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someonestolemyshoes · 3 years

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Hi! Have u done any pregnant Hanji and overprotective daddy Levi already?? Yep i think im craving for more domestic levihan family, im sorry 😭

Im a bit new here in the community, and when i read ur works, i fell in love with it already, thank you for existing!!! 💖💖💖

Hello anon! Thank you so much, I’m so glad you enjoyed my other fics :3 Sorry for the very long wait for this one, I've been struggling to find the time/motivation to write lately, but I'm feeling a little better and I figured I'd get to work on some of my prompts. Starting here!!

It ended up a little less domestic and a touch more angsty than I had originally planned, but only for a moment--happy endings all round!

Warning: this does start off with non-graphic depictions of nausea/vomiting, I hope that doesn't bother you!

Hange had been feeling unwell for days.

It wasn't an uncommon occurrence—Hange tended to wake up feeling nauseous some days, most often when she'd neglected to eat a decent meal the evening before—but this was the fourth morning in a row now, that Hange found herself bent over the toilet bowl in the early hours of the morning, heaving up nothing but acid and empty air.

She retched until her stomach ached. There was nothing left to bring up, but her gut still rolled unpleasantly and there was a telling tremor under her tongue that warned her it might be best to stay in the bathroom a little while longer. She settled heavily against the wall to catch her breath.

It didn't make any sense. For most of the day, Hange felt fine. A little tired, maybe, but that was only to be expected after spending half the night every night on the bathroom floor. Tonight, no doubt, would follow the uncomfortably familiar routine: Hange would dry-heave a little longer, until the queasiness abated enough for Levi to convince her to come back to bed, and then she would toss and turn, too warm beneath the bed clothes, until she could fall into a restless sleep. She'd wake up feeling a little groggy, a little bleary, unreasonably hungry, but after a coffee and some breakfast she would feel well again. Perfectly normal.

Like clockwork, Levi appeared in the doorway just as Hange had flopped herself back over the toilet. She felt his palm, cool and soft, press against the back of her neck. Hange gathered her hair back from her face with both hands, braced her elbows on the toilet bowl, letting out a groan of discomfort as her stomach twisted, threatened to revolt again. Levi's thumb rubbed soothingly against her neck.

Sure enough, she brought up nothing more, but she gagged plenty, and found herself gasping for breath by the time she leaned back against Levi, aching and exhausted. His lips pressed into her damp hair.

Levi was as silent as always. His touch was pleasant, his presence welcome. Hange needed the hand he offered to pull her to her feet, needed his reassuring grip at her hips as she brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth out. Her quaking knees felt unstable beneath her.

He lay facing her after they got into bed. Hange was sprawled out atop the covers, shifting restlessly to find the coolest patches on the bed. Levi watched her for a moment, then said, "This isn't normal."

Hange only grumbled.

"You said you'd book an appointment with the doctor."

Hange grumbled again. Levi ticked his tongue and rolled to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling.

"Call tomorrow."

"If I didn't know better," Hange said sluggishly, "I'd say you were worried about me."

He scowled and rolled onto his other side, his back to her now.

"No, just sick of waking up at half four every morning to drag you back to bed."

Hange managed a small, wicked snicker, but shuffled across the space between them and pressed an apologetic kiss to the back of his neck.

"Must be dreadful," she said. Her voice sounded raw, hoarse. She buried her nose into his hair and took a long, deep breath. Levi grunted, but reached back and pulled her arm loosely over his hip. He knotted their fingers together loosely.

"Call them, Hange."

Hange gave his fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

"I will."

Hange prided herself on being a reasonably intelligent person. She had two degrees, was working towards her doctorate, and already had her name on a small handful of peer-reviewed research papers. She spoke multiple languages, read dissertations for fun, kept a (in Levi’s words) disgustingly realistic human skeleton in a box under the bed for study purposes, and had spent the better part of the last 26 years of her life studying human biology and physiology.

How she had not predicted that she might be pregnant was almost unfathomable.

She left the doctors office in a daze with an appointment card and several pamphlets in hand. She had been referred hastily to a midwife and the hospital would soon be sending out a date for an ultrasound—“As soon as possible,” the doctor had said, “since you’re not sure how far along you are.”

The thing is, Hange had been on the same birth control pill for years now. Forgetful as she may be about many, many things (like eating, and bathing, and washing the dishes and taking out the garbage and and and), Hange was religious in taking that damn pill at the same time every single day. She had never missed it, not even once. Without a regular cycle, Hange had no way of predicting when they had conceived, and the doctor was eager to make sure no essential landmarks in her antenatal care were missed, if they could possibly help it.

The thought had never even crossed her mind. It seemed ridiculous now, in hindsight. The sickness was one thing, but now that she thought about it, there were a whole host of small oddities that Hange could easily attribute to pregnancy. Lethargy, and bloating, heartburn, and she had been peeing more than usual—Hange groaned, and scrubbed her hands over her face. She should have suspected, at least. Should have put the pieces together sooner.

But, stupid and naive as it may be, she hadn’t thought it possible. Why worry about it, when Hange had taken consistent precautions to avoid it?

She felt queasy the entire bus ride home.

It wasn’t that she was against the idea of having children. One day, maybe. When she had finished her doctorate, got herself a steady, well-paid job. When she and Levi had moved out of their tiny, cramped apartment into somewhere bigger, somewhere more suited for a family.

And god. Levi.

This was something they’d never really talked about. For his part, Levi never seemed all that interested. He was good with Hange’s nieces and nephews, and Erwin’s son adored him, and he hadn’t showed any express dislike for children, but—well, tolerating other peoples little brats and raising your own are two very different things.

What if Levi didn’t want the baby? What if he did? Hange wasn’t even sure herself what she wanted to do about the whole situation—what if she didn’t want it? What if, after some reflection, Hange decided now wasn’t a good time? Could they even afford a baby right now? Hange’s money was tied up in her education, while Levi was just making ends meet at the office. They got by well enough with just the two of them, but add in a baby? A whole other person, entirely dependant on them for support? Hange could barely feed and bathe herself, some days, never mind responsibly care for a child.

By the time the bus pulled up near the house, Hange felt more distressed than ever. Levi, at least, was at work until the evening, so she had a few more hours to herself to mull everything over, but the entire situation made her stomach clench and churn unpleasantly with every new thought.

The prospect of having a child was terrifying. The prospect of not having this child was nauseating.

Levi had left the flat in pristine condition when he had left for work, but Hange barely had the energy to feel even a little guilty as she shrugged off her coat and kicked off her shoes, leaving both strewn about the floor. She dumped her bag and made her way sluggishly through to the bedroom.

Levi had made the bed. The sheet was stretched flat over the mattress, the pillows perfectly fluffed and set against the headboard. Hange’s nightshirt, one of Levi’s old, baggy shirts, too stretched and threadbare for him to wear, had been folded neatly and left on her side of the bed, her slippers lined up smartly with the bed frame. For some reason—hormones, she told herself—her eyes watered, and a lump swelled in her throat. She sniffled pitifully as she stripped off her clothes and pulled on the shirt, clambering into the bed and tugging the sheets until the cocooned around her.

Hange passed the rest of the day tossing and turning in bed. She tried to nap, but her mind was too restless, occupied with thoughts of the baby, with the concept of having to tell Levi when he came home. She could try to lie, say the doctors had done some blood work, that she was waiting on the results of some test or other, but Levi knew her too well. She could never lie to him, and her despondent state would give her away before she had the chance to say anything.

The sun was beginning to set by the time she heard Levi’s keys in the door. She felt exhausted, head aching with all the thinking, considering, weighing up her options; with running over every possible outcome she could imagine. Keeping the baby, getting rid of the baby, Levi not wanting the baby, Levi leaving over the baby—every scenario she could imagine was worse than the last. There was only one idea that she had hardly dared entertain, in fear of disappointment if things didn’t work out.

She heard Levi call out for her, but gave no answer. She listened, curled up in a ball on her side, as he shuffled around, no doubt picking up her coat and shoes from where she had abandoned them. And then he made his way towards the bedroom, steps soft on the plush carpet. The bedroom door creaked open.

“Hange?”

She made a small, warbled noise under the bedclothes. Levi came to sit on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hand found the curve of Hange’s hip.

“How was it?”

Hange made another noncommittal sound. She wiped her nose and eyes on the sheets, but didn’t dare show her face just yet. She wasn’t ready. She had never prepared for this conversation, never even imagined it before today. It was too soon. Not enough time to rehearse.

Levi’s hand moved to her back, rubbing lightly up and down her spine, before dropping to the mattress behind her. He leaned over her, and she felt his lips press warm and gentle to the point of her shoulder. A fresh wave of tears poured over the bridge of her nose and down the side of her face.

She tried to be quiet, but something—the shake of her shoulder, perhaps, or the shudder of air as she tried to take a steadying breath in—gave way to her crying. Levi moved off the bed, but Hange felt his fingers prying lightly at the sheets, pulling them down until he could get a good look at her face. He was kneeling by the bed now, face level with her, and he looked at her with worry pinching deep creases between his brows.

“Oi, what’d they say?”

Hange bit the inside of her lip and rubbed her damp cheek on the pillow. If Levi was bothered by her using their bedding as a tissue, he didn’t show it. He simply looked at her, eyes darting over her face, searching. It occurred to Hange then how this must look to him. She had gone to the doctors due to unexplained, violent sickness, and now she is in bed, hours later, still crying about whatever news she had received.

“I’m fine,” she said. Levi’s tense shoulders relaxed a fraction, but his face remained pinched, frowning and concerned. Hange wanted to tell him quickly, simply, like ripping off a plaster, but the words would not come. She opened her mouth, but her throat constricted painfully.

Eventually, she said, “my bag. There’s some stuff in my bag. Have a look.”

Levi gave her a somewhat quizzical look, but stood, dropping a quick kiss to her temple before going to fetch the bag, and dipping his hand in to fish out the contents inside.

Hange watched with her breath held and her stomach clenched as Levi pulled out the handful of leaflets and turned them over, looking at each one in turn. His eyes widened fractionally as comprehension dawned on him. His lips pressed into a thin line. Leaden weight settled in Hange’s gut. She curled into a tighter ball, pressing the bedsheets over her mouth and nose, waiting for him to gather himself enough to say something.

After a moment, he spoke.

“That’s all?”

Huh? “Huh?!”

Hange disentangled her arms from the sheets and sat up, staring at him. Levi moved to sit on the edge of the bed again, a scowl back on his face, though there was an intriguing flush high on his cheeks as he whacked her lightly on the top of the head with the leaflets.

“Stupid four-eyes,” he said, exasperated. “Crying like that. I thought you were dying.”

“I’m pregnant.” Hange said the word slowly, carefully, in case Levi had somehow misunderstood. He had the audacity to look at her like she was stupid.

“I can see that.”

“And you have nothing more to say about it? That’s all?”

Levi shrugged a little at her. Aside from the small patches of colour in his cheeks, Levi seemed wholly unfazed by the revelation.

“It’s just a baby. We can handle a baby.”

“That doesn’t terrify you?”

Levi scrutinised her for a moment, before he said, “are you scared?”

“Yes? Yes! How are you so calm? We can’t afford a baby—we don’t have the time for a baby? Where will they going to sleep? We don’t have a spare room. Can we get time off work to take care of a baby? How will we pay for childcare when we can’t be around?”

“Hange,” Levi said, putting a stop to her rambling. He watched her with a pinched stare. “Do you not want it?”

Hange had spent the majority of the day mulling over this same question. Staring a family was a huge, life-changing commitment, something that required careful forethought and planning. They had not had that luxury. Hange was pregnant now. She had doubts and fears, more than she could ever express, but the idea of simply having a baby—of having this baby—wasn’t upsetting. In the small, brief moments she had allowed herself to imagine a future where she and Levi were parents, where they weren’t wanting for money or time, where things were well, she felt happy. Giddy. The prospect was almost exciting.

