. You’d be amazed the schematics you can vanish from city records with a little ingenuity.”

“And gadgetry.”

“That too.”

It’s a long walk ahead, and they keep up the pace. Lamorak stops only once, a minute or so in, leaning one-handed against a wall to pull something from the heel of his shoe. A spiral cord follows. It’s a phone. A fucking phone, for God’s sake. He’d left that one out on the tour.

“The glasses are a two-way radio as well, but there’s fuck-all reception down here,” he explains as it rings. Then someone picks up. “This is Lamorak. Landing secured. Approaching target now. Is the way clear?”

Harry knows the answer without needing to overhear it.

Largely because it’s speeding toward them on motorcycles.

“Oh, fucking bollocks.” The phone clatters to the cement as Lamorak grips his umbrella. “Shield up, Galahad!”

He’s on it before the words have even left his mentor’s mouth, raising the cane like a rifle and deploying the canopy. A greenish disc displays their assailants as if in night vision, slaloming to dodge the spray of bullets from Lamorak’s weapon. Harry joins the fire, and the motorists deflect that too.

“Don’t turn your back to them!”

It’s impossible; the three bikes fan out before they can take any cover, circling like vultures, making caged birds of the Kingsman. Lamorak only manages to take out one before another yells in Russian, and whirling his spent shotgun, catches Lamorak upside the head. He drops like a sack of flour.

“Shit!”

A second biker skids into the wall before Harry knows it was his bullet’s doing. The third, he catches on the next go, blasting him clean away from the beast he rode in on.

He drops to his knees beside Agent Lamorak, pressing two fingers beneath the left side of his collar. Then he scrambles for the dropped phone.

“Is anyone there?” Fuck’s sake, tell me someone’s there. Now would be a wonderful time for someone to be there! “This is Galahad; can anyone hear me? Lamorak’s been decommissioned, but he’s alive. We’ve been ambushed by hostiles, three of them, of unconfirmed origin, though one of them spoke Russian. Hello?”

If anything, he expects to hear Arthur. Or static, if he’s particularly unlucky.

What he hears instead is Hamish, panicked.

“Galahad, we’ve got a problem.”

Oh, have we? Do tell! I was just hoping for a problem!

“What’s going on?” Harry barks, eyes vigilant around the tunnel. “How the hell did Arthur miss those incomings?”

“He’s unconscious, that’s how.”

Oh, wonderful, that’s it, keep them coming! One isn’t near exciting enough! “What do you mean ‘he’s unconscious?’ Has someone infiltrated us?”

“No, there’s no breach. I found him on the ground when I got here. When I checked his pulse I found a medical ID. He’s fucking diabetic. I’ve called for help but Lancelot’s just left on assignment, I don’t think there’s anyone left in the whole wing but me.”

Well, then that’s going to have to be enough, isn’t it? I could do far worse.

Wish me luck, mother.

“We’re going to have to do this alone.” Harry fleetingly evaluates the three crashed motorbikes and picks the one least damaged—so not the one in flames, then—tilting it upright by the handlebars, swinging a leg over the side. There’s a gun holster on the panel that he co-opts for his umbrella. Meantime, in keeping the phone to his ear, he’s taken Lamorak’s shoe with him. He’d like a word with whomever depicted this job to be glamorous.

He tests the engine with a few revs over Hamish’s protests, partly because there’s little time, and partly because his friend sounds like this is the worst idea he’s ever heard, and that sort of negativity isn’t helpful at the moment. “You don’t even know the objective, Galahad. You don’t know who you’re looking for. And I’m not authorized to make any call yet without Arthur’s consent. We’ve got to stand down and wait for a senior agent.”

‘Stand down’ translates to ‘kickstand up.’ His hearing’s always been peculiar that way. “There isn’t time. Are you going to help me or not?”

The wait is under half a second, ended by the sound of some material object in motion. Harry knows it marks the donning of Merlin’s headset.

“Go.”

He’s off. The bike swerves beneath him as he rockets through the tunnel, unused to its carriage, making him hunch against inertia. His attempt to change the gear turns on the radio instead.

The winner takes it all The loser has to fall It’s simple and it’s plain Why should I complain?

“I’m in, I’ve found Agent Lamorak’s file,” Merlin shouts over the noise. “Take a right! Now!”

Harry barely manages to bank over without becoming a fascinating stain on the concrete.

“Two ahead, incoming!”

Up goes the Rainmaker. Four one-handed shots pick off the hostiles, sending vehicles tumbling. He rides an S curve around the wreckage.

“In case it’s on the agenda, a hint as to what the devil I’m doing would be marvelous about now!”

“It’s Margaret Thatcher.”

“I sincerely hope that came out wrong!”

“No—I mean, yes. She’s a guest at the wedding. Some vigilante offshoot of the KGB’s got plans to kill her the moment she arrives. They’re trying to start a war proper.”

He can’t spare the energy to hold his tongue at the moment. “By assassinating Margaret Thatcher? Wouldn’t Charles and Diana make more sense as targets, considering they’re actually liked?”

“They’re more heavily protected—look, the next time I take afternoon tea with Soviet renegades, I’ll ask, all right? Take a left!”

This time the bike curves obediently. It’s a relief he’s got the hang of it, at least until he sees what’s ahead.

Double doors of solid steel.

“Merlin, I can’t get through.” He races to scan. There’s no padlock, no keypad, no access point. “Open the doors. You can do that, right?”

“Hang on, I’ve got to unscramble the access code.”

Harry tries everything, but can’t get the bike to brake. There’s no room to either side to turn around. “Merlin, nothing’s happening. I can’t possibly oversell the urgency of the situation.”

“Will you give me a fucking minute?”

“I haven’t got a fucking minute to give!” he panics. “For the love of God, you have to–”

The doors pull apart just in time to slide unscathed through the opening.

“You’ve reached your destination.”

Now the brakes work. He unsticks them with a slam of his heel, pivoting to a clean stop, and turns down the kickstand, clearing his throat. “Fine timing, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And I’d just like to say you’re doing wonderfully so far, by the way.”

“Save it for headquarters, get a move on.”

“Right.”

The sound of ABBA recedes in his wake as Harry moves away from the motorbike, expanding the Rainmaker again, Lamorak’s shoe-phone wedged between his ear and shoulder. He moves ahead with caution, eyes shifting to all sides.

“Switch the glasses to thermal. There’s a setting for that,” Merlin says. “Turn the dial in the frame below the right lens. Two clicks counter-clockwise.”

One click paints his vision all in technicolor. The next reveals sketchy red blobs of humanoid shape around the upcoming corner. Four of them. In poses that give away machine guns.

“Do you need an alternate route?”

This, he can handle without question. “Ask me again in a moment.”

Digging into his pocket, he comes up with a gold lighter. His thumb flicks the cap. Rearing his arm back, he pitches.

The explosion from the next room is a cluster of crimson through his lenses. When it dissipates, there’s none left whatsoever.

“Nicely done,” Merlin commends as Harry switches modes back.

“All in the written test.”

There’s no point in asking where to go from here. It’s obvious. The only way out of this room is a lift, just ahead at his ten o’clock. Harry hurries for it, closing his umbrella, praying to no particular god that he’s still on Lamorak’s schedule. Or, if not, that at least no one will be dead by the time he catches up. Lamorak and Arthur included.

“Is there any code?”

“Not that I’m seeing, no. It should op–”

It opens with a fist to Harry’s jaw. His glasses skew; Lamorak’s phone goes scattering across the floor. He stumbles backward. A second hit draws blood.

It’s the moment he’s grabbed by the lapels that his reflex decides he’s through with this.

Bashing the Rainmaker upward breaks his attacker’s hold. Then it breaks his teeth in. Both of them grappling for it, they stagger into the lift, closing the doors. It starts to move.

A sudden hefty twist of the cane rips at his arms; his back goes slamming into the wall, feet wrenched from under him. The ringing in his ears picks up tin music from the overhead speaker.

Crack that whip Give the past the slip Step on a crack Break your momma’s back

He’s up in time to dodge a kick to the abdomen, rounding on his attacker as the steel-toed boot gongs into the baseboard. A clutch of the man’s ear threatens to tear it off as he throws him to the floor. A leg sweep brings Harry down alongside.

“Harry!” It comes from his glasses. They must be aboveground.

Answering would spend the breath he needs; it goes to a snap-roll instead. On his feet, he digs the Rainmaker’s point into the enemy’s chest, opening to keep him down, then firing. A burst of blood fills the umbrella’s screen just in time for a gentle ding from the lift’s floor indicator.

“Just a bit of trouble,” he says to Merlin, heart pounding. “Hardly worth mentioning.”

“No time to rest,” Merlin warns. “I count five on the rooftop. Lamorak’s intel says they’ll be dressed like Scotland Yard, but that’s them. They’re the snipers.”

Five of them, Jesus Christ. He fights his breathing into check. “Anything you can do to level the playing field?”

“Not from here.” Then, just as quickly, he corrects himself, rapid clacking filling the background. “There’s one thing I can try, but I dunno if it’ll work. There’s a powered circulation vent on the roof.”

“What can you do with that?”

A few more clacks come over the line, the last more decisive than the rest. From outside the lift, Harry hears the erratic zapping noise of an electrical surge, accompanied by the very distinct screams of two men. Then two whumps of collapse.

“Oh, not much.” The smirk in Merlin’s voice is plain to hear. “How’s three against one sound?”

His jaw aches behind the smile that’s drawing on.

“Manageable.”

The lift doors slide open. One more time, Harry raises the Rainmaker to aim level, deployed at the ready. He creeps with careful sideways steps around the cover of a rooftop heating unit. Sounds of celebration float up from the streets below, hollering, whooping and cheering, and his peripheral vision catches the flutter of multicolored confetti. The crowd begins to sing “God Save the Queen.”

“Oh, shit—Galahad, the car’s approaching now.” The alarm has returned to Merlin’s voice. “I’m looking at the paparazzi’s video feed right now; that’s her license plate. She’s in that car. You’ve got no time at all.”

The thermal function of his glasses re-activates with the touch of a thumb. He’s not sure how it happened, but every bone in his body is perfectly calm.

“Harry, it’s got to be now!”

The red shapes that had flocked to their electrocuted friends begin to fan out. Two headed for the street-facing corners of the rooftop. The third moving backward, posing himself as a lookout.

