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cherryslyce · 1 year

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Second Son (XIV) | Regulus Black

Series Synopsis: Forbidden from contacting Harry over the summer, you opt to explore the eerie halls of Grimmauld Place where you stumble upon a lonely portrait of the House's second son.

— Chapter Synopsis: Y/N joins Contessa Zabini for tea. Luna and Y/N make way to Reine, Norway. Y/N remembers something important about Regulus.

Part XIII / Part XV / Series Masterlist

Pairing: Regulus Black x GN!Reader

Notes: The Zabini's and Baroque architecture just makes sense to me. Also uhhh have fun <3.

The cranberry tinted cup that sat in front of you made your tea flush like diluted blood, the glass flared at the rims to resemble a blossom, imposing on the matching saucer that you couldn’t draw your eyes away from.

Luna sat perfectly quaint to your left, eyes running across the opulent clusters of furniture that accessorized the already extravagant room. Intricate carvings lined cream pillars that pinched the rounded windows in front of you, each imposing structure veiled by heavy blush curtains. The wooden table in front of you was polished spotlessly, matching the ornate chair that sat sturdy underneath your rigid body. On the opposite wall, you’re suddenly aware of the colossal gold-trimmed mirror that was no doubt reflecting your squared shoulders.

Blaise was living in a baroque daydream. Damn him.

Your tongue was doing a funny thing, tipping between sensitivity and leathery roughness. That would be of your own doing, having immediately drawn your lips to the scalding tea in an effort to diffuse the tension in your shoulders. Despite the abrupt burn, you had held in the sputtering that twisted in your throat in order to maintain some semblance of decorum.

The silence was becoming unnerving and you could tell that Blaise agreed, the usually composed slytherin was twitching to twist his rings for the nth time. Unexpectedly, when you all had arrived at the Zabini Manor, you were met with a rather unimpressed Theodore Nott. Blaise had quietly whispered that the boy was well-liked by his mother and was often a guest at their manor.

It felt like you and Luna had become prey trapped in a den full of beguiling predators. The Contessa sat across from you with Blaise to her right, the woman not even batting an eye when Theodore chose to round the table and sit next to you instead.

Easy access to attack you or was he also intimidated by the elegant woman?

“So you were at a wedding, dear?” The Contessa’s voice was smothered in a richness that complemented her unflinching gaze.

Clearing your throat lightly, you lean forward to meet her keen eyes, “Yes.” Your tone was mellow–formal, and the lack of embellishing in your answer seemed to both amuse and vex her.

Not giving up so easily, the woman stirs her tea without breaking eye contact, “I see, and you were both making a quick trip to Diagon Alley afterwards?” The question would have seemed innocent if it were coming from anybody else (perhaps with the exception of Voldemort), but you could practically see the gears in her head turning.

“A little disruption ruined our appetite for celebration.”

The woman raises a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at you, “Oh? What’s a wedding without a little family drama?”

You felt like someone had taken a bludger and scrambled your brains with it, high society was truly not for the weak to stomach. You weren’t even sure if the Contessa was teasing you or trying to prod for information.

It was likely the latter, and the thought made your stomach twist a little. Your exchange of letters had always been polite, borderlining strained pleasantries that involved Hogwarts classes, your research, and plans to meet up (that you were hoping to never attend).

“Family drama would have been preferable, I’m afraid,” Your tone lifted ever so slightly, but the small smile pulling at your lips hid how irritated you were becoming with the tango of words.

You shoot Blaise a small glance and see him watching you both with an unreadable expression, though his intense eyes unnerved you a bit. Like mother, like son.

The Contessa’s lips purse thinly and you get the impression that she is also becoming increasingly irate with your resolution, but then her face settles into a sharp grin.

Humming lowly, she tilts her head to assess you before speaking, “You impress me, my dear. It would seem that Blaise is getting better at picking his companions,” You see her shoot a small approving glance at Theodore, who merely sips his tea nonchalantly, “Theodore, Y/N – I hope you both will continue to look out for Blaise. We Zabini’s pride ourselves in our unflinching loyalty and we always return what is given to us threefold.”

Chancing a peek at the boy next to you, you see Theodore meet your eyes evenly. Your move.

Nodding at the dignified woman, you smile genuinely for the first time that evening, “It would be my honor, Contessa Zabini. However, my devotion to Blaise would have continued without question, he is quite-” you raise your eyebrow at the boy, “-fascinating, after all.”

By fascinating, I mean half as scary as you and ten times more approachable. His wicked sense of humor is also a plus.

Blaise narrows his eyes goodheartedly and drops a sugar cube into his cooled tea, “Thanks.” The dry response has Theodore hiding a small smirk in his tea cup, while the Contessa merely shoots an unimpressed look at her son’s sickly concoction.

“Indeed, you are quite personable, Y/N. I can’t help but wonder though, what is your stance on the current political climate? It would be ever so insightful for me.” The woman smoothly questions, the calculative glint in her eyes flashing under the chandelier lights.

Translation: Are you going to induct my son into Voldemort’s goonies or Dumbledore’s sycophants?

Stirring your tea absentmindedly, you decide to answer honestly, “I have my own motivations that don’t exactly align with the polarized ideologies of our sphere. Of course, I have a preference for who I wish to see come out on top, but either way, my own interests outweigh my desire to participate in politics.”

Your answer seems to catch everybody off guard (except for Luna who smiles like she’s known all along), and you see consideration paint the Contessa’s face, “Interesting. Blaise has indicated that you are quite close with Harry Potter, yet you declare neutrality?”

“Neutrality for as long as my interests continue to hold my attention, but I hold no ounce of admiration for the Dark Lord or his underlings.” You hesitate to continue, feeling shifty with how easily your words were spilling out.

Blaise seems to grasp onto your words and leans forwards to prod you, “But?”

“But, I do not think that certain knowledge and teachings should be tabooed.”

Theodore speaks up for the first time to confirm what you were insinuating, “The Dark Arts.”

You nod and lift up your tea cup, sipping carefully despite how tasteless it was due to your burns.

“And these interests of yours, do they involve the Dark Arts?” The Contessa swipes a manicured nail around the handle of her cup, eyes no longer shrewd.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you lean back before answering lightly, “They might. I cannot say for certainty that they do. However, it does involve unusual magic.”

“I see. It makes sense now why you asked to see those Norwegian tomes.” The woman’s eyes are alight, a glow that made it seem as though an investment of hers bloomed to fruition beautifully.

You shuddered imperceptibly. Was it an honor or an omen that she seemed so intrigued by you?

Theodore perks up and he turns to you with wide eyes, “Norwegian tomes?”

The boy’s eagerness for knowledge was palpable, and you couldn’t help but be amused by his antics. It was so familiar because you saw it often in Regulus.

Regulus. You winced. You wouldn’t think about it anymore.

“Yes,” Turning to face the Contessa, you weigh your options, “If I may, I was wondering if I could borrow an owl for a letter. I want to inform my other friends of my plans going forward.”

Blaise raises his eyebrows and frowns, “Plans? Are you not meeting up with them soon?”

“Actually, I-” Luna turns to you with determined eyes at your slip up, “-we are heading North.”

“North?” Blaise looks exceedingly unimpressed and you knew you wouldn’t be going anywhere until you satiated his curiosity.

“Yes, up North.”

“Where up North, pray tell?” He drawls with crossed arms.

“Norway. We’re going to Norway.” Your tone was flat, eyes conveying your exasperation.

Blaise sputters indignantly and barely restrains himself from throwing his hands up, “Norway? We have school in two weeks! How long are you planning to be there for?”