“It’s not that,” Hange said earnestly. “I do—I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I—I do want it. But I just—we had no time to prepare. We have no savings, we have no space, I’m a mess. How are we supposed to take care of a tiny person? Babies are hard work, Levi.”

“You’re already hard work.”

Hange laughed weakly, and wiped at her face again. Levi pressed a kiss to her raw cheek.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said.

Hange leaned into him, sighing quietly.

“Is this the kind of thing we can just figure out?”

Levi hummed, shrugging his shoulder. His fingers skimmed up beneath Hange’s shirt, splaying over the small of her back and pulling her closer.

“Why not? We’ve done a good job bullshitting our way through everything else.”

Hange laughed lightly and bumped the side of her head against Levi’s.

“This is different, Levi. This is a person. A tiny little person who is going to need me and you to do everything for them. What if we can’t do it? What if we mess up?”

“Hange.” Levi pulled back a little and his hands came up to grip either side of her face, forcing her to look at him. “Stop. I know all that. But if you want the brat, and I want the brat, we’ve got no choice but to get on with it.”

“I know, I know, but—wait, you want the baby?”

Levi maintained eye contact with her, but it seemed to take a concentrated effort to do so. The flush of his cheeks deepened a little and his lips quirked at the corners. No doubt to compensate for the show of emotion, he pulled his face into his customary frown.

“It’s fine,” he said. Hange fought the urge to roll her eyes and caught his hands as he lowered them from her face, pulling them into her lap.

“Are you saying that because it’s already too late, or do you want to keep it?”

Levi’s face took on a look of constipated strain. He curled his lip as though in distaste, then hooked a hand around the back of Hange’s neck and pulled her face to his abruptly, smacking a kiss to her lips. He let his forehead settle against hers and stroked his thumb over the hinge of her jaw.

He fought to keep his tone neutral, but Hange could hear the happy tremor in his voice as he said again, “It’s fine.”

For the first time since hearing the news that day, Hange allowed herself to feel excited. To accept the idea that she and Levi were about to start their own bizarre little family. That Levi was still with her felt incredible enough, but to know that he was pleased—it was more than she could ever have hoped for. Hange gave a wet laugh and kissed him again.

“Are you allergic to looking happy?” Hange asked as they broke apart. Levi clicked his tongue and pulled back to flick her square between the eyebrows. She laughed a little louder and leaned to wipe her runny nose on his shoulder. Levi muttered under his breath, but didn’t push her away.

“Okay,” Hange said, after a moment. She sat back and pushed her hair back from her face. “Okay. We’re having a baby, then.”

Levi’s rubbed the smile from his lips with the back of his hand, nodding. “We’re having a baby.”

Hange sunk down to flop back over the pillows. Levi looked down at her, head tilted, chewing the inside of his lip. Hange reached up to brush his fringe off his forehead, warmth spilling in her chest when he held her hand close and turned to kiss her palm.

She smiled a little playfully, and freed a leg from the sheets to dig her toes into his ribs.

“If I’d known you wanted kids I would have been significantly less stressed, you know.”

Levi quirked a brow at her.

“I’ve told you that before.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have. At your sisters wedding.”

Hange racked her brain, searching for the conversation. She remembered the occasion, and she remembered that she and Levi had somehow ended up babysitting Hange’s family brood. She remembered Levi, wrestling to keep her youngest nephew on his lap while the eldest, still only five or six at the time, was clambering up the back of his chair, sticky hands tugging at Levi’s collar. Hange fought hard to recall more of what was said, but could remember nothing at all of Levi announcing that he had wanted one of his own.

“You said these brats aren’t so bad,” Hange said slowly.

Levi nodded at her. Hange waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, only looked at her like there was nothing more he needed to say.

“That’s it? That’s your idea of telling me you want kids?”

“The hell else could I have meant?”

Hange dug her toe at him again but Levi caught her foot this time, pushing it firmly down onto the mattress. Hange reached for him with both arms instead, curling them around the back of his neck and tugging him down quickly. He toppled over her with a quiet oof, and Hange rolled them quickly, straddling his waist and dropping her weight down onto him.

“That is the kind of thing you say clearly, Levi! These brats aren’t so bad—you’re ridiculous!”

Levi wrestled with her arms a little longer before giving up and bringing his hands instead to rest low on her hips. He watched her with a curious expression on his face, something open and soft, and then his eyes roved down to her abdomen and his thumbs brushed inwards, beneath the hem of her shirt, stroking over her lower belly.

This time, he didn’t fight his smile.

He reached up and pulled her down by the neck, and kissed her soundly. Hange melted against him, welcomed the press of his tongue between her lips, shuddered pleasantly when he nipped at her bottom lip. She went with him willingly as he rolled them both over, nudging a knee between her legs and settling his weight against her.

She was spreading her legs to make space for him, when he paused suddenly, and pulled back, leaning over the bed and scooping through the discarded back of leaflets. Hange, winded and dishevelled, watched him incredulously as he flicked through the contents of one, then tossed it aside and opened another.

“What are you doing?”

Without looking up, Levi replied, “Checking.”

“Checking what?”

“I wanna know if we can still—” he waved a hand between them, and went back to searching.

“We’ve been—” Hange mimicked his gesture, “—up until now anyway.”

Levi looked up at her, looking mildly horrified. He held up one his open leaflet and said, “You’ve been drinking alcohol, too. You’re not supposed to do that. And look, here—you’re not supposed to overwork. You’ll have to take on less hours at the university. And you’ll eat. Proper damn meals. Every day.”

Hange flopped back against the pillows, eyes rolling, watching as Levi picked up each new leaflet in turn, pointing out every little adjustment that Hange would have to make.

“This one says you should get eight to ten hours sleep per night. Every night. And not so much coffee, the caffeine’s bad for the baby.”

The baby. It sounded surreal. It sounded ridiculous. Levi shifted to sit against the headboard beside her after opening the chunky little What to Expect While Expecting volume Hange had been handed while leaving the doctors. He seemed thoroughly engrossed, and seemingly unaware when one of his hands reached out to pull Hange’s hair free of its ponytail and sink into her hair. She hummed happily as his nails scraped over her scalp.

Things were still scary, and Hange was still uncertain about how this whole adventure might turn out. But Levi was still with her, and Levi was happy, and that—

—Well, that was good enough.

#levihan #ask #my writing #this was fun!! thank you :D #hoping I can get around to the other prompts soon too!!

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hamliet · 3 years

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Unless a Grain of Wheat Falls and It Dies...

Or, why I am pretty optimistic about the fates of Jean, Connie, Gabi, and all titanized people this chapter, which is also an excuse for me to talk about SnK’s allusions to Russian literature.

There are strikingly parallel ideas The Brothers Karamazov and Attack on Titan, as well as parallel plot points and imagery to the point where if it isn’t deliberate, it’s uncanny. (NB: before people yell at me about comparing a Japanese and Russian work, Isayama has used Russian names since the start of SnK--Shiganshina is a Russian name.) In particular, there are narrative allusions to a portion of the novel known as “The Grand Inquisitor,” which is a short story within a novel. The central thesis of “The Grand Inquisitor” is as follows:

nothing has ever been more insupportable for a man and a human society than freedom.

This parable is told within the story by Ivan Karamazov, a character whose intellectuality is his gift and his curse. He tells his brother Alyosha that the motivation for creating this parable is precisely the evils done to children (oh look, a major SnK theme) and specifically cites an example which was unfortunately taken from real life in Russia and which Isayama has an uncanny parallel:

I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when every one suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That's a question I can't answer... If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? ... if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers' crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn't grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old...

... How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? ... What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? ... I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don't want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. ... too high a price is asked for harmony; it's beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it... It's not God that I don't accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket.”

The actual parable of “The Grand Inquisitor” is Ivan’s answer to Alyosha’s question about Ivan’s lines above. Ivan tells a story about how freedom is actually what dooms humanity: it is the curse. (Alyosha does not believe this.) Jesus comes back to earth and is promptly arrested, because his existence and return threaten the wellbeing of society. To be happy, one cannot be free, but one or two strong people in society should be free and bear the burden for everyone else (you can see the parallels to King Fritz/the Reisses).

Nothing is more seductive for man than his freedom of conscience, but nothing is a greater cause of suffering... all his life he loved humanity, and suddenly his eyes were opened, and he saw that it is no great moral blessedness to attain perfection and freedom, if at the same time one gains the conviction that millions of God's creatures have been created as a mockery, that they will never be capable of using their freedom...

This is SnK’s thesis: to be free, there will be suffering. It is part of human nature, and yet to not have it is to be lost. But SnK, despite its explorations of human darkness and monstrosity, has a higher view of humanity than does Ivan. SnK’s view is more alongside Alyosha’s, who says what is honestly the truth about not just the Reisses, but Eren now:

"Who are these keepers of the mystery who have taken some curse upon themselves for the happiness of mankind? .... It's simple lust of power, of filthy earthly gain, of domination—something like a universal serfdom with them as masters—that's all they stand for.”

Mikasa is akin to the Christ figure in the story, akin to Alyosha: Christ is constantly asked to speak, asked to act, and he does not until the very last moment, when he kisses the Grand Inquisitor on the lips. After the story is over, Alyosha then does likewise to Ivan.

Not to mention when Alyosha worries about Ivan’s mental state, he then answers with this:

“Listen, Alyosha,” Ivan began in a resolute voice, “if I am really able to care for the sticky little leaves I shall only love them, remembering you. It's enough for me that you are somewhere here, and I shan't lose my desire for life yet.”

A simple leaf can save a life. A leaf can save the world. A leaf, grown from a tree that started as a seed falling to the ground, dead, only to grow life from that death. Alyosha himself notes SnK’s central thesis of chapter 137 in the (very long) novel’s final pages:

...some good, sacred memory, preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education. If a man carries many such memories with him into life, he is safe to the end of his days, and if one has only one good memory left in one's heart, even that may sometime be the means of saving us.

There’s a lot more to this, but this is the epigraph to The Brothers Karamazov, the central thesis of the entire novel:

"Verily, verily, I say unto you, except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit." -John 12:24

Suffering can grow great fruit in an individual life, and by giving something up, by even death, something beautiful can come. Through cruelty, you can find life.

This is not just a long-running theme in SnK, but a pattern in its plot. Often those who surrender then receive exactly what they had surrendered (but admittedly, not always, like Erwin).

Mikasa accepted Eren’s loss, and got him back.

Mikasa let Armin go, and got him back.

Falco gave up hope of survival, and got another chance:

Hange was going to die alone, feeling guilty for having failed her comrades, but saw everyone again, and they told her well done:

Historia gave up being free, but now we know she will be.

Levi gave up on his revenge, and then got it. Annie thought she would never see her dad again, but she did. For Mikasa, accepting that she has to kill the boy she loves coincides not just with her acceptance of her love, but with the acceptance and knowledge that he loves her:

It always comes with sacrifice, increasingly hard sacrifice, but usually the seeds that are dropped grow and bloom.

This chapter, everyone surrendered their hearts. They let their dreams fall to the ground, and I honestly think the story will allow it to plant life. Yes, the world as a whole is saved and that is enough to make thematic sense, but it works even better if the very people who were titanized this chapter also bloom again. They chose to trust Mikasa, Levi, Falco, and Pieck to finish the task.

The characters giving up their lives only to get them back make sense, and give Mikasa’s sacrifice of Eren. For Mikasa, Eren was her world, and she gave it up when she had lost everyone else. She had nothing left, and she still did it. I would hope she’d be narratively rewarded beyond just the world being saved, because Mikasa has always been motivated by her personal relationships.

Moving on from Mikasa: Connie’s mom has been kept alive and the concept of turning mindless titans back to humans was already brought up specifically in relation to her:

Connie giving up on his mother a dozenish chapters ago only to get her back now--not through sacrificing a child, but through saving the entire world--would fit the themes and patterns of SnK.

Thirdly, Gabi should not die. She’s Eren with positive development, and cannot meet the same end. Even people who are skeptical of every titan being saved seem to agree that she’ll be fine. It’s possible she’s the only one saved, but imo, not likely.