No one notices when the third man disappears, dragged from the top of the unit with Harry’s tie around his throat. A twist of his chin, and his dead weight drops to the asphalt.

“They’re in position!”

Harry edges his way silently around the heating unit, sights set. His first shot lands square in the back of the nearest gunman, crumpling him in place.

He turns to take aim at the second.

Who’s nowhere to be found.

The crack of a rifle butt comes down across the back of his head. All at once his body gives out underneath him. He collapses like a ragdoll.

“Who the fuck have we here?”

The words filter blearily into Harry’s throbbing head. Another gruff Russian accent.

“Harry? Harry! What’s going on?”

Blinking away spots, he manages to turn himself over, glaring murder at the man with a rifle now pointed at his skull. He’s squinting down at him from under a portly brow, leaning slightly forward, inspecting him like a maggot in a pile of shit.

“Looks like some kind of dandy to me.”

The throngs still sing. “Oh, Lord, our God, arise;”

Below, the sound of engines is a block away, if that.

“Scatter her enemies;”

“How come you choose today to die, dandy-boy?”

“And make them fall…”

Bloody-lipped, Harry peels into a wicked grin.

“Actually, if it’s all the same to you, I was hoping you’d tell me.”

A flip of his ankles, one over the other, catches the man off-balance. He goes pitching to the side, arms pinwheeling in midair for a grasp that never comes, aim forgotten. Then a swift final kick sends him toppling over the rooftop’s edge, his short scream ending with a crack and a bang in the alleyway below.

Almost frantically, Harry crawls to the edge, peering over. The limp Russian lies at the bottom of a rusted dumpster, eyes open, blood pooled beneath his bloated head.

He looks left toward the motorcade route in time to see Margaret Thatcher, accompanied by aides, wave her way into St. Paul’s Cathedral.

Only then does he flatten to his back, heaving a sigh to end them all.

“Fucking spectacular!” Harry chuffs out a haggard laugh. He’d almost forgotten Hamish was on the line. “Well done, Harry! Well done Galahad.”

It’s incredibly likely he’s not catching his breath for weeks after this. “And you,” he tells his friend, wiping blood away from his lip. “Anything on Arthur?”

“The medics are here to help him now. He’s gonna be all right. And we’ve got transport on the way for Lamorak as well.”

All’s well that ends well.

“My turn to ask you a question?” Hamish queries.

He’s exhausted enough to let fair play win. “I don’t see why not.”

“How fucking hard is that head of yours?”

This time, there’s considerably more strength in Harry’s laugh.

“Very, I’ve been told.”

Simons redundantly proves his worth as headtailor when Harry finds a box waiting for him upon return. It’s a second tie, a clone of the one he’d garroted the Russian with.

Let’s do hope this one lasts longer than a day, sir, says the note enclosed. Fondly, -S.

Harry smiles. He’s not sure he can promise it won’t be a habit.

Then again, he’ll be here quite long enough to find out.

Debriefs, so they’re told, typically take place in the dining room. Today, in deference to Arthur’s health, they report to the infirmary instead. An unconscious Lamorak nurses his concussion in the bed adjacent, monitors beeping steadily that all else is well, while Arthur sits upright in his own, setting aside an empty cup of applesauce on his bedside tray.

“Two bloody hours,” he says. “Two bloody hours, and the two of you have already managed to completely defy every convention of order upon which the Kingsman operation depends.”

Standing at attention before him, arms folded behind their backs, Harry and Hamish trade a glance. This can’t possibly be a reprimand, don’t you think?

Arthur smiles. “Bravo.”

Ah, there, you see? I didn’t think so either.

Their new boss looks to Hamish first. “Merlin.” Harry is aware without looking of his friend’s immediate snap in posture, no matter how straight it already was. “I am quite impressed with your conduct this morning. Both in my own assistance and the navigation of Galahad’s mission. Three people are alive today because of your quick work. That’s something to be very proud of.”

He is. Harry can tell. He steals a peek, and the quiet way it radiates from him is unmistakable. It might be the most chuffed he’s been in his lifetime. It’s good to see.

“Thank you, sir.”

Your aunt would be proud as well, he thinks, making a mental note to tell him later.

Then Arthur’s focus is on him. “Agent Galahad.” He straightens extra in the same way, defiant of his injuries with pride. “You saw to the completion of your fellow agent’s objective, despite all reason to the contrary, and eliminated no fewer than a dozen immediate threats to not only national security, but the continued peace of the developed world. I had a feeling you were going to be a pain in my arse, frankly, and that you may yet turn out to be… But you should know that you have proven yourself more a Kingsman than any who’ve come before you.”

It’s more than he anticipated. More than he ever could’ve dreamt. He hopes the brimming of his eyes won’t be held against him.

“Thank you, sir,” he somehow manages at an audible volume. “I’m honored.”

You can’t possibly know how much.

Arthur levels his best authoritative gaze on them both. “Now. Since you’ve proven yourselves so capable, rest up. Tomorrow you’re to meet me in the dining room at oh-nine-hundred sharp. We will discuss your next assignment.”

Breaking into an insuppressible grin, Harry looks at Hamish, finding him returning the same.

Here goes the rest of our lives.

“Fall out.”

.

Book Questions

tagged by @this-too-too-sullied-flesh (kind of! I just love talking books and couldn’t resist)

Which book has been on your shelves the longest?  Oh, hm. I have a lot of books (like, so many that have to be put into storage because my books are my children and HOW CAN I PART WITH THEM COMPLETELY??), but I would say one of the oldest books I have physically on my current book shelf is either Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets or Lemony Snicket’s The Wide Window. I got both of these copies from my mom’s school’s lost and found, so I acquired them around the same time and read both series out of order because that’s just how I roll. 

What is your current read, your last read and the book you’ll read next? My reading list is a hot mess I am currently rereading Rick Riordan’s Heroes of Olympus series and am still on the first book The Lost Hero where’s Percy I want him back now so Annabeth is happy again. I’m also reading Pride and Prejudice, War and Peace, Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo, Geekerella by Ashley Poston and This Savage Song by Victoria Schwab. I have no self-control and get bored really easily  My last read was basically the entirety of Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians series because I have so many feels for my dysfunctional demigods. 

I’ll definitely be finishing up the Heroes of Olympus series and want to move on to the sequel series of that and the sequels to all of the other books on my reading list.

Which book does everyone like and you hated? Game of Thrones is a big one. The books are so dense that I couldn’t even get through the first book. Also Fifty Shades of Grey, BREAKING DAWN I will never be over my furious bitterness over that series. NEVER

Honestly, I feel more indifferent than hatred toward popular loved books. Like they just didn’t live up to the hype.

Which book do you keep telling yourself you’ll read, but you probably won’t? Mainly any classic novel? I think the classics are more on the dull side reading-wise for me. I’d be more inclined to pick up a modern adaptation of a classic than the classic itself. Also any book that is usually found on “Books You Must Read Before You Die” lists. Those tend not to be the type of thing I read.

Which books are you saving for “retirement?” Nothing? I read what I want when I want. I don’t even know what I want to read tomorrow let alone 50 years from now. 

Last page: read it first or wait till the end? It depends what’s happening in the book. There have been times where something Really Bad is happening and it’s spiking my anxiety levels so much that I can’t focus until I have some reassurance. I try to fight this, though, because I do prefer being surprised. But again, if my favorite character is on the verge of death or something, I have to know if they make it or not. A prime example was during my Twilight days don’t judge me and I immediately flipped to when Edward comes back in whatever the second book is called New Moon and read to the end. Since he was my favorite in that damn series, him just LEAVING was not okay with me and the book had just come out, so I didn’t know if there was going to be another installment. I needed Confirmation.

Acknowledgements: waste of ink and paper or interesting aside? I typically don’t read them because they’re just talking about their friends and agents and such, so I find them really boring to read. Sometimes I’ll read them if I’m not ready to officially be done with the book. Rarely does this happen, though.

Which book character would you switch places with? My initial reaction is Annabeth Chase or Hermione Granger as they both come from two of my favorite worlds, but given that I don’t want monsters or evil wizards killing me...

Emma Woodhouse from Jane Austen’s Emma. I would love to be rich and play matchmaker all day.

Do you have a book that reminds you of something specific in your life (a person, a place, a time)? The Truth About Forever still to this day is the only book I have ever read that displayed how I grieved after my father’s death and the life-changing repercussions of said death. 

Name a book you acquired in some interesting way. I acquired all of my original Harry Potter books via used book sales and school lost and founds. So they all have kids’ writing in them and one of them is missing their book jacket but I got each one for a QUARTER! Can’t beat that!

Have you ever given away a book for a special reason to a special person? I don’t let people borrow my books after repeatedly getting them back in stained or dog earred conditions, but I also don’t buy books for people either because #taste. So no. I only provide links to the library and Barnes and Noble sales.  

Which book has been with you to the most places? None of my books? I usually am reading a new book for whenever I do travel. 

I guess Outlander because I read that going to England, Ireland, and finished it on my way to Rome. That’s not fair to my other books, though, since I don’t travel all that often because of money.

Any “required reading” you hated in high school that wasn’t so bad ten years later? No, I never reread books I have a first bad impression on, especially books I read in high school which all sucked. 

What is the strangest item you’ve ever found in a book? I work in a library, so the list is a bit...endless. Though it’s probably not the strangest, I did find a refrigerator magnet once being used as a bookmark. Also a toothpick.  

Used or brand new? I love both, but the used copy has to be in good condition. 

Stephen King: Literary genius or opiate of the masses? I’ve still yet to read a Stephen King novel I would consider him a literary genius because of how large of audience his novels reach, the amount of adaptations made of his novels, and the cult followings his books have. The man is clearly doing something right to have so many dedicated fans. Plus, he’s super sassy. 

Have you ever seen a movie you liked better than the book? Yep, and I feel no guilt: Silver Linings Playbook, The Maze Runner, Little Women, Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, Pride and Prejudice (le gasps! and the 2005 version at that!), Victoria, Anything by Philippa Gregory, The Help, The Perks of Being a Wallflower, The Princess Bride, Jurassic Park, and The Secret Garden to name a few.  

Conversely, which book should NEVER have been introduced to celluloid? Breaking Dawn 

 Fifty Shades of Grey 

Blood of Olympus 

Can we just stop making the last books in series/trilogies suck? Thanks.