“Indefinitely. It’s for my personal research.”

“Well, I’m coming with you.” Blaise’s declaration has you darting your eyes to the Contessa with bated breath, watching the woman cross her arms.

“Absolutely not. You have school, caro.” Blaise frowns deeply at his mother’s refusal and sits back in his seat, shoulders sagging in defeat, unwilling to argue with her. Theodore looks at you like you’ve grown a second head, likely considering if he would be able to leave school early too with the excuse of sabbatical.

The Contessa turns to you, ignoring her son’s fit, “Of course, I’ll have one of my house elfs fetch you some parchment and ink. I’m sure Blaise wouldn’t mind if you borrowed his owl,” The woman suddenly rises from her seat and shoots you all a pleasant smile before smoothing out her dress, “This evening has been quite insightful. I look forward to our next meeting, Y/N. Safe journeys, don’t be a stranger.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman spins on her heel and struts towards the double doors, calling for an elf as she crosses the threshold, “Viren, bring some parchment and ink for my guests.” The door clicks shut behind her as her last words reach your ears, and you slump in your seat as exhaustion soars through your veins.

Before a disgruntled Blaise or an eager Theodore – the bloody ravenclaw in snake skin, can get a word out, a light pop draws your attention towards a rather properly dressed house elf, parchment and writing supplies in tow.

Luna is quick to gather the supplies and quietly thank the elf, smoothing out the parchment in front of you.

“I still want to go with you.” Blaise’s voice is soft, and you’re unable to detect any irritation.

Peering up from your writing, you smile lightly at the two boys, “Sorry. You two need to hold down the fort. I didn’t say anything earlier, but the Ministry has been infiltrated by Voldemort and his followers, that’s why we left the wedding in such a hurry. Scrimgeour is dead as well,” You heave a sigh and flick the quill casually, “I suspect Hogwarts is going to be overtaken next, and Harry and I wouldn’t be caught dead there this year, we’d be like little crup puppies in a ball pit.”

Both slytherins look stumped by your straightforwardness, and Blaise huffs out a little ‘well shit’ that has you nodding.

Theodore stares deeply into the translucent pool of tea in his cup, voice barely above a whisper, “The war is going to end soon.”

“Yes, and Harry’s going to make sure Voldemort is damned all the way into the afterlife.” If either of the boys were unconvinced by your conviction, they didn’t let it show, opting to share a look of understanding with each other before turning to you and nodding lightly.

Blaise rounds the table and drops his hands onto your shoulders, “You better not die. And I guess I can take care of our ward for the time being.”

“Ward?” Theodore sounds (rightfully) perplexed by his best friend’s words.

“Little Draconis,” you supply, much to Theodore’s bewilderment, “And Blaise, stop making it sound like we’ve adopted him!”

You wave your friend off and finish up your letter, leaning back in satisfaction as you hear Blaise clamber away to fetch his owl.

Prongslet (and co),

Luna and I are going to redeem our meal tickets (not as bizarre of a gift as one may think). We may not be back before darkness falls. Tell the old menace I said hello, and that I will make good on my promise to him. Stay safe and stay together.

- Someone’s beloved Birdie

Norway was incomparably arctic to Britain, the frigid winds bit at the tips of your fingers with fervid rushes, and you were positive that your legs were now flesh icicles. Despite how ardently your body protested against the climate, you couldn’t help the serene smile that mapped the muscles of your face. The chill was not the only difference the region had over Britain, and its tranquility was almost foreign to you.

Now more than ever, Wizarding Britain seemed to have a miasma of doom looming over the country and the change of pace was almost tangible.

“Here we are,” Luna’s airy voice was a welcomed sound amidst your inner exultation. You couldn’t help but draw similarities between the mysticality of Luna’s magic and disposition, and the blankets of fog that permeated over the lake in the far distance.

Both were curious in their own aspects, but you couldn’t help but want to melt deeper in the feeling they both surrounded you with.

You pulled your overcoat tighter around your body, thanking Merlin and those above that Blaise practically tore his closet right to left to find suitable clothing for you and Luna before you both departed from Zabini Manor.

Stepping closer to Luna, you hum as you observe the view in the distance, “It’s beautiful.”

Reine was truly idyllic. The fishing village was cupped by snowy peaks that towered over the clots of buildings which mottled the shores of the lake – a place truly untouched by the withering fog of petulant human conflict.

The apparition was quite tiring and you could feel fatigue coiling around your muscles, urging you to quickly seek refuge.

“Couldn’t have picked a better place really: picturesque, remote, and lauded for proficiency in multiple languages.” Your words are light and playful, spurning a grin to bloom on Luna’s face.

Dumbledore practically handed you a bubble-wrapped opportunity served on a golden platter.

The both of you begin to trek towards the village, not wanting to risk apparition in case you were seen by any locals. To your knowledge, this Anders Fiske was the only magical folk in Reine, holing himself away from densely populated regions for reasons only Merlin knows.

As you approach the banks of the waters and the largest building amongst the cluster, you inhale shakily as you see a sinewy man exit the building. The man seems to pause and do a double take, fully turning when he realized that you weren’t a figment of his imagination.

“Hello,” His voice is gruff and gratingly neutral, only weakening your resolve.

Talking to people was hard. But you survived a – conversation? interrogation? with Contessa Zabini, this should be a piece of cake.

“Hello, we’re looking for someone named Anders Fiske,” your tone is even and you try your best to look as friendly as possible. Luna simply stares off into a red house in the distance, seeming to look straight through the man in front of you.

Immediately, you can see the man tense before he forcibly relaxes his stance, pinching his eyebrows together as he surveys you, “There is no one here by that name.”

You would have believed him. If you were a dolt, of course.

“Are you certain? It’s rather important, and he’s the only one that can help us.” The man doesn’t falter and you frown when you feel something inch towards you.

Helga almighty.

He had a magical signature. The man in front of you was clearly a wizard, whether he knew it or not.

Before you can ruminate on your discovery, the man speaks up, “Yes. So you both should leave.”

A subtle bone in his body, there was not.

Feeling your eye twitch, you decide to do some searching on your own terms. Releasing your magic, you slowly blanket the surrounding buildings in search for another magical signature. It was clear enough that the man in front of you was not who you were looking for – unless Dumbledore wanted you to have some grilled monkfish with the most conspicuous wizard ever to roam the earth since Godric Gryffindor himself.

As you continue to scavenge the village with your magic, the man in front of you shifts from side to side, clearly becoming wary of your sudden silence and blank stare.

Before you can continue, a thunderous slam has you flinching out of your concentration. Peering around the looming man, your eyes meet a guarded gaze. Tilting your head, you sidestep and assess the newcomer, smiling slowly as you realize that he was another wizard.

The new man was much older and you could see the way he leaned on his right leg as if his left one was aching from the slightest pressure. He was hunched in the pathway of the red house Luna was observing, mouth set into a deep frown.

“Bingo,” Without waiting for the younger man to say anything (or possibly toss you into the lake), you stroll over toward the older man who was slowly retreating back into his house.

Luna follows after you and nods happily to herself, starting to skip by your side.

Stopping a few yards away from the man, you roll your shoulders to ease your soreness before jumping into the golden question, “Are you Anders Fiske?”

The man appears to be ready to vehemently deny your question, but Luna speaks up before he can even utter a mumble, “Dumbledore sent us!”

“Dumbledore?” The man’s harsh wrinkles smooth over ever so slightly, and your former headmaster’s name seems to roll off his tongue instinctually.