See, the only shifter characters who are going to have the option of self-sacrifice are Falco and maaaaaybe Armin. The others look like they’re about to die right here and now, never mind choosing someone to save: the mindless titans are ripping at their napes. Armin also looks to be in bad shape.

Yet Armin cannot narratively commit suicide; two chapters ago he was still screaming at himself for being useless and thinking he would be better off dead. He’s already tried the heroic sacrifice, too, so why would it work this time around? It does not work for his arc. Falco dying for Gabi was the plan without any freedom from the titan curse; it’s more powerful if ending the curse changes things, rather than forcing him to make the same choice that Reiner has always been trying to make: a heroic suicide. It could happen; it’s just not as narratively strong.

As for whether the worldbuilding rules, we know that mindless titans are not truly dead nor entirely mindless; they just don’t have freedom. Ymir’s case of getting herself back after decades shows that they aren’t quite dead or absorbed. They still have consciousness that can be awoken; Ymir described it as being in a long “nightmare.” Dina still went looking for Grisha. Connie’s mom remembered and recognized Connie, telling him “welcome home.” There is plenty of evidence that there are parts of these people that are still in there even if they are forced to become monsters (oh hey, it’s an Eren parallel; he was conscious of it and had choices while mindless titans do not, but the parallel remains).

#snk 138 #snk meta #aot 138 #aot meta #mikasa ackerman #eremika #eren jaeger #armin arlert #the brothers karamazov #gabi braun #connie springer #jean kirchstein #ymir #falco grice #galco #reiner braun #annie leonhart #levi ackerman #historia reiss

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mudhornchronicles · 3 years

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festivals | din djarin

pairing: din djarin x reader; din djarin x military!reader; din djarin x general!reader

warnings: remembering of aq vetina, mentions of war

a/n: i’m back ya’ll. school really messed me up ANYWAYS we back with another dinny fic. the festival idea came from my own culture in Mexico with a celebration called Danza de los Viejitos!

masterlist

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Spring on your planet was the time of a cycle where your planet gets the most visitors. You would know… you had to authorize every single ship that came into the atmosphere. You sat in the control center every day for the past 9 rotations authorizing ship after ship – making sure none of them came to cause trouble. Your planet could not take a hit like that anymore.

But it was finally the day.

Pink and purple skies, green leaves, and warm winds created the perfect day to hold the celebration of your culture’s history – the day your people escaped imprisonment and a life or servitude.

In 19 BBY, your planet was invaded by Gamorian raiders and the elders fought them off. Civilians and military, all passed 40 years old, stayed behind while they forced everyone younger on escape ships. They wanted to “protect the able ones from extinction.” Your father stayed behind, a 38-year-old general in the emperor’s army, stayed behind as your mother your two brothers, ages 12 and 16, and a 5-year-old you were loaded onto the ship, leaving your father behind to fight for his people.

When the fight was over, he became this planet’s emperor after Emperor Molur became ill and unable to rule.

That same year, a few civilians claiming to be from an attacked settlement named Aq Vetina entered the atmosphere. Your father couldn’t turn them away as he saw “fear and a cry for help” look in their eyes. He knew that look. He lived it. It hurt him when he saw a group of dirty, shaking individuals in need of help with nothing but the clothing on their backs. Their red robes and frightened demeanor became engrained in your mind and as you saw safer days, so did they.

Your father painted visual minds of how the elders, 60-year-olds, fought off the raiders with the skill set they once knew in their youth. The determination they had to fight for their planet was motivating and drove you to also protect your planet they way they did for you. That was when you decided to serve. You trained day and night all throughout your youth and into adulthood. When your father, or your emperor you should say, deemed you well, you entered the military along with your siblings.

Your eldest brother left the planet when he met his partner. He wanted to see what the galaxy and so he went. Your other brother left the military to pursue education. He loved children and took advantage of his patience and knowledge. You remained.

You worked and worked as you climbed the ranks. You wanted to earn your position and so you did. Your peers were elated for you and served well under you. You knew every soldier in the force by name and up to their grandparents. You loved your planet and everyone in it even if they weren’t born there.

Your father deemed this day in remembrance of those who gave the planet’s inhibitants the right to remain happy on this planet and celebrate their lives. He decided that spring would be the best season as the brightest colors came to light.

A tradition this festival had was a performance by civilians wearing an elder-resembling mask and clothing too big and dated to be their own. These masks were decorated in white rope hair, wrinkles, and big smiles. These civilians would wear these to bring their elders alive for one night. They would dance through the street as watchers threw flowers and cheered them on. It never failed to put a smile on your face.

This was a tradition ever since and now, in 19 ABY, it was bigger than ever. Every species you can possibly think of has been present at some point, but you have never seen a Mandalorian enter your planet.

That is until today.

“Identify yourself, Razor Crest,” you hear the private ask.

What in the Maker is a Razor Crest doing here?

“This is Razor Crest requesting to land.”

You roll your eyes. Yeah, no shit, you thought.

You gesture the private to hold. You walk over and hold down the button on the comm.

“What is your business here, Razor Crest.”

“The festival. Should there be another reason?” a gruff voice answers.

You tilt your head. Why do I have a bad feeling?

“Stage 91 is clear to land. Over.”

“Stage 91. Heard.”

You allow the private to move on to the next ship in line. You take a deep breath in and decide its best to quiet this questioning voice in your head. You’ll just see for yourself, you said to yourself.

“Are the Sergeants on the field?” You ask the private.

“Yes, General. All 12 Sergeants and 38 Captains are out in the field making their rounds.”

You nod. “Very well.” You look over your shoulder and look at the other privates on the datapads. “Private Lukis,” you call out.

The poor young man, no more than 21, quickly stands, dropping items from the desk, and salutes. “Yes, General. Private Lukis at your attention.”

You stifle a laugh, and you shake your head in disbelief. “Private. I understand you’re new, but I’ve told you numerous times that you simply answer with yes, General. None of that is needed okay, son?”

Still saluting, he replies with, “Yes, General.”

“Put your hand down, son, and call a land speeder for me.”

He quickly nods his head, gives a yes general and proceeds to call in for a speeder.

As you go to walk towards the door, you look over to him and call for him again. He looks at you, saying yet another yes general and smiles. “You’re doing great, Private. I’m appreciative of your aid in the force.”

“Thank you, General.” He exclaims, his face turning red. “I am happy to be here.”

With that you left to go see this Razor Crest.

You waited as you saw the ramp go down with a hiss. You stand at attention with a Sergeant to your right and a Captain to your left.

Your eyes widen at the glimpse of beskar and take a deep breath. You slowly exhale as the broad warrior makes his way down.

“Is this how you greet all of your guests?” he dryly says.

“For the guests we find unsual, yes. What’s your business here, Mandalorian?” you sternly ask.

“Heard there was a festival.”

You simply nod.

“Am I allowed to be here?”

You remain looking at the warrior as you command the other officials to move on.

“I take it you brought more guests on that ancient craft of yours?”

“Just me.”

You take a couple of steps towards him. He doesn’t flinch.

“I’ve never seen a Mandalorian on this planet before. You leave your clan somewhere else?”

“Yes.”

“How unfortunate. They would have loved the festival. Do you enjoy dancing, warrior?”

“No.”

You let out a single chuckle. “By the end of the night, you will. Enjoy the festival, Mandalorian. I suggest you have plenty of credits on hand… with the treats they sell, you’ll want to buy some for the trip.”

“Thank you, General.”

You bid farewell and walk towards your landspeeder. You look back at the warrior and notice he’s still looking at you. “How did you know I was a general?”

“Your confidence. It would be a waste for you not to be.”

You smirk at this. “And the stars on your lapel give it away,” he continues.

You look at your embroidered stars and smile. “Good eye, Mandalorian.” He nods in appreciation as you hop on the land speeder.

“I’ll see you around, warrior.”

“I’m sure,” he says.

You ask the droid to be taken to the palace. You have to get ready too.

Bright colors flow as you walk the streets of the festival. Paper decorations and string lights go from streetlight to streetlight and the sound of laughing children sing songs to your ears. You walk with your father as you both greet anyone who comes in your way. Your father, dressed in an intricate silk number with florals and bright colors, is the embodiment of happiness. His smile is even brighter than the jewelry he wears. You, having gone with a black number with an embroidered masterpiece of bright colored patterns, take in the sight of it all.

As you continue on, you spot a glimmer of silver in the corner of your eye. You turn your head and spot the Mandalorian from earlier, leaning against a tree. You offer a small wave and he returns a nod.

“I want eyes on my father at all times while I’m gone, do you understand?” you speak into the commlink.

“Yes, General. Delta and Sierra on him,” your captain replies.

You excuse yourself from your father’s side and receive a kiss your hand as he smiles at you. You can be the most frightening general in the galaxy, but you are never too tough for a kiss from your father.

You walk towards the Mandalorian and spot the wooden trinket in his hands. “I see you found Mister Ferin’s stand. His work is stunning, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replies. He sounds much different than earlier today. Is he upset?

“I must admit I have many of his trinkets. He made me a carousel when I was young and I still cherish it everyday.”

“He’s very talented.”

You look at the Mandalorian and are met with your reflection in his visor. “Would you like to walk with me, warrior?”

He pushes himself off the trunk of the tree. “Very well. Lead the way.”

And so you do.

You showed him your favorite drink stand and even convinced him to try one. He refused to take off his helmet, so you improvised. You connected two straws so it would slide under his helmet.

It worked.

You showed him the dance of the elders. He paid attention to every detail of it. He asked about the history, the significance of the colors, and even the music. You felt comfortable. You were more than happy to talk about and when he asked for specifics, your heart fluttered.

How was this beskar-clad stranger so much more interested in the history than anyone you have ever met? Everyone else came for the parties, but he wanted to learn.

He came to learn.

You walked some more as he drank from his two-straw drink. He asked to stop by again and you happily agreed. You got to know him too. You had learned that he had a son – a foundling, he said. You knew he was taken in by Mandalorians and you knew about the events of the last couple of rotations. His stride was confident and was openly speaking to you as if you were best friends the whole time, but then he stopped abruptly. You looked over at him.

“Mando? You okay?”

His visor stayed fixed at the view in front of you.

That’s when you saw it.

He became vulnerable.

His stance turned frail, and his chest began to heave. You looked over and spot an elderly couple sitting on a bench in their red robes, taking in the scene of the festival.

You asked again. “Mandalorian, what did you see?”

“Where did they get those robes?” He gruffed out. There was no emotion behind the question. It felt as if he wasn’t there anymore.

“I… They’ve always had them. That’s what they came here with.”

“Came from where?” He turned to you.

“Their settlement. It was a long time ago. Remember when I said our planet got attacked? So did theirs, except… not many survived from their settlement.”

He stomped over to the couple and you hurried after him. He stopped in front of the couple.

“Where did you get those robes. Where are you from?”

The woman gasped at the Mandalorian, but the man remained still. He eyed the warrior before him.

“What’s it to you, bucket?”

You quickly answer. “I’m so sorry to alarm you, Mister and Missus Pescur.”

“What settlement did you come from?” The Mandalorian asked, more softly now. “I- I know these robes.”

“I doubt it,” the elderly man says. “We were not Mandalorians. Just peaceful civilians who were attacked.”

“You are from Aq Vetina.”

“So what?”

“I… I was born on Aq Vetina. My mother and father were killed in the attack and I was taken in by the Mandalorians. I- I didn’t… I didn’t know there were any survivors.”

“Yeah? Well, you know now, bucket. We have lived peacefully on this planet so do not go around running that rusted helmet about it. The Emperor and the General have kept us safe. You mess that up, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

“Mister Pescur, I assure you this warrior means no harm. He is my guest.”

His wife stands and looks at the Mandalorian. “You are from Aq Vetina?”

He sighs. “Yes.”

Her frail hand slowly reaches for him. He eases his body’s tension and allows Mrs. Pescur to pat the back of his gloved hand. “You’ve seen many things in your life, haven’t you son?”