Have you ever read a book that’s made you hungry, cookbooks being excluded from this question? Percy and Grover talk a lot about food. So I guess I’d go with the Percy Jackson and the Olympian series because Grover makes eating a can sound appetizing and plus I really want to try Ambrosia? 

Who is the person whose book advice you’ll always take? Very seldom do I take book advice because I am an extremely picky reader, but @looselipswontsinkships basically convinced me to read the Lunar Chronicles and that’s now one of my favorite series. So I trust her opinion and @bitchybillionaire‘s, @eleonoraditoledo, as well as two other book nerd friends because we all have similar tastes in stories. 

I’m tagging @looselipswontsinkships, @bitchybillionaire, @eleonoraditoledo, and anyone else who wants to join in on the book questions! Just tag me if you do it! :) 

(100 years later I finally got to your prompt, mac-noa ! I wasn’t explicitly lovey dovey bc I didn’t want to be ooc and it’s only actually from Matt’s POV, but I hope it works for you!!!)

Matt and Dan walk in late, strung together by the hands, still flushed from kissing in the car pre-practice. They go sheepish when they see the unimpressed look on Wymack’s face. Renee smiles brightly at them and Allison gives them a brisk nod, but the monsters are in more disarray than usual. Bits and pieces of their group are missing, and it leaves Matt with the peculiar feeling of looking at a familiar photograph that suddenly has the faces scratched out.

Their ringleader is absent, for starters, couch conspicuously empty beside Kevin — who looks unmoved and stoic and nauseated as usual.

It’s not unusual for Andrew to do things just because it’s inconvenient for others, but it’s a little weird for Neil to skip out as well. It’s a lot weird that he’s late at the same time as Andrew when Exy hangs in the balance. 

Any association between them feels like something Matt has to fix, like he set something bad in motion by meeting Neil later than Andrew did in the fall. They’re probably off having one of their weird, close, angry looking conversations that always end in agreements Matt doesn’t understand.

Wymack waits thirty seconds past Matt and Dan’s arrival, and then he looks at the couch like it’s causing him pain, and starts delegating tasks for the day. He only asks once where the missing links are and there’s a lot of shrugging and staring straight ahead before he gives up.

They’re less rowdy than usual, and Matt thinks they’re all individually trying to solve Neil and Andrew’s absence in their heads. (As soon as they get up to move to the court, Allison starts whispering numbers for their betting pool until Dan bats her away.)

Matt squeezes Dan’s hand until she looks at him, and they have a brief conversation in smothered smiles.

They split up to change, and Matt straps into his gear feeling vaguely ill at ease. He keeps glancing at the door between straps and tugs of his uniform, and he notices Nicky doing the same thing. He smiles awkwardly when Matt catches him, and Matt feels a rare pulse of kinship for him. Both Andrew’s lot and the upperclassmen seem equally confused, so they have something in common for once.

The strange feeling follows Matt all the way to the court and through the first set of drills before Neil finally shows up, looking harried and flushed and all sorts of things Matt doesn’t usually associate with Neil.

He pushes into the court straight past Wymack’s blustering reprimand, and Matt catches the tail end of a flippant apology before Neil’s sprinting to centre court.

Matt stares at him. Neil waits, twisting his racquet in his hand, shoulders tense like he expects someone to toss him into the gameplay by force.

“What?” Neil asks, annoyed.

“You’re late,” Matt says stupidly.

“Twenty minutes late,” Kevin interrupts. “Almost like you’re trying to get worse.”

“He was with me,” Andrew says suddenly, breezing past them towards goal looking impossible to have spent twenty straight minutes with. Neil sort of jolts at the sound of his voice, and Matt eyes him narrowly.

“Well what the hell were you doing,” Matt asks, “at four pm on a Thursday?”

Andrew stops to stare at the cluster of his teammates, unblinking. “Irrelevant.”

There’s a general roar of disapproval, and Dan starts in on responsibilities and crumbling teamwork. Andrew gets bored halfway through her speech and turns back towards the goal, settling into position. Dan throws her hands up, frustrated, and Matt kneads her shoulder.

“We’re just losing more time,” Neil says. “Catch me up. Let’s go.”

“You don’t get to disrupt our practice and then tell us we’re wasting time,” Kevin sneers.

“Just did,” Neil says, and he bangs the butt of his racquet on the floor impatiently.

“Neil, we have to rely on you,” Dan says urgently. “This was a misstep. I’m counting on you to listen to me, not the monster.”

Neil considers her, and then his gaze bounces beyond them to where Andrew is lounging in front of the net. Kevin looks with him, frowning like he always does, like he’s trying to solve a riddle written in another language.

“Jesus,” Matt says. Neil doesn’t even look up. “You’re all obsessed with each other.”

Neil stays silent, like maybe he doesn’t disagree, and when Matt looks towards the goal, Andrew’s looking steadily back at Neil.

_____

It’s almost too weird to consider; that flinty, unusual Neil with his clumsy friendship and his hard-won smiles might be in any sort of relationship with Andrew. Matt spends most of the time after that topsy-turvy practice oscillating between complete denial and incredulous acknowledgement.

Dan’s betting against him, but he knows she thinks there’s something up, because every time Neil does something obvious, he looks over at Dan and she’s already looking at him.

Andrew is impenetrable as usual, but the act of slipping away with Neil and tugging him down to sit with him and taking excessive revenge on anyone who so much as insults him — it’s the most Andrew’s ever shown an interest in a person. More active than his all encompassing deal with Kevin, his obsession with his twin, and his weird, twitchy friendship with Renee.

Weirder still, Neil seems to spend more and more time getting distracted from practice and conversation. He’s always done it, gotten this anxious, itchy look in his eyes, nervous hands running over his own body like he’s checking it’s still there. But now he does it while whipping around trying to find Andrew, he looks completely outside of reality until he finds Andrew’s gaze and locks into it.

It’s unnerving to watch. It’s unnerving to see his best friend becoming reliant on something so volatile. Like if your friend clearly trusted a land mine more than he trusted you. He keeps wanting to tell Neil that he doesn’t know Andrew, really, doesn’t know about half the shit he’s done and destroyed. But he catches Andrew talking, really talking to Neil on the bus, and he thinks, fleetingly, that maybe he’s the one that doesn’t know him.

The foxes are a little stumped about the whole thing. It’s not like they’re obvious in the traditional sense — they’re not acting lovesick and secretive in a way that Matt can really explain, but for them, for Andrew and Neil, it’s obvious. It’s unstoppable like everything Neil does is unstoppable.

And whatever it is, it’s pulling Neil’s facade apart like tender meat, getting under his skin and scattering his focus.

Matt walks into the change room to find them standing close, not an unusual distance to be having a conversation at, but definitely inside each others personal space.

He’s supposed to be grabbing Neil and heading off to Betsy’s for their semiannual appointment, but he stops short in the doorway. Andrew’s hands are fisted in Neil’s sweater.

He hears Neil murmuring something about Bee being untrustworthy, and Andrew steps Neil back into the wall.

“This coming from a professional liar,” Andrew says.

“Not professional if you don’t get anything for doing it,” Neil says, and Matt can see the curve of his rare smile. “So unless you want to start paying…?”

Andrew ignores him. “Maybe if you gave her something to work with she wouldn’t be so useless to you.”

“I’m not giving away secrets for free.”

Andrew flattens one of his hands, so his thumb is brushing the bare hollow of Neil’s throat.

“It’s my turn.”

Neil seems to know what he means, because he dips his head down and says, “ask me.”

“Not now,” Andrew says simply.

Neil looks a little dizzy from where Matt’s standing, like being in Andrew’s space is physically affecting him. “Not now,” he agrees. “I have an appointment to get to.” He moves out of Andrew’s reach and Andrew catches him by the belt loops.

“Don’t go.”

Matt gawks from the doorway. It looks like a slip up on Andrew’s part, a squeak of vulnerability. He’s flat-faced and utterly ignoring Neil except for where they’re tied together by Andrew’s hands.

“I don’t want to,” Neil says quietly. Andrew tugs at his hips and says nothing.

It’s the strangest, charged moment. Matt takes a step backwards. He hears a murmur of something from Andrew and then Neil’s eyes change and his mouth opens and he says ‘yes’ to whatever the question was.

They’re kissing in the next moment, and Matt half knew it was coming but it still manages to shock him almost back into the doorframe. The idea of either of them kissing someone would be impossible to imagine if he weren’t looking at it.

Neil’s hands go up to Andrew’s hair and twist in it, and he lets himself be handled closer by the hands at his hips.

Andrew looks completely unlike himself. It’s unfathomable that it’s actually him with his face furrowed up with emotion and one hand moving to cup Neil’s face. They look like regular people, Matt thinks. They look like a couple at the club who couldn’t help themselves, like two people who aren’t a pin drop from losing control. They look like they’ve already lost their control in each other.

He’s a little giddy with being right, but he’s also awkward, and he knows that Andrew might actually kill him if he knows what he’s seen. He tries to keep his feet as light as possible when he retreats, heart pounding.

Andrew’s face looks so young when Neil palms his hair away from his forehead. They’re so obviously tender with each other, careful with where their hands are and who’s getting boxed in. Matt wonders if they’ve talked about their limits or if they just know them. He can’t picture them having that conversation, but he also couldn’t have pictured Andrew holding Neil’s face with the soft flesh of his palm like this, not gripping or choking or demanding.

He sees a flash of tongue and Neil makes a noise, and Matt’s out of there, turning and half-running back through the hall to the court.

He’s back outside the plexiglass cage before he realizes that he’s supposed to be taking Neil with him to Dobson’s. He’s too preoccupied with the spectacle of his realization to even slow down. He just made 200 dollars. He’s a little sick to his stomach. Wymack shoots him a look that he ignores, searching for Dan’s eyes instead and slapping the clear wall when she doesn’t immediately look over.

He gets all of the foxes attention for his trouble, and he fumbles with the door, leaning in.

“Pay up,” he calls over the expanse of the court. They all look irritated or confused for a beat, and then Dan catches on.

“They’re not…” she starts, looking scandalized. Matt laughs, tension deflating now that he has some distance and he’s looking at Dan’s sweetly shocked face.

“They are. As we speak.”

Aaron’s eyes bulge, and Allison and Renee knock sticks in congratulations. Nicky looks like someone just handed him free tickets to Germany.

“Can you do whatever you’re doing off of my court?” Wymack complains. “Some people are trying to practice.”

