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mostlydeadallday · 9 months

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Lost Kin || Chapter XXXIV || A Mixed Blessing

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: referenced abuse, panic attacks AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XXXIV | A Mixed Blessing First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Chronological Notes: Apologies for the late update! Next one will likely be another month out, due to aforementioned Activities. I nearly finished another chapter—it needs a few final paragraphs, but I went "eh, good enough" and decided to upload anyway. Hollow is actually onto something important here; bonus points if you can tell what it is. It ties into the worldbuilding post I've been meaning to make... maybe someday soon.

○

They talked late into the night.

Or, rather, Quirrel talked. Asking questions, offering suggestions, building plans that Hornet hesitantly approved or dismissed. She felt worn nearly through, coherent thought gradually leaking from her grasp as the hours went on—until Quirrel seemed to notice that she had not replied to any of his questions for at least a quarter hour, sitting with her chin propped in her hand and staring into the lantern until her eyes hurt, attempting to keep herself awake.

He insisted on stopping then, although once she ushered him upstairs to let him take his pick of the abandoned rooms and came back down with another two pillows for her own bed, she was wide awake again. She lay on the hearth, listening to the barely audible sounds Quirrel made while settling in for the night. Once those died away, she stared into the dark, where the pale arc of her sibling’s horns was just visible, timing the space between each inhale, tracing the sprawled lines of them again and again, as if she could imprint them into the world, keep them alive by her determination alone.

Quirrel had been forthright about her chances of restoring Hollow to health. So much was unknown, and what he did know was not promising. He had said, however, that he was operating on his knowledge of infected mortals, that his memory pertaining to vessels was faulty at best. Hollow had already defied the odds, and they had the lineage of three gods on their side.

He had also said a great deal more than that, but Hornet remembered little of it.

Thankfully, she had what he had written down for her: an immediate plan for further communication with Hollow, a set of questions to ask them when they woke, and a few signs to add to their vocabulary. She’d laid the pages in front of her while she slept and woke to them crumpling in her hand as she panted silently, body quivering, mind still in the grip of a nightmare that she could not remember.

She’d never had this many, this often. Night after night, she woke feeling like she couldn’t breathe. Night after night, she had to drag her own name back out of the darkness, out of the clinging, grasping fear that wanted to make an animal of her.

And waking was a mixed blessing, when every nightmare fear that faded was replaced with a real one that she could not ignore.

Hornet loosened her fist, releasing the paper, and rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. Every nerve sang, her body ringing like a struck gong. Her heartbeat drummed at double speed. She wanted to throw open the door and disappear, fling out skein after skein of soul-silk, fly all the way to Greenpath without her feet ever touching the ground.

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t.

A soft noise slipped out of her mouth—a groan of disappointment. No louder than the papers crinkling, but she still looked over to make sure Hollow hadn’t woken.

They hadn’t. Nothing stirred, not even when she lifted her head to listen for sounds upstairs. The light was yet low, and no one in the house was awake but her.

The thought made her want to groan again. How long would she have to lie here, dreading the coming day, mired in memories of the night before? Recalling every crack in her control, every choked breath and faltering word that had surely told Quirrel more than she ever wanted him to know about her?

He hadn’t shown any signs of wanting to leave. In fact, he seemed more determined to help than ever—and she, more than ever, was regretting it.

Why couldn’t she have turned him away at the door? Reassured him that she did not need what he’d offered? She’d have preferred the empty house, the silence, to this low thrum of anxiety that had crawled inside her shell with her.

When her breathing calmed, her heart slowing, and the restlessness still did not fade, she stood, swallowing another complaint as her aching limbs protested. Still sore from her reckless flight, lack of sleep compounding the pain. She shouldn’t complain, not when Hollow’s battle wounds had yet to heal, but she mouthed an oath as she stretched, two of her backplates giving a muffled crack like splintering ice.

In the kitchen, the lumaflies roused as soon as she opened the lantern’s shutter. Though she was not hungry, she ate the third and last tiktik from the night before, cleaning her fangs and placing the empty shell with the others. She pointedly ignored the pile of supplies on the table and the neat sheaf of notes Quirrel had taken, bringing only the lantern with her—the beam of light narrowed to a slit—as she returned to the main room. The thought of more mending made her neck and fingers ache, but it was productive, time-consuming, and would not wake her sibling.

And, more to the point, it kept her from snatching up her needle and bolting out the door.

It was over an hour before anything interrupted her, and the sound was so soft she nearly missed it: a thump directly overhead, as of something hitting the floor.

Hornet jumped, then scowled, relaxing the muscles at the back of her neck that wanted to raise her spikes into the air. After a moment, she looked down and forced herself to keep working, motivated by a vague sense that it would be strange for Quirrel to come down the stairs and catch her staring.

Head lowered, she tracked his footsteps across the ceiling, past the washroom and onto the landing, ignoring the part of her that wanted to shove the fabric aside and grip her sewing needle like a dagger, to stand and face the threat head-on.

Not a threat. Or at least, not the kind she was used to. She might be more than half feral, but she didn’t have to act like it.

She waited until he’d descended the first flight and was three steps into the second before she lifted her eyes.

He halted, that hand once more creeping back toward his empty belt, before he deliberately relaxed. “Good morning.”

Hornet glanced at her sibling, but they did not stir; Quirrel had only spoken just above a whisper. Rather than replying, she nodded to him, then went back to her work. Polite enough, she thought; no need to waste words.

All of her etiquette classes seemed ridiculously far away.

Quirrel did not seem to mind.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he ducked into the entryway to retrieve his nail. They had agreed last night that he would take the opportunity to hunt in the morning, both for her and himself, as well as scavenge the other houses for more paper—he’d used nearly all of her stash—and some proper pencils. She would have Hollow practice their signs while he was gone and then ask some of the questions he’d suggested the night before. Hopefully, their anxiety would be reduced in his absence, allowing them to answer her more easily.

Quirrel stepped back into the room, nail and satchel at his side, kerchief tied on over his head. Hornet hesitated, then set her work aside and stood to lock the door behind him.

“Thank you.” He shivered as he stepped out into the rain. “I’ll try not to be long.”

She nodded again. He said nothing else, though his mandibles twitched beneath his mask with the beginnings of a smile.

Annoyance pricked beneath her shell, and she shut the door before he could walk away. Then she pressed her back against it, as if to keep him from coming back in, and exhaled with a groan.

Oh, this was going well.

○

It blinked awake.

The light was bluer.

This was a strange observation to make, perhaps especially so just after waking, but undoubtedly true. There was a slice of brighter light on the wall, a flickering brightness as changeable as water, emanating from a small metal box on the hearth. A lantern.

That had not been here before.

Something had woken it, however, and it was not the light.

The vessel lay still, memories flitting just out of reach. It knew if it waited, they would settle and return, although they seemed to take longer than they should, and it did not know why it knew that.

Its sister was not in the room.

Her hands stroking its back, her voice commanding it to sleep—

—the stranger, watching, watching, watching—

A sound by the door, a flash of color it could not fully see. It shifted, minutely, in the way it had learned to, and the building pressure in its chest loosened. Not the stranger. Only its sister, although to describe her as only its sister was a disservice; she was so much more than that. Warrior, princess, heir of the kingdom that it had destroyed—

And gentle. Compassionate. Merciful, in a way that belied her cool exterior, for how could she be all that she seemed and still be kind to a thing like the vessel?

She noticed it staring. Impolite, but how could it not stare at her? How could it not?

“Oh,” she said. Something in her posture eased, like a fist unclenching. “I’m sorry to wake you.” She gestured behind herself, toward the entry to the house. “Quirrel has gone to hunt. He will return later.”

A knot of emotion pulled tight within it. She could wake it whenever she pleased, and she did not need to tell it that her ally had left, but she persisted in apologizing, in giving it information that it shouldn’t need, that it shouldn’t be grateful for.

It was, nonetheless.

She approached it, knelt beside it, murmured something about it looking cramped. It had, indeed, fallen asleep in a less-than-ideal position, as its hand was currently numb, but that was incidental; its discomfort did not matter. Once again, however, she asked for it to move, to make itself comfortable, and although this was something it was unfamiliar with, it tried to do as she asked.

It settled back. As the pain rose and then ebbed, Hornet half-watched it, the tips of her claws just visible under the drape of her cloak, worrying at a catch in the fabric.

“I—” she began, and then stopped.

Tension wrapped around it once again. It was not like her to be indecisive. Whatever was to come was bound to panic it once more, and had she not just asked for the opposite?

Questioning its wielder. The vessel had grown far too careless, if that seemed reasonable. It must obey. Submit, fully, completely, to any orders she might give it, if it was ever to have another chance at usefulness.

“I know that… yesterday,” Hornet said, slowly enough that its heartbeat had time to lurch and then calm in the pause between her words, “I expected you to ask before I touched you.”

Its breath stopped.

Finally, it was happening. Finally, she would condemn it for what it had done. For the small actions taken, the slender cracks that attested to its deeper flaws—the fear, the need—that were now plain to see beneath the surface.

She had said she needed to speak with Quirrel the night before. After it fell into sleep, she might have told him anything. Everything. Perhaps her ally had made it plain that there was no salvaging the vessel’s ruined shell. That she should rid herself of it, remove the danger to herself and to the world—

“I realize now that that expectation may not be sustainable.” Its sister looked down at her claws and forced them still, though not without a sigh. “I will have to finish cleaning your wounds, and there may be other instances where I must touch without you asking.”

This—

This did not make sense.

It was not built to need context, to infer intent or interpret complex orders. Yet as long as its sister insisted on interacting with it like this, she would force it to use its ill-begotten mind to comprehend her desires.

Did she know? Was this her goal, to determine the extent of its intellect? To understand just how fully it had been corrupted, how deep its failures really went?

It pushed its chest to rise, made its lungs expand, that she might not notice its distress. She had not liked when it stopped breathing before. It should at least attempt to not upset her, if it couldn’t manage not to upset itself.

The effort drew her attention, and its next breath stuttered as her gaze sharpened. Before it could press back the building panic, she raised her hand, and her words were suddenly clearer, precise and clean-edged as calligraphy. “You have done no wrong. I am only informing you of a change in my methods.”

How could it not be in the wrong? How could she pretend to accept the wretched thing it had become?

And it was questioning her. Again.

Where was the vessel that had once waited in perfect stillness for its orders? Where was the numb patience it had once been capable of, those first days and weeks within the temple? How had it broken so thoroughly?

Its sister looked down at it, fangs twisting in distress. Distress that it had brought about, with its failure. Distress that—

Her hand was on its arm, her fingers warm against its shell. “Listen to me. Unless I tell you to lie still, you need not endure any touch you find objectionable, including this one. You may pull away, from myself or anyone else, if you wish.” She squeezed its arm, gently, her claws closing around it, and then lifted her hand away. “There. I am finished; there is nothing else.”