“Yes,” he chokes out.

“You needn’t be so rude!” She says slapping her husband’s knee. “This poor young man was blind sighted! Apologize!”

Mando chuckles, shaking his helmet side to side. “I should be apologizing.”

Mr. Pescur stands in front of Mando as he sizes him up. “Prove it.”

“Prove what?”

“Prove to me you are one of us,” he says. “I’ll apologize when I see that you lost something just like we did.”

You shift your gaze over to this beskar-clad warrior. You hear a sigh modulate through as he whispers his agreeance. You watch him as he lifts the lapel of a pouch on his belt and pulls a beaded bracelet. Obsidian pearls polished to perfection all tied together with a braided red string. He reluctantly hands it to Mr. Pescur with shaky hands.

“My family name is Djarin,” he states. “My father was a mechanic, fixed anything with a gear… and my mother was a sea-“

“A seamstress,” Mr. Pescur finishes. “Din? Little Din that always ruined his red robes when it rained?”

His wife gasped. “The little boy who would always ask to be hidden from that womp weasel in the market?”

What a small galaxy, you thought.

Within a blink of an eye, the old couple had their arms wrapped around Mando. “My boy,” Mr. Pescur tearfully says, “look how you’ve grown.”

Mando, or Din as you learned, did not reciprocate the hugging interaction. He was paralyzed. “I don’t remember a Pescur family,” he mentions.

“We changed our name here!” Mrs. Pescur exclaims. “My name is Lurina. Do you remember? You’d hide at my mother’s post at the market and would always ask for a berry treat when you left. I must have been in my 20s at the time.”

“Yes!” Din remembered. “You would always carry a blue satchel with the extras for the post.” Mrs. Pescur laughed as she confirmed his memory. Din turned to Mr. Pescur and pointed. “You would help my father when he would fix the generators. You’d always stop by her post.”

As the couple went on and on about the memories they remember from their settlement, Din looked over to you.

“I had no idea that there were any survivors… let alone ever find them. Thank you.”

You shot him a confused, yet genuine smile. “Why are you thanking me?”

“For allowing me to walk these streets.”

You placed a hand on his arm – a wordless you’re welcome. You remained with the couple for a few more minutes before they decided to go back home. You watched as they bid their farewells and Mrs. Pescur sliding the ornate bracelet on Din’s wrist. Din stopped them with a low wait.

He slowly removed his helmet and looked back up and the couple. Mrs. Pescur smiled and ran to him. She wrapped her arms around him as he did her, giving her a short squeeze. As they let go, Mrs. Pescur pressed a chaste kiss on his cheek as she spoke, your parents would be so proud.

Mr. Pescur took his time walking to Din. He reached a hand up and laid it on Din’s other cheek, gently patting it. Din took matters into his own hands and hugged the elder man, giving him a squeeze too. Mr. Pescur laughed and joked Squeeze me with that build of yours and I’ll pop, boy.

The lights over your head became brighter the more you stood there. You patiently waited for Din to slide his helmet back on, but he took a hold of your hand instead. A bold move, you thought. He looked to you and smiled.

Who knew you liked dimples and brown eyes? He wore them well.

“General,” he promptly said. “The night is still young. I’d like to see more of this festival.”

“You a dancer? Because that’s what you are going to get dragged into at this time,” you joke.

“As long as it is with you,” he confesses, “I am willing to make a fool of myself.”

“You don’t even know me, Mandalorian.”

“You can call me Din.” You nod.

“Alright Din, still doesn’t; change the fact that you don’t know me.”

“You’re right… but I’d like to.”

You can’t help but to blush at that. You nod and look around as you hear the music in the background. “Squirt some oil in that armor of yours, Din.” You interlock your fingers with his. You shot a grin in his direction as you bobbed your head towards the music. “We’re going to a festival.”

______

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blissfulalchemist · 3 years

Note

“ you made it look so damned easy to leave me. ” + twc kids xx

Ah Thank you Stella! Some angst but nothing detrimental but we’re dealing with an ex so there’s that. I hope you enjoy a little back story as timeline wise this would take place just before main game events.

It’s the worst type of weather, always had been for Hayat, the sky grey chilling the air and the clouds holding back the rain desperate to fall, combining into a sticky cold day. Always the second week of April every year without fail, a constant in this small town. Normally, Hayat would have been inside still, inviting others on the police force to have lunch in his “office” so they could all relax and have fun for a little while, not today though as he forgot his lunch and the lack of breakfast made the vending machines no longer an option for the day. So here he was, walking down Main Street unsure of where to get a decent lunch and starting to freeze, he should have brought a beanie with him today.

It’s the familiar scent of grains of paradise that slows him down. It comes from a new restaurant, open only a few weeks, one he’s been wanting to try, hoping to have a little bit of home closer to where his home is now. No time like the present, he thinks making his way to the door, blowing on his hands for some warmth.

His speed picks up the closer he comes to the door, inattentive to another customer walking out. Their eyes are focused on their phone, running straight into Hayat, the two of them almost falling over.

“Oh. Sorry man, didn’t-,” Hayat’s words catch in his throat as he identifies just whom he ran into.

Bobby Marks.

Despite the glasses Bobby wears now, Hayat would know the dark blonde hair anywhere with it being the same style since they first met in college, short along the sides and enough length at the top to spike it up with some kind of hair gel or wax depending on the weather, It would have been wax on a day like today. Bobby brushed himself off, giving Hayat a lopsided smile, “Don’t worry about it, handsome,” Hayat repressed the growl at the old nickname, “Surprised to see you out at this time.”

“Just needed some lunch,” he took a step to the side, the reporter following him, “so if you don’t mind,” Hayat tried once again to make his way into the restaurant.

“Maybe we could eat together,” Bobby stepped closer, “just like old times.”

Hayat scoffed, “‘Like old times’.” He shook his head, crossing his arms, “What do you want?”

“Who says I want anything?”

He rolled his eyes, Don’t be difficult, “Because it’s you, Bobby. You always want something from me. Whether it be some story, information, or privileges there’s always some ulterior motive with you when it comes to me.”

“Maybe I just want to have lunch with you,” Bobby shrugged, “especially since we’d be having the same food.”

Not any more, Hayat turned on his heel, “You know what, I'm actually not that hungry anymore.”

“Bull. Shit,” Bobby spat out, moving to keep pace with the officer, “You can’t lie to me, I know you better than that.”

“The fuck does it matter to you anyway?” Hayat stuffed his fists into the pockets of his jacket, “I don’t like hanging out with you unless absolutely necessary and this,” he stopped looking down on the journalist, “isn’t necessary.”

Bobby glared at him, clenching his jaw, “You know what I don’t understand with you? How you act like I didn’t ever love you when the exact opposite is true.”

Hayat rolled his eyes grumbling, “Could have fooled me.”

“It’s the truth Hayat,” Bobby pleaded, stopping himself as soon as the words left his mouth. He shook his head, “Why am I even arguing with you about this? You were the one that made it look so damn easy to leave me.” Hayat flinched, crossing his arms, “Don’t look at me like that. You think I didn’t see the traveling,” Trying to find a way back home, “the new relationships,” It was the only way to stave off the loneliness and feel something, “all of it leading to this shiny job that everyone says you’re just born to do. ‘Just like his old man, Rook!’ that’s what they all say.”

Hayat laughed, mouth thinning as he paced in a slow circle, “Easy, right. That’s what you’ve been telling yourself all these years?” He shook his head running a hand through his dark hair, “Bobby, leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve had to do. I loved you. Leaving was the last thing I wanted to do, but what was I supposed to do? You screwed me over to a point that I had to make a new life with new passions from scratch.”

“That was never my intention,” he snapped, “You could have stayed. I could have helped you find something. I could have taken care of you.”

“Taken-? No! I didn’t need to be taken care of and like hell I’d let you be the one to do that.”

“Fine. But you didn’t have to leave me still. We still could have had a life together, you and me,” he jabbed a finger into Hayat’s chest, “but you were the one that threw us away.”

Hayat shook his head, pushing Bobby’s hands away, “No, I didn’t. That was you, the minute you decided to frame me like the coward you are. You threw our relationship away, not me.”

“How was I supposed to know that they’d strip you of your academic accomplishments! You were so nice and good, you never broke a rule in your life! I thought they’d go easy on you, Hiya.” Bobby bit his lower lip, “I’m sorry they didn’t.”

“What kind of universe are you living in that made you think they’d go easy on me, Bobby?” The journalist looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck fumbling for a response, “Look, I don’t know if you’ve cared to notice but I’m not like you,” he kept his breathing even, his voice rising in volume, “There’s a reason I never broke a rule, why I had to be so nice to people that I would have loved to have avoided in any other situation. The reason? Because it was hard enough to get past the assumptions on what my education would be used for, getting past the sneers by some of the other students as the fear mongering grew once again, and to top it off the department head had been looking for just about anything to use as an excuse to get me out of there since day one,” The racist bastard. “So yeah, I can be as mad as I want about it because you, of all people, should have known what they would do to someone like me.” Hayat’s fists shook, taking a deep breath, he just had to calm down, He’s not worth the fight. Not worth getting this angry over, “You're just selfish and that’s all you ever will be.”

Hayat finally turned away from him, stalking towards the station, hearing Bobby call out, “I wouldn’t have come back if that were true you know!”

Hayat scoffed, grumbling, “What fucking bullshit. Only here cause you figured the job was easy,” And that I was still easy to manipulate.

“There’s something bigger going on here! You’ll need me one day! Just you watch,” Bobby called out, He’s just wanting to get under my skin, Hayat thought as he walked faster, eyes focused on the cobblestone below.

“I’ll never need him. Never did to begin with,” he mumbled nearing the edge of the park. He just needed a bit of a walk before heading back to the station, he could use the cool down. The station would be fine without him if he was late and if it wouldn’t be then he carried a phone for a reason. It wasn’t long before the trail became uneven, Hayat glancing up, he’d made his way towards the woods surrounding the town. He paused, letting out a long breath, whispers of fog leaving him, “Guess I start heading back,” he whispered, turning a one-eighty on his heel. The shaking had stopped, his head becoming clear once more, shoulders starting to hang and feel sore, stomach cramping with hunger. “Little deli by the station it is, I guess.”

The focus he held for the ground below him didn’t give any leeway to notice the person nearing him, not like the stranger paid much mind either as he worked to light a cigarette. Their shoulders connected, Hayat stumbling back a few steps while the dark haired stranger stayed in place. “Watch where you’re going,” he growled out, Hayat getting the briefest look at the man already stanturing away. He had to be new in town, or just passing through, his dark olive toned skin showing some time in the sun, Probably on vacation somewhere exotic. How lucky. His shoulder length hair blew softly in the breeze that picked up, Hayat rolling his eyes, Probably gets to just use some dollar store shampoo for upkeep I bet.

He let out a sigh, eyes catching the bright white carton on the dirt trail. He bent down to pick it up, the structure still stiff and showing little wear on the edges, a near brand new box. Hayat couldn’t help but glance inside the box, half the cigarettes already gone, Good luck to him in five years. “Hey wait up,” he called out, jogging the small distance between them, “You dropped these.”

The man turned slightly looking at Hayat's outstretched hand, quickly grabbing the box. “Thanks,” he said simply, walking away from him and pocketing the carton before Hayat could utter a response. With one last look, he gave a shrug, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket making his way back to the station, where Tina waited for him with a small meal from Haley’s bakery.

“Heard about your run in,” she said with a sympathetic smile, “You know if you need help in learning how to ignore him, I’d be more than happy to teach you.” She sat on the edge of his desk, leg swinging beneath her, “Can’t tell you how many people I’ve had to do that for.”

Hayat laughed, “Oh I wouldn’t be surprised with you, Tina,” her jaw dropped, giving him a small slap on the shoulder with a smile. He gave her a light push off the desk, the two of them laughing a moment more as he opened up his lunch. “Thank you, Tina. You’re a good friend.” She posed, batting her eyelashes with a big grin she couldn’t contain, Hayat giving a chuckle, “Alright Miss America, go and get what we need for patrol before you make me regret saying it.”