“Kevin is, you mean,” Matt says, and laughs at the look on his face. “Sorry coach. We’re having a revelation.”

“If you’re talking Andrew and Neil I could’ve saved you the money two months ago.”

Matt balks at him and Wymack gives him a shove.

“Your appointment isn’t going to make itself. I don’t care if you have to pry Neil off of him, both of you need to get the fuck out of here.”

Matt swallows, tries to speak, swallows again. “I can’t believe you just— knew.”

“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Wymack says, and Matt dodges his second shove, jogging back to the change rooms with his head spinning. He’s starting to feel like he’s running on surprise alone.

He finds Neil by himself, waiting by the doors like he’d never been kissed or even thought about it in his life.

“Um,” Matt says, and Neil cocks an eyebrow. “Ready?”

Neil nods his assent and starts walking alongside him, cool and unaffected. Matt can see two crumpled patches in the front of Neil’s pullover where Andrew’s hands had been, and he looks away, smiling.

saw a lil questionnaire thing and thought it might be fun...

0.Which Fallout game are they from?

Fallout 3

Which faction(s) did they join and which did they destroy? Why?

He sided with..the brotherhood… destroyed the Enclave cause they.. are Jerks.

What is their S.P.E.C.I.A.L.?

S-4

P-6

E-9

C-10

I-7

A-6

L-5 (Not entirely figured out)

Give us a summary of their backstory.

Grew up in vault 101, not very liked and bullied by them Tunnel Snakes.  Even though his G.O.A.T did not direct him to be the new Vault doctor, (I haven't actually decided what his goat told him), his father forced him to learn medicine anyhow and it took up a lot of his free time.

What’s their full name and does it have a meaning? Do they have any nicknames and how did they get em?

Have not actually thought of a last name. Yahya does not really have a meaning that reflects his own character. Nicknames (besides nosebleed) he does not have very much, his names pretty short and simple as is. Maybe some people call him just kid if they cannot get it right.

What’s their sexual, romantic, and gender orientation? Do they feel comfortable telling other people?

He's gay. In the vault, he only ever told Amata and Jonas, though he is not sure who else may have known. Late in life, he has come to accept himself a lot more and is much more open about it.

Do they have any mental illnesses? How do they cope?

Not really any mental illness.

Do they have any medical conditions? Is medicine/ treatment available for them?

Not really, no. He's the doctors son, so he has the resources if he so needed them.

How much do they care about their outer appearance? What’s their “beauty routine”? How often do they shower/ bathe?

Very much! Whenever he gets back to Megaton he immediately goes to take a bath. (He loves himself a bath..) He tries his best to find any sort of lotions and things of the sort, likes his hair and skin soft.

What do they fear the most?

Ending up all alone.

They’re biggest flaw? Do they recognize it as a flaw?

Hmm. He still has a pretty bad temper. He can be ignorant even when he is trying to do good and end up doing poorly. He recognizes both of these things and tries to improve himself.

What are they most insecure about?

Baby face Perhaps his own reliance on other people, and how weak he is by himself.

What Wasteland threat do they fear the most? (ex. Deathclaws, super mutants, raiders)

Hmm it's basic but deathclaws are obv terrifying.. Centaurs also make him uneasy.

What’s their zodiac sign or which one do you think they relate to the most? What are their placements (if you know them)? (ex. Aries sun, Taurus moon, Aquarius Venus)

Cancer.. (July 13)

What’s their Myers–Briggs Type? (ex. ENTP, ISFJ)

ENFP

What Harry Potter house would they be in? (ex. Gryffindor, Ravenclaw)

I don't know very much about this :(

Which Pokemon Go team would they choose? (ex. Instinct, Valor, Mystic)

I don't know very much about this either :(

Out of the nine forms of intelligence (rhythmic, spatial, linguistic, mathematical, kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, naturalistic, and existential) which one(s) are they really good at and which one(s) is(are) their weakest?

Hmm intrapersonal I think.

What natural alignment are they? (ex. Lawful Good, Chaotic Evil)

Chaotic good

Do they have any hobbies? What are they?

He likes to read a lot.

Do they have a favorite holiday? How do they celebrate it?

I think he'd like Christmas. He would wanna put up decorations: mistletoe [;)], maybe a something resembling a tree depending on what he could get his hands on. I'm sure he spends a lot of time on gifts and making sure they're very nice.

What’s their favorite season?

Uuuh autumn maybe? He is not all too picky.

Do they have a temper or are they level headed?

Though not as much when he's older, he has a pretty bad temper and gets riled up easy.

Do they express their emotions freely or hide their true feelings?

He tries hard to put on a happy face and won't talk much about his more deep feelings, unless he is very close to them. Overall he is unafraid to say what he thinks on a more casual level (if someone is being irritating, etc)

Are they a leader or a follower?

More of a leader.

How do they come off to others? What first impression do they usually make?

He is very nice and charismatic, or at least tries to be. He can come off as an asshole, though usually if he is provoked by another asshole. Otherwise, he is friendly and well liked!

Do they prefer to travel alone or with company? Who have they traveled with if any? Current companion if any?

He loves company! He loves Charon! He also travels with Fawkes!

Would you describe them as selfless or selfish? Does it depend on the situation?

He does attempt to be more selfless and has a genuine care for other people, but in some ways his own subconscious selfishness gets in the way. He is working on trying to be better.

What do they find most attractive in others? Name at least one psychological and physical trait. (doesn’t have to be romantic attraction)

He loves himself a BIG GUY. Tall, strong, etc. In terms of psychological, someone who's nice to him and independent, in charge. Bonus points if they shower him with attention.

Do they flirt often? How easily do they fall in love?

He flirts A LOT, and crushes pretty easily on anyone who is nice to him. Love is different and slower, but he is easy to love and loves strongly.

What’s their love life like? Are they interested in anyone or in a relationship?

He sleeps around, but would prefer an actual relationship. He's interested in Charon, but that's a longer and slower road. He still sleeps with other men, his sex drive is horrific...

Do they prefer to solve things diplomatically or using violence?

If he can talk his way out of a situation, that would be ideal. He is unafraid to bring violence to those he deems deserving, but if he can will stick to speech.

What is their combat style? What range do they prefer? Do they sneak?

He's pretty messy and doesn’t mind it. His aim is not super great so he tries to get decently close. He's not very good at sneaking, in fact he's pretty clumsy in general.

What weapon(s) do they always carry with them?

Combat shotgun is good. Some type of energy weapon.

Their most prized possession?

I cannot think of anything he might hold so dearly? He loved his BB gun but gave it to Sticky when he escorted him.

Their thoughts on power armor?

Too hot and clunky :(

Favorite armor/ outfit?

Combat armor!

How’s their aim? Do their hands shake while pointing a gun?

His aim is not very good. It gets the job done but he needs to be in a pretty close range. In the beginning, yea his hands shook like all hell but he's more capable now.

What are their thoughts on having to kill on a daily bases in order to survive? Does it take a toll on them? Or do they shake it off rather easily?

Originally made him sick to his stomach, tries desperately not to hurt anyone or anything. Now, he is more comfortable with it and accepted it as a necessity to survive.

Thoughts on death if any? (ex. Fear it, accept it)

I think he is pretty scared of death, he isn’t ready to die.

Do they move around a lot or prefer to have a place to call home?

He loves to have a place to call home. It's something to look forward to going back when he's out, and a great source of comfort.

What’s their favorite location?

Can I say home again.. Uuh out in the wastes, he does like visiting other vaults. He loves going to big town and is on good terms with everyone there. 

Their opinions on ghouls, feral and not feral?

I'm not saying he has a ghoul FETISH but...he certainly doesn't mind. Ferals are yucky, but no more yucky than any other wasteland menace.

Do they scavenge for their supplies or simply buy them?

He often loots dead bodies for whatever he can find, but certain things he does prefer to buy.

Are they the type to get distracted and go off to an unknown nearby location or do they stay on track?

Fjghdgf oh big building ?? cool lets go there…

How do they sleep? Are they picky about where and how or can they sleep basically anywhere?

He can pretty easily fall asleep. He's a heavy sleeper, moves like crazy and in very strange ways, and makes very guttural and peculiar noises.

What’s their favorite radio station and song? (post-apocalypse)

Galaxy News Radio obv.. Uhh he likes lets go sunning. Overall, he is a real sucker for romance songs though.

What’s their favorite post-apocalyptic food? Are they a picky eater? Do they know how to cook?

Noodles! He isn't all too picky and can't cook very well.

What’s their favorite beverage? Do they drink alcohol?

He likes nuka cola and wine. He only ever gets drunk during celebrations or occasions.

Do they have any tag skills?

Speech, Medicine

Anything they like to collect? (ex. Unique weapons, Bobbleheads)

He always keeps the vault suit whenever he happens upon them in their respective vault.

Are they good at disarming traps or do they constantly miss them?