It—

It could—

No.

The thought that it might defy her will, might acknowledge and express a desire contrary to hers, might ever want badly enough that it would dare to pull away from her—

No, this was a thing it would not do.

It simply would not.

A cold dread crept over its shell. The last time it had sworn not to do something, it had broken that oath in mere days. It was faithless; its word meant nothing. It could not know what it might do. It could not know that it would not do this.

What would be the consequences for such a thing? Was this another test? Would its sister abandon it, or finally give it the death it deserved?

It was unimaginable that she might do nothing.

Unimaginable, and yet—

—why would she say this, if—

No. Enough. These were dangerous thoughts, thoughts it was surely not meant to have, for it was never meant to think to begin with. Its sister deserved obedience, though it cost everything the vessel had.

She was watching it, it realized. Gauging the effect of her words. Perhaps waiting for an answer. Should it answer? Should it use one of the signs she had given it to indicate understanding? What did she want of it?

Vaguely, the vessel felt that its current state could very generously be described as a mess.

Its sister—gods below, its sister knew.

She reached for it again, this time for its hand—half-clenched, trembling—and pressed its fingers open. Not to guide it into any sign, but simply to lay her palm into the vessel’s, small fingers and fine claws lacing with its own.

It lay still. Fear was, suddenly, the farthest thing from it; it felt as though it had been given something precious, something unfit for it to take, a delicate bloom trapped between its talons. It could feel her heartbeat, swift and strong, in the vein beneath her palmpads, and the faint hum of soul below her shell.

It would give her everything.

Did she know? How could it tell her?

It would die for her.

○

Well. She had obviously accomplished something.

What, exactly, that something was eluded her.

Hollow had stopped shaking. That counted as progress. The stare they were currently giving her, however, was right on the edge of unnerving. The tension in their hand, as their fingers curled slightly to hold her own between them, just shy of brushing her knuckles with their claws—she did not know what to make of that.

But they had not pulled away from her.

She knew they understood. They would not have reacted so if they didn’t. Or perhaps she was wrong, and this was nothing but utter confusion, and she hadn’t accomplished anything at all.

And since she had so handily trapped them, she could not even ask for confirmation. She had all but clapped a hand over their mouth, rendering them as mute as when they met.

Not that they would likely choose to speak to her, whether she let go, or whether they pulled free—though this had all been in service of giving permission for them to do exactly that, if they wished.

Apparently, they did not. Their grip was tightening on her hand, so slowly that she wasn’t even sure they knew they were doing it, and the pressure was absurdly light, as though they feared her shell would shatter.

Well, she appreciated the sentiment.

It was a fight, every time she had the urge to comfort them, not to ignore it. It took her back to her days in the Palace, watching them spar in practice and in tournaments, watching them take injuries that would cripple a lesser fighter. The way her breath had hissed past her fangs, her hands tightening on the balcony, as the Pure Vessel tore through scores of kingsmoulds like a scythe through dry grass, rank upon rank closing in until her sibling was limping badly, dripping void and leaking soul, and still never faltering, pushing on and on until her father finally—finally—called a halt.

And the next time she saw them, they would be whole, healed, as still and silent as ever, with new scars marking their shell.

Those events had been tests of her mettle, as much as they had been of her sibling’s. She had felt the Pale King’s gaze upon her as the blows rained down, waiting for her to flinch, watching for doubt.

She’d learned to hide those twinges of empathy. To bury them so deep that she could deny she’d ever felt them at all.

It was like opening an old wound, now, to unearth them again. Like cutting into a scar. But she would do it, for them. She would.

She could start small. Both of them were unused to this—giving comfort or receiving it. Much as she wished she could take every burden from their shoulders, this would have to suffice for the moment.

“Good,” she whispered, running her thumb up the side of their hand. “Good, Hollow. Be calm. There’s nothing to fear.”

A twitch ran through their fingers at that, though nothing else changed. She continued stroking their hand, watching for any indication that she should stop—she didn’t trust them to take her at her word, to allow themselves to challenge her, but Quirrel had agreed that it was important that she lay the groundwork and mark out exactly where they stood.

His suggestions had been helpful already, she had to grudgingly admit. And it had been like a long breath of clean air to have someone to listen to her, whether she made good use of that opportunity or not. She felt a little less out of her mind, now, after speaking to someone who could answer. Who could examine all the jumbled pieces she spilled on the table and begin to fit them together, in ways that both confirmed and challenged her own conclusions.

That did not mean she had stopped regretting having asked for it.

Quirrel. Who knew how much time she had left before he returned. She should be putting this time to good use, not idling it away.

Without letting go, she twisted round and retrieved the wrinkled pages with her free hand, then spread them out on her lap, still with Hollow’s hand in hers.

Or rather, her hand in theirs. There was no way to hold their hand that did not result in hers being completely engulfed. Not that she minded, as long as they continued to hold it so carefully. Gingerly, never so much as letting their claws touch her, maintaining the precise amount of pressure necessary to keep her fingers from slipping free.

Unfortunately, her next task would require letting go. Though if it had helped as much as it seemed to, perhaps she could find an excuse to come back to it later.

“I’d like to have you practice the signs I’ve already taught you,” she said. “Just as we did before.”

No reaction from her sibling, at least not one she could see. She lifted their hand, briefly clasping it in both of her own to feel the solidness of it, the cool weight and minute roughness of their grip. Then she placed it on their stomach, withdrawing her touch with a final squeeze of their fingers.

Was she doing this right? She hoped—oh, she hoped what she saw in them was calm, and not apathy, or terror so complete that it held them still in its thrall. They seemed to respond well to being touched and held while she spoke to them; they had not panicked nearly as much as she expected. She could only wish that she had come to this conclusion earlier, rather than holding herself apart out of misplaced concern or awkwardness.

And it was awkward, still. But that was nothing. She could tolerate awkward, if what Quirrel said was true, if they stood to gain so much with so little effort.

She did not want to overwhelm them, which might put their new permission to pull away from her to the test, but if they became stressed during practice—which she did not doubt they would—she would attempt to calm them before continuing, rather than push through until they broke.

Neither one of them, she suspected, wanted a repeat of yesterday.

Oh, what had she been thinking? She could hardly have invented a better way to terrify them. Many of her own lessons had ended with her holding back tears, out of frustration at her own ignorance and the unfairness of what her tutors were asking of her. Not all of them had made her feel that way, but… enough.

And now it seemed she was doomed to mimic her own worst examples.

At least she’d had the solace of wishing all kinds of imaginary carnage on the tutors she liked the least. If she were to venture a guess, Hollow had no such inclinations.

Or, at least, she hoped not.

She cleared her throat. “I’ll start at the beginning. When I say the word, repeat the sign I taught you.”

Their hand still shook as they moved through the signs, but not as much as she’d come to expect. It was easier to praise them, then, easier to sound like she meant it.

Progress. This might be real progress, and it almost felt too good to be true.

She reached forward when they finished reciting what they’d learned, laying a hand on their wrist while the tension slowly drained and they lay limp, staring at her in what seemed like distracted bewilderment.

That bewilderment was likely warranted. She’d never been affectionate, especially not when they came to know her. Before then, she remembered only hazy scenes from her childhood, before she could walk or climb, of being passed from one set of sturdy arms to another, or lifted up to cling to a shoulder or back as the spiders and Weavers took turns working and holding her. She had not sought that out once she outgrew it, and certainly not once she was taken to Hallownest. The Deepnest taint clung to her shell like a stuck molt, awkward and ugly, and she had been angry enough to reject any attempts at companionship, had anyone made any.

She had also been too busy causing havoc, at first. Working herself deeper and deeper into her father’s side like a thorn, half-hoping he would pluck her out and cast her away, give her back to the family she could never have again—not now that her mother was sworn as a Dreamer, not now that the Weavers planned to leave Hallownest. It could never be the same now, but that did not stop her from wanting it.

And then she’d given up, at last, and that had been the end of it. She’d accepted the role he placed on her, set foot on the path that had brought her here, and now she was stroking her sibling’s shell awkwardly, and hoping that the confusion this elicited was somehow a step forward.

In any case, it was likely better than terror.

“I have a few new signs for you,” she said, leaning back. “This is ‘sometimes.’”

Following Quirrel’s suggestions, she taught them former and latter, as well as other, signs that would be necessary to answer the questions he’d hoped to ask them. She added Quirrel, a twist of the fingers at the chin, denoting the beaded tassel on his kerchief. By then, her sibling was wheezing audibly, and their gestures had become more stilted as their hand and arm slowly seized and that strange, strained tension returned, as if they were simultaneously attempting to obey her and trying not to move.

This time, it took longer to fade, and she spent a silent few minutes rubbing her hand up and down their arm, listening to the whistle in their lungs grow fainter and die out as they relaxed.

“Well done,” she murmured when they were quiet again. “Thank you. I know I am asking… much of you.”

The confusion was back—if she was reading them right, and she wasn’t certain of that. But if she had to guess at the look they were giving her, it was somehow conveying complete bafflement without shifting an inch.

Hornet swallowed down something that hurt, something angry and inadvisable, and it burned like a hot coal in her stomach.

I am not our father.

I do not expect perfection.

I want this for you.

I want you to live.

Having said that to Quirrel the night before, she could not now forget it. She hadn’t even thought as much to herself—since learning Hollow was alive, she hadn’t dared to imagine a goal at the end of all this. She owed her life and more to them; after she had wiped out so many of their kind in stupid, blind obedience, the least she could do was offer her time and her hands and her company. She had no right to expect anything, whether protection or gratitude or companionship.

But if it was necessary to establish a purpose to work toward, it would be this, and only this.

They had been born as a sacrifice. They had given everything for their father’s plan. And even now, they were obedient to him, as best they could be—though some unknown, misplaced devotion drove them to heed her. Even when her orders clashed with her father’s, throwing out sparks like crossed blades.

She glanced out the window, past the rain tapping steadily at the glass. It had been over an hour, and Quirrel would likely be back soon. She didn’t wish to stress them much further, given what the rest of the day would hold. But they had responded well to her attempts to calm them, and she was curious; the chance to hold a real conversation with her sibling, fragmented though it would be, was too tempting to ignore.

The questions Quirrel had left her included a few that she could be relatively certain they would answer. She skipped over the questions about their pain—though she would have to ask those again, eventually.

Instead, she paused the motion along their arm, only rubbing one thumb over a seam in their elbow, her claw clicking softly across the gap between the plates. Their attention was on her already—it had never left—but she did not wish to distract them.