“Yes. In his will, he told me that I needed to seek you out for a…meal? I’m in need of your help,” The man seems nonplussed by your declaration, and you purse your lips before sweetening up your words, “Please.”

You see the man’s eyes flicker behind you and back rapidly, seeming to mull over everything.

Without a word, the man dips into the shadow of his house with one last glower.

Excuse me, what?

“Come,” You’re startled out of your stupor by a familiar deep voice, and you can only trail forward, mouth hung open, as the younger man leads you and Luna inside.

As the younger man closes the door shut behind you, an array of lamps flicker to life around the room, illuminating the perimeter much to your amazement. The room was cozy and frazzled in a similar fashion to the Weasley’s home, and your eyes couldn’t help but trail across a wall of tomes the size of your head.

“You shouldn’t be here,” The older man – Anders, grumbles from the middle of the room, sat at the dining table with a demeanor you found synonymous with Moody during meetings at Grimmauld Place.

Smiling coyly, you watch Luna as she wanders almost weightlessly towards the small corner kitchen, “You shouldn’t have revealed yourself, Anders.”

The man lets out a low grunt and you almost have to physically restrain your eyebrows from floating off your face. This man was literally Moody in a different, older font.

“You would have figured it out anyway. Could feel that magic of yours suffocating the whole place from in here.” His tone was rough, but you wanted to believe that there was an impressed shine in his eyes.

The younger man who was (surprisingly) still behind you, decides to interrupt your conversation, “Father, who are these people?”

Anders places his elbows on the table and gives you and Luna a once-over, “Magical folk.”

“A threat?” Anders’ son carries an edge to his tone that has you nearly rolling your eyes.

You were about to blast him through the window, but you couldn’t let this opportunity slip away because of unbridled temptations.

“That remains to be seen.”

Anders’ reply seems to placate his son for the time being, and he heads off towards Luna as the girl hunches over to study a chipped teapot on the counter. You shift and make your way to stand in across from Anders, not exactly sure what approach to take.

The yellow lighting bounced off the man’s face and gave him a sickly complexion, emphasizing his stress lines and suspicious eyes as you drew closer.

“So, Dumbledore is dead?” He sounded almost regretful. Either that or you knocked your head on the way in.

“Unfortunately. War is not forgiving, especially to martyrs.” Your tone was not nearly as sad as it probably should have been, but it seemed to be of no trouble for the older wizard.

Anders sighs and leans back in his seat, one hand coming to clutch his shoulder unconsciously, “The old fool knew what he was getting into,” He raises his eyes to look at you appraisingly, “Can’t imagine why he’d send you my way, anyway.”

“I’m researching. Something that is unfortunately, extremely niche. Dumbledore said you might be able to enlighten me on the subject.” Your determined tone seems to draw in some interest from him, and you have to mask the victorious feeling that washes over you.

That’s right, scholar to scholar. Hook, line, and sinker.

The man waits for you to continue, so you slowly pull out the chair in front of you and sink down across from him, “It’s about magical essences. It seems that you are quite sensitive to magical signatures, seeing as you could sense me releasing my magic earlier,” Anders gives a brisk nod, and you clench your hands as you continue, “A few summers ago, I encountered something strange–special. I found a portrait that was imbued with magical essence, and this portrait, he was extremely sentient.”

You feel a knot lodge in your throat at the reminder of Regulus, the wound of his destruction feeling painfully raw again. Seeing your sudden hesitance, Anders raises a scruffy white eyebrow, “And where is this portrait now?”

Your gaze drops to the table, your eyes blazing right into the worn wood, so marred and aged, unlike the one at Zabini Manor.

“Gone, then? I don’t know how I’m supposed to be of help in that case.” You raise your eyes and meet his cold gaze, clenching your jaw at his stoic expression, “You both can stay the night in the basement, for the sake of doing an old friend a favor. I expect you to be gone by daylight, tomorrow.”

Without pause, Anders pushes himself off the chair and limps further into the house, leaving you to awkwardly stew in your rejection while his son and Luna linger behind you.

Anders’ son breaks the tense silence first, “Sorry about him, he’s…”

“Stubborn?” Luna offers.

“Honest.” You reply at the same time.

Whirling around in your seat, you will away the veil of exhaustion and hurt that clouded your mind and look up at Anders’ son, really seeing him for the first time. You see the resemblance between the both of them, from their narrowed eyes to their thin noses, and the unmistakable metallic chill engulfed in both of their magic.

Slowly rising from your seat, you send a fleeting smile to the boy, “Don’t believe we know your name.”

“Asger,” His tone is much less taut than before, from pity or understanding, you didn’t know.

“Nice to meet you, and thanks.”

The boy–Asger, waves off your thanks and simply juts his shoulder forward, silently telling you to follow him. Feeling all of your survival instincts switch off, you tread behind him with glassy eyes, barely aware of your surroundings even when Luna tucks her arm around your body, guiding you around the unfamiliar environment.

It appeared that Anders utilized his magical prowess and performed a disappearing act by the time you reached the basement, the older man being nowhere in sight despite the fact that there was only one door in the back of the house–which led to the basement.

You and Luna got settled in, not bothered by the loose threads of your blankets or the dusty boxes that rested against the walls. You were both given a (surprisingly) comfortable mattress to share, and you almost wanted to cry when Luna started to draw patterns on your palm as you both stared up at the spackled ceiling.

“Our journey has not ended yet,” Luna’s voice is small, but still fueled with conviction.

“Thanks, Luna. I don’t even know where I’d be without you.”

A comfortable silence descends upon you two, and you shift to get comfortable in your spot, realizing that Blaise’s overcoat was making it difficult to turn over. Slowly sitting up, you shrug off the thick material, and fix your jacket, realizing it was slightly askew from your movements. As you smooth down the material, you freeze as your hand moves over a thick bulk in your inner pocket.

Portrait…?

No. Of course not.

Ignoring the cold sinking of your stomach, you fish out the object and search blindly for your wand.

“Lumos.”

Your breath hitches.

Regulus’ journal. The one you found stuffed between his mattresses. Swallowing harshly, you slowly run a hand over the wrinkled cover.

How could you have forgotten?

As you try to maneuver your wand to allow both of your hands to be free, a gentle tug has you swiveling your head to the side. Luna merely smiles at you before looking back at the journal, nimbly holding your wand over the book so you could flip through it.

“I can look away if you want,” Luna’s gentle voice slices through the air with a warmth that you viscerally feel in your chest, and you smile at the girl in gratitude. As she turns her gaze to the darkness, seemingly becoming entranced by nothingness, you slowly furl the first pages open.

Property of Regulus Arcturus Black

You turn the page, fingers twitching as you resist the temptation to trace the swirls of his name.

3 November, 1976

Today is Sirius’ birthday. The first year he will celebrate away from home, as a disappointment to the family name. Mother and Father were particularly cold today. I just have to try harder. Sirius has stopped replying to my letters, and he avoids me in the halls.

I think I hate him.

Your heart pounds furiously in your chest as you reread the entry, struck by the unfamiliar loathing coated in his tone. Sirius was sixteen when he left, so seventeen in 1976. Regulus was only fifteen when he wrote this, and already so tied down by his family and abandonment issues.

The next few pages contain similar entries, all filled with abhorrence for Sirius and bitterness towards his parents.

Then the year changes.

8 September, 1978

The Dark Lord is going to change the world, make it a better, purer place. Mother and Father were pleased when I announced that I would be taking the mark soon, already having made strides among his growing forces.