He quiets them..with his body……

Grawp

The story of Fred and George's flight to freedom was retold so often over the next few days that Harry could tell it would soon become the stuff of Hogwart's legend: within a week, even those who had been eye-witnesses were half-convinced they had seen the twins dive-bomb Umbridge on their brooms and pelt her with Dungbombs before zooming out of the doors. In the immediate aftermath of their departure there was a great wave of talk about copying them. Harry frequently heard students saying things like, 'Honestly, some days I just feel like jumping on my broom and leaving this place,' or else, 'One more lesson like that and I might just do a Weasley.' Fred and George had made sure nobody was likely to forget them too soon. For one thing, they had not left instructions on how to remove the swamp that now filled the corridor on the fifth floor of the east wing. Umbridge and Filch had been observed trying different means of removing it but without success. Eventually, the area was roped off and Filch, gnashing his teeth furiously, was given the task of punting students across it to their classrooms. Harry was certain that teachers like McGonagall or Flitwick could have removed the swamp in an instant but, just as in the case of Fred and George's Wildfire Whiz-bangs, they seemed to prefer to watch Umbridge struggle. Then there were the two large broom-shaped holes in Umbridge's office door, through which Fred and George's Cleansweeps had smashed to rejoin their masters. Filch fitted a new door and removed Harry's Firebolt to the dungeons where, it was rumoured, Umbridge had set an armed security troll to guard it. However, her troubles were far from over. Inspired by Fred and George's example, a great number of students were now vying for the newly vacant positions of Troublemakers-in-Chief. In spite of the new door, somebody managed to slip a hairy-snouted Niffler into Umbridge's office, which promptly tore the place apart in its search for shiny objects, leapt on Umbridge when she entered and tried to gnaw the rings off her stubby fingers. Dungbombs and Stink Pellets were dropped so frequently in the corridors that it became the new fashion for students to perform Bubble-Head Charms on themselves before leaving lessons, which ensured them a supply of fresh air, even though it gave them all the peculiar appearance of wearing upside-down goldfish bowls on their heads. Filch prowled the corridors with a horsewhip ready in his hands, desperate to catch miscreants, but the problem was that there were now so many of them he never knew which way to turn. The Inquisitorial Squad was attempting to help him, but odd things kept happening to its members. Warrington of the Slytherin Quidditch team reported to the hospital wing with a horrible skin complaint that made him look as though he had been coated in cornflakes; Pansy Parkinson, to Hermione's delight, missed all her lessons the following day as she had sprouted antlers. Meanwhile, it became clear just how many Skiving Snackboxes Fred and George had managed to sell before leaving Hogwarts. Umbridge only had to enter her classroom for the students assembled there to faint, vomit, develop dangerous fevers or else spout blood from both nostrils. Shrieking with rage and frustration, she attempted to trace the mysterious symptoms to their source, but the students told her stubbornly they were suffering from 'Umbridge--itis'. After putting four successive classes in detention and failing to discover their secret, she was forced to give up and allow the bleeding, swooning, sweating and vomiting students to leave her classes in droves. But not even the users of the Snackboxes could compete with that master of chaos, Peeves, who seemed to have taken Fred's parting words deeply to heart. Cackling madly, he soared through the school, upending tables, bursting out of blackboards, toppling statues and vases; twice he shut Mrs. Norris inside a suit of armour, from which she was rescued, yowling loudly, by the furious caretaker. Peeves smashed lanterns and snuffed out candles, juggled burning torches over the heads of screaming students, caused neatly stacked piles of parchment to topple into fires or out of windows; flooded the second floor when he pulled off all the taps in the bathrooms, dropped a bag of tarantulas in the middle of the Great Hall during breakfast and, whenever he fancied a break, spent hours at a time floating along after Umbridge and blowing loud raspberries every time she spoke. None of the staff but Filch seemed to be stirring themselves to help her. Indeed, a week after Fred and George's departure Harry witnessed Professor McGonagall walking right past Peeves, who was determinedly loosening a crystal chandelier, and could have sworn he heard her tell the poltergeist out of the corner of her mouth, 'It unscrews the other way.' To cap matters, Montague had still not recovered from his sojourn in the toilet; he remained confused and disorientated and his parents were to be observed one Tuesday morning striding up the front drive, looking extremely angry. 'Should we say something?' said Hermione in a worried voice, pressing her cheek against the Charms window so that she could see Mr. and Mrs. Montague marching inside. 'About what happened to him? In case it helps Madam Pomfrey cure him?' 'Course not, he'll recover,' said Ron indifferently. 'Anyway, more trouble for Umbridge, isn't it?' said Harry in a satisfied voice. He and Ron both tapped the teacups they were supposed to be charming with their wands. Harry's spouted four very short legs that could not reach the desk and wriggled pointlessly in midair. Ron's grew four very thin spindly legs that hoisted the cup off the desk with great difficulty, trembled for a few seconds, then folded, causing the cup to crack into two. 'Reparo,' said Hermione quickly, mending Ron's cup with a wave of her wand. 'That's all very well, but what if Montague's permanently injured?' 'Who cares?' said Ron irritably, while his teacup stood up drunkenly again, trembling violently at the knees. 'Montague shouldn't have tried to take all those points from Gryffindor, should he? If you want to worry about anyone, Hermione, worry about me!' 'You?' she said, catching her teacup as it scampered happily away across the desk on four sturdy little willow-patterned legs, and replacing it in front of her. 'Why should I be worried about you?' 'When Mum's next letter finally gets through Umbridge's screening process,' said Ron bitterly, now holding his cup up while its frail legs tried feebly to support its weight, 'I'm going to be in deep trouble. I wouldn't be surprised if she's sent another Howler.' 'But--' 'It'll be my fault Fred and George left, you wait,' said Ron darkly. 'She'll say I should've stopped them leaving, I should've grabbed the ends of their brooms and hung on or something ... yeah, it'll be all my fault.' 'Well, if she doe's say that it'll be very unfair, you couldn't have done anything! But I'm sure she won't, I mean, if it's really true they've got premises in Diagon Alley, they must have been planning this for ages.' 'Yeah, but that's another thing, how did they get premises?' said Ron, hitting his teacup so hard with his wand that its legs collapsed again and it lay twitching before him. 'It's a bit dodgy, isn't it? They'll need loads of Galleons to afford the rent on a place in Diagon Alley. She'll want to know what they've been up to, to get their hands on that sort of gold.' 'Well, yes, that occurred to me, too,' said Hermione, allowing her teacup to jog in neat little circles around Harry's, whose stubby little legs were still unable to touch the desktop, 'I've been wondering whether Mundungus has persuaded them to sell stolen goods or something awful.' 'He hasn't,' said Harry curtly. 'How do you know?' said Ron and Hermione together. 'Because--' Harry hesitated, but the moment to confess finally seemed to have come. There was no good to be gained in keeping silent if it meant anyone suspected that Fred and George were criminals. 'Because they got the gold from me. I gave them my Triwizard winnings last June.' There was a shocked silence, then Hermione's teacup jogged right over the edge of the desk and smashed on the floor. 'Oh, Harry, you didn't!' she said. 'Yes, I did,' said Harry mutinously. 'And I don't regret it, either. I didn't need the gold and they'll be great at running a joke shop.' 'But this is excellent!' said Ron, looking thrilled. 'It's all your fault, Harry--Mum can't blame me at all! Can I tell her?' 'Yeah, I suppose you'd better,' said Harry dully, ' 'specially if she thinks they're receiving stolen cauldrons or something.' Hermione said nothing at all for the rest of the lesson, but Harry had a shrewd suspicion that her self-restraint was bound to crack before long. Sure enough, once they had left the castle for break and were standing around in the weak May sunshine, she fixed Harry with a beady eye and opened her mouth with a determined air. Harry interrupted her before she had even started. 'It's no good nagging me, it's done,' he said firmly. 'Fred and George have got the gold-- spent a good bit of it, too, by the sounds of it--and I can't get it back from them and I don't want to. So save your breath, Hermione.' 'I wasn't going to say anything about Fred and George!' she said in an injured voice. Ron snorted disbelievingly and Hermione threw him a very dirty look. 'No, I wasn't!' she said angrily. 'As a matter of fact, I was going to ask Harry when he's going to go back to Snape and ask for more Occlumency lessons!' Harry's heart sank. Once they had exhausted the subject of Fred and George's dramatic departure, which admittedly had taken many hours, Ron and Hermione had wanted to hear news of Sirius. As Harry had not confided in them the reason he had wanted to talk to Sirius in the first place, it had been hard to think of what to tell them; he had ended up saying, truthfully, that Sirius wanted Harry to resume Occlumency lessons. He had been regretting this ever since; Hermione would not let the subject drop and kept reverting to it when Harry least expected it. 'You can't tell me you've stopped having funny dreams,' Hermione said now, 'because Ron told me you were muttering in your sleep again last night.' Harry threw Ron a furious look. Ron had the grace to look ashamed of himself. 'You were only muttering a bit,' he mumbled apologetically. 'Something about "just a bit further".' 'I dreamed I was watching you lot play Quidditch,' Harry lied brutally. 'I was trying to get you to stretch out a bit further to grab the Quaffle.' Ron's ears went red. Harry felt a kind of vindictive pleasure; he had not, of course, dreamed anything of the sort. Last night, he had once again made the journey along the Department of Mysteries corridor. He had passed through the circular room, then the room full of clicking and dancing light, until he found himself again inside that cavernous room full of shelves on which were ranged dusty glass spheres. He had hurried straight towards row number ninety-seven, turned left and run along it ... it had probably been then that he had spoken aloud ... just a bit further ... for he felt his conscious self struggling to wake ... and before he had reached the end of the row, he had found himself lying in bed again, gazing up at the canopy of his four-poster. 'You are trying to block your mind, aren't you?' said. Hermione, looking beadily at Harry. 'You are keeping going with your Occlumency?' 