“I will not be upset if you cannot answer. For any reason,” she began. “But I would like for you to practice using the new signs. And these questions may help me understand how to move forward.”

Perhaps only because she was paying close attention, she noticed the shift as their arm tightened—and then relaxed—beneath her hand. Something indefinable swelled in her throat, something bitter and bloody. Sympathy. Guilt. She didn’t know.

They were trying. They were trying so hard to give her what she wanted, fighting every moment against their own fear, and as much as she wished she could avoid it, or take it from them altogether, the only way forward she could see was to push through.

She took her hand from their arm, so they would not need to pull away from her to sign, and waited.

“Are you able to read or write?” A simple question first, a question that would hopefully not distress them, but could be used to test their understanding with a specific method of answer. “Answer with ‘former’ or ‘latter’ if only one is true, ‘yes’ for both, or ‘no’ for neither.”

They considered this. Calmly, thank the gods. She gave them a moment; this was the first time she had offered this many possible answers to a question, although she suspected she already knew the answer. Still, they might surprise her.

The answer came hesitantly; if they could speak, the word would have been only a murmur. No.

She tilted her head, acknowledging. “As I thought. It is no matter.” It would have made communication easier, but not significantly so, when she could think of no comfortable way for them to write while confined to their bed. Perhaps that could be remedied once they were stronger, although she thought Quirrel far more suited as a literacy teacher than she was.

The next question was more important, and simpler still. “Are you colder or warmer than you should be? Answer with ‘former,’ ‘latter,’ or ‘no,’ if neither is true.”

As questions went, this one also seemed unthreatening. It was not related to their pain, and she assumed they would have a good sense of their natural body temperature. If Quirrel was right, then it was possible Hollow’s fever had still not completely broken.

And perhaps she could finally find out whether they needed a blanket.

The answer, when it came, was shaky, delayed, and disappointing, and she could not have been happier to see it.

Latter.

Too warm, still. She would have to do something about that—draining the rest of the infection, first and foremost. The thought made her gut turn over, with both nausea and giddy relief that they were listening and answering her.

They were starting to lock up now, shoulder creeping up toward their neck, jaw clenching tight. “Good,” she breathed, realizing too late that she’d gone too long saying nothing. “Good. I am glad to know that. Thank you.”

○

Glad?

She was—

Why was she glad?

That it was still too warm, its body still rebelling against its father’s design, was an unmitigated failure. It was a consequence of the infection in its veins, a consequence of weakness, something that should never have happened. The void within it should have stripped it so empty, hollowed it so completely, that it never knew anything but the numbness and the chill and the dark silence of the sea.

She should be ashamed of it. She should be disappointed. She should not be trying to thank it.

This did not appear to dissuade her in the least.

“I would like to know if you have needs I’ve not been able to meet.” She touched it as she spoke, her hand once more coming to rest on its arm, gliding up to the top of its shoulder and back. It could not help the way its tension bled away under her touch, though it should have felt nothing whatsoever.

She knew this. And yet she persisted.

“Although I know I have asked this before, I need to be sure I know the correct answer.” Hornet paused, chewing over her question, still absently petting its shell. “You’ve said you don’t require food. But I do not know precisely what that means.”

Ah. It had not answered well enough, the first few times she asked it. Given that it had never been intended to speak, perhaps that was allowable—

But no. A flaw was a flaw, and it was meant to be flawless. Since it could speak, it was obliged to do so with the precision and excellence that were required of it elsewhere.

“You do not need food to survive. Is this true? Answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”

This answer was an easy one, but it hesitated. Sister’s hand was still on its arm, and it did not mean to defy her, but while she wished to touch it, it should not express otherwise—

And she realized that an instant later, and withdrew.

The rising fear retreated, slowly, but its answer was still shaky.

Yes.

“Although you do not need it to survive, would consuming food aid your body in healing?”

It knew the answer to this as well, but as its hand rose, it hesitated.

During its training, it had been injured severely. Not often, for it was a unique creation, too valuable to risk. But its father walked a delicate line; if it had not been thoroughly tested and hardened for battle, it could not have been judged fit to contain the infection. He had methods of healing beyond the reach of scholars and mages, but on a few occasions, his magic had not been enough to restore it.

He had taken it to his workshop, then, and laid it down on the table where it had been shaped and molded, its present form wrought from the softness of a nymph by the sharp intent of its father’s magic. He had retrieved a container, and given it to the vessel, and instructed it in what to do.

It still recalled the sensation of the void pouring down its throat, the thickness of it, the blank absence of any smell or flavor, the stirring within its guts as the liquid joined with what already existed within, absorbing cleanly until there was nothing left but the vessel itself, whole again, and strong.

Void was not food. Void was poison, an endless dark that consumed what it touched, that winked out mortal lives like candles.

That was likely not what its sister meant. A vessel consuming more of the substance that formed it could not be defined as eating, any more than void could be defined as food.

It had hesitated too long. Its sister was growing impatient, tilting her head in confusion, searching its eyes for any hint of an answer forming, and it froze.

But she said only, “My words were… imprecise, perhaps. Disregard that question,” and then sat thinking, as its breathing grew lighter again and the taut set of its shoulders eased.

With a sharp sigh, she spoke again. “I do not know what vessels are able to eat, or what substances would be beneficial to consume. Do you eat any of the things someone such as Quirrel or myself would?”

Relief rushed through it, though numbing fear followed close on its heels. She understood the true reason for its hesitation. She saw it, its flaws, its limitations and its defects. It must be truly lacking, for such a simple thing to seize hold of it and prevent it from answering. To force its sister to repeat herself, to rephrase her questions in order to accommodate its fractured mind.

No, it should not be relieved to have its flaws made known. It should be ashamed—or it should feel nothing. It should not have flaws, let alone the very ability to feel, and it should be trying to hide these facts from her, to bury them, not put them on display, not reveal them so clearly that she made allowances for it—

Wrong wrong wrong wrong—

If it did not answer now, it would soon be unable to, it realized. The pressure was growing in its chest again, a weight of panic like lack of air underwater.

The sign was rushed this time, and too short, too sharp, in its haste to give its sister what she wanted.

No.

Its vision was hazing white at the edges already, its breaths beginning to become gasps, and it clenched its teeth, forcing its chest to rise, forcing its throat to open, while the sound from its battered lungs rose into a harsh, fluttering keen.

She could certainly see its flaws now.

There was another sound. Another weight against it. Another hand within its own again, warm and steady where it trembled. Its sister was so small, her touch so light, and yet her every whim captured its attention completely.

Its next exhale shook and shuddered, and she reached up with her free hand, laying her palm beneath its eye, and her fangs chattered softly, a gentle, steady sound like breezes through its mother’s leaves, a sound meant to soothe, to calm and comfort hatchlings in the shell.

It blinked, and wheezed, and clenched her hand more tightly.

“Shh, Hollow.” She leaned against it more firmly where she’d settled, climbing onto the bed and pressing herself into its side, and it did not deserve this, had done nothing to earn this, had done everything wrong, and to her, it seemed, that did not matter. “Shh.”

○

Taglist: @botslayer9000 @moss-tombstone @slimeel Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

#lost kin fic #lost kin chapter #hollow knight #hollow knight fanfic #mywriting #hk the hollow knight #hk hornet #hk quirrel #hk

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fungal-wasted · 2 years

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So let's talk about Quirrel, huh?

He's easily one of the most loved characters in this game, and for really good reasons. He is a nice friendly face we can find around the kingdom, and he provides good company, advice and some thoughts about the places he visits. But later on, we find out he has a duty with this kingdom, and that he was called back to fulfill it.

One thing I personally always liked about him is that he is often respectful about the places he visits. He isn't there to steal, look for glory, or take advantage of this ruins. He believes he was drawn to Hallownest by the tales of other travellers, and his obsession about uncharted places.

But if you peer into his thoughts, this never feels quite natural. He remembers people he shouldn't he knows of places he should not know of, and this all comes clear once he reaches the Archives and the truth of his journey is revealed to him.

And in a way that changes everything he's ever seen. His thoughts at the Blue Lake are:

"To live an age, yet remember so little… Perhaps I should be thankful? All tragedy erased. I see only wonders…"

And isn't it painful? Because suddenly, the places in this kingdom aren't just some distant lands to him, they were part of his life, his home. Maybe he passed next to the very place he used to live in and yet he probably didn't even notice. There are people lost in memory, that he used to know and never found out what happened to them.

So now, him going about the guards in the city being in eternal duty, the miners working endlessly, or just any simple wanderer are viewed in a new light. That could have been him, or anyone else. That those were people who had friends, family, vibrant and unique personalities, and yet he and a few others are there to witness Hallownest in its decay.

The Archives are a whole other thing too. Did he remember Uumuu for what it was, or did he just know its weakness like an instinct? Is it worse to know and have the duty to destroy it, or to not know and feel like the decision was robbed from him? In the end, when that is done and he stands in front of Monomon's tank, he knows what he is there to do, and now he knows why. But it still feel overwhelming, because all he has then is hindsight. Yeah, he may remember the wonders of the land, but it is a place that's changed. Whatever led him to take this duty is gone, and the scenario he finds is one where Monomon, the last trace of the world he used to know, is choosing to end her life and what she stood for initially, in order for the Knight to achieve their goal (which at this point is still uncertain).

I just, think of the walk from the Archives towards the resting grounds. Did he pass by the City? Did he go through the Infected Crossroads? Did he, with his gained knowledge, visit the other dreamers in this new light?

And what is there for him to grieve when there is so much there that was lost you don't even know where to start? When it feels so arbitrary that he was even granted this second chance? When he becomes aware that there were definitely parts of his life, significant ones, that he won't be able to pay respects to?

But yeah, at least he got the chance to see this place he cared about once again, as it is shown to him, despite its past history.

And that's Quirrel

#hollow knight #quirrel #hk quirrel #analysis #hk meta #hk spoilers #hollow knight spoilers #just AUUUUUUUUUGH

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dropout-ninja · 9 months

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Hive Knight, The Dreamers, The Radiance~?

Thank you for the ask, I made my answers too long :D

Hive Knight: Are there any bosses you wish were friends instead of foes?

I feel like I’d say most of them XD

The one coming to mind the most while writing this up is probably actually the False Knight. It’s a tutorial battle and seems straightforward enough early game, but finding the two brothers and hearing the final thoughts just makes me feel bad for killing him every time I replay the game.

(I have a slightly similar reaction to the Pale Lurker fight, just because it feels so needless just to grab a key for a high percentage run, so Pale Lurker can be the second option here.)

The Dreamers: Who’s your favorite Dreamer? Why?