“Aye, Aye, Captain,” she said with a salute, laughing as she made her way to the other side of the building.

#but I love my boy so much! Thank you Stella!#I am sadly nothing more than someone that sticks close to canon with changing what I don't like #hayat khademi oc #will also be reblogged no more than three times in 24 hrs sorry #I just feel nervous about posting this #twc oc #twc detective oc #twc detective #the wayhaven chronicles

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alia-turin · 3 years

Text

@amina-celestial first of all my sincere apologies you asked for kinlky Avallac’h fic, but my writing went places. Like literary I have no idea what happened there. I started writing and things were not just happening the kinky way.

But you will get a cute Avallac’h discovering Earth and trying pasta for first time.

I fail, I’m sorry.

Title: My Dream Pairing: Avallac’h/Reader Summary: Avallac’his on the run from the Wild Hunt and finds himself in modern day earth. He is saved and nursed by the reader.

Avallac’h opened multiple portals until he finally was sure no one could find him. He was bleeding, he was exhausted, he had no idea how much longer he could take it. Maybe Caranthir could not sniff him so far out.

Wherever he was, it was winter, as his brain was so foggy he was concerned that the White Frost was here but it seemed just as normal winter and he was obviously still alive. There were bright lights everywhere and he had no idea where he was going. He fell in the snow and the world went into darkness.

He woke up in a strange room that made even less sense to him but it won't be the first time he finds himself in a new and unknown place while travelling between worlds. The bed was a bed, walls, dresser...there was a weird thing that was omitting light, it was not a candle or if it was it was the strangest he had seen. He tried to get up but he felt dizzy and gave up. He could feel something around his leg and when he looked it was a tight bandage. So someone had taken care of him and judging by the fact that he was alive and not in chains it was not Aen Elle.

The door in front of him opened and a human woman walked in.

“You are awake!” she exclaimed. “I’m sorry I took the liberty of undressing you but you were almost frozen in the snow and bleeding. I thought hypothermia might have set in.”

Avallac’h just stared at the human, dressed in the weirdest clothes he had seen. Some sort of a top and blue pants that did not look like any fabric he had seen. Did he hit his head so hard that he was hallucinating or that was just some new curse Eredin and Caranthir had come up with.

“Where am I?” he finally decided to ask.

“In my house?” the human responded innocently.

“I mean what realm…” he tried to get up again but it was way too difficult, he must have hit his head somewhere.

“Earth? Solar System?” she looked very confused and neither of that really was helping him either. “Look, I have a million questions for you, but I need to go to work, so if I leave you here, please promise not to leave with the silverware.”

Avallac’h just blinked, not even having an answer. The human walked out of the room, then he heard another door being closed and from what he could tell, locked.

He relaxed again on the bed and fell asleep.

Avallac’h woke up later, it was still a day so he must have been out just a couple of hours.

This time he managed to get out of bed, the world around him was spinning but at least he could walk. The bedroom he was in was small but cozy, certainly not a castle so he was probably in a common house. He walked out of there, the next room was what he would describe as a common room, it had table chairs on one end and some sort of lower seats on the other, across them a table and some strange flat black thing on it. This was indeed a world he had never seen before. He went to the kitchen and started exploring, the thought of food made him sick, but he knew he needed to eat. He was trying to figure out where food was stored when he heard the lock and then the front door opened. The human walked in, carrying bags and kicked the door closed as her hands were busy.

“You look good!” she said as she placed the bags on the high counter surrounding the kitchen. Avallac’h felt enchanted. This human talked to him as if they had been old friends but she was also different from the other humans he had seen. Not just the way she dressed, just...different somehow. If his head did not hurt as much as it did he could probably figure it out.

“Did you bandage me?” he asked, tilting his head curiously.

“I found you in front of the building in the snow, you were unconscious and there was a lot of blood. I was about to call ambulance when…” she smiled shily and touched her ear. It took Avallac’h a moment to understand the jest. Right she noticed he was not human. “Then I wasn’t sure what to do so I just dragged you here.” she opened the bags and started emptying them in a tall cupboard that emitted coldness. Avallac’h just straed at in in fascination, that was interesting magical trick.

“You should probably sit.” she pointed at the table and chairs. “I will fix dinner.”

Avallac’h did as he was told, mostly because standing was becoming an issue. He watched the human with great curiosity as she prepared food. Everything was so...new and fascinating.

“So...do you want to tell me what happened to you?” she asked as she put some long brown sticks in a pot of boiling water.

“I guess the best way to describe is I was fighting someone whose abilities proved to be beyond mine, I tried to escape and opened a portal to another world, but that someone has someone else in his service who is very good at travelling between realms and they were able to chase me for very long time, when I managed to lose them I continued travelling from realm to realm, until I had no more strength.” he felt good that she looked at him as confused as he was about this world. It made him feel better that he was not the only one lacking understanding.

“What exactly are you?” she asked after a very long silence just looking at him, probably evaluating if he was crazy.

“Aen Elle.” she looked even more confused. “From my experience most other realms call us elves.”

“Like Legolas?” she pulled the pot of water away and placed a pan on the stove, pouring something red inside.

“I’m not sure who or what Legolas is…” Avallac’h gave her a friendly smile.

“He is a book character, he is an elf, and then they made a movie about the book…” she stopped as she saw his confused look, he understood the word book and that was about it. “He has pointy ears so I guess you are like Legolas.” She grabbed a couple of plates and started putting food on them, moments later she joined him at the table leaving a portion in front of him. The food was...strange. The long brown sticks have turned into long soft white sticks, he would say they looked like worms but he had never seen aperizing worms so that was a bad comparison. There was some red sauce on top with various things in it that he could identify as vegetables and meat.

“You don’t like pasta?” she asked, a bit concerned. “I can fix you something else?”

“I’m afraid I had never had pasta in my life.” he grabbed the fork and tried to poke at the dish the way you would poke a pork chop, but nothing really happened. “How do you…”

“Here watch.” She grabbed her fork and started spinning it, the long things curled around the fork and then she ate it. Avallac’h was impressed. He repeated the motion and although it wasn’t as easy as she made it look like he succeeded to deliver food to his mouth.

“It’s delicious!” he had never tasted anything like that before. It was strange but amazing.

“So...why is this guy and his minion chasing you?” Avallac’h almost choked when she called Caranthir minion. He was starting to like her more and more.

“He is the king where I come from. He killed the previous king and I discovered that. That and a few hundred years of generally not liking each other.” he tried to offer a charming smile although given how battered he was he doubted that had the effect he was hoping for.

“Can he come here?” she looked a bit concerned and that pained Avallac’h. Obviously he had just met her, but she was someone who helped him, a creature she barely understood.

“Theoretically he can.” he decided that lying won’t help anyone. “His minion can probably track me if he feels motivated. However that is a big if, chasing me is a bit of an..entertainment for both of them. They know I pose danger to them, but if I’m in some realm they cannot easily find it becomes too much effort for little reward and they have other issues on their hand.” he hoped that sounded reassuring, in fact he had no idea how much Eredin wanted him now. Surely the king had other things to worry about.

“Well I’m sure they will find it hard to find my apartment.” she said with a smile.

The rest of dinner moved to more pleasant topics. He learned that she worked in the local hospital, which explained why she was able to take such good care of him. She lived alone, which he had guessed by the size and items in this apartment. She cleaned up the table after dinner and even asked to help but she refused so he spent the time just observing her. He had learned a lot of things about humans through the years, he had met so many of them in so many different worlds and they still could surprise him and fascinate him.

Once she was done cleaning she invited him on the lower soft seats where he sat a bit stiff. She turned on the black box and pictures appeared. Avallac’h was fascinated. There were people in the box doing...all sorts of things.

“Wait, I can show you Legolas.” she said and used some weird device to change the images. Soon he could see a human dressed like an elf, he was certain that was human because it didn’t have the elf eyes, or face, but had slightly pointy ears. “That’s what we typically imagine as elves.”

He was educated that it was a movie, it was like a book but people acted it, so more like a play, but recorded in some way he didn’t truly understand so others can watch it. It was a good story, filled with creatures he understood and the bad guys certainly could be the Wild Hunt.

Two weeks had passed since you found the strange elf at the entrance of your building. He had been badly injured and bleeding, you honestly thought he won’t make it through the night. But he had and since then he had been in your home. You didn’t mind the company and you found it entertaining teaching him stuff about your world as he had called it.

But there was more to it...you had found him attractive. It was a really strange thing to give her technically different species, but...he was kind and once he started understanding this world he was great to just talk with about...anything really.

You arrived home from work to see him in the kitchen, cooking. That was something new.

“I’m trying to make pasta.” he announced as he heard you walk in. You saw the spaghetti already out of the water already. It’s not how you have done it, but you kept your thoughts to yourself.

You moved next to him and watched as he was stirring the sauce.

“Here try.” he pulled the wooden spoon out of the pan and pushed it close to your lips. You could feel it is hot, you blew some air on it, your eyes fixed on the elves and then you tasted the spoon. He didn’t move. You didn’t move. The spoon was there on the tip of your lips, he was just staring at you and well so did you.

“It’s really good.” days could have passed you wouldn’t have noticed. “Yeah. Good.” You had to step away as it was too hot in this kitchen. You grabbed some silverware and placed it on the table. You went back to the kitchen and grabbed plates, leaving it next to the pasta pot, trying to keep a bit of distance...what did just happen?

He joined you at the table where you were awfully quiet. Food was good, spaghetti probably needed another minute or two, but the sauce was really good and that was helping.

“You are very silent.” he noted. “That is not typical.”

You weren’t sure if that was a question or observation. Also, did you just imagine things? He just stared at you in that longing way that made your whole body just...relax and tense at the same time.

“Just a long day.” you smiled not sure how you would explain things. Like...I like you? Do you like me? The two of you continued dinner in silence, he gave you a couple of curious looks you pretended you didn’t see and you stared at him when you thought he did not see.

Once you were done with your plate you picked up and walked in the kitchen, your thoughts running back to that moment with the spoon. You were making up by now, you were putting too much in a moment when someone was asking you to taste food. A bit annoyed at yourself you placed the plate in the sink and turned around, bumping into Avallac’h who was standing there behind you, you never heard him follow you.

“What’s going on?” he asked and you did your best to avoid his eyes, which wasn’t difficult give he was much taller than you.

“Just a long day.” you had to get away from this situation, that was the logical thing to do, but you enjoyed being close to him, so close…

“Look at me.” he placed his finger under your chin and made you look him in the eyes. “I might not be familiar with humans here but I know a thing or two about your kind. What is going on?”

What was going on was that two weeks ago you helped a stranger and you felt very attracted to him. What was going on was that it all felt so wrong, but also so good.

“Okay then.” He said after no response followed as you were too busy fighting with your feelings. “I will take a wild guess here.” he leaned forward and his lips touched yours. Your heart sank, or it was about to fly away, you were not sure which but what you knew for sure was that you liked it. You wanted it and you needed it.

#avallac'h #fan fiction #aen elle #the witcher fandom #my writing

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ageofevermore · 4 years

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can i pls request more rudy little sister pls... i just feel like he would be the best big brother especially to a sister. maybe like him helping her through depression/anxiety or advice about relationships thank u

thank you for the request! and i will def be doing the relationship advice one as well! x

He had her to thank for the authenticity of his performance. He had gone to her about the softest of subjects and listened as she debriefed the illnesses that corrupted her common sense from time to time. A topic she was usually close minded towards.

Stepping into the role of JJ Maybank was what he had worked for as an actor, however it left him with a heavy responsibility to authentically bring to life the struggle of an abuse victim. She had never been caught up in the web of mistreatment, however her mind was tinted with the degrading self reflections of an anxiety disorder. She walked him through the breakdowns that hit at random times, the depressive lows that struck for weeks at a time, and the hyperactive highs that caused concern. She told her about her triggers, how sometimes it was an unexpected touch, or a conversational topic; explained to him the delicacy of coping with unfortunate events. She poured herself out to him, and he had never been more appreciative of her. It hadn’t just given him a better understanding of JJ’s tendencies, but for the first time, he was truly seeing who his little sister was as her own person. She was incredibly strong minded and determined, something he never doubted but didn’t know the true extent of.