'Of course I am,' said Harry, trying to sound as though this question was insulting, but not quite meeting her eye. The truth was he was so intensely curious about what was hidden in that room full of dusty orbs, that he was quite keen for the dreams to continue. The problem was that with just under a month to go until the exams and every free moment devoted to revision, his mind seemed so saturated with information when he went to bed he found it very difficult to get to sleep at all; and when he did, his overwrought brain presented him most nights with stupid dreams about the exams. He also suspected that part of his mind--the part that often spoke in Hermione's voice--now felt guilty on the occasions it strayed down that corridor ending in the black door, and sought to wake him before he could reach the journey's end. 'You know,' said Ron, whose ears were still flaming red, 'if Montague doesn't recover before Slytherin play Hufflepuff, we might be in with a chance of winning the Cup.' 'Yeah, I s'pose so,' said Harry, glad of a change of subject. 'I mean, we've won one, lost one--if Slytherin lose to Hufflepuff next Saturday--' 'Yeah, that's right,' said Harry, losing track of what he was agreeing to. Cho Chang had just walked across the courtyard, determinedly not looking at him. The final match of the Quidditch season, Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw, was to take place on the last weekend of May. Although Slytherin had been narrowly defeated by Hufflepuff in their last match, Gryffindor were not daring to hope for victory, due mainly (though of course nobody said it to him) to Ron's abysmal goal-keeping record. He, however, seemed to have found a new optimism. 'I mean, I can't get any worse, can I?' he told Harry and Hermione grimly over breakfast on the morning of the match. 'Nothing to lose now, is there?' 'You know,' said Hermione, as she and Harry walked down to the pitch a little later in the midst of a very excitable crowd, 'I think Ron might do better without Fred and George around. They never exactly gave him a lot of confidence.' Luna Lovegood overtook them with what appeared to be a live eagle perched on top of her head. 'Oh, gosh, I forgot!' said Hermione, watching the eagle flapping its wings as Luna walked serenely past a group of cackling and pointing Slytherins. 'Cho will be playing, won't she?' Harry, who had not forgotten this, merely grunted. They found seats in the topmost row of the stands. It was a fine, ckar day; Ron could not wish for better, and Harry found himself hoping against hope that Ron would not give the Slytherins cause for more rousing choruses of 'Weasley is our King'. Lee Jordan, who had been very dispirited since Fred and George had left, was commentating as usual. As the teams zoomed out on to the pitch he named the players with something less than his usual gusto. '... Bradley ... Davies ... Chang,' he said, and Harry felt his stomach perform, less of a back flip, more a feeble lurch as Cho walked out on to the pitch, her shiny black hair rippling in the slight breeze.He was not sure what he wanted to happen any more, except that he could not stand any more rows. Even the sight of her chatting animatedly to Roger Davies as they prepared to mount their brooms caused him only a slight twinge of jealousy. 'And they're off!' said Lee. 'And Davies takes the Quaffle immediately, Ravenclaw Captain Davies with the Quaffle, he dodges Johnson, he dodges Bell, he dodges Spinnet as well ... he's going straight for goal! He's going to shoot--and--and--' Lee swore very loudly. 'And he's scored.' Harry and Hermione groaned with the rest of the Gryffindors. Predictably, horribly the Slytherins on the other side of the stands began to sing: 'Weasley cannot save a thing He cannot block a single ring ... ' 'Harry,' said a hoarse voice in Harry's ear. 'Hermione ...' Harry looked round and saw Hagrid's enormous bearded face sticking between the seats. Apparently, he had squeezed his way all along the row behind, for the first- and second-years he had just passed had a ruffled, flattened look about them. For some reason, Hagrid was bent double as though anxious not to be seen, though he was still at least four feet taller than everybody else. 'Listen,' he whispered, 'can yeh come with me? Now? While ev'ryone's watchin' the match?' 'Er ... can't it wait, Hagrid?' asked Harry. 'Till the match is over?' 'No,' said Hagrid. 'No, Harry, it's gotta be now ... while ev'ryone's lookin' the other way ... please?' Hagrid's nose was gently dripping blood. His eyes were both blackened. Harry had not seen him this close-up since his return to the school; he looked utterly woebegone. 'Course,' said Harry at once, 'course we'll come.' He and Hermione edged back along their row of seats, causing much grumbling among the students who had to stand up for them. The people in Hagrid's row were not complaining, merely attempting to make themselves as small as possible. 'I 'ppreciate this, you two, I really do,' said Hagrid as they reached the stairs. He kept looking around nervously as they descended towards the lawn below. 'I jus' hope she doesn' notice us goin'.' 'You mean Umbridge?' said Harry. 'She won't, she's got her whole Inquisitorial Squad sitting with her, didn't you see? She must be expecting trouble at the match.' 'Yeah, well, a bit o' trouble wouldn' hurt,' said Hagrid, pausing to peer around the edge of the stands to make sure the stretch of lawn between there and his cabin was deserted. 'Give us more time.' 'What is it, Hagrid?' said Hermione, looking up at him with a concerned expression on her face as they hurried across the grass towards the edge of the Forest. 'Yeh--yeh'll see in a mo',' said Hagrid, looking over his shoulder as a great roar rose from the stands behind them. 'Hey--did someone jus' score?' 'It'll be Ravenclaw,' said Harry heavily. 'Good ... good ...' said Hagrid distractedly. 'Tha's good ...' They had to jog to keep up with him as he strode across the lawn, looking around with every other step. When they reached his cabin, Hermione turned automatically left towards the front door. Hagrid, however, walked straight past it into the shade of the trees on the outermost edge of the Forest, where he picked up a crossbow that was leaning against a tree. When he realised they were no longer with him, he turned. 'We're goin' in here,' he said, jerking his shaggy head behind him. 'Into the Forest?' said Hermione, perplexed. 'Yeah,' said Hagrid. 'C'mon now, quick, before we're spotted!' Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then ducked into the cover of the trees behind Hagrid, who was already striding away from them into the green gloom, his crossbow over his arm. Harry and Hermione ran to catch up with him. 'Hagrid, why are you armed?' said Harry. 'Jus' a precaution,' said Hagrid, shrugging his massive shoulders. 'You didn't bring your crossbow the day you showed us the Thestrals,' said Hermione timidly. 'Nah, well, we weren' goin' in so far then,' said Hagrid. 'An' anyway, tha' was before Firenze left the Forest, wasn' it?' 'Why does Firenze leaving make a difference?' asked Hermione curiously. ' 'Cause the other centaurs are good an' riled at me, tha's why,' said Hagrid quietly, glancing around. 'They used ter be--well, yeh couldn' call 'em friendly--but we got on all righ'. Kept 'emselves to 'emselves, bu' always turned up if I wanted a word. Not any more.' He sighed deeply. 'Firenze said they're angry because he went to work for Dumbledore,' Harry said, tripping on a protruding root because he was busy watching Hagrid's profile. 'Yeah,' said Hagrid heavily. 'Well, angry doesn' cover it. Ruddy livid. If I hadn' stepped in, I reckon they'd've kicked Firenze ter death--' 'They attacked him?' said Hermione, sounding shocked. 'Yep,' said Hagrid gruffly, forcing his way through several low-hanging branches. 'He had half the herd on to him.' 'And you stopped it?' said Harry, amazed and impressed. 'By yourself?' 'Course I did, couldn't stand by an' watch 'em kill 'im, could I?' said Hagrid. 'Lucky I was passin', really ... an' I'd've thought Firenze mighta remembered tha' before he started sendin' me stupid warnin's!' he added hotly and unexpectedly. Harry and Hermione looked at each other, startled, but Hagrid, scowling, did not elaborate. 'Anyway,' he said, breathing a little more heavily than usud, 'since then the other centaurs've bin livid with me, an' the trouble is they've got a lot of influence in the Forest ... cleverest creatures in here.' 'Is that why we're here, Hagrid?' asked Hermione. 'The centaurs?' 'Ah, no,' said Hagrid, shaking his head dismissively, 'no, it's not them. Well, o' course, they could complicate the problem, yeah ... but yeh'll see what I mean in a bit.' On this incomprehensible note he fell silent and forged a little ahead, taking one stride for every three of theirs, so that they had great trouble keeping up with him. The path was becoming increasingly overgrown and the trees grew so closely together as they walked further and further into the Forest that it was as dark as dusk. They were soon a long way past the clearing where Hagrid had shown them the Thestrals, but Harry felt no sense of unease until Hagrid stepped unexpectedly off the path and began wending his way in and out of trees towards the dark heart of the Forest. 'Hagrid!' said Harry, fighting his way through thickly knotted brambles, over which Hagrid had stepped with ease, and remembering very vividly what had happened to him on the other occasion he had stepped off the Forest path. 'Where are we going?' 'Bit further,' said Hagrid over his shoulder. 'C'mon, Harry ... we need ter keep together now.' It was a great struggle to keep up with Hagrid, what with branches and thickets of thorn through which Hagrid marched as easily as if they were cobwebs, but which snagged Harry and Hermione's robes, frequently entangling them so severely that they had to stop for minutes at a time to free themselves. Harry's arms and legs were soon covered in small cuts and scratches. They were so deep in the Forest now that sometimes all Harry could see of Hagrid in the gloom was a massive dark shape ahead of him. Any sound seemed threatening in the muffled silence. The breaking of a twig echoed loudly and the tiniest rustle of movement, even though it might have been made by an innocent sparrow, caused Harry to peer through the gloom for a culprit. It occurred to him that he had never managed to get this far into the Forest without meeting some kind of creature; their absence struck him as rather ominous. 'Hagrid, would it be all right if we lit our wands?' said Hermione quietly. 'Er ... all righ',' Hagrid whispered back. 'In fact--' He stopped suddenly and turned around; Hermione walked right into him and was knocked over backwards. Harry caught her just before she hit the Forest floor. 'Maybe we bes' jus' stop fer a momen', so I can ... fill yeh in,' said Hagrid. 'Before we ge' there, like.' 'Good!' said Hermione, as Harry set her back on her feet. They both murmured 'Lumos!' and their wand-tips ignited. Hagrid's face swam through the gloom by the light of the two wavering beams and Harry saw again that he looked nervous and sad. 'Righ',' said Hagrid. 'Well ... see ... the thing is ...' He took a great breath. 'Well, there's a good chance I'm goin' ter be gettin' the sack any day now,' he said. Harry and Hermione looked at each other, then back at him. 'But you've lasted this long--' Hermione said tentatively. 'What makes you think--' 'Umbridge reckons it was me that put tha' Niffler in her office.' 'And was it?' said Harry, before he could stop himself. 'No, it ruddy well wasn'!' said Hagrid indignantly. 'On'y any-thin' ter do with magical creatures an' she thinks it's got somethin' ter do with me. Yeh know she's bin lookin' fer a chance ter get rid of me ever since I got back. I don' wan' ter go, o' course, but if it wasn' fer ... well ... the special circumstances I'm abou' ter explain to yeh, I'd leave righ' now, before she's go' the chance ter do it in front o' the whole school, like she did with Trelawney.' Harry and Hermione both made noises of protest, but Hagrid overrode them with a wave of one of his enormous hands. 