Hmmmm, I’ll go with Herrah on account of emotional damage. I love all the Dreamers and am always wanting to see more fic of the three of them together. But individually, Herrah was the first Dreamer I killed and just standing there killing her while nothing happened caused said emotional damage first before the other two got a chance. There’s something more sad about killing her than the others, to boot. Lurien and Monomon don’t seem to have many people close to them (Monomon has Quirrel, Lurien had PK?? and/or the butler guy that Grimmchild is always murdering). Lurien’s got no one alive/uninfected left. Monomon is trying to get the three of them killed. Meanwhile, Herrah had a lot of people genuinely loyal to her, plus Hornet. The difference between her and Monomon is that while both have someone alive that cares about them, Monomon is the only Dreamer to be advocating for the Dreamer’s seals removal. Herrah is still in the ‘seals cannot be undone/our duty holds’ mentality and maintains that mentality presumably because she’s trying to protect Hornet (the dreamnail dialogue about her doing everything ‘for her’). She just tends to always be the one I feel the most bad about killing.

But also she’s a favorite because of how much potential political drama was going on between her and PK and the Mantis Tribe, and I have fun writing/reading that

The Radiance: What memory from this game will stick with you the most?

So many…The Hollow Knight stabbing themself, the Abyss cutscene, Broken Vessel’s everything. Or walking through the dream tent towards the Nightmare King fight, looking at the veins with increasing nerves until the title card shows up and panic starts, or the ‘challenge’ the sun moment. Even just walking into Kingdom’s Edge the first time around.

#ask game #dis fun :)

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thehappiestgolucky · 2 years

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(hiding behind anon mask cuz i'm being struck by shy---)

Oh yeah, I can definitely see that!!!! Vigilante Tisequirrel has alot of emotions to navigate through after such a long time being away from one another. And the difficulty of reconciling their pasts and their presents selves doesn't exactly help.

After all, how much can one change before you can say they're a different person? How long does it take until a former friend of yours becomes a complete stranger?

Not completely knowing if the other loves the past image of him or the current, real him can really cause uncertainty in their relationship.

I mean, Vigilante Tiso was quite literally slapped in the face when Quirrel came back and was suddenly good at fighting. It was such a sudden change after so long (of buried pining) after all. How are they suppose to take all of these major changes? To the other and to himself? (We know Tiso actually kind of enjoys some of these changes but how can he be certain Quirrel feels the same? Especially with the added layer of amnesia?)

Honestly, they both deserve a long heartwarming hug, but the both of them need to discuss how they're going to handle their relationship and feelings later on to clear things up between them and how they'll move forward together.

Wonder how long it'll take them when there's so much on their plates and minds.....

*mwah* hitting all the nails on the head

(also putting under read more it’s not the longest but i did ramble a bit sksksks)

I think the biggest reasons why these questions might plague them, especially during the time when Tiso and Quirrel were travelling around the kingdom as Ghost stumbles their way through what to do, and encountering each other but in that weird sense - is because the amount of time apart has blown these new changes to a bigger proportion than they might’ve been.

Yes they’ve gone through major changes, but their core character, the character each other have grown close too - are still very much the same. Quirrel is still the analytical, kind-hearted guy that admires the ever shifting world around him - as he’s always been and Tiso is still a stubborn, goal-driven warrior that sticks to his ideals to the bitter end as he has always been. It’s just shifted. But the time apart has made these changes, like Quirrel taking up arms in self defense, and Tiso fighting for the safety of the misfortunate - seem like they’re a much different person than they perhaps are.

As you said, Tiso does like some of these changes (like the fighting bit) and I’ve always interpreted that Quirrel might not enjoy fighting in the same manner as others might - he doesn’t mind it even with his memory back. There’s also aspects to Tiso that have changed that I feel Quirrel likes a little more - like him seeming to take more appreciation of the world around him. I think if anything, it shows that whilst these valid concerns float around their head - it’s more than they’re thinking because the actual truth is they can take the past memories with the current circumstances and move forward all the same. I say this as an avid overthinker - overthinking can really put a sudden strain to something that maybe wasn’t there to begin with.

Which is why they absolutely talk about it at length for a while. A heart to heart. If I had the energy I’d make it a full comic but alas.

After everything is done, after Ghost ascends and the infection is finally destroyed, after Tiso gets a chance to be reunited with his dads again and let Ghost have a well deserved rest amongst his family - Tiso and Quirrel just have a long talk at the oh so symbolic Blue Lake.

Tiso gets to mention how his friend leaving in the first place hurt, whilst he understands why, it was another person leaving his life. Quirrel gets to lament over having some memories still blocked, wondering if the two lives can co-exist with one another and if Tiso wants the friend that left him - rather than the one here. It ends with I feel a mutual agreement and understanding, empathy with what both have been through and a promise that they’ll see if the foundations of the past can allow them to continue with a relationship in the present. An agreement that they’ll view the past as memories and the present as the current relationship.

The friendship itself I feel mends pretty fast, and I think it helps when they aren’t dealing with an infected land. The period of rest before going to a semblance of a normal life does well to help them build up their relationship again. And as for the transition to friends to partners?

A bit of a slow burn! Whilst they talked to each other about the confused feelings, they both didn’t really admit to pining for one another before - simply because they view their friendship as important. It’s after a while of Hallownest being free, of helping those left build their own life without fear, that they recognise these feelings still aren’t going to go.

and I’ll be honest I’ve also always viewed tisoquirrel as a whole as a sort of slow burn pairing sksksksksk

#happy screms #vigilante tiso #tisoquirrel #yknow this whole ramble came from the fact i wanted to doodle them again and then my brain said ‘hey remember how this is :)’#it just - hecc #*holds them* th…them #i told myself i’d answer this quickly in the morning to be more coherent then i woke up early and rambled whoops

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sideprince · 1 year

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For the snape asks: III and XI :)

Ooooh ok!

III - should he have been sorted into slytherin? why or why not?

We're told that the sorting hat bases its choice on a person's dominant qualities, but we're also told that it takes the person's wishes into account. I've always thought that the reason Snape wanted to be sorted into Slytherin was because his mother, who had been in Slytherin too, had told him about her Hogwarts experience and built up a positive image of the house for him.

Snape is very logical, an unusual trait for a wizard, as we're told, and is not only unusually intelligent, but both powerful and curious, as we see in his capabilities and the fact that by his sixth year he's creating his own spells, which as far as we can tell is an anomaly. Based on these qualities I would assume the hat would want to sort him into Ravenclaw, but he's also ambitious and calculating, so I wouldn't be surprised if the hat had taken a while to decide between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. He also shows incredible bravery throughout his life, and seems to be pretty into sports - at least Quidditch - so I don't know, do you need more to qualify for Gryffindor? In the end, I can't imagine that Snape wouldn't have asked the hat to put him in Slytherin, though, so I think it came down to his choice ultimately. As to whether he should have been sorted into any house, I would say no because the house system seems kind of terrible, at least the way it is in HP where your house identity boxes you into specific personality traits at the age of 11. But that's more about me thinking that no one should be sorted lol.

XI - why do you think he kept helping dumbledore after finding out he lied to him about harry’s life?

I don't know how much he was helping Dumbledore and how much he was working towards his own absolution in his own mind. But in terms of this relationship with Dumbledore, I think that Snape's abuse trauma and the degree to which he was overlooked his whole childhood made him very attached to Dumbledore, or rather to the attention and willingness to work together he was suddenly experiencing from this powerful, highly respected man who ran Hogwarts and sat on a dozen prestigious boards or whatever you want to call things like being a supreme mugwump. We don't see a lot of their relationship, but there's clearly a closeness because Dumbledore trusts him to spy for The Order, keep an eye on Quirrell, etc. Snape has been working at Hogwarts, thanks to Dumbledore, for a decade when we enter the story, and it seems like he doesn't really have anywhere else to go, at least not easily.

All this is to say, I think that Snape would have had a kind of emotional dependency on Dumbledore, whether because of his daddy issues, or because Dumbledore was one of the few people whose trust he had been able to earn and the only one who was willing to give him any kind of second chance. So when Dumbledore tells him that Harry will have to die, Snape feels betrayed in a number of ways but that instinct to regain trust and validation is probably strong in him. The same way that he works to protect Lily's son for so many years after her death out of guilt, I can imagine him still working to make Dumbledore proud after his death.

I also think that by this point (Dumbledore telling him that Harry has to die) Snape was too far gone, too committed. He knew that the work he was doing was bigger than him, and I think he believed in the idea of "the greater good" but was more willing to sacrifice himself than anyone else. In the end, I think it says a lot that he conveys to Harry, through his own memories, that this was Dumbledore's idea not his own, and that he did not want Harry to die, Dumbledore was the one who said it was a necessity. The memory he gives Harry isn't just Dumbledore saying "the boy must die" but the whole conversation that includes Snape being upset over this. I've always seen The Prince's Tale as Snape trying to pass Dumbledore's message along to Harry and it getting interrupted by his life flashing before his eyes as he's dying. I don't think he wanted Harry to know all the intimate details of his love for Lily, he just couldn't keep it out of his head. But I do think that he intended to show Harry that when Dumbledore admitted he had been dishonest about his knowledge that Harry would have to die, that he (Snape) had called him out on it.

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encantadiafan12 · 1 year

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Severus Snape x Reborn! Priestess! Ravenclaw! Reader

The Heart-breaking Truth 💔

Introduction: After she awaken from a horrifying nightmare. She was horrified to witness on how she died. What would happen if she was surprisingly comfort by the person who's her thread she was currently tied to and link?

A/n: Y/n was 21 years old mentally and psychologically but physically an 11 year old.

Warnings: Mentions of Death and Angst

Y/n was horrified after she awoken to a nightmare she was killed by a Demon back in the world of Inuyasha. However, that was the third time she died but she was aware the Tensaiga can longer give her a second chance. She's now in the world of her childhood when she started her liking towards magic. The world of Harry Potter.

She was currently in a room while looking at the Mirror of Erised while tears were running out of her. ‘Why did I even fell in love with Sesshomaru as a child back in my world? I'm a fool...’ She thought in her head.

However, she was then startled when she felt a familiar hand place against her shoulder when she look up to see. It was Severus but in his view Professor Snape.

“Professor Snape...." The Priestess then mutters. The Potions Master has surprisingly concern look. “Is something wrong, Ms. L/n?” He asks the Ravenclaw girl in a surprisingly soft voice.

Y/n then looks at him her face strain with tears “Professor, you remembered when I told you and Headmaster Dumbledore that I died in the other world I was?” she asks as that made the Potions Master confused before he nod his head. “I had not forget, L/n.... What are even going at?” he carefully asks.