As kids they did everything together, thick as thieves despite the nearly five year age difference. When she started breaking away from the bulk of her family, riddled with insecurities and insufferable mental anguish, he took it harder then she had when they finally had the diagnosees. Depression and anxiety had stripped him of a lively sister willing to leave the confines of their alaskan ranch in the dead of midnight to build snowmen, but he had found her again after nearly two years of her own self discovery and realignment.

She had been in Charleston for a few weeks now, studying beneath her brother's boss who had been kind enough to extend her an internship opportunity upon hearing of her interest in film creation. She had been reluctant to take the job, knowing how hard Rudy had worked to score the role, she never wanted to undermine his efforts and so easily feed off of what he had made for himself. It had taken almost three weeks for Rudy and Jonas to convince her to fly down to South Carolina after her last day of school, and spend the summer months of her educational holiday wrapped up in script composure and production.

It had been a feel good job for the most part, but as she woke in the apartment meant to be solely her brothers and Chase’s, her heart felt heavy in her chest with impossible guilt she thought she squandered months prior. It wasn’t the first time she had woken with an impossible weight on her chest, but it was the first time since leaving Alaska that she felt guilt for working off of what Rudy had made. She recited to herself as often as she could that feeling bad was ridiculous, she wasn’t getting paid, and her name wasn’t being included in the ending cards, it was all educational, however the more she told herself that the more she felt insignificant. She felt small in the social setting, a longing for Alaska taking her captive.

Had her blonde hair not brushed against Chases shoulder on her way to the door, neither male would have noticed her presence. She was silent on her journey to her vans, character clad feet slipping on the hardwood until she found a snug home in her white slip ons.

“Josie,” Her brother called for her just before she could slip through the front door without so much of a goodbye to either male, “Why don’t you come with us today?” Chase suggested before Rudy could propose the same argument.

In the two months since her arrival, Chase had come to be a fourth brother to the soft spoken, strong-willed, determined Alaskan girl who every so often gave into the nightmares living within her mind. He hated seeing her so withdrawn from the social settings he and Rudy created. He had known her for only a few months, but she had been transparent about the telltale signs of her struggle. Rudy sighed when he watched her brow crinkle in rejection, before she forced a smile at the two of them and was on her way to Lilah’s, the same as it was every morning. Only this time, she left her happiness lingering somewhere in the guest bedroom.

Chase and Rudy shared a look, the men knowing the great difficulties of understanding little sisters -- especially little sisters who thought they didn’t deserve help when they were drowning.

She was laughing with Madison and Lilah when Madelyn and JD came into the trailer, wide grins on their sweaty overworked faces. The day had just paused for lunch, and upon seeing the hazy film in her eyes, Jonas had insisted that she join the cast for their lunch break. Usually that didn’t happen, as she was either at another location working in the office space, or she was shadowing a few of the directors and producers while everyone else ate in the tents adjacent to the Tanneyhill set.

JD attacked the blonde girl in a tight squeeze, having missed her cold and cuddly embraces. The girls hands and feet were always cold as a mid-winter alaskan icicle, a refresher after spending many hours beneath the unrelenting Charleston sunlight. They were all crammed into a single trailer, hot, sweaty bodies pressed together trying to enjoy the light circulation of the air conditioning.

“What’a’do girl?” Drew exclaimed, hand outstretched ready to clap against hers. Their fingers curled against each other in a classic brotherly embrace, and she cringed away from the clammy skin of his palms against her knuckles.

“That’s absolutely disgusting.” She cringed, shrieking in laughter when Drew advanced and rubbed his sweaty hands down her bare thighs, sending her shaking body into JD’s lap. The boy that had previously been fondling her icy hands in content, groaned at the sudden presence of her weight against softer parts of his body. “Sorry, Jed.”

“You’re not with the production team today?” Lilah asked, leaning over and snagging the iced tea that had been in Madelyn’s hands. The two blondes shared playful looks of annoyance before listening to her shrug her shoulders, “I got told that I could take lunch.”

She watched Lilah frown, having known the way her father worked and understanding that he usually never gave his interns time to breathe. He liked feeding them all the opportunities and information he could whilst simultaneously running around like a chicken with his head cut off.

“So did Elaine.” Austin hummed, having been beside the brunette intern when she was gifted with the rare break of lunch. A weight was lifted off of her shoulders, the paranoia that Jonas was fed up with her hazy mindset slipping away into a dark corner.

She smiled at the beautiful people around her, somehow displaced from the utopia of opportunities sitting right beneath her fingertips.

As she laid in bed that night, head cloudy with the madness of what her life had become, the bedroom door opened allowing a passage of light to coat the midnight walls gold. She shifted from her curled up position, eyeing the blonde figure as they moved through the night and surrendered to the shadow of the moon.

“Hey.” He whispered as he slung himself against the length of the bed, nuzzling beneath the covers and turning so her was face to face with her. In the darkness he couldn’t see the tracks of moisture against her cheeks, but he knew her well enough to recognize the tremble of her shoulders.

“Hey.” She mumbled back, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand, annoyed with the tickle of a tear beneath her eyelashes. “Sorry.”

Rudy frowned, searching for her hand in the dead of the darkness and bringing warmth to her anxiously cold digits. She always ran colder when she was anxious, and he couldn’t help but brush his hand along her arm on certain days when she was giving off a mix of warning signs and hormones. “What are you sorry for?”

“Feeling like this.” She sniffled, “I know you told me you didn’t do jack shit, but I just feel like you worked for this. This is your dream. I feel like I'm piggybacking and that’s the last thing I want.”

Rudy frowned, wishing he could somehow just prove to her that this wasn’t just some charity work being thrown out to younger siblings in need of a little motivation. Jonas had seen her previous projects and aspiring indie films. He had asked Rudy about your willingness to join him for an internship, but of course Rudy had never told her that while performing a background check on him, Josh and Jonas had stumbled upon her. It just never seemed relevant in the grand scheme of things. But, he told her that now, and though it didn’t lift the heavy guilt or ease her mind, she took it into consideration so that hopefully, sometime soon, she would be confident enough to realize she wasn’t just some charity case related to Rudy Pankow.

— 𝐛𝐱𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞

#rudy’s younger sister #rudy pankow fluff #rudy pankow sister #rudy pankow #madelyn cline #madison bailey #chase stokes #austin north #drew starkey #outer banks cast #outer banks #outer banks blurb #rudy pankow blurb #rudy pankow imagine #jj maybank

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thanks--for--listening · 3 years

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tethers

hi party people guess who finally finished her fic for the wilds! i’m tagging it as leatin but you could probably read it either in a ship way or just in a friendship way. takes place after the ocean scene but we’re pretending Leah hasn’t gone into the woods to find nora yet. (also on ao3)

The sun was overbearing. Leah tried to open her eyes, but the glare surrounded her, didn't leave room for anyone or anything else. There was no warmth or feeling — just light. She might have compared it to drowning, but the metaphor didn’t hold up anymore. She knew what drowning looked like; there was nothing bright about it.

The waves had been all darkness, pain and pressure toying with her like she weighed nothing at all. She’d heard the ocean described as unforgiving before, and she hadn’t understood it until she was out there. The water didn’t care about her. It didn’t care about anyone. There was fear, a survival instinct that couldn’t be ignored, but there was also something intoxicating about its indifference. Giving up control offered a serenity she hadn’t prepared for. A part of her still longed for it, although it wasn’t strong enough to break through the sun, to drag her up and off the beach.

The constant light might have tricked her into thinking she’d succeeded, but she was pretty sure the afterlife wasn’t supposed to hurt this much. Every muscle in her body groaned, as if they’d rusted over in however long she’d been asleep. There was a quiet but constant pounding in her head, and she let it ground her, let every beat sync up with her heart and confirm that she was still alive.

Her other sensations came back slowly. The hunger, deep in her gut, made itself known in whispers that weren’t easily ignored. The sand beneath her, damp and cold, served as a constant reminder of the hell she was waking up to. But more than anything, it was the feeling of a hand running through her hair that motivated her to blink away the sun and let reality come back into focus.

Fatin wasn’t looking at her. Her eyes were cast outward, at the infinite ocean surrounding them. She stared at it like she could see past it, like there was more to look at than their own personal wasteland. Like she saw something that wasn’t there.

Leah’s eyes drifted to her hands. She could feel her right one still absentmindedly combing through her hair, but her left was in its own world. Her fingers kept moving, up and down and left to right, slowly then quickly, then slowly again. It looked sporadic at first, but the longer she watched, the more she felt like there was a rhythm to it. A pattern, although one she couldn’t decipher.

Fatin glanced down, as if she felt her eyes on her. “You’re up.” The worry in her voice contradicted the smile on her face. “How do you feel?”

“Drowsy.” Speaking took more effort than it should have. Her voice carried it's now characteristic crack, the sound almost not coming out at all.

“Here,” she said as she reached for a water bottle. “Drink slowly.”

Fatin helped her up, held her head as she drank. It didn’t matter that the water was warm — it came with the same relief it had in the few weeks they’d been here. Every sip calmed her, brought her back down to Earth, dampened the pounding and gnawing and rebelling going on inside her body, if only for a moment. Calm wasn’t something she held onto for very long.

She put the bottle down, shifted so her head ended up in Fatin’s lap. They’d never talked about it, this position she often found herself in. Leah wasn’t even sure how it had started. All she knew was that she liked the way it felt, to lay against her, to feel the warmth of another person underneath her. And after that day they’d spent searching, when all she could think about was Fatin dead in a ditch somewhere, Leah couldn’t deny the comfort it gave her, knowing for certain that she was okay. That she was alive.

Fatin never stopped her, not once.

“How—uh, how are you feeling? You know, up here?“ Fatin tapped on the side of her head as she asked. The hesitation was so unlike her. Guilt reared its ugly head, reminded her of an indisputable fact: Fatin’s fear, her worry, it was all her fault. They were in hell, and she was making things worse. The way she always did.

“Better.” She answered confidently, even though she wasn’t entirely sure whether it was true or not. The desperation was out of the forefront, at the very least. But she wasn’t sure that would classify her as healed. As normal. Leah didn’t think she’d ever fit that label, not before this fucking island and definitely not on it. She did her best to ignore the sinking feeling that she might not find normal anytime after their castaway adventure, either. She would always be this way. That girl who ran to the ocean, she would live somewhere inside her forever.

Fatin sighed in relief, and all at once she made the white lie worth it. “That’s two things to celebrate.”

“Two?”

Her face lit up. “We’ve got food now. Starvation is officially put on hold.”

She tried to smile. Truly, she did, but whether it was her body’s slow reaction time or her mind’s lingering hold on her, something wouldn’t let it happen. Pretending kept getting harder, and she couldn’t help but worry about what happened when she lost the ability entirely.

Fatin noticed. She always seemed to notice. “Aren’t you happy?” She could hear it in the way she spoke. The concern. Leah hated it, hated being the reason for it.

“Yeah,” she answered a little too quickly. “Sorry. I’m just really tired. But that’s good, it really is.”

She didn’t look like she believed her. Leah didn’t know how to explain it, her lack of response. It was a little bit of everything: the dread at thinking about what came with survival, the fog from whatever she’d swallowed not fully faded, the lifetime spent not knowing how to feel anything the right amount. She was all or nothing, always had been. And right now, no matter what she did, she couldn’t escape the nothing.

There was a numbness to it. She’d get moments, watching the world speed around her while she felt trapped in slow motion. The island had broken it initially, but the adrenaline faded with every day that passed, and it took any sort of regulation with it. All she was left with was her typical, fucked up self, her zero to a hundreds. And everyone else was left with it, too.