Sirius would hate it. I know he would. But he would expect it. He should, anyway.

He already hates me, what damage could this do to our already broken relationship?

He should hate me.

I hate myself. I hate him.

I hate him so much.

17 December, 1978

Visiting my portrait was eventful. I can feel him growing stronger with every meeting. I think I’ll have to repaint it soon, looking at it and seeing a reflection of who I used to be never gets easier.

The next repaint, I’m going to finally do it. Hopefully, all my research will have paid off. Uncle Alphard’s book on magical essences was more helpful than I could have ever imagined.

The room is complete, and I can feel my magic all over it. If I can imbue it into my portrait as well, it will be perfect.

Maybe then he can forgive me. If I explain. If I try.

The Dark Lord is expecting me soon.

3 January, 1979

The repainting was a success. My hand will be sore for the next few days, but it was all worth it. I finally figured out how to key the room. The only person who will be able to access it now is Sirius. That is if he ever returns home.

My portrait is so like me, it’s truly uncanny. Perhaps I can publish my findings after I graduate.

My mark aches often.

I miss Sirius.

5 March, 1979

The Dark Lord tried to kill Kreacher.

After everything I’ve done for him. After everything I’ve sacrificed.

Sirius was right.

Kreacher keeps talking about a potion and a locket. I need to understand. I have to.

It is imperative that I impart everything I know to my portrait, so Sirius will know that I tried. That I finally understand.

Is this my punishment? Must I suffer so for forgiveness? If he does not forgive me, will it all have been for nothing?

I need to find out what the Dark Lord is hiding. It will be my repentance.

19 May, 1979

Horcruxes.

Such vile creations, a defiling of one’s soul. The Dark Lord has a horcrux. I need to destroy it.

My portrait grows restless with me. To think it was even possible. He only has the faintest ideas of my current ambitions, but I feel everyday that he is growing to be someone I never could be. Someone that Sirius would be able to forgive.

I’ll destroy the horcrux and accept the conditions tied to it.

There is no other way.

8 June, 1979

Everyday I grow closer to executing my plan.

I have given my portrait everything he needs to know.

I wonder, is all soul magic as abominable as horcruxes? I begin to see parallels with magical essences and soul magic. Yet, they feel completely different.

Or perhaps I have finally lost all sense. I have always been a hypocrite.

I wait with bated breath.

I will destroy it even if it kills me, and it will be glorious.

28 July, 1979

I fear that if I wait any longer I will go back on my conviction.

Mother and Father are growing increasingly vexed with me. I think they want to marry me off by winter.

It will be before then.

I have stopped confiding in my portrait about my deeper feelings. I fear that my weakness will be obvious even to him.

I have read more about magical essences to distract myself. Even the Dark Lord is not omniscient. Magical essences have ties to one’s soul, the bounds of such revelation I do not know. Yet, I have learned of something even the Dark Lord is ignorant to, and because of that, he has debased himself with horcruxes.

A small victory, and an inkling of how it will feel when he’s gone.

When he falls.

14 August, 1979

I will do it in autumn.

I hope it will all be worth it.

26 October, 1979

My portrait can cast magic.

I wonder if Sirius will be proud.

29 October, 1979

I wonder what being in love feels like.

2 November, 1979

I never really had aspirations outside of what was expected of me.

Have I always been so pitiful? Was I the only one who couldn’t see it?

15 November, 1979

I hear that the Potters are expecting their first child.

I wonder how Sirius will treat their baby.

I think I’m going crazy.

17 November, 1979

Tomorrow.

You flip through the journal hastily, and you feel your eyes sting in the darkness at the crushing realization.

Blank pages. Empty and unfeeling, and so telling of his fate.

You weren’t going to leave tomorrow.

Anders would have to drag you kicking and screaming. You wouldn’t give up on Regulus, not after everything he sacrificed.

You will do whatever it takes.

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only-angel-28 · 4 months

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mastermind, theodore nott

ongoing!

masterlist

theodore nott masterlist

mastermind, part one

mastermind, part two

mastermind, part three

mastermind, part four

mastermind, part five

mastermind, part six

mastermind, part seven

mastermind, part eight

mastermind, part nine

mastermind, part ten

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letthewhumpbegin · 5 months

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Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2009)

#harry potter 6 #harry potter and the half blood prince #hp6 #draco malfoy #tom felton #emotional whump #magical whump #blood #lying on the floor #whump #whump gifs #sarahsposts #crying #ltwbhp

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desideriumwriter · 10 months

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Sleep Tight

Summary: Fred’s too bothered to not do anything when he finds you sleeping on the cold floor

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (no pronouns used!)

WC: 1.2k

CWs: None!

A/N: I think I’m going through my Harry Potter phase AGAIN. So take this little fic I randomly thought of, there’s definitely gonna be more otw lol. Enjoy! <3

_______

Fred would often lose track of time when he practiced his Quidditch skills, especially when it was winter or summer break and he didn’t have much to do.

Today he joined in playing a few rounds with Ron, Harry, and George after dinner. You and Hermione came out and watched for a little bit, Hermione deciding to go back inside when she got bored, you went inside a little bit after her, when the cold air became too harsh on your skin.

Eventually, Harry, Ron, and George were too tired to play anymore and went inside, Fred stayed outside, continuing to practice his moves.

You were sitting on the couch, watching some old black and white film on the television. You would occasionally look out the window to see Fred on his broomstick, focused on how hard and far he could hit the ball, or how quickly he could dodge something. ———— It was midnight, you were trying to fight away the sleepiness pulling down your eyelids. You gave in when your head began to nod down.

You went upstairs and opened the door that led you into the twins room, George was already dead asleep on his bed, his body in a star position, laying on his stomach with his face smushed into his pillow, and his mouth wide open. Letting out snores here and there.

You grabbed the pillow and blanket you brought with you out of your bag, you set the pillow down and draped your blanket over yourself. You shivered when your arm touched the chilly wooden floor. You should’ve brought a better blanket and chose something warmer to sleep in rather than a t-shirt and shorts.

Yet, somehow you were able to fall asleep with George’s snoring and the cold that was causing goosebumps to appear on your skin. ———— Fred decided he was done for the night when he realized it was nearly 2AM.

He went inside as quietly as possible. He cringed when the door squeaked open and when the wood creaked under his feet going up the stairs.

He entered his shared bedroom and sighed when he saw you sleeping in the middle of the floor with that thin blanket. He knew how uncomfortable sleeping on the floor was from the amount of times where he was supposed to share a bed with George, but ended up being forced to sleep on the floor.

He crept past you, grabbing a pair of pajama pants and a loose shirt, sneaking into the bathroom to change. After he came out, setting down his clothes in the laundry basket, he looked at you on the floor again, feeling bad if he let you sleep there.

Guilt would eat him alive if he didn’t get you somewhere more comfortable. He crouched down next to you, sleeping on your side.

“y/n…y/n…” Fred whispered, shaking your shoulder gently. You groaned, still asleep.

“y/n!” He said a little bit louder, shaking you a bit harder. Once again, you groaned, annoyed, moving your shoulder away. At this point he was getting frustrated, he flipped you over and clapped his hands together loudly in front of your face. George’s snoring was interrupted, he grimaced in his sleep, changed his position, and began snoring again.

Finally your eyes began to flutter open and you raised yourself up a tiny bit, resting your elbows on the floor.

“What?” You asked wearily, wiping the small but still embarrassing amount of drool on your face.

“Get in the bed.” He nodded to his bed, you thought you heard him wrong.