The Priestess then looks down. “It’s not the first time I died. It was the third. The first, I was murdered by my boyfriend back in my world, the second time I was killed by a demon but I was revived by the sword called Tensaiga by Sesshomaru. However, 4 years after Naraku’s death I was killed by a demon again but this time I'm aware that the sword would no longer give me another chance....” she then explains as tears start to fell from her eyes again. Severus then pulls her against his chest as he starts rubbing circles on her back.

Well, to comfort her as she doesn't deserve the fate she got. To Y/n, her threads of fate linking to Sesshomaru is now severed.

Severus had his chin against the top of her head as she continue to cry against chest. They both pull away as the Ravenclaw girl then wipes the tears from her eyes with her robes. The Potions Master then took out a potion from the pockets of his robe as the girl looks at him confused. “Calming draught but come to my classroom after classes. So I can give you a Dreamless potion so you will not endure any nightmares.” he then tells her.

The Priestess then gives him a grateful smile. “Thank you, sir....” she then says even though it hurt to keep this teacher and student boundary. However, she's willing to be patient to wait for him. As he's still trying to get used that their threads are link to both of them.

The Ravenclaw girl knew that he found she was aware what's going to happen as she was from the world where both the wizarding world and those she knew in the Feudal Era were fictional characters. But she knew he doesn't seem to care if his fate was altered in the future.

When Severus found out he had a thread of fate link to Y/n even though her fate was originally with the Demon Lord but it got severed when she died. She lost her feelings towards him afterwards after 4 years of being avoided by Sesshomaru. He never wants to be with the girl who knew what's going to happen in the future.

The Potions Master then stood up not before holding his hand out to the reborn Priestess. “Can you get up?” he asks in a soft tone before Y/n nod her before she then place her hand against his. He then slowly helps her up before helping her leave the room to head to his office. After they left. What they didn't know someone heard their entire conversation.

Quirrell then steps out of the shadow in corner he hid himself in before undoing the Disillusionment Charm he cast on himself. “She died..... She died three times but survive three times... How is that even possible?” he then asks to himself while he has a frown on his face.

However the voice at the back of his head respond distinctly excited particularly the Dark Lord's voice. ‘I need her! Within her body lies the key to cheating death....’

#severus snape x reader #harry potter #harry potter crossover #inuyasha crossover #Severus Snape

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dumbledoresthroughndthrough · 1 year

Text

Does anyone else ever think about how Harry & Albus'relationship might have developed had Albus not died that night? (And by extension, had Albus not been dying at all)

Like, consider what they had been through together that evening within the cave. That sort of thing really brings people closer. A shared trauma. Harry witnessed Albus at his absolute most vulnerable (to that point), something which cannot be said by many in my opinion.

I'd like to think that Albus invited Harry to his office one evening, not too long after, once Albus had sufficiently recovered for the effects of the potion.

Harry doesn't know what to expect, but he's pleasantly surprised when his Headmaster suggests they move to the couches behind his desk, and he summons some warm Butterbeers for them both.

And it's there at Albus delves into what he had experienced when he drank the potion. Harry listens intently, a great sympathy falling over him when Albus mentions the death of his sister while they were both teenagers. And that it was her death with had plagued him that night.

Harry thinks to ask why, but decides not to, considering that had the Headmaster wanted to tell him, he would have. Instead Harry takes comfort in the fact that Dumbledore had shared this much with him. He now knows that they have both lost loved ones, and after Albus reveals that the death of his sister happened in Godric's Hollow, Harry cannot help but ask if maybe they could both go someday. To visit the graves of their loved ones. Harry for the very first time.

And Harry thinks that this would be fitting, sharing that moment with his greatest mentor. Albus tells Harry that he will consider it, mentioning that it might not be the safest place for Harry to go to at the moment. Harry brings up... "Hermione told me, first year, that Voldemort could never touch me while, not while I had you to keep me safe."

"While I am touched by the display of loyalty by yourself and Miss Granger, Harry, Tom has indeed managed to touch and hurt you under my watch."

Harry considers this for a moment, "Yeah because he pulled strings to separate us, but you were always there when it really counted.

First year, you rushed to my aid after my battle with Quirrell and Voldemort, after he had lured you out of the castle. I remember seeing your glasses as I lost consciousness. You carried me to the Hospital Wing.

Second year, you sent Fawkes to help me, giving me the option to wield the Sword. To know you had so much faith in me, it meant a lot.

Third year, you gave me the chance to discover who Sirius was for myself, but still took measures to make sure I'd be safe. And then you let me save Sirius when it turned out he didn't want to kill me after all.

Fourth year, when I was in the graveyard and mine and Voldemort's wands connected, I could hear the sound of the Phoenix song. And it reminded me of you. It filled me with hope and gave me strength to keep fighting. A voice even told me to not give up.

Fifth year...well, that's more complicated as you know. But I understand that all you did last year was to keep me safe. And when all I wanted to do was rage at you, you stood there and let me. You gave me a safe space - to let out all of the hurt and anger and confusion I'd felt all year. And of course on top of that, the grief from losing Sirius.

And, and well, this year, when you came to pick me up from the Dursley's... you gave me my first proper drink of alcohol. I mean, you didn't have to do that, but you did and while that might seem trivial, it made feel warm in more ways than one. And then you told Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon off... Professor, I don't think you know what that meant to me.

My point is, no matter what Voldemort has done, no matter what hell my life is at the time, I've never felt more safe, more cared for, than to know you're there watching over me."

Albus sat there listening in silent growing awe as Harry spilled out his heart, and similar to earlier in the year, he finds himself with tears in his eyes. He cannot believe how much Harry holds in high regard. But he is incredibly touched.

"Thank you, Harry. I am, once again, very touched by your words. You are extraordinarily kind. Perhaps we can visit Godric's Hollow before you turn 17. Consider it my birthday gift to you. It would be my highest honour."

(part one)

#harry and dumbledore #sorry i rambled like crazy there #i just have so many thoughts and ideas in my head #harry potter #pro albus dumbledore #what if scenarios #meta #is it?#headcanon #just my thoughts and ramblings #please do interact #i like to see other people's opinions

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inwhichiramble · 2 years

Text

Chrysalis: Chapter 13

This is the final chapter of Year 1! Hope you all enjoy :D

Start Here | Prev | Next

---------------

“--Can’t believe he used the cruciatus curse, that’s illegal, that is--”

“--I heard she had him by the throat, he probably got really angry after that--”

“--I heard Harry killed him to get revenge!”

“Wait, that’s so romantic!”

“Romantic??”

“Megan, sweetheart, you need some help--”

“Shhh, she’s waking up!”

Caelia squinted, trying to take in her surroundings. The floor seemed pretty soft, considering she was miles beneath the school. Or was she? Her head was pounding, and she reached up to massage her forehead only to discover…were those bandages?

She opened her eyes all the way to see her three Hufflepuff friends, plus Ron and Hermione standing over her. She blinked.

“Good morning, Caelia,” said Hannah softly. “How are you?”

“Um… confused,” she breathed, and her friends chuckled. “Where’s Harry? Is he okay?”

Ron nodded, gesturing behind them. “He’s in the bed next to you, still out cold. But he’s okay. What in the world happened to you two down there?”

The four other girls shot him dirty looks, but Caelia waved them off. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what happened after Quirrell hit me. But… he’s dead now, right?”

“Apparently,” Megan nodded grimly. “Professor Dumbledore said Harry killed him with his bare hands.”

Caelia shuddered, but proceeded to regale the story to her incredibly curious friends. After a while Madam Pomfrey insisted they leave, it was Saturday after all, and the end-of-year feast was tomorrow.

Caelia was worried that she would be left to lie awake with just her thoughts, but that was not true for long. To her great surprise, Professor Dumbledore came to her bedside, gazing at her almost contemplatively with those ever-twinkling eyes he had.

“Hello, Professor Dumbledore,” she said politely.

“Hello, Miss Carter,” said Dumbledore. She couldn’t read him very well, which was unusual. “How are you feeling?”

She paused. “Do you want an honest answer?”

He chuckled. “I would always like an honest answer.”

“Alright,” she breathed. “Honestly… not very good. My head hurts pretty bad and I have a lot of questions.”

He nodded sagely. “That is completely understandable. In fact, Miss Carter, I actually have a few questions for you as well, but I will let you ask yours first. What is it you wish to know?”

She thought for a moment, trying to pin down something specific. “Sir? Harry told me about the Mirror of Erised, and… we saw it down there. I didn’t get a good look at it, but I did see… I think-- I think it was a goat? I don’t know. I know the danger of the Mirror, but I’d like to see it again, in full, because to be honest, well… I don’t think I can pine over something I don’t understand. So I’d like to have the knowledge of what it is I see, in case there is a chance I might be able to understand in the future.”

The old man seemed a bit surprised to be asked this question, but nodded nonetheless. “I believe that that would be alright. We are moving the mirror away from Hogwarts, but you may see it before you leave here. May I ask you a question of my own, Miss Carter?”

She nodded.

“I have seen that Harry Potter considers you to be one of his closest friends,” said Dumbledore. “I am aware that you and your father live near him, on Privet Drive, is that correct?”

She nodded again.

“Tell me, Miss Carter. Why did you join Harry in attempting to stop the stone from being stolen? Harry, as well as his Gryffindor friends, have had a track record of getting into a bit of mischief this year, but you do not.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call this mischief, Professor Dumbledore,” she stated calmly. “This was a matter of life or death for Harry, and frankly, for the whole Wizarding World. I understand that I broke several school rules, but rules are meant to keep us safe, are they not? I broke them knowing that I would be putting my life in danger. Helping Harry was more important.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly. “Loyalty has alway been one of the biggest values of Hufflepuff House,” he stated. “When I heard that you had gone with Harry, a part of me wondered why you had not been sorted into Gryffindor. Typically there is a sort of… recklessness required to attempt such feats,” he said, looking Caelia in the eyes, “But I see now that rather than a raw sense of courage you possess or desire to have, it is your loyalty to Harry that gives you your strength. That is a very special kind of bravery, Caelia.”

Caelia held his gaze. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the headmaster of Hogwarts, but she knew this; so long as there was someone out to get Harry, this would not be the last that Albus Dumbledore would hear of Hufflepuff.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry woke up fighting.

Caelia was well enough to leave her bed, but Madam Pomfrey had insisted she use a wheelchair, as it was still unclear how her body was responding to the cruciatus curse, as well as her mild concussion. She slept in the wing the night before, but when Harry had awoken the next morning in the bed beside her, nearly clocking Professor Dumbledore in the face and screaming her name, she was very tempted to go straight back to bed.

When Dumbledore and Pomfrey had finally calmed her friend and assured him that Caelia was just fine, (“Look, dear, she’s right there beside you.”) and Dumbledore had finished talking to Harry, Caelia rolled over to face him with a cheeky smile on her face.