'It's not the end o' the world, I'll be able ter help Dumbledore once I'm outta here, I can be useful ter the Order. An you lot'll have Grubbly-Plank, yeh'll--yeh'll get through yer exams fine ...' His voice trembled and broke. 'Don' worry abou' me,' he said hastily, as Hermione made to pat his arm. He pulled his enormous spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and mopped his eyes with it. 'Look, I wouldn' be tellin' yer this at all if I didn' have ter. See, if I go ... well, I can' leave withou' ... withou' tellin' someone ... because I'll--I'll need yeh two ter help me. An' Ron, if he's willin'.' 'Of course we'll help you,' said Harry at once. 'What do you want us to do?' Hagrid gave a great sniff and patted Harry wordlessly on the shoulder with such force Harry was knocked sideways into a tree. 'I knew yeh'd say yes,' said Hagrid into his handkerchief, 'but I won' ... never ... forget ... well ... c'mon ... jus' a little bit further through here ... watch yerselves, now, there's nettles ...' They walked on in silence for another fifteen minutes; Harry had opened his mouth to ask how much further they had to go when Hagrid threw out his right arm to signal that they should stop. 'Really easy,' he said softly. 'Very quiet, now ...' They crept forwards and Harry saw that they were facing a large, smooth mound of earth nearly as tall as Hagrid that he thought, with a jolt of dread, was sure to be the lair of some enormous animal. Trees had been ripped up at the roots all around the mound, so that it stood on a bare patch of ground surrounded by heaps of trunks and boughs that formed a kind of fence or barricade, behind which Harry, Hermione and Hagrid now stood. 'Sleepin',' breathed Hagrid. Sure enough, Harry could hear a distant, rhythmic rumbling that sounded like a pair of enormous lungs at work. He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was gazing at the mound with her mouth slightly open. She looked utterly terrified. 'Hagrid,' she said in a whisper barely audible over the sound of the sleeping creature, 'who is he?' Harry found this an odd question ... 'What is it?' was the one he; had been planning on asking. 'Hagrid, you told us--' said Hermione, her wand now shaking in her hand, 'you told us none of them wanted to come!' Harry looked from her to Hagrid and then, as realisation hit him, he looked back at the mound with a small gasp of horror. The great mound of earth, on which he, Hermione and Hagrid could easily have stood, was moving slowly up and down in time with the deep, grunting breathing. It was not a mound at all. 'It was the curved back of what was clearly--' 'Well--no--he didn' want ter come,' said Hagrid, sounding desperate. 'But I had ter bring him, Hermione, I had ter!' 'But why?' asked Hermione, who sounded as though she wanted to cry. 'Why--what--oh, Hagrid!' 'I knew if I jus' got him back,' said Hagrid, sounding close to tears himself, 'an'--an' taught him a few manners--I'd be able ter take him outside an' show ev'ryone he's harmless!' 'Harmless!' said Hermione shrilly, and Hagrid made frantic hushing noises with his hands as the enormous creature before them grunted loudly and shifted in its sleep. 'He's been hurting you all this time, hasn't he? That's why you've had all these injuries!' 'He don' know his own strength!' said Hagrid earnestly. 'An' he's gettin' better, he's not fightin' so much any more--' 'So, this is why it took you two months to get home!' said Hermione distractedly. 'Oh, Hagrid, why did you bring him back if he didn't want to come? Wouldn't he have been happier with his own people?' 'They were all bullyin' him, Hermione, 'cause he's so small!' said Hagrid. 'Small?' said Hermione. 'Small?' 'Hermione, I couldn' leave him,' said Hagrid, tears now trickling down his bruised face into his beard. 'See--he's my brother!' Hermione simply stared at him, her mouth open. 'Hagrid, when you say "brother",' said Harry slowly, 'do you mean--?' 'Well-- half-brother,' amended Hagrid. 'Turns out me mother took up with another giant when she left me dad, an' she went an' had Grawp here--' 'Grawp?' said Harry. 'Yeah ... well, tha's what it sounds like when he says his name,' said Hagrid anxiously. 'He don' speak a lot of English ... I've bin tryin' ter teach him ... anyway, she don' seem ter have liked him much more'n she liked me. See, with giantesses, what counts is producin' good big kids, and he's always been a bit on the runty side fer a giant--on'y sixteen foot--' 'Oh, yes, tiny!' said Hermione, with a kind of hysterical sarcasm. 'Absolutely minuscule!' 'He was bein' kicked aroun' by all o' them--I jus' couldn' leave him--' 'Did Madame Maxime want to bring him back?' asked Harry. 'She--well, she could see it was right importan' ter me,' said Hagrid, twisting his enormous hands. 'Bu'--bu' she got a bit tired o' him after a while, I must admit ... so we split up on the journey home ... she promised not ter tell anyone, though ...' 'How on earth did you get him back without anyone noticing?' said Harry. 'Well, tha's why it took so long, see,' said Hagrid. 'Could on'y travel by nigh' an' through wild country an' stuff. Course, he covers the ground pretty well when he wants ter, but he kep' wantin' ter go back.' 'Oh, Hagrid, why on earth didn't you let him!' said Hermione, flopping down on to a ripped up tree and burying her face in her hands. 'What do you think you're going to do with a violent giant who doesn't even want to be here!' 'Well, now-- "violent"--tha's a bit harsh,' said Hagrid, still twisting his hands agitatedly. 'I'll admit he mighta taken a couple o' swings at me when he's bin in a bad mood, but he's gettin' better, loads better, settlin' down well.' 'What are those ropes for, then?' Harry asked. He had just noticed ropes thick as saplings stretching from around the trunks of the largest nearby trees towards the place where Grawp lay curled on the ground with his back to them. 'You have to keep him tied up?' said Hermione faintly. 'Well ... yeah ...' said Hagrid, looking anxious. 'See--it's like I say--he doesn' really know 'is own strength.' Harry understood now why there had been such a suspicious lack of any other living creature in this part of the Forest. 'So, what is it you want Harry and Ron and me to do?' Hermione asked apprehensively. 'Look after him,' said Hagrid croakily. 'After I'm gone.' Harry and Hermione exchanged miserable looks, Harry uncomfortably aware that he had already promised Hagrid that he would do whatever he asked. 'What--what does that involve, exactly?' Hermione enquired. 'Not food or anythin'!' said Hagrid eagerly. 'He can get his own food, no problem. Birds an' deer an' stuff ... no, it's company he needs. I xxjus' knew someone was carryin on trying ter help him a bit ... teachin' him, yeh know.' Harry said nothing, but turned to look back at the gigantic form lying asleep on the ground in front of them. Unlike Hagrid, who simply looked like an oversized human, Grawp looked strangely misshapen. What Harry had taken to be a vast mossy boulder to the left of the great earthen mound he now recognised as Grawp's head. It was much larger in proportion to the body than a human head, and was almost perfectly round and covered with tightly curling, close-growing hair the colour of bracken. The rim of a single large, fleshy ear was visible on top of the head, which seemed to sit, rather like Uncle Vernon's, directly upon the shoulders with little or no neck in between. The back, under what looked like a dirty brownish smock comprised of animal skins sewn roughly together, was very broad; and as Grawp slept, it seemed to strain a little at the rough seams of the skins. The legs were curled up under the body. Harry could see the soles of enormous, filthy, bare feet, large as sledges, resting one on top of the other on the earthy Forest floor. 'You want us to teach him,' Harry said in a hollow voice. He now understood what Firenze's warning had meant. His attempt is not working. He would do better to abandon it.Of course, the other creatures who lived in the Forest would have heard Hagrid's fruitless attempts to teach Grawp English. 'Yeah--even if yeh jus' talk ter him a bit,' said Hagrid hopefully. ' 'Cause I reckon, if he can talk ter people, he'll understand more that we all like 'im really, an' want 'im ter stay.' Harry looked at Hermione, who peered back at him from between the fingers over her face. 'Kind of makes you wish we had Norbert back, doesn't it?' he said, and she gave a very shaky laugh. 'Yeh'll do it, then?' said Hagrid, who did not seem to have caugit what Harry had just said. 'We'll ...' said Harry, already bound by his promise. 'We'll try, Hagrid.' 'I knew I could count on yeh, Harry,' Hagrid said, beaming in a very watery way and dabbing at his face with his handkerchief again. 'An' I don' wan' yeh ter put yerself out too much, like ... I know yeh've got exams ... if yeh could jus' nip down here in yer Invisibility Cloak maybe once a week an' have a little chat with 'im. I'll wake 'im up, then--introduce yeh--' 'Wha--no!' said Hermione, jumping up. 'Hagrid, no, don't wake him, really, we don't need--' But Hagrid had already stepped over the great tree trunk in front of them and was proceeding towards Grawp. When he was about ten feet away, he lifted a long, broken bough from the ground, smiled reassuringly over his shoulder at Harry and Hermione, then poked Grawp hard in the middle of the back with the end of the bough. The giant gave a roar that echoed around the silent Forest; birds in the treetops overhead rose twittering from their perches and soared away. In front of Harry and Hermione, meanwhile, the gigantic Grawp was rising from the ground, which shuddered as he placed an enormous hand upon it to push himself on to his knees. He turned his head to see who and what had disturbed him. 'All righ', Grawpy?' said Hagrid, in a would-be cheery voice, backing away with the long bough raised, ready to poke Grawp again. 'Had a nice sleep, eh?' Harry and Hermione retreated as far as they could while still keeping the giant within their sights. Grawp knelt between two trees he had not yet uprooted. They looked up into his startlingly huge face that resembled a grey full moon swimming in the gloom of the clearing. It was as though the features had been hewn on to a great stone ball. The nose was stubby and shapeless, the mouth lopsided and full of misshapen yellow teeth the size of half-bricks; the eyes, small by giant standards, were a muddy greenish-brown and just now were half-gummed together with sleep. Grawp raised dirty knuckles, each as big as a cricket ball, to his eyes, rubbed vigorously, then, without warning, pushed himself to his feet with surprising speed and agility. 'Oh my!' Harry heard Hermione squeal, terrified, beside him. The trees to which the other ends of the ropes around Grawp's wrists and ankles were attached creaked ominously. He was, as Hagrid had said, at least sixteen feet tall. Gazing blearily around, Grawp reached out a hand the size of a beach umbrella, seized a bird's nest from the upper branches of a towering pine and turned it upside-down with a roar of apparent displeasure that there was no bird in it; eggs fell like grenades towards the ground and Hagrid threw his arms over his head to protect himself. 'Anyway, Grawpy,' shouted Hagrid, looking up apprehensively in case of further falling eggs, 'I've brought some friends ter meet yeh. Remember, I told yeh I might? Remember, when I said I might have ter go on a little trip an' leave them ter look after yeh fer a bit? Remember that, Grawpy?' But Grawp merely gave another low roar; it was hard to say whether he was listening to Hagrid or whether he even recognised the sounds Hagrid was making as speech. He had now seized the top of the pine tree and was pulling it towards him, evidently for the simple pleasure of seeing how far it would spring back when he let go. 