“Huh?” You looked at him, brows furrowed in confusion.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.” He assured you.

“What? No, I'm not gonna steal your bed from you, I’ll be okay.”

“And I’m not gonna let you sleep on the floor with that tiny bloody blanket sweetheart. You go sleep in my bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He fully sat down next to you, waiting for you to get up and switch spots.

“No! I was able to fall asleep here with no problem, I can do it again. I’m fine.” “Your body won’t be in the morning.” You knew he was right, there’s been other times where you’ve slept over at a friend's house and slept on the hard floor or carpet, and woke up with your torso, or some part of your body aching. Yet, you would ignore it.

“Fine.” You sighed. Fred grinned as you got up, knowing he won this argument as you began to walk tiredly to his bed and climbing in.

Fred took your spot on the floor, laying his head on your pillow and pulling the blanket you had over himself. He let out a small chuckle at how he was too tall for it, due to his feet sticking out at the end of the blanket.

That was soon interrupted by it being pulled off him. He sat up to see you facing towards him, your blanket in your hand.

“Nope, come on.” You dropped the blanket and patted the empty space next to you on the bed.

“What?” He sat up.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor either.” You raised your head at him.

“You’ll be crowded with me sharing the bed!”

“I don’t care about how much space I’ll get, you deserve to be comfortable. Just get in the damn bed.” You turned back on your other side, facing the wall. Fred let out an annoyed groan.

“If you insist, don��t say I didn’t warn you.” He slammed himself into the bed, causing you to bounce with the mattress.

“Arsehole.” You elbowed him in the side, Fred chuckled and you tried not to giggle.

“Shhh, you can beat me up in the morning, go to bed.” He whispered.

“Goodnight, arsehole.” You muttered, trying to force back more giggles.

“Sleep tight, y/n.”

Within a few minutes you were knocked out. You flipped over, facing Fred, you dragged yourself closer, wrapped your arms around him and moved your head close to his chest.

Okay, maybe you weren’t fully asleep, but Fred thought you were. You pulled yourself closer to him knowingly. You had a tiny smile on your face, you tried to fight it, forcing it away so Fred couldn’t see.

That’s when you actually fell asleep, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

Fred lifted his head up slowly to try and get a better look at you, he moved a few pieces of hair off your relaxed face. He wrapped his arm around your back gently, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

He fell asleep with a smile on his face and the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen laying on his chest while holding him.

_____________

Tell me what you thought about this! Criticism is greatly accepted!

#fred weasley #fredweasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x gn!reader #fred weasley fic #fan fic #harry potter #harry potter and the half blood prince #fred weasley half blood prince #james phelps #jamesphelps #james phelps fic

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toorumlk · 4 months

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I love romione being drarry haters (at first!) bc there's no way they would immediately be supportive if their best friend started dating their childhood bully and lifelong op (among other things)

(this may or may not have been the crack basis of a drarry fic I’m currently working on very earnestly)

#romione #drarry #harry potter #harry potter fanart #hermione granger #ron weasley #draco malfoy #hp fanart #harry potter and the deathly hallows #half blood prince #Harry Potter and the half blood prince #ronald weasley #my art #procreate

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iamnmbr3 · 1 month

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JK Rowling: Harry Potter is 100% heterosexual.

Harry in book 6:

Meticulously catalogues Tom Riddle's evolving level of hotness in each memory he watches

Gets so distracted by seeing Draco Malfoy changing that he gets hit on the head by a piece of luggage

Is deeply horrified that large numbers of girls are interested in him, doesn't even consider dating any of them, and goes to great lengths to avoid them

#you know how sometimes the writer has one plan and the characters have another one? I feel like that happened here #also remember when harry is confused and a little disgusted by ron being so physical with lavender?#Harry Potter #harry x draco #hpdm #harry potter and the half blood prince #drarry #or i guess #tomarry #if you want

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hogwartslegacypics · 5 months

Text

Hogwarts’ Astronomy Tower as seen in the Half-Blood Prince and Hogwarts Legacy

#hogwarts legacy #harry potter #hermione granger #the half blood prince #harry potter and the half blood prince #hogwarts #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry

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training4theapocalypse · 2 months

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Finders Keepers Ch 17. (Cormac McLaggen x fem!reader)

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: SMUT, PIV, a little bit rough but, like, in a romantic way, author once again refusing to acknowledge she has a hand covering mouth during sex kink

Summary: At Seafarer's Beacon you feel stuck in limbo. McLaggen is determined to do something to give you purpose again.

A/N: I'm sorry I teased a little subby moment with McLaggen at the end of the last chapter but this chapter took so many rewrites because it turns out I don't have a dominant bone in my body so you'll need to pretend it happened off-screen. Anyway...

Masterlist

Tag list: @countlambula, @ratsys, @aweidlich, @navs-bhat, @stainedpomegranatelips, @chiaraanatra, @xxvelvetxxxx, @ohnoitsrosie, @dracosisteer, @daisydark, @intense-sneezing, @lipstickandloveletters, @ichorai, @marmie-noir, @lolitstiana, @evabellasworld, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @xyzstar, (let me know if you want removed at any point btw!)

Chapter 17: Purpose

You spot a tiny white spatter on the t-shirt you’re wearing as you finish brushing your teeth before bed in the bathroom. It’s clean. Or at least was until your spearmint toothpaste marked it. Freshly laundered so it doesn’t smell like him in the way you’d prefer. The shoulders are too broad. The seams hang loosely around your arms. But the old Gryffindor Qudditch training top fits you like you’re wearing a piece of his soul.

“I’ve got toothpaste on your top,” you remark absently to McLaggen next door in the bedroom.

It’s not like you’ve said something profound but when McLaggen doesn’t reply it sticks out like a splinter. You often bat snippets of unremarkable things to each other, like two beaters at bludger practice. If he finds something useful from a book from his uncle’s collection, he just reads it aloud and says “I should remember that,” instead of writing it down. As if imprinting the words on you means he’ll commit it to memory.

But when he doesn’t fire something back, you open the bathroom door. He’s sitting shirtless in his plaid pyjama bottoms. Even though it’s the coldest Christmas Eve that you ever remember experiencing, your bedroom at the top of the lighthouse is warm. Heat from the hearth in the kitchen on the bottom floor rises the whole way through Seafarers Beacon, making everything feel warm and cosy. You tilt your head, waiting for him to lower the copy of this morning’s Daily Prophet but he doesn’t notice you standing in the doorway - he’s holding it so high that it’s covering his face.

“Are you still reading that?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

You glance at the white, frosty landscape outside the window as you wander over and climb into bed beside him, reading over his shoulder. The development he’s reading about isn’t significant - a short paragraph assuring the wizarding community that repairs to Azkaban are ongoing - but there’s a tiny quote from his dad that he read out to you this morning. And he’s been reading and re-reading all day, ever since his eyes first landed on it on the kitchen table while the rest of you were talking and buttering toast.

“I’m sorry you can’t see your mum and dad tomorrow.”

It’s not that you’ve been having an unpleasant time at Seafarer’s Beacon. But Christmas here has felt like a strained effort to replicate Christmas at home, or even, to some extent, Christmas at Hogwarts. Marietta has spent the past few days decorating the kitchen at the bottom landing of the lighthouse. Paper snowflakes whirl around the empty space in the middle of the empty space between the staircase spiralling around the outer walls and up the seven floors.

“It’s fine,” McLaggen says and clears his throat. “I’m okay.”