He rolled his eyes, smiling, but then softened. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Lia.”

“Me too, Harry, me too.”

Later they went through the photograph album that Hagrid had stopped by to give Harry, beaming at all of pictures of his parents and marveling how similar Harry looked to his father (Madam Pomfrey chimed in that the stunt Harry pulled with Quirrell could rival even that of the mischief his father, which made Harry beam even wider. Caelia was afraid that he’d be getting ideas).

And then, of course, that night was the end-of-year feast. Madam Pomfrey fussed over the both of them, reminding them to take the potions she sent with them, and she made Caelia walk a lap around the Hospital Wing before they were both fit to leave, but finally they managed to escape.

When they made it to the Great Hall, which was already filled with students and decked out in Slytherin green, a hush fell over the hall for a brief moment before loud conversation resumed. Harry and Caelia found their seats at the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, trying to ignore the looks they were getting.

Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later.

“Another year gone!” said the headmaster cheerfully, proceeding to reminisce on the past year, and Caelia fazed out for a moment as she came to terms with the fact that her first year at Hogwarts was really over.

“Now, as I understand it,” said Dumbledore, “the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty six, and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”

The Slytherin table burst into cheers, and the rest of the hall clapped politely (some less politely than others).

“Yes, yes, well done Slytherin,” Dumbledore said dismissively. “However, recent events must be taken into account.”

The room went very still.

Draco and Caelia met eyes across the room.

For once, Caelia had an inkling of an idea of what Dumbledore was going to say next, and she really hoped that Draco wouldn’t jump to conclusions.

“Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes…”

Caelia could see the man attempting to do math in his head.

“First--to Mr. Ronald Weasley… for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”

That was not how Caelia would have congratulated Ron, but it was clear that Dumbledore was already grasping at straws.

“Second--to Miss Hermione Granger… for the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor house fifty points.”

“That’s slightly better, I guess,” Caelia muttered under her breath, causing Hannah to glance at her amusedly.

Meanwhile, the Gryffindors were losing their minds.

Third--to Miss Caelia Carter…”

Caelia felt every single jaw at the Hufflepuff table drop.

“...for displaying incredible loyalty and fierce bravery even in the face of torture, I award Hufflepuff house fifty points.”

The Hufflepuff table erupted into cacophony--Caelia could see her friends at the Gryffindor table cheering--Draco’s eyes had widened in confusion--she would really have to explain everything later, but right now--

“It doesn’t change our standings at all, but this is all the victory I need!” Ernie MacMillan cheered. All of her friends were squeezing her at once, and Caelia was mentally begging Professor Dumbledore to move on.

Still. It was nice for Hufflepuff to have a victory.

“Now…” said Dumbledore, and the hall quieted. “To Mr. Harry Potter… for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor house sixty points.”

The din was deafening. Gryffindor was now tied with Slytherin at four hundred and seventy-two points, and through her cheers Caelia wondered if Dumbledore would manage to pull one more ace out of his magical sleeve. She would have been happy with a tie, but…

“There are all kinds of courage,” said Dumbledore, smiling. “It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. I therefore award ten points to Mr. Neville Longbottom.

Caelia’s ears experienced a new decibel of volume that night.

Her first priority after being released from the hall was to find Draco, and after she managed to escape the hundreds of hugs, back slaps, and fist bumps from her classmates, she escaped from the Hufflepuff horde and found Draco standing alone in the hallway adjacent to his common room.

Her breath caught. “You waited for me?”

He leaned against the wall and chuckled softly. “Something important, huh?”

She blushed. “Uh… yeah. I’m sure you heard the rumors?”

He waved it off, but then his forehead creased and he looked at her with an expression she couldn’t place. “You were crucioed?”

She exhaled. “Yeah. Yeah, I was. But it was my choice to go down there. You wouldn’t have been able to stop me no matter how hard you tried.”

He ducked his head, nodding.

“Draco?”

“Yes?”

“It wasn’t Harry’s fault either,” she stated. “If you want to be angry, be angry with me.” He shook his head. “You really are a wonder, Carter.”

She laughed. “Hmm… the Wonder Witch. That’s kind of catchy!”

Neither of them were sure what happened next, but all of a sudden they were hugging and Caelia finally felt like she could breathe.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, when they woke, the Hufflepuff first years found themselves hovering over the Black Lake--still in their beds and pajamas. Apparently Wayne Hopkins rolled in his sleep, because the poor boy woke by rolling straight into the water and was allegedly rescued by the Giant Squid (though no one can or will prove that) and his screams awoke the rest of the first years to their plight.

Their urgent questions and protests were quickly answered by the jubilant laughter of all the Hufflepuff seventh years at the shore of the lake, who, in realizing that the first years spotted them, collectively bolted back to the castle.

After Caelia and her classmates managed to find their way back to shore (another story that Caelia refuses to tell), they had their last breakfast for the year, and Caelia’s owl, Daffodil, dropped a note from Dumbledore for her in front of her while she ate. She read it quickly and said goodbye to her friends before heading out of the hall and up to the Astronomy Tower.

Dumbledore was there waiting for her; the Mirror of Erised behind him.

“Miss Carter,” he greeted.

“Professor Dumbledore. Thank you for the… recognition last night.”

He gave her a wane smile. “You earned it, Miss Carter. Now…” he gestured behind him. “Go ahead. You do not have to tell me what you see if you don’t wish to.”

She nodded, and stepped towards the mirror, anticipation filling her.

At first she was incredibly confused, as she did not see herself in the mirror. Rather, she saw an expansive field of yellow grain, a herd of goats in the foreground, and forest-covered cliffs in the distance. There was no one else in the mirror, but she thought she sensed someone standing next to her, though she couldn’t see them--it certainly wasn’t Dumbledore, as he had distanced himself behind her. But for a moment, looking in that mirror, she felt very at peace.

After a moment, she stepped away from the mirror with an unreadable expression on her face. She looked at Dumbledore curiously.

“Does everyone see themself in the mirror?” she asked.

He smiled. “Most do. But some…some look out at what is before them rather than what is reflected.”

“There was someone… there was someone with me. But I couldn’t see them.”

“Ah. Perhaps it is something the two of you desire to have together, rather than your desire for this person, that you see.”

Caelia did not know what to make of this, but she figured some Cauldron cakes on the Hogwarts Express would help her figure it out.

From then it was only a matter of time before they were on the train back home--the Hufflepuff girls, Golden trio, and Neville managed to claim two compartments adjacent to each other and nearly bought out the Trolley Witch’s whole supply--and then back on Platform 9 ¾.

They all waved goodbye and promised to write over the summer, and Mrs. Weasley fussed over them while Harry and Caelia waited for Mr. Carter to come pick them up. When he finally arrived they waved goodbye to Ron and spent the whole car ride home filling Caelia’s father in on things before they had to send Harry home (poor Mr. Carter nearly crashed twice in shock).

Finally they reached the Carter home, and Caelia and Harry hugged tightly before Harry took Hedwig and his belongings with him to cross the street back to Number 4.

“Do you think he’s going to be okay?” Mr. Carter worried.

Caelia patted her father on the arm and smiled. “Don’t worry Dad… Harry’s a Gryffindor. He’s going to be just fine.”

#chrysalis #harry potter #Harry Potter fanfiction #hogwarts #first year #harry james potter #the golden trio #writers #fanfic writer #mirror of erised #hufflepuff #fanfiction #tumblr fanfic

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snap-crackers · 3 years

Text

Au where Norberta hatches a wee bit earlier than expected and now Quirrell has to raise her

Also staring my headcanon that Quirrell was/still is really into dangerous magical creature (with trolls ranking chief)

#my art #hp #quirinus quirrell #silvanus kettleburn #severus snape #norberta the Norwegian ridgeback #I also have the headcanon that quirrell was making a bag that worked like newts but ran out of time or something #so he had to give the egg to haggis as is #hagrid #not haggis #and then when the bag was done he couldn’t go to the hut with out seeming suspicious #and then norberta left before he could figure out a way to give hagrid the bag #I feel like if Quirrell had the chance #he would have absolutely taught COMC

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pet-genius · 3 years

Text

Second Greatest Regret

He opened his eyes. The darkness was so complete he might as well have kept them shut. Pain shooting from his eyes to the back of his head made him feel disoriented even as he was lying down. “Up, up, get up”, he told himself, but abandoned this strategy as soon as he managed to lift his knee up, only for it to start to wobble.

"Tsk," he told himself in Lucius’s voice. “It’s a shame you’re still so Muggle.” Lucius wasn't there, of course, only the faux-sympathetic way he talked sometimes, and that of all of Lucius’s mannerisms, Severus mastered with ease. A bona fide wizard would have used magic first. Through the pain, he mumbled charms to reduce the swelling and alleviate the pain. A potion would have been better, but his private store back at the castle, which he could see looming in the distance, might as well have been in another country.

He rose, staggering like his father after he’d had one too many. He spat on the ground, quickly diagnosing himself with a concussion. A wave of brightness assaulted him and he held on to a tree for support. “Is that a Patronus? What is going on?” He was trying to remember what had happened, when he saw them: Potter and his trusty sidekicks, the insufferable know-it-all and the insufferable know-nothing; Sirius Black, in worse shape than Severus himself. He checked them for their pulse and for breathing, not with the overly elaborate magical methods but with the knowledge he picked up around the drunks of Cokeworth. The mirror fogged up, their pulses weak but stable.

“I should kill you”, he said to Black’s inert body. “I know I won’t regret it. And you know you deserve it, don’t you? You know it’s only right that it should be by my hand?”

He pointed his wand, aimed it at Black, and his hand shook. “You’re not a killer,” the Death Eaters used to say, all those years ago. “You'd be dead weight on any real mission.”

Sirius didn’t look scared. Just once, Severus wanted to see him scared. “He betrayed James, who was like his brother. He betrayed Lily. He made your life into a farce. Kill him.”

His hand unstable, he realised he couldn’t use the killing curse. “If you shake and hurt one of the students,” he told himself. It does not do well to attempt dark magic when your wits aren’t about you. “Do it with your hands like a man,” another voice said, Tobias’s this time.

And Severus walked toward the unconscious forms, and leaned over Black, holding his eyelid open and testing him for reflexes using his wand for light. Black’s eyes did not move.

“What sort of lowlife coward attacks a helpless man? When I kill him, he’ll know.”

As he carried them all to the castle, with every step, he berated himself. “You’re too weak to kill. Even him.” He wanted to kill, he had wanted to kill every day, and there was his chance, and there he was, letting it – forcing it – to slip through his fingers.