“What was that thing you were doing earlier?” She asked it mostly as a distraction. Fatin may not have been as shallow as she’d once thought, but she also didn’t pass up many opportunities to talk about herself. The attempt may have been futile, but it could work, if it managed to catch her off guard. Or if Fatin decided to amuse her and ignore the obvious avoidance.

Leah knew she had her when she scrunched her eyebrows together. “What thing?”

“With your hands. You were, like, not tapping exactly, but you were doing...I don’t know. You were moving a lot.”

“Oh. That.” Fatin didn’t blush, not visibly, but she’d seen that smile before. She knew what it meant. “It’s nothing.”

“Does it mean something?”

“No. It’s stupid. Just an old habit.”

She could hear the lie. It didn’t make sense, how something so inconsequential could be worth hiding. Genuine curiosity snuck in, made her forget about distractions entirely. “It’s not like you could embarrass yourself more than I already have, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Leah saw the smile tug at her lips. “Okay,” Fatin said, sounding more herself. “If I tell you, you have to promise you won’t tell anyone. My reputation depends on it.”

She forced her hand up to her lips, weakly mimicked zipping her mouth shut. Her arm screamed, but the effort was worth it for the laugh she got in return.

“Alright. Sometimes, when I get bored, or when I need to get out of my head, I mentally run through whatever piece I’m learning.”

The connection took a second. “You mean cello pieces?”

Fatin nodded. “I use my thumb as the makeshift fingerboard,” she said, holding her hand up in front of her. “And I just...go through the motions.”

Leah watched as her fingers moved. She could see it more clearly now, the intentionality of it all. The routine. She moved quickly, confidently, with so much purpose and familiarity. It was something so small, but she felt like it shattered whatever was left of the misconstrued perception she’d had of her.

Fatin stopped after a few seconds. “It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s cool.”

She laughed. “If you think this is cool, your social education has failed you.”

“I’m serious.”

“Leah, it’s the cello. Nothing about the cello is cool.”

“Anything is cool if you’re good at it. And I heard you’re, like, really good. Like, Juilliard-level good. That’s cool.”

The smile faded. Leah didn’t understand it, felt a quiet desperation to get it back. “Yeah. Well, if one good thing comes out of this, it’s that I can leverage my parents to make sure I never have to go there. Not sure they’ll be able to say no to me ever again.”

“You don’t wanna go? But isn’t that, like, the be-all end-all school for music?”

“Yeah, if you wanna spend the rest of your life playing concertos written by dead racist white men and wasting your best years wearing concert attire.” She tried to smile, but Leah could see right through her. “You know me, I can’t live my life confined to an all black wardrobe.”

She hesitated, just for a second, before asking, “There’s more to it than that, though, isn’t there?”

For a second, Leah thought she’d deny it, but instead she just shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ve got time if you wanna explain it.” She motioned vaguely around then. “Schedule’s all clear for the foreseeable future.”

Their eyes met, and even if she’d been strong enough to move, she would have sat frozen in place. Fatin had a way of staring into her like she could see every thought running through her head, like every emotion she had was out on display. It was captivating, and fascinating, and terrifying, and Leah never wanted it to stop.

“My parents started me in lessons when I was little,” she said after a minute. “Tends to come with the territory when you’re first gen. Music is supposed to teach you discipline and patience. Immigrant parents eat that shit up.”

“I’m sure you took to that lesson real fast.”

Fatin cracked a smile. “Oh, yeah. Throw your kid into nonstop music lessons before they know how to read, and you could come out of it with me, every parent’s dream. Clearly I’m a walking success story.”

“I mean, you kinda are. That is, if you’re really that good.”

“Don’t get it twisted. I’m fucking amazing. But it isn’t because of some child prodigy bullshit, or because I have an abundance of patience. Most people aren’t born good at something. You have to work for it.”

She meant to ask it as a joke, but sincerity slipped out. “And...that’s what you did? You worked at it?”

“You don’t have to act all surprised. Yeah, I worked at it. I worked at it a lot.” She held up her hand, and for the first time Leah saw the rough calluses Dot had mentioned earlier. “You don’t get monstrosities like these without spending a lot of fucking time on it.”

“Wow.” She tried to imagine it, a tiny Fatin slaving away at an instrument that had to be just as big as her. A teenage Fatin locked away in a practice room, playing over and over and over again, wounds reopening so many times that even weeks on an island couldn’t properly heal them. “I didn’t realize you were so passionate about it.”

She didn’t say anything. For a second she wondered whether she’d gone too far, crossed a line she hadn’t realized was there. An apology was sitting at the tip of her tongue when Fatin sighed and said, “I used to be.”

She could hear it, the way they were treading into delicate territory. Part of her was scared to keep going. Every one of her companions seemed to have their own personal landmines hidden in their time before the crash, and the last thing she wanted was to set off an explosion. She knew how to blow up, but she wasn’t strong the way Fatin was — if she missed a step, she may not be able to put the pieces back together.

It was the feeling of Fatin’s left hand stalled in the movement, still fingers content to stay tangled in her hair, that made Leah push aside the fear. She could beat herself up later for whatever mistakes she was bound to make, but she couldn’t do nothing.

“What changed?” The words were an invitation, one she wasn’t sure Fatin would accept. The pain was palpable. Her eyes drifted away from Leah and back out into the ocean, and a small part of her wanted to go back in, to find whatever it was Fatin kept searching for.

“I did, I guess.” She spoke like she was saying the words for the first time. “It may be hard to believe, but I wasn’t a popular kid. I had a weird name and a weird family. I brought the wrong lunches to school and I wore the wrong clothes, and no one cared to look any deeper. But none of that mattered, because I had music.”

Leah could see the light creep into her eyes, slowly, quietly. “When I played,” she continued, “I understood everything. I could hear it, the way each note, each piece, was supposed to sound. I could practice, and practice, and practice, and I could get better. I could learn to do everything right.”

She talked about playing the way people talked at funerals: reminiscing about someone who was already gone, picking only the happy memories and pretending for just a moment that no other ones existed. And Leah knew it wasn’t the whole story, but there was something compelling about listening, about imagining a world in which everything made sense and no error was so abhorrent it couldn’t be fixed with a slight adjustment.

“By the time I was in middle school, my future had already been decided. I’d spent every day after school rehearsing, spent every summer at music camps. I never complained, because I truly thought there was nothing else. Nothing could be better than sitting on stage, impressing rows and rows of people who could only dream about having what I had.”

“It sounds amazing.” Leah hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, but it was true. It reminded her of writing. Searching for the right words, the right structure, the right pacing. The satisfaction that came with it. She may not have had an audience to look out on, but she’d had glimpses of the feeling. The ability to control the world around you, just for a second.

“It was, at first. Every crowd, every teacher and ensemble member, they all wanted to hear me. They wanted to be me. And maybe it’s shallow, but there’s nothing more intoxicating than being desired.”

“It’s not shallow.” It came out as a whisper. Leah turned her eyes down, even when she was certain Fatin’s had found their way back to her. She knew if she gave her the chance, Fatin would see everything, all the guilt and pain and humiliation. The pages might have burned, but the need for them, for what they once meant, hadn’t turned into ashes yet.

“Maybe it’s not.” Her voice felt softer as she spoke again. “But it’s easier to say that when it’s coming from an audience. From something you have to earn. It’s a lot harder when it’s coming from boys who see a body instead of a person.”

“So that’s what changed.” She tried to put some humor into the words. The last thing she wanted Fatin to think was that she was judging her. She might have done it before, but the high ground she’d once placed herself on was sinking by the minute.

Fatin chucked. “Yeah, you could say that. It’s the classic story, really. Girl turns fourteen, goes through puberty, and suddenly popularity is offering itself up on a silver platter held by boys in football jerseys and envied by girls with Pom Poms. Trends shift. What was out is now in. And for the first time in my life, I was in.”

“That sounds nice.” She wasn’t sure whether she was lying or not. It did sound tempting, but popularity had always seemed too good to be true. There had to be a catch.

Fatin just sighed. “Part of it was. I’d spent years not really interacting with anyone outside of a rehearsal hall. I thought it’d be hard. But when you're used to searching for emotion in sheet music, faces become so much easier. All these kids projected everything, gave me all the right answers. I never even had to try.”

So much of who she was began to make sense. Her perceptiveness, her empathy, her uncanny ability to read a room. Fatin had gone from an open book to a complete mystery in the last few weeks, and for the first time since, Leah felt like she was beginning to figure her out.

“The people I started to hang with, they were so different from everyone I’d ever met,” Fatin continued. “They were bold. Independent. Filled with confidence that wasn’t reliant on anyone else. It was…” she shrugged. “It was revolutionary.”

“What do you mean?”

“They showed me an entirely different life. Everything I’d thought I could only get while performing was out there, waiting for me. And the options — there were so many options. For so long, music was the only thing I cared about, because it was the only thing that ever made me feel...I don’t know. Seen. Heard. Wanted. But when the world started paying attention to me, I started paying attention back. And the cello wasn’t enough anymore.”

“So, why didn’t you stop?”

Fatin rolled her eyes. “You say it like it’s that easy. I could complain until I ran out of air, but that wasn’t going to change anything. Juilliard was my future. My parents weren’t going to let me throw that away for complete uncertainty.”

“Even if you didn’t want it anymore?”

“What I want hasn’t mattered in that house in a long time.”

Leah hesitated, before asking, “Is that why you’re going to move?”

“You could say that.” She seemed to search for the words. “I thought I’d...my mom, I thought she’d…” Fatin sighed, and she could hear the way her breath shook, went unsteady for just a moment before she kept talking. “I don’t have anyone on my side. The only thing that could keep me there are my brothers, but I’m not what they need. Not now.”

She let the silence fill the space around them. She’d only known Fatin from glimpses in the halls, but in each one she was always talking. Surrounded by people. The idea of her alone was almost unimaginable. “At least you have your friends. I’ve only ever had one, and I went and threw him away.” She thought about Ian, about the tent, about every moment she’d blocked out when her view had been dominated by hand-written notes and whispered confessions. “You still have people to go back to.”

Fatin just shook her head. “It’s not that kind of relationship, hon. We don’t...the people I spend my time with, we don’t talk about the real stuff. I’m not sure any of them are gonna wanna stick around after I come back with all this.”

Leah frowned. “But what about the guys you…”

“The ones I’ve fucked?” Leah nodded. “No. Everything is temporary with them. It’s perfect.”

“It is?”

“Oh, yeah. We worked because we both knew what we were getting into. They used me, and I used them. They wanted a good time, and I...I wanted that feeling back. The applause.” She exaggerated the word, like she wanted it to be a joke. It didn’t work. “I wanted more of it. I wanted them to need me more than I needed them.”

“That sounds—”

“You can say it. I already know.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m a skank, and I’m taking all of us women down with me and my reckless promiscuity.”

“I was just going to say it sounds lonely.”

She watched Fatin bite her lip, turn her eyes up toward the sky. Leah looked up with her. The clouds could have been painted, they were moving so slowly. It calmed her, although she couldn’t figure out why.

“There are worse feelings,” Fatin finally said, “than laying with someone who wants you, even if it won’t last.”

He crept in quickly, reminded her of the pain of being left, abandoned, desired and then repulsed. She thought about the dark that had followed and never stopped, the missed calls and the unheard screams. The deafening thud in her head telling her to swim until she reached the end. She thought about the paranoia, the intensity of knowing when something was wrong but having no way to prove it, no way to fix it.

“Fatin,” she said softly, eyes still glued to the clouds. “I don’t want to stay here, but I don’t think I want to go back home, either.”

She could feel the stare, but she avoided it. “You don’t have to go home.”

“I have nowhere else to go. And even if I make it back, I’ll have nothing. No one.”

“That’s not true. You’ll have me.” Fatin put her hand on her chin, tilted her head, waited until their eyes met. “And there’s no if about it. We will make it out of here. I promise.”

“It’s not just the island. I can’t leave all my problems in my childhood bedroom. I can’t walk out of my own head. I…” she tried not to, but she felt the tear slip out anyway, felt it make its way down past her chin. “I don’t know how to live like this forever.”