“It’s not fine.” You rest your hand on his arm and he lets the Daily Prophet fall to his lap, still staring at the small paragraph with his dad’s words. “I wish I could see my mum and dad too - it’s okay for us to be sad about it.”

He nods. “I know - I miss them. Especially after reading about Dad today. But this time of year makes me… I - I dunno. It’s complicated. I still haven’t really forgiven him for handing you over.”

“Cormac -” you hesitate. “- your dad… he did what he had to do. I forgive him for choosing to save you and your family over me - someone who’s practically a stranger. I mean, if I was in his position…?”

He presses his palms hard into his eyes. Usually so bright and green, tonight they’re bloodshot. “You’d really make a choice like that?”

“All I know is that right now, I’d do whatever it takes to keep us safe.”

“All of us,” he affirms, sitting up properly.

“Well… yes -” You say slowly. “But if it comes to it, what I meant was you and I.”

“Don’t talk like that. We’re all in this together.”

“Cormac, you had to choose between me and Eddie when you had to get one of us out of Azkaban -”

“That was different.”

“Every single time we’re faced with a difficult decision it’s different. It was different for you. Different for your dad. We’re in the middle of a war and that’s how war is.”

McLaggen tosses the newspaper aside. “I just wish we could do something. Something to win the war. I feel useless stuck in here.”

“I don’t think there is.”

Because you’ve already racked your brains. You and McLaggen have had this conversation several times already.

Both breakouts from Azkaban have rendered you almost completely isolated from the outside world. Now that Marietta and McLaggen are both assumed kidnapped, your insider knowledge of the Ministry has been shut off. With Krum and Davies here, you’ve got no idea what’s happening internationally. The only real source of information you have that isn’t Ministry propaganda is Potterwatch, and aside from reporting deaths and other swathes of bad news, they don’t seem to have much more information than you do holed up here.

“What about the snatchers they mentioned on Potterwatch? Couldn’t we go after them?” he asks.

“And what are we supposed to do with them? We can’t hand them in to the aurors. It’s not like they’re doing anything illegally - this is all Ministry sanctioned,” you remind him.

“I was more thinking along the lines of teaching them a lesson.”

“What? Like, kill them?” you raise an eyebrow.

“Nah just scare them - rough them up a little.”

“Cormac, we’re not gonna start dealing out vigilante justice. And especially not when half of us are Undesirables. It could go seriously wrong.” You tilt your head, feeling slightly worried that being so cooped up, being away from his parents and the rest of the outside world is making him want to behave recklessly. “And you’re supposed to be kidnapped, remember? If you’re seen outside again people will get suspicious. All we can do is wait,” you say softly, touching your lips against his bare shoulder. “Wait here and stay safe.”

He shakes his head. “We should be training. Like when Potter was in charge of Dumbledore’s Army. Duelling. Practising defensive spells. If we’re prepared then maybe, just maybe, none of us will have to make a difficult choice about who to save.”

You nod and rest your head on your white down pillow, looking at him as you lie on your side. “Let’s start the day after tomorrow. First thing on Boxing Day.”

“Yeah?” He cocks an eyebrow as if he was worried you’d think it was another bad idea.

“Yeah, it’ll give us something useful to do - I’m kind of sick of doing nothing.” You sigh. “Being here has made me realise how slowly time passes without Quidditch… I wish there was enough room to fly properly.”

Cormac rests his head on the pillow too, lying on his back and looking up at the curved, coral ceiling thoughtfully. His brow is slightly furrowed in concentration.

“I could try to work out how to extend the perimeter of the Fidelius Charm?”

“You can do that?” You blink. Your heart soars at the idea that you might be able to feel the wind in your hair again.

“I mean, it definitely won’t be easy but - yeah, I think so. I’ll get it sorted if it’d make you happy. Who knows how long this war will last? You might as well have someplace to fly.”

God, he’s so sweet.

You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. Instead you curl into the crook of his arm and you both drift off. You, wrapped in his arms as your dreams take you to the sky once more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Training breathes new life into Seafarer’s Beacon. Everyone is invigorated by the opportunity to do something that isn’t just lounging around, existing. You’re Dumbledore’s Army, after all. You’re part of the resistance.

McLaggen and Eddie spend days working out how to do an extremely complex piece of magic to extend the perimeter of the Fideleus charm so you have space to fly. You think you could cry when you get onto your broom and fly properly for the first time since your mission to Azkaban.

Marietta gets to work transfiguring a scarecrow into a working duelling dummy and creating so many duplicates you feel like you’re facing a small army when you step into the garden one spring afternoon.

Cho scours the Daily Prophet - her curious intellect and keen eye for detail help her read between the lines to make sense of what’s really happening. She sends coded letters with her theories to Lee Jordan so he can confirm them with his contacts and inform Potterwatch listeners. You all huddle around the radio every other night and you squeeze her hand when Lee’s reporting follows her leads.

Katie and Leanne find that there’s more than just fiction in McLaggen’s uncle’s old bookcase and find an extensive collection of defensive spells and healing potions that can be used in combat. They forage herbs in the lighthouse’s magical garden and order rarer potion ingredients by owl post.

You, Krum and Davies, put everyone through flying drills until even Marietta is confident on a broom. Everyone practises casting curses while flying - it’s much harder to keep balance than it looks. When Krum finds out just how talented a Seeker Cho is, you can practically see little hearts forming in his eyes. When you toss an apple her way one day in the kitchen and she catches it one-handed without even looking, you think Krum might propose to her then and there.

Even as the months slip by, the Ministry is taking your threat about breaking into Azkaban again seriously. There have been no more Muggleborns sent to prison. And you tell yourself that as long as you’re here, and the Ministry knows you’ll retaliate, you’re doing something to help win this war.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“See anything?” asks McLaggen, one late May evening as the two of you finish clearing up the garden after duelling practice. You can hear the others in the kitchen having final cups of tea before bed except for Cho who had to run upstairs to wash her hair after you sent such a powerful disarming spell your way that she’d ended up flat on her back in the rather muddy vegetable patch.

“I think something might have cracked a window pane on the greenhouse?” You suggest as you wave your wand over a heavily battered and burned duelling dummy. “Reparo!”

“On it,” says McLaggen, wandering over to assess the damage. “...I can’t see anything” He calls from behind the greenhouse.

“I definitely heard something smash,” you say, frowning at a slightly squashed courgette in the vegetable patch and making a mental note to cast a protective charm over them next time you’re practising in the garden. “I hope it’s not one of the lighthouse windows.”

You follow the garden path around past the greenhouse to find McLaggen standing at the other side of Seafarer’s Beacon, pointing his wand at a window. Beautiful, warm light cascades across his handsome face. It’s late evening but the sun still hasn’t set.

“Found it. It was a window. Easily fixed though,” he says, lowering his wand and turning to face you. “You’re getting much better at duelling by the way. That last one with Cho was pretty evenly matched.”

“I’m just glad I’m not the worst anymore. I think I’m better than Marietta now. Maybe Eddie too - on a good day.”

“Not everything has to be a competition,” laughs McLaggen before kissing the top of your head and pulling you into his chest.

“That’s easy for you to say when you’re winning. You’re the best at duelling,” you grumble, although you’re not jealous. The thought is a comforting one, you think as you close your eyes and inhale his dark, spicy scent.

“No, I think Krum is probably the best,” says McLaggen thoughtfully.

You look up at him. “Y’know when I first met you, I don’t think you’d ever have admitted someone was better than you at something,” you tease.