“How are you going to explain to the Dark Lord why you killed him?” he asked himself. “How would the Dark Lord be able to return without him?” he answered himself with a question. Had a student done that, Severus would have docked them five points.

“He came close enough with Quirrell, didn't he?”

Yes, there were others, Death Eaters who walked free, sympathisers who technically never broke the law, and however many silly little boys (yes, almost exclusively boys) who felt the call of the dark, who believed in Voldemort, who would grow up free from the fear and know only the legends of his greatness... “Silly little boys like you. The Dark Lord will rise again and when he does, he’ll wonder what ever happened to the unexpected ally he’d found in Sirius Black. Best you let the Ministry kill him.”

Severus knew but chose to ignore that this would be as hard to explain as killing Black himself.

Later, when the truth revealed itself, only his own memories, extracted from his mind and placed in the Pensieve, could persuade Severus that Sirius was innocent of the particular crime of being a Death Eater, of betraying Lily; still, he regretted not having taken the chance to kick him in his pureblood ribs, spit in his pureblood eyes, when he could.

"That's not weakness, Severus,” Dumbledore said with his most grating brand of compassion. “That's strength. Those are the moments that define –”

Severus rubbed his temples and stopped listening. His left arm had been bothering him, a sensation of pins and needles. He knew and feared what it meant.

He had seen it in the Pensieve, Peter Pettigrew begging for his life, Harry’s misplaced sense of honour preventing them all from exercising the cruelty he knew they possessed. “You already proved you could knock a grown wizard out with three simultaneous Expelliarmus charms,” he seethed, “how could you let him get away?”

He watched the scene unfold and the truth come to light, again and again, himself helpless to stop it knowing what he now knew. “You’re letting a werewolf out of the shack on a full moon night, Black! And Pettigrew can transform! I thought Dementors feed on souls, not brains!”

He told himself, “if you ever get another chance to kill one of them, don’t hesitate again,” and shook his arm as a menacing pile of papers to mark stared at him.

[@bringbackthebastard day 1]

Thank you so much to @dementedlollipop, my ever-helpful and insightful beta <3

#bring back the bastard 2020 #snape fic #snapedom #snape love #severus snape #pro snape

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stagbells · 3 years

Text

Written Work

From: @imsorrythisexists

To: @dooblebugs

Written works under readmore!

In Hallownest, summer brought with it the resurgence of wildlife. Winter typically killed off some of the bugs, and Hornet would hunt down most of the rest. Of course, she was incredibly careful to not over hunt any specific area. Greenpath and the gardens were usually the most abundant with prey, so she tended to stick around there while hunting. She couldn’t always hunt in the greenery though, so she had found herself in the Howling Cliffs.

There wasn’t much prey in the area, but the squits did make rather tasty jerky. Hornet wandered around for a while, jumping from platform to platform. She caught any squit that she saw, and placed it inside of the bag she had brought. After catching half a dozen of them, she decided to head back into town. She wanted to have the jerky ready before dinner, and it was already mid morning. Sly usually took about 5 hours to make and package the jerky, so even if she took her time she should be fine.

While passing the cave that housed the grimm troupe’s lantern, she noticed a flash of blue out of the corner of her eye. Her adrenaline spiked slightly, and she whirled around, keeping a hand on her needle. Her eyes cautiously scanned the surroundings, keeping an eye out for any movement. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that same flash of blue, and she lashed out with her weapon.

“WAIT HORNET-”

Oh fuck-

Hornet turned, and her momentum propelled her into the side of the cliff, barely missing the ant standing right next to where her needle landed. She stood there for a moment, panting as the adrenaline rush started to die down. Once that was gone however, all that remained was irritation. Hornet removed the tip of her needle from where it had pierced the rock, and slowly turned to face Tiso.

Tiso shrank back slightly under the force of her glare, but he shrugged it off and met it with a glare of his own. There was silence for a few moments, before Hornet let out a breath and closed her eyes. She reached a hand up to rub down her face, and Tiso relaxed as well. She reopened her eyes, and they immediately focused on Tiso.

She rolled her eyes, amazed at just how stupid he could be sometimes. “What were you thinking, you idiot?”, she questioned, “You know what happens when you surprise me.” Tiso huffed, crossing his arms.

“Hollow asked me to come find you, they almost have lunch done.” Hornet jolted slightly. It seemed her internal clock had been off, if it was already time for lunch. She had to hurry then if she wanted to get the jerky prepped in time. Brushing past Tiso without a word, she continued to make her way back to Dirtmouth.

‘Wha- Hey! You’re welcome asshole!”, Tiso shouted at her retreating back. Hornet heard him grumble under his breath, and then she heard his footsteps start to follow her. Hollow must have invited him over for dinner again. They do have a habit of adopting strays, she mused.

Tiso had become a common sight in dirtmouth after he had been saved from the mawlek. Even after he had healed, he stuck around. He was annoying as hell, and quite the pest with his antics, but she put up with him for Ghost’s sake. Her sibling deserved to have friends, and despite being a prick, Tiso did genuinely seem to care for the vessel. Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to get attached to him.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Tiso left the pale siblings’ house, throwing a quick goodbye over his shoulder. Lunch had been relatively calm, other than the usual chaos that came with the siblings. It was only the four of them, as Quirrel, Myla, and Cloth had been busy. Hollow had made some kind of soup Tiso couldn’t remember the name of, and as always it had been incredible. He had only had a small bowl though, as he didn’t want them to think that he was actually hungry, even if he was. Either way, he had gone without food longer than a few hours, so he’d be fine.

Tiso had tried to leave right after eating, but Ghost had wanted to spar. He got his ass kicked, but he tried not to let it bruise his pride too much. The squib was a damn good fighter, seeing as how they had managed to beat the Colosseum. Hollow hadn’t joined them, as they wanted to work in their garden. Hornet probably would’ve loved the chance to one up Tiso, but she had left almost immediately, saying that she had to go deal with something.

As Tiso continued towards his camp (not home, never home), he allowed his thoughts to circle back to the Colosseum. He was an idiot for ever thinking that he would be able to complete the challenges. He had only really started to learn how to fight after Spencer- after he left the colony. God I was a fucking moron. His expression twisted into a frown, and he kicked at the rocks under his feet. He was starting to spiral, and he didn’t have any kind of distraction.

Thankfully, he managed to find one almost immediately. Hornet was sitting next to the cliffside that led to the Howling cliffs. It looked like she was messing with some kind of package in her hands. She seemed busy, so it was the perfect time to go bother her. Tiso walked over, a smirk on his face. He deliberately made his footsteps loud, not looking for a repeat of earlier. Hornet glanced up, and her face immediately became irritated. Unfortunately for her, this only made Tiso’s grin widen, even as some of the turbulent emotions from earlier remained.

He sat down about two feet away from her, just out of her immediate reach. Hornet kept her eyes on him, but quickly returned her attention to what she was originally doing. Tiso just kept staring at her, watching as her patience began to thin. She never managed to hold out for long when he did this, and it seemed that this time was no exception. He could see her expression become more and more annoyed, and her hands started to clench around the item in her hands. I wonder how long it’ll take before-

“Would you stop staring at me already!” There it is. Tiso met Hornet’s glare with a smug smirk, and he didn’t bother trying to hide his amusement. “What do you even want, Tiso.”

Tiso neatly sidestepped the question with one of his own, “What’s that?” He nodded to indicate the package in her hands. It looked like something from Sly’s store. The shopkeeper had a habit of stamping his address on all of his items, so people would know where to go if they wanted to buy anything. While Tiso was caught up in examining the package, he almost missed Hornet’s answer.

“It’s jerky,” she answered, sounding slightly hesitant, “do you want some?” Tiso could immediately feel the answer on the tip of his tongue. Jerky was incredible, and he was still starving. He wanted to say yes so, so, badly. But he couldn’t. He didn’t need handouts, he was doing fine on his own. Plus, Hornet didn’t eat enough anyways, so he couldn’t take any food away from her.

“I’m good, princess.” Hornet gave him a look for the nickname, but she let it slide for once. Tiso thought that he saw a brief glimpse of confusion in her eyes, but it was quickly wiped away as she turned back to the jerky. Tiso stared at the sky, trying to hide the want he felt. He could hear the wrapper crinkling and all he wanted to do was retract his previous statement.

Then Hornet tore open the package and oh fuck. Tiso could feel his mouth start to water, and he desperately wanted to be able to taste it. He refused to give in though, he refused to take food away from Hornet. However, his body had other ideas, and his stomach let out a loud growl. Tiso froze completely, and the noise from next to him ceased as well. He kept his gaze glued to the sky, even as he could feel Hornet’s eyes boring holes into the side of his head. He swallowed the saliva that had built up, and his face was burning.

He felt Hornet shift next to him, and he braced for the onslaught of teasing. “Tiso-” He went rigid, and she cut herself off. The formerly comfortable silence had grown tense and awkward, and neither of them would look at the other. Tiso let out a breath, and grabbed his shield, preparing to get the hell out of there.

“Anyways, i’ve gotta go, I usually train right now and I don’t want to skip that-”

“Tiso.” Hornet’s interjection stopped his ramble in its tracks, and he shut up. Tiso decided to take a chance, and he glanced over at Hornet. She was staring right at him, and he could feel the heat returning to his face in full force. He searched her face for any trace of mockery or pity, but all he found was exhaustion and sincerity. Despite the anxiety he felt, he slowly returned to his original position, and turned back to the sky. He was acutely aware of every movement Hornet made, but he still jumped when she tapped his shoulder.

He jerked his head around to face her, and found himself facing a strip of the jerky. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he struggled not to blush again when he saw the amusement dancing in her eyes. Hornet shook the jerky slightly, and Tiso glanced between her and the food one last time to double check. Hornet shook it again, more insistently this time, so he reached out and took it from her. He took a bite of it, and nearly melted when he could finally taste it. His eyes closed out of bliss, but they snapped back open when he heard muffled laughter. He shot a glare at Hornet, but for once, there was no heat behind it.

He elbowed her lightly in the side, and she shoved him back with a grin. The atmosphere around them lightened, and they started a quiet conversation. For a while, it was peaceful, and they happily shared the rest of the jerky. And then Hornet insulted Tiso, so he insulted her back. Hornet then tackled him.

#hollow knight #stagbells #summer stagbells 2021 #hornet #tiso #written work

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ganymedesclock · 3 years

Note

Do you personally interpret the end of Quirrel's storyline as him being dead or him just leaving his nail behind to search new things? I wanted the last, but people always talk about how he wouldn't leave his nail behind since he cares so much about that and I think they got a point

So Quirrel talks about weapons twice, once at the Black Egg Temple, and once at the Lake of Unn.