'Now, Grawpy, don' do that!' shouted Hagrid. 'Tha's how you ended up pullin' up the others-- ' And sure enough, Harry could see the earth around the tree's roots beginning to crack. 'I got company for yeh!' Hagrid shouted. 'Company, see! Look down, yeh big buffoon, I brought yeh some friends!' 'Oh, Hagrid, don't,' moaned Hermione, but Hagrid had already raised the bough again and gave Grawp's knee a sharp poke. The giant let go of the top of the tree, which swayed alarmingly and deluged Hagrid with a rain of pine needles, and looked down. 'This,' said Hagrid, hastening over to where Harry and Herrmone stood, 'is Harry, Grawp! Harry Potter! He migh' be comin' ter visit yeh if I have ter go away, understand?' The giant had only just realised that Harry and Hermione were there. They watched, in great trepidation, as he lowered his huge boulder of a head so that he could peer blearily at them. 'An' this is Hermione, see? Her--' Hagrid hesitated. Turning to Hermione, he said, 'Would yeh mind if he called yeh Hermy, Hermione? On'y it's a difficult name fer him ter remember.' 'No, not at all,' squeaked Hermione. 'This is Hermy, Grawp! An' she's gonna be comin' an' all! Is'n' tha' nice? Eh? Two friends fer yeh ter--GRAWPY, NO!' Grawp's hand had shot out of nowhere towards Hermione; Harry seized her and pulled her backwards behind the tree, so that Grawp's fist scraped the trunk but closed on thin air. 'BAD BOY, GRAWPY!' they heard Hagrid yelling, as Hermione clung to Harry behind the tree, shaking and whimpering. 'VERY BAD BOY! YEH DON' GRAB--OUCH!' Harry poked his head out from around the trunk and saw Hagrid lying on his back, his hand over his nose. Grawp, apparently losing interest, had straightened up and was again engaged in pulling back the pine as far as it would go. 'Righ',' said Hagrid thickly, getting up with one hand pinching his bleeding nose and the other grasping his crossbow, 'well ... there yeh are ... yeh've met him an' --an' now he'll know yeh when yeh come back. Yeah ... well ...' He looked up at Grawp, who was now pulling back the pine with an expression of detached pleasure on his boulderish face; the roots were creaking as he ripped them away from the ground. 'Well, I reckon tha's enough fer one day,' said Hagrid. 'We'll--'er--we'll go back now, shall we?' Harry and Hermione nodded. Hagrid shouldered his crossbow again and, still pinching his nose, led the way back into the trees. Nobody spoke for a while, not even when they heard the distant crash that meant Grawp had pulled over the pine tree at last. Hermione's face was pale and set. Harry could not think of a single thing to say. What on earth was going to happen when somebody found out that Hagrid had hidden Grawp in the Forbidden Forest? And he had promised that he, Ron and Hermione would continue Hagrid's totally pointless attempts to civilise the giant. How could Hagrid, even with his immense capacity to delude himself that fanged monsters were loveably harmless, fool himself that Grawp would ever be fit to mix with humans? 'Hold it,' said Hagrid abruptly, just as Harry and Hermione were struggling through a patch of thick knotgrass behind him. He pulled an arrow out of the quiver over his shoulder and fitted it into the crossbow. Harry and Hermione raised their wands; now that they had stopped walking, they, too, could hear movement close by. 'Oh, blimey,' said Hagrid quietly. 'I thought we told you, Hagrid,' said a deep male voice, 'That you are no longer welcome here?' A man's naked torso seemed for an instant to be floating towards them through the dappled green half-light; then they saw that his waist joined smoothly into a horse's chestnut body. This centaur had a proud, high-cheekboned face and long black hair. Like Hagrid, he was armed; a quiverful of arrows and a longbow were slung over his shoulders. 'How are yeh, Magorian?' said Hagrid warily. The trees behind the centaur rustled and four or five more centaurs emerged behind him. Harry recognised the black-bodied and bearded Bane, whom he had met nearly four years ago on the same night he had met Firenze. Bane gave no sign that he had ever seen Harry before. 'So,' he said, with a nasty inflection in his voice, before turning immediately to Magorian. 'We agreed, I think, what we would do if this human ever showed his face in the Forest again?' '"This human" now, am I?' said Hagrid testily. 'Jus' fer stoppin' all of yeh committin' murder?' 'You ought not to have meddled, Hagrid,' said Magorian. 'Our ways are not yours, nor are our laws. Firenze has betrayed and dishonoured us.' 'I dunno how yeh work that out,' said Hagrid impatiently. 'He's done nothin' except help Albus Dumbledore--' 'Firenze has entered into servitude to humans,' said a grey centaur with a hard, deeply lined face. 'Servitude!' said Hagrid scathingly. 'He's doin' Dumbledore a favour is all--' 'He is peddling our knowledge and secrets among humans,' said Magorian quietly. 'There can be no return from such disgrace.' 'If yeh say so,' said Hagrid, shrugging, 'but personally I think yeh're makin' a big mistake--' 'As are you, human,' said Bane, 'coming back into our Forest when we warned you--' 'Now, yeh listen ter me,' said Hagrid angrily. 'I'll have less of the "our" Forest, if it's all the same ter yeh. It's not up ter yeh who comes an' goes in here--' 'No more is it up to you, Hagrid,' said Magorian smoothly. 'I shall let you pass today because you are accompanied by your young--' 'They're not his!' interrupted Bane contemptuously. 'Students, Magorian, from up at the school! They have probably already profited from the traitor Firenze's teachings.' 'Nevertheless,' said Magorian calmly, 'the slaughter of foals is a terrible crime--we do not touch the innocent. Today, Hagrid, you pass. Henceforth, stay away from this place. You forfeited the friendship of the centaurs when you helped the traitor Firenze escape us.' 'I won' be kept outta the Fores' by a bunch o' old mules like yeh!' said Hagrid loudly. 'Hagrid,' said Hermione in a high-pitched and terrified voice, as both Bane and the grey centaur pawed at the ground, 'let's go, please let's go!' Hagrid moved forwards, but his crossbow was still raised and his eyes were still fixed threateningly upon Magorian. 'We know what you are keeping in the Forest, Hagrid!' Magorian called after them, as the centaurs slipped out of sight. 'And our tolerance is waning!' Hagrid turned and gave every appearance of wanting to walk straight back to Magorian. 'Yeh'll tolerate 'im as long as he's here, it's as much his Forest as yours!' he yelled, as Harry and Hermione both pushed with all their might against Hagrid's moleskin waistcoat in an effort to keep him moving forwards. Still scowling, he looked down; his expression changed to mild surprise at the sight of them both pushing him; he seemed not to have felt it. 'Calm down, you two,' he said, turning to walk on while they parted along behind him. 'Ruddy old mules, though, eh?' 'Hagrid,' said Hermione breathlessly, skirting the patch of nettles they had passed on their way there, 'if the centaurs don't want humans in the Forest, it doesn't really look as though Harry and I will be able--' 'Ah, you heard what they said,' said Hagrid dismissively, 'they wouldn't hurt foals--I mean, kids. Anyway, we can' let ourselves be pushed aroun' by that lot.' 'Nice try,' Harry murmured to Hermione, who looked crestfallen. At last they rejoined the path and, after another ten minutes, the trees began to thin; they were able to see patches of clear blue sky again and, in the distance, the definite sounds of cheering and shouting. 'Was that another goal?' asked Hagrid, pausing in the shelter of the trees as the Quidditch stadium came into view. 'Or d'yeh reckon the match is over?' 'I don't know,' said Hermione miserably. Harry saw that she looked much the worse for wear; her hair was full of twigs and leaves, her robes were ripped in several places and there were numerous scratches on her face and arms. He knew he must look little better. 'I reckon it's over, yeh know!' said Hagrid, still squinting towards the stadium. 'Look-- there's people comin' out already--if yeh two hurry yeh'll be able ter blend in with the crowd an' no one'll know yeh weren't there!' 'Good idea,' said Harry. 'Well ... see you later, then, Hagrid.' 'I don't believe him,' said Hermione in a very unsteady voice, the moment they were out of earshot of Hagrid. 'I don't believe him. I really don't believe him.' 'Calm down,' said Harry. 'Calm down!' she said feverishly. 'A giant! A giant in the Forest! And we're supposed to give him English lessons! Always assuming, of course, we can get past the herd of murderous centaurs on the way in and out! I--don't--believe-- him!' 'We haven't got to do anything yet!' Harry tried to reassure her in a quiet voice, as they joined a stream of jabbering Hufflepuffs heading back towards the castle. 'He's not asking us to do anything unless he gets chucked out and that might not even happen.' 'Oh, come off it, Harry!' said Hermione angrily, stopping dead in her tracks so that the people behind had to swerve to avoid her. 'Of course he's going to be chucked out and, to be perfectly honest, after what we've just seen, who can blame Umbridge?' There was a pause in which Harry glared at her, and her eyes filled slowly with tears. 'You didn't mean that,' said Harry quietly. 'No ... well ... all right ... I didn't,' she said, wiping her eyes angrily. 'But why does he have to make life so difficult for himself--for us?' 'I dunno--' 'Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, He didn't let the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King ...' 'And I wish they'd stop singing that stupid song,' said Hermione miserably, 'haven't they gloated enough?' A great tide of students was moving up the sloping lawns from the pitch. 'Oh, let's get in before we have to meet the Slytherins,' said Hermione. 'Weasley can save anything, He never leaves a single ring, That's why Gryffindors all sing: Weasley is our King. ' 'Hermione ...' said Harry slowly. The song was growing louder, but it was issuing not from a crowd of green-and-silver-clad Slytherins, but from a mass of red and gold moving slowly towards the castle, bearing a solitary figure upon its many shoulders. 'Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, He didn't let the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King ...' 'No?' said Hermione in a hushed voice. 'YES!' said Harry loudly. 'HARRY! HERMIONE!' yelled Ron, waving the silver Quidditch cup in the air and looking quite beside himself. 'WE DID IT! WE WON!' They beamed up at him as he passed. There was a scrum at the door of the castle and Ron's head got rather badly bumped on the lintel, but nobody seemed to want to put him down. Still singing, the crowd squeezed itself into the Entrance Hall and out of sight. Harry and Hermione watched them go, beaming, until the last echoing strains of 'Weasley is our King' died away. Then they turned to each other, their smiles fading. 'We'll save our news till tomorrow, shall we?' said Harry. 'Yes, all right,' said Hermione wearily. 'I'm not in any hurry.' They climbed the steps together. At the front doors both instinctively looked back at the Forbidden Forest. Harry was not sure whether or not it was his imagination, but he rather thought he saw a small cloud of birds erupting into the air over the tree tops in the distance, almost as though the tree in which they had been nesting had just been pulled up by the roots.