He chuckles softly. The garden hums with the sounds of nature as McLaggen holds you to his chest and stares out at the amber sky as the sun sets over the sea, interrupted only by the distant echo of laughter from the kitchen from inside - the unmistakable noises of the others joking together before they retire to bed.

“Thank you for doing all this,” you tell him. Just being on a broom has - ironically - grounded you. It’s made everything feel alright again. And now that you’re spending every day outside in the fresh air and every night insight surrounded by your new found family, the shadows of Azkaban have long left your face.

“It wasn’t just me. Eddie helped with the Fidelius Charm -”

“Not just the Fidelius Charm. For giving us all purpose again. And somewhere safe to stay.”

“It’s my Uncle’s house -”

"You know -" you cut across him, " - when you volunteered to apparate home with Mary Cattermole, I was furious with you because I was scared." Your eyes meet his green ones, finding the warmth and strength that’s become so familiar. "But I should have expected it from you. You always go way beyond what any ordinary person would do in that sort of situation. And I mean, for goodness sake, who else out there can say their boyfriend got them out of Azkaban?"

McLaggen exhales in an embarrassed sort of way and turns his head back from the window. “It’s not - I mean when you say it like that it sounds much more impressive than it is. I’m just doing what anyone else would do. ”

"Most people would save their own skin.” You put your hand directly above his heart, feeling it beating through his chest. "That fact we’re all still alive isn’t because of this lighthouse. It's because of who you are,” you tell him fiercely.

You look up at him, bathed in the warm light from the sun against the backdrop of the whitewashed lighthouse. He looks down at you with an oddly reminiscent look on his face.

“You’re more like yourself again.”

You nod. The past few months have made you feel like you’re the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain again. You love getting to fly with Cho and Davies again. It’s just like old times. But you never dreamed you’d be flying with Viktor Krum, never mind have him actually take direction from you when you yell mid-air about flying formations for combat.

Cormac curls a finger under your chin and kisses you. You link your arms around his neck, pulling yourself close to him. Everything slots together perfectly. Well, almost perfectly - you need to stand on your tiptoes but to you, that just makes him more perfect. Like he’s your missing piece of a puzzle.

He parts his lips and your tongue finds his. Your fingers become entwined in Cormac’s messy curls as you press your hips into his. The world outside the Fidelius Charm might be chaotic, fraught with fear and devastation and death but in this pretty, seaside garden where the evening light warms your back as you kiss Cormac, you have the sanctuary of each other.

Cormac’s large hands roam the curve of your waist under your t-shirt and you feel callouses on his palms and fingertips from so much flying and duelling. And you know he believes if you all train enough none of you will ever fall in the war. He trains so hard because he thinks that if he does when the time comes, he can protect everyone. Save everyone.

And you hope beyond hope that you’ll never need to put your training to use. But you’ve been listening to Potterwatch every night. The tone has been subtly shifting since your giggled huddling and listening back before Christmas. You know things are getting worse out there. Something in the air tells you that you’re going to have to act - and soon.

But not right now.

Right now all you want to think about is each other.

“You know, you don’t have to be so selfless all the time,” you say, unfastening Cormac’s belt and getting to your knees on the grass in front of him. Fuck, he looks even taller like this.

He wastes no time helping you and pulls his cock out from his boxers. You blink up at him, taking a shuddering breath when you see him - already thick and hard and ready for you. Even after all this time together, your stomach flips when you’re reminded that his cock is just as beautiful as he is. You take him in your hands and place tiny kisses along the underside of his length.

“You can let me do things too,” you whisper, his tip just brushing your lips as you breathe the words. Cormac leans his head back against the curved exterior wall.

You can’t take your eyes off him as you slowly wrap your lips around his head and circle it with your warm, hot tongue. The light makes every hair visible on the small strip of skin on his lower abdomen, shining and golden. The tiny freckles on his arms are getting darker now the early summer sun has been cascading down on you while you’ve been training in the garden.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he tells you, threading his hands through your hair. He’s messing it up but the ache between your legs is pulsing too pleasantly for you to care. It would almost be distracting if you weren’t so preoccupied with sucking and swirling your tongue around him. “My pretty girl.”

You stare up at him with wide eyes as he swallows thickly and leans his head back. His adam’s apple is visible as he swallows back a steadying breath. Just seeing him enjoying the feel of your hot, wet mouth makes you moan around him. The vibrations make his eyes snap back towards you just in time for him to watch you swallow his entire length down your throat. His grip tightens in your hair when he bottoms out and lets out a groan.

You don’t hold back. You press your head down as much as you can, blocking your own airways and feeling saliva dripping down your chin as his cock fills your mouth up. Cormac gently pulls back, letting you briefly take a gulp of air but the way you eagerly take him again makes him pant harder, his shoulders rising and falling with his breathing as you work your mouth.

“Fuck, let me fuck you.” You detach from him with a gasp and shake your head, blinking back tears. His grip tightens. “I don’t want to cum. Not yet.”

“Be selfish for once. Finish here. Please,” you say through laboured pants as you jerk him off in your hand and present your tongue. You go to take him in your mouth again but he grabs your upper arm.

“I am being selfish.” Cormac hoists you to your feet. Before you know it, you’re being spun around and pressed up against the wall. You feel the bumpy whitewash paint under your palms when he whispers in your ear from behind. “You think I want to fuck you as a favour to you or something?”

His hands unbutton your jeans and he pulls them and your underwear down over your ass. You’re able to turn your head just enough to see him casting his eyes over your body with that appraising smirk that makes you fold every fucking time you see it. It’s been over a year and a half since that stupidly gorgeous dimpled smile made you feel butterflies in a way you hadn’t expected. Just that look is still enough to make you feel like you’ve been knocked off your broom.

And to him, the way you look right this second - dishevelled and pouting because you’re not getting your own way - is equally captivating. Everyone thinks you’re the loud, domineering one in the relationship and that it’s him who goes along with whatever you say. But Cormac doesn’t care what they think because he knows the truth of it. Even when you take the reins, climbing on top of him or setting the pace, all it takes is a single whispered word from him, or his hand gently guiding you at your lower back that keeps your dynamic exactly how he likes it.

And here you are once again, as malleable as if he’s used a softening charm on you.

Before you realise what’s happening Cormac’s tongue sucks your earlobe as he presses your body between his and the wall. You open your mouth to argue but instead take a sharp inhale when he slaps your ass, followed quickly by his hands groping and massaging all over your body - going from squeezing your backside to groping your tits and back again like he doesn’t have enough hands to touch you everywhere he wants to at once.

“I - I wanted to make you cum with my mouth,” you complain as he pushes your bra up to pinch your nipple between two fingers but you don’t protest any further - you’re too turned on to care. From how flush he’s pressed against you, you can feel his hard cock pressed up against your backside, wet with your saliva and his precum.

You’d think after a hard day of training, Cormac would be exhausted - that he’d have no testosterone left in his body. But you know from experience over the past few months that this isn’t the case. You’re not sure whether it’s seeing you fight that turns him on or if his ego is slightly bruised from having Krum as fierce duelling competition - either way, he comes to bed most evenings murmuring sweet things in your ear and slipping his Gryffindor training tshirt off our your body before you’ve barely had a chance to wear it.

This evening is only different because he can’t wait until you’re back in your bedroom to have you. He kisses your neck and draws the tips of his fingers along your slit, dragging your wetness over your clit.

“I couldn’t let that happen. Not when all I can think about is how wet this cunt is for me,”

You let out a low, shaky breath. Fuck, you love it when he gets in this mood. He’s so filthy. Talking to you like how you sort of expected he would when you first met him. Before you found out how sweet and soft he is.