To persevere in this ruin, that old nail alone just won't be enough. Though that's no problem! One only has to look around.

Plenty have come before us and most have met their grisly end, many more equipped than you and I. I'm sure they wouldn't mind were a fellow explorer to relieve them of their tools. It's a kindness really. The dead shouldn't be burdened with such things.

I'd planned to offer greetings, though figured I'd first tend to my nail on chance our meeting goes poorly.

Your nail looks a fine instrument, but it's showing signs of wear.

I'd wager up there it would take you far. Down here however, I suspect you'll soon meet dangers the surface world can't match.

From that, I don’t necessarily take that he has a personal relationship with his own weapon, though I don’t take specific evidence to the contrary; he seems to have a utilitarian view about equipment.

How I personally see Quirrel’s final scene is Quirrel leaving his nail behind as a symbolic death. There’s a theme of death in general in Hollow Knight, often literal, but there’s also a point made that the happiest and most actualized people are able to address their regrets and let go of them- both parts. Ghost has to challenge their Shade and take it back into themselves rather than leaving it out there, but with it restored they are no longer haunted. You can argue, in a selfish sense (not hedging it in terms of they’re here to save Hollow)- Ghost came to this kingdom in the first place in order to ‘no longer be haunted’.

Quirrel, as we interact with him, is a haunted person. He is haunted by who he used to be. Quite often he talks, and more often he thinks without speaking, about the curious haze of his memory.

I think what we witness, in a game, is Quirrel laying a ghost to rest, and while in one sense, that’s Monomon, in another sense, it’s himself- the old him that lived in Hallownest. From there, I think it’s basically just personal preference and relatively fiddly headcanon whether or not laying this ghost to rest takes the present Quirrel as well; my personal sense is no, because I feel like the game fairly consistently makes a divergence between “your role” and “your self”- Ghost as specifically not the chosen Hollow Knight and people arguing said chosen knight might’ve been chosen falsely (by a metric that Ghost, themselves, if they supplant their sibling, is also ‘chosen falsely’).

To me, Quirrel is not someone I would suspect of yearning to die or believing his death is at hand. Out of everyone in this setting, he’s one of the most optimistic about the future. He’s earnestly curious, earnestly drawn, and I think it’s easy to assume he left his nail behind simply because that past Quirrel, that was relevant to Hallownest, was dead, and the present Quirrel, who is ready to leave all of that behind, lays the scholar’s nail alone in an unmarked grave and moves on.

If he did die, I’d presume that it wasn’t his choice, but also, I think, the people who ‘die when their role is exhausted’ are people who we are shown had a poor balance. The Pale King, who appears to have died by no particular means other than self-neglect, killing himself as he killed the vessels, by simply abandoning in an inhospitable environment- as if he felt that the kingdom couldn’t need him anymore and just left his own body out to collect dust. The Radiance, who has suffered a progressive deterioration from a goddess that did once preside over other living beings, before giving everything to her anger as fuel to stay alive, and who cannot really be saved; she either dies violently, or she continues to fester in wrath and imprisonment.

So I think yes, “Quirrel does die” in one sense of the word, but I think also, in some ways, it’s thematically important to my understanding of the game and its messages that he didn’t. He merely got over Hallownest, and walked away. He did not, as other characters such as Myla, chase his obsessions until they consumed him. There’s plenty of other places in the world. There is a definite sense of closure, of finality, to the moment at the blue lake and its foreshadowing- him commenting at the City of Tears that he’d like to see the source of its rainfall before he leaves the kingdom, that we are told this is our final moment with Quirrel- but I think that finality is hopeful in nature. Ghost, in some ways, is a funerary god; they are a companion of the lost souls that wander this deathly perimeter. Quirrel, ultimately, diverges his path from them- he climbs out of hell, and walks away into the world of the living.

(also this is just me saying if there’s ever a third HK game after Silksong, playable Quirrel would be fun)

#Hollow Knight #Quirrel #readmore #suicide mention #Anonymous

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startanewdream · 3 years

Text

Sneak in

“Potter! Weasley! What are you doing?”

It was Professor McGonagall, and her mouth was the thinnest of thin lines.

“We were — we were —” Ron stammered. “We were going to — to go and see —”

“Hermione,” said Harry.

Ron and Professor McGonagall both looked at him.

“We haven’t seen her for ages, Professor,” Harry went on hurriedly, treading on Ron’s foot, “and we thought we’d sneak into the hospital wing, you know, and tell her the Mandrakes are nearly ready and, er, not to worry —”

(Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets)

Just a small missing moment of something that Minerva McGonagall may have remembered in this scene.

____________________________

It’s just past ten and Minerva is returning to her office, after meeting with Albus, when she sees the two boys walking in the shadows of the corridor leading to the Hospital Wing. She doesn’t need to get closer to know who they are – if there is trouble, those First Years are right in the middle of it.

“Potter! Black! What are you doing?”

They turn around, their guilty expressions evident in the moonlight that comes from the windows of the hall, before one of them grins.

“Night, Professor”, James Potter greets warmly. “Fancy seeing you here”.

She doesn’t fall for his easy charm.

“I would say the same, but it’s already past curfew, Mr. Potter”.

“And you are out of bed, Professor?”, Sirius Black notes, his voice dripping with fake indignation. “That’s a bad example for your students”.

Minerva fights a will to laugh.

“Unlike you, Mr. Black, I have permission for it”, she says instead, thinking of how since term began, she has already seen them on ten detentions at least. They enjoy too much playing pranks on others – and they seem to have a knack for being discovered, almost as if they are doing it on purpose just for the reputation.

“But on emergencies the law can be ignored, Professor. Isn’t that right?’, James asks innocently, though Minerva doubts there is any innocent bone on his body.

“It would be, but neither of you seems to be on an emergency”.

“No, fortunately, we found ourselves mostly healthy”, James notes brightly, then he frowns. “But our friend isn’t”.

“Friend?”

“It’s Remus, Professor”, Sirius says hurriedly. “We came back from dinner to find out he is sick, and since he was sick last month too, we were worried”.

“We were trying to visit him in the Hospital Wing”, James adds, now more serious. “Just to show support, let him know we are there if he needs anything”.

Now Minerva fights not to show any emotion at all. She knows exactly what affliction Remus Lupin is suffering and she knows they won’t find him in the Hospital Wing at this hour; the boy must already have gone to the Shrieking Shack.

She watches them both for any sign of mistrust, but Potter and Black must still be in the dark about Lupin’s real condition. That is not a secret she wants to share; she wasn’t sure about him, truth be told, but all she has seen of that First-Year boy is a kind hard-working boy, that, as Albus had put it, deserved a chance to study as much as anyone else.

He had been shy in the beginning, unsure of making friends, and Minerva had feared he would be isolated once she saw how Potter and Black had quickly formed a pair, both seeming to be best friends even after only one week of classes.

But then Potter and Black had started talking to him and she had seen how, despite his reservations, Lupin had opened himself to them, had accepted their friendship and had even coached them to also befriend little Peter Pettigrew.

Those four First-Year Gryffindors were now thick as thieves, always involved in some small prank or confusion, but always together too. She has already seen them getting into fights when someone tries to mess with one of them, careful to protect one another.

She is not surprised Black and Potter are concerned with their friend; they have their faults, but lack of loyalty to their little group is not one of them.

Minerva sighs, her expression softening.

“Mr. Lupin is fine”, she assures them, even though she knows she is lying. “I’ve seen him before, he is resting now, as should you”.

“Can’t we just –“

“No, you can see him tomorrow, Mr. Potter”, she tells them. “Now go to your Common Room, no detours”.

They exchange a look.

“No detention?”, James asks, sounding surprised.

“No missing points?”

“No telling us we are embarrassing Gryffindor?”

“That was Evans, James, not Professor McGonagall”.

“Oh, true”, James notes, flushing slightly. “But I think she scares me as much as –“

“Potter, Black”, Minerva interrupts him, again forcing herself not to smile. “Just go, it’s late. I don’t want to see you again out of the Common Room after curfew”.

“Don’t worry, Professor”, James says, grinning. “You won’t see us”.

He winks at her, and before Minerva can answer his cheekiness, he and Sirius turn in the next corridor.

“I really should use my Cloak more”, she hears James saying, his voice vanishing in the corridor.

________________________

Minerva shouldn’t be surprised.

She saw how close Harry, Ron and Hermione were ever since Halloween one year ago, how after that weird incident with the troll they had become friends and they were together in everything – even in that little adventure of Harry with Quirrell, all three of them facing the challenges that were well above them. She knows how Ron sacrificed himself so they could go on and she knows how Hermione only returned when only one could go forward.

And she noted how Harry and Ron seemed unbalanced ever since Hermione Granger was petrified, how it is obvious that their little group is for three members, not two, and how worried they are.

Sometimes she wonders if there is something in the Potter blood that inspires and demands loyalty.

She remembers how James and Peter and Sirius (before he… before) had woken up early in the mornings in search of Remus on the days he was away, how they were worried both before they knew his secret and afterwards when it was obvious they would come after a full moon looking for him.

And even if it was one of the others – the time Pettigrew was pushed in the stairs and had a concussion, or when Black had gotten the worst in a fight with another student, or when James had taken a bludger to his head – they would stay up all night in the Hospital Wing if she would let them; she didn’t, so they resumed to being there as soon as the Hospital Wing was open to visitation.

“We don’t want him to feel alone”, James had said one day, very early in the morning, when she had found them almost sleeping in front of the door to the Hospital Wing, waiting for it to open so they could check on Remus.

She’d thought of saying that Lupin was sleeping now, too tired after his transformation and clearly not caring or knowing if he was alone or not, but she hadn’t said anything.

She couldn’t fault them for wanting to be there for their friend.

Just as she can’t fault Harry and Ron for wanting to see their petrified friend. Especially Harry. He reminds her of James in many ways, like when he is flying or disregarding rules, but mostly when he is fiercely loyal and protector of his best friends.

The only thing Minerva wishes is that Harry’s friendships end up better than that of his father (it’s been years and she still can’t understand what happened to end with rebellious Sirius – the boy who worked so hard to show he was different from his family – in Azkaban, little Peter – who was always running to be in the same league as his friends - exploding and brave reckless loyal James betrayed and dead).

“Of course”, she says, forcing back her tears. “Of course, I realize this has all been hardest on the friends of those who have been… I quite understand. Yes, Potter, of course you may visit Miss Granger. I will inform Professor Binns where you’ve gone. Tell Madam Pomfrey I have given my permission”.

#i will review it in the morning so forgive any mistake #Missing Moment #Chamber of secrets #Just some parallels #Minerva McGonagall #Harry and James #Sirius Black #Marauders #t: fanfiction

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