Usually.

Fuck.

Your legs twitch involuntarily when Cormac drags the pad of his middle finger across your clit and dips it through your sopping-wet folds. You can’t move much but you can’t stop your hips from grinding with his fingers, chasing the feeling of him toying with you.

“Yes. Ah fuck - yes,” you squeal as he draws the words from you with his touch.

“Shh, shh, shh…” He soothes, tutting gently. He pulls his wet fingers back over your clit, swirling in circles around the throbbing clutch of nerves. “The others are through the wall. You need to be quiet.”

As if testing you, his wet strokes over your clit pick up pace - his calloused fingers feel so deliciously wet and rough all at once. You whine pathetically.

“Can’t you - oh, god, can’t you cast a sound-dampening charm?” you whimper, your fingers searching for something to grip. Your palms just claw helplessly against the surface of the exterior wall as his chest presses into your back.

“I don’t think so. I think you need to show me you can be good.”

You squirm but there’s nowhere you can move while you’re pressed between him and the wall. “I will. I’ll do whatever you say,” you pant. The pads of Cormac’s fingers continue pressing circles the pressure building inside you as your walls clamp around nothing. You need him - you need his fingers, his cock - fuck, anything inside you. “Just fuck me. Please, Cormac.”

You know the drill. You know he loves hearing his name. Having you beg for his cock. And you’re running out of time - your twitching and convulsing is picking up pace. “Q-q-quick, please, I want to cum on your cock.”

Cormac’s hands leave your body so he can take his cock and tease you between your folds. You feel the tip of his cock at your entrance and whine. Fuck, you need to cum. You bring your hand between your legs to start rubbing yourself in his absence but he moves your hand out of the way.

“Keep your hands where they were.”

You place your palms flat against the wall, splaying your fingers, and feel your knees buckle when Cormac sheathes himself into you with one forceful roll of his hips.

He curls one arm around your chest and the other slips down your body to play with your clit as he jerks his hips up, each thrust sends his hips smacking against your skin.

The burning ache in your pelvis crackles and fizzes inside you while Cormac fucks you. Your hands scrabble against the wall and you feel chalky, white paint crumbling under your fingernails as the walls of your cunt spasm, grateful for Cormac’s long, thick cock to grip onto.

“Fuckfuckfuck-” The curse tumbles from your lips. You’re so boxed in that your cheek presses against the rough surface of the wall. All you can do is close your eyes and fucking take the way that Cormac is brutally slamming himself into your tight heat while his hand dances perfect, rhythmic circles over your clit.

You seize up and cry out and the arm that Cormac had wrapped around your chest claps over your mouth, pulling your head back and dampening your wailing. “Let it all out for me - quietly,” he growls in your ear.

There’s a drop like when you descend in the air on your broom too quickly - your body reacting after your brain. Your core plummets and everything implodes as you sob against his palm, melting into his touch.

“Good - that’s it, baby,” he says, more softly this time as your orgasm, blinding hot, makes your cunt convulse and clamp around him.

You cum so hard that you think your legs give way - you can’t tell because his strong body pushing yours against the wall keeps you upright. Tingles spasm from your core right down the backs of your thighs.

Cormac groans too. He moves his hand from your mouth so he can push his hips against your ass and shove his twitching cock as far as it can go inside you. When you whisper his name shakily and tell him you love him, he’s done for. Warmth floods your insides as he cums, filling you up as he grunts into the column of your throat against your racing pulse.

Even as you’re pressed up against the wall with his cum leaking out of you, you feel like he belongs here with you. Not in the lighthouse - or against the lighthouse - necessarily. Just here. Inside you. With nothing but the sounds of your heaving breathing and waves crashing against the cliffs in the distance to interrupt you.

Eventually, his mouth breaks into a smile against your skin and his laugh tickles your neck.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“We’ve got a perfectly good bed upstairs and we’re still sneaking around like we used to do under the Quidditch stands at school.”

He pulls out of you carefully and offers you his t-shirt to clean up the mess. You decide it’d be less conspicuous to wash your jeans and underwear in the laundry tomorrow morning than for McLaggen to return back inside suddenly missing a t-shirt.

“We never did that under the Quidditch stands,” you say, turning around and leaning your back against the wall so you can button up your jeans. “We’d have been expelled if we were caught.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure Madam Hooch would have been totally fine if she caught us just doing hand stuff,” he grins.

“Well, we were stupid back then,” you laugh.

“It was fun though. I kind of miss those Quidditch stands.”

“Even when we’re old and married and I’m winning the Quidditch World Cup. I’ll want to meet you under the stands afterwards to celebrate.”

“Yeah, right. If I wait for Scotland to win the Quidditch World Cup for our next fumble under the stands, I’ll die without ever doing it again.”

“You really think I won’t go out of my way to win the Quidditch World Cup just to prove you wrong?”

“Anyone else? No. But you? I’m counting on it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you quietly come back inside the back door to the empty kitchen, you insist on making a cup of tea for yourself and a cup of coffee for McLaggen while he goes upstairs - you insisted that he needs to let you do something for him for once. That beautiful post-sex warmth nestles into your chest and makes between your legs ache pleasantly. Nothing can go wrong when you feel like this. You boil the kettle and set to finding yours and McLaggen’s favourite mugs in the cupboard when a yell from upstairs makes you nearly jump out of your skin.

“Cho?!” It’s McLaggen’s voice. The urgency in his voice makes the hair stand up on the back of your arms.

You run to the bottom of the spiral staircase and skid to a halt, looking up at all the seven floors winding above you. You crane your neck upwards to see McLaggen on the topmost floor looking over the bannister - a small, gold something glints in his hand. A galleon?

“Cormac? Did you see?” Katie’s head appears diagonally across from McLaggen on the floor below. She looks down at you standing in the middle of the kitchen and then up to McLaggen at the top of the lighthouse.

“Whazgoin’on?” yawns Davies, coming out of his bedroom opposite Katie’s. “Are the others back from Puddlemere?”

“Not yet. But they’re about to be.” Leanne pads out onto the landing directly above you in her pyjamas, closely examining a galleon in the palm of her hand. “Merlin’s pants…”

“Mine just came through too!” Marietta too appears outside her bedroom door, followed by a bleary-eyed Carmichael. She looks up at Katie, Davies and McLaggen.

“Guys, this is it,” says Cho leaning over the bannister across from McLaggen. Krum curiously joins her, looking equally as puzzled as you are.

“Can someone please explain what is going on!?” you bellow from the bottom of the staircase as if calling everyone to attention in Quidditch practice.

“It’s our coins from when we were in the D.A. The old D.A., I mean,” says Marietta. “It’s what we used to find out when the next meetings were.”

“And? What do they say?”

“It’s Neville Longbottom. He says they’re getting ready to fight at Hogwarts and that we’ve to join them,” says Cho.

“Fight?” Your stomach drops. “Fight who? Why?”

“Only one way to find out,” McLaggen replies as you look up at him in disbelief.

He nods at you reassuringly and you take a deep breath. This is what you’ve been preparing for after all, right? It’s not just pretend. You’re simultaneously more and less prepared than when you broke into Azkaban. You’re much better in combat now but god, you need a plan. More details. Something you can control.

You nod. “Alright. Well, we’ll get some rest and meet up first thing tomorrow with Wood and the others so we can come up with -”

“No,” says McLaggen. “Now. They’re fighting now. We need to leave. Right now.”

You look up at him. Absurdly, all you can think now is that you really need to change your jeans.

Chapter 18: Calling

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