Fatin bent over and hugged her, brought their heads together in a way Leah didn’t think was physically possible. “I’m not gonna lie to you and say that everything’s going to be easy. But I know it’ll get better.”

“How? How do you know?”

“Because nothing could possibly be worse than this.” Fatin raised her head, but she kept her hand in her hair. Leah let the motion bring her back down, let it fight off the waves as best as it could.

She didn’t know how long they stayed there. Long enough for the panic about the future to subside. Long enough for Dot to come over with food. Fatin eased her up, helped her eat slowly, and Leah was grateful. She wasn’t sure she’d have had the self control not to over-indulge without her.

Sleep threatened, tried to tug at her eyelids when Fatin pulled her back down into her lap. She resisted, searched for something to focus on and found the ocean in front of them. The moment leading up to it had been a bit of a blur, desperation blocking out the rest of the world, but she knew who she’d left on the beach. She knew who’d had to watch.

“Hey,” Leah forced herself to tear her gaze off the sea, to look her in the eye. To not hide from the pain. “I’m sorry for scaring you like that yesterday.”

Fatin shook her head. “Don’t apologize. I know you...you’re not wired like everyone else. You have to be stronger. And that sucks, it really, really does. But promise me something, okay?” Leah nodded, and Fatin put her hands on her cheeks, made sure she couldn’t look away, even if she’d wanted to. “If you ever start feeling that much darkness again, don’t run to the waves. You run to me.”

She didn’t trust her voice, didn’t trust herself to do anything but nod. Fatin stared at her for another moment, searched her eyes for something and seemed to find it. She let go, but her hand didn’t make its way back to her hair. Instead, they formed fists at her sides, held nothing but air and frustration.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Fatin.”

Leah could feel the breath she took. It was heavy, weighted with burdens Leah knew and ones she didn’t. “I’m sorry.” She spoke to the ground instead of at her. “When you ran out there, I didn’t know how to get to you. I didn’t know how to bring you back.”

“But you did.” This time it was Leah who searched, who’s eyes begged her to listen, to believe her. “Rachel may have carried me to shore, but you saved me, too, Fatin.”

Leah reached for her hand, unraveled it until it fit inside her own. She ran her fingers over the calluses, the marks that told a deeper story than she’d ever suspected. Part of her wondered if they’d ever go away, if any of their pasts would leave them unmarked, or if they’d have to carry those scars forever.

“You know what,” Fatin said after a moment, “you should come with us. Dot and I, you should live with us in LA after this.”

She tried to imagine it: a tiny apartment, the three of them desperately trying to figure out adulthood on their own. It sounded crazy, and unpredictable, and reckless. She wanted it more than anything.

“Okay, but on one condition: you have to play the cello for me, at least once.”

Fatin scoffed. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“I just need to hear what all the fuss is about! If I’m living with a music virtuoso, I wanna get an exclusive performance before you retire all together.”

She rolled her eyes, but a grin fought its way through. “I’m not opposed to the idea of playing again, so long as it’s for you.”

“Really? Just for me?”

Fatin fake sighed. “Alright, Dot can listen too, I guess. But my piece selection will consist exclusively of Top 40 covers. If you hear the real stuff, you might become possessed like my parents and try to ship me off to Juilliard in my sleep.”

“Possessed? So what, you’re some kind of Siren now?”

She held her hands up in fake surrender. “I’m just stating facts. My playing convinced my immigrant parents to push their daughter toward a career in the arts. Who knows what other power it holds.”

They laughed, and Leah kept to herself the thought that she could never be a Siren. Sirens were supposed to be tempting only from afar, their beauty a mirage meant to lead sailors astray; the closer she looked, the more confident she became that Fatin was no facade. She might have been the realest thing Leah had.

“If I’m being honest, I kind of miss it.” She looked back at the island. Leah watched the way she stared at it, the hints of appreciation that slipped into her gaze. “This place may be a living nightmare, but it would be a hell of a spot to play. Not for an audition or an audience or anything. Just for the beauty of it.”

“What’s the piece? The one you were practicing before you came here?”

“You wouldn’t know it. Unless you’re a closeted classical music fan.”

“Can you show me what it sounds like?”

Fatin turned toward her and smiled. Leah knew she felt everything in extremes, but she was certain that she could spend forever looking at Fatin’s smile and never grow tired of it.

She began to hum. It started off fast, the notes bouncing from high to low and back again before Leah could even really process them. The cello was about as foreign to her as any other instrument, but even she could tell it sounded hard. The movements she’d seen earlier began to make sense, the speed at which her hands had shifted. It was impressive, even now, with no instrument in sight.

When she began to slow down, each note taking up more and more time, Leah closed her eyes. She could hear it now. The timidness that had appeared at the start faded, and all that was left was the emotion. The passion. Part of her longed to point to it, to show her that it hadn’t vanished the way she’d thought, but the last thing she wanted to do was stop the music. So instead she kept her mouth shut and just listened.

Their hands had found their way back to one another. She let them stay there, momentarily intertwined. Her body still ached but she ignored it, forced her energy into memorizing this moment. When she’d jumped into the ocean, she hadn’t felt strong enough to pull herself back. Her brain could be so selective, so misleading. It could steal the few tethers she did have, leaving her disjointed from everyone around her, from reality itself. She still wasn’t entirely sure how to fix it, but she wanted to try. In her mind’s brief period of peace, she silently vowed to make as many as she could, to stock up on moments that made her feel grateful to be alive. She started with this: Fatin’s melody, accompanied only by the quiet push and pull of the waves.

#ahh ok here we are #i spent the majority of my time writing this frustrated bc i never felt like the flow really came together the way i wanted it to #oh well #here it is anyway #pls tell me if you like it i thrive on the validation from others #the wilds #leah rilke #fatin jadmani #leatin #leah x fatin #TFLAO3 #fanfic

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funkymbtifiction · 3 years

Text

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/annehelenpetersen/millennials-burnout-generation-debt-work

Although it isn’t, I could swear this was written by me. I deeply relate to these issues and the descripted anxiety and paralysis when it comes to these “adult” tasks. Do you think it’s merely a generational problem or are these traits related to MBTI?

(I’m not a psychologist, so take everything I say at the end with a grain of salt. I love to read and think and ‘fix’ things, so I have lots of thoughts about this.)

This phenomenon is something I have thought about and discussed, whenever I heard accusations against millennials. The short answer is there’s no particular MBTI type that causes this feeling of inadequacy by comparison, but I would say social dominants and Enneagram 3s suffer from it the worst (I suspect the person who wrote the article is a social 3, since the emphasis is all on success, achievement, paying attention to their social media feeds, and trying to compete on that level).

There’s a lot to unpack in that article, so I’ll just hit a couple of things – the tendency to avoid unnecessary, small, unpleasant tasks is a simple lack of motivation, follow through, and even a level of personal irresponsibility. It’s also a facet of not possessing self-love, because a person should do unpleasant or boring things out of self-love (because doing this now will reduce the guilt and anxiety of leaving that package on the table for the next six months, because I am a person who keeps their commitments, because this thing simply needs doing, and it doesn’t matter if it’s boring or tedious or not). If you do something immediately, you no longer have to think about it, or feel anxiety about doing it. Rip the band-aid off and do the boring “adult” stuff, so it’s no longer looming over you.It doesn’t matter what you feel like doing. Just do it.

Okay, as to the entire mindset of the millennial generation… it comes from a lot of things. Parents that made a great deal of money gave the next generation expectations above and beyond what is feasible. The brutal truth is, most of our parents did not live in a five room house when they were 20, they had a crappy little apartment and barely made the rent. Yet for some reason we expect to get out of college, find a job that pays a hundred thousand a year, and buy that house—whether we can afford it or not. Things cost way more for us than they did for our parents, also—instead of 6 grand for a house, it’s 300,000 grand.

There is enormous social pressure to attend college, even though most jobs do not require it; this means the value of a degree is less, because everyone and their cousin now have the same degree. It used to be that trade schools were more the norm, or that you simply grew up working in your father’s business and assumed you were going to take it over from him at some point. Only a few people with specific ambitions went to college for a short amount of time, with an end result in mind, and it, again, cost less because fewer people were attending and driving up the prices. College is an extremely expensive place to “find out what you want to do,” instead of already knowing what you are going to do, and getting an education IF it is necessary for your career. (For the record, you can often get higher paying job obtaining trade skills such as working as an electrician or a plumber, with less cost and way less debt.) So most millennials come out of college with a hundred grand in student loan debts. They assume, because they grew up in a society that told them how special they were, that they can get an amazing job and make all this money and pay back their loans and buy that enormous house—but they are all competing for the same job everyone else wants.

Or they were raised thinking they were special, so the rules do not apply to them, and that their feelings matter. In a nutshell: they do not matter. Your boss will not care if you felt like coming to work or not. You will come in and do what you are paid to do, or you will get fired. It doesn’t matter if you feel like cleaning the cat box or not. You need to clean it, because your cat deserves a better life. It doesn’t matter if you feel like exercising or not. If you do not do it, you will gain weight and face a health problem later in life. Adulting is learning to do the things that need done, whether or not you feel like doing them.

Now, let’s think about the social networking component, because it is an enormous contributor to “the problem” this generation faces. Back before college became the norm, and before the internet was accessible to everyone, society on the whole lived a much smaller life. You grew up, you dated someone from high school, you worked weekends in a local store or business, you got a more permanent job, you got married. It was a no-brainer, because everyone did it, most people knew each other, and socializing was done in person, rather than online, through community gatherings, church groups, BBQ’s, and town events. You weren’t aware of all the things you “should” be doing, or could “own” or even the fun other people were having, and as a result, people did not over-think as much. The internet has opened up a thousand options and the millennial thinks they should carefully consider all of them, because they do not want to make the same ugly mistakes their parents made.

Most of their parents have had multiple marriages and maybe even several sets of kids with different partners. They experienced what all young people do—periods of debt and poverty. But they “lived” life, and the millennial is “not” living life—they are more cautious, more fearful of making a life-shattering mistake, and more fearful of experiencing pain, suffering, and loss of the lifestyle that many of them were privileged to have, which was comfort. Their parents provided everything they needed, and got them used to a certain standard of living, which raised their expectations about what they must earn to match it. Going without is not possible in their mind; they have to achieve more than their parents, at a younger age. But… instead of the 5 options their parents have, the millennial has 10,000. Who should I date and marry? Well, it could be the person next door… but what if I’m missing someone BETTER? Should I try online dating? Swipe through 8,000 people? How do I decide? Where should I get a job? Who should I work for? Should it be in this state or somewhere else? Can I find a job that pays me a lot but doesn’t eat up all my free time so I can have fun? Or will I feel trapped??

Less is more, and all our society has, is more – too many choices lead to what psychologists call “choice paralysis.” The point where someone doesn’t know what to choose, so they choose nothing. It can be as simple as deciding you want to watch something, logging on to Netflix, and seeing 250 possibilities, being unable to decide, and turning it off… or not knowing which of the 60 people to respond to on the dating site… or which of the 20 degrees you want… which causes people to shut down completely and avoid decisions altogether.

Faced with too high of and unreasonable expectations of their own self-importance and worth (brought on by the “everyone is a winner” culture), unfeasible standards that are much too lofty for partners (we don’t know how to just choose a person and tolerate their flaws, we want the RIGHT person, so we keep on looking endlessly at times, and don’t want to settle, leading millennials to being the generation who isn’t getting married young), incredible debt tied to college degrees and expenses, and choice paralysis on everything from our pizza toppings to Big Life Decisions… is it any wonder that we (I am one of you, just barely; I’m a bit older than most of you) don’t do anything?

There is a solution to this problem, though. Minimize your life. Make it real instead of abstract. Stop living it in your head, and do it in your body. How? Minimize your choices. Practice making them. Do the thing you don’t want to do, first, to teach yourself responsibility. Make your world smaller. Consider a smaller life with more freedom and free time in it. Cut social media down considerably. If Facebook tracking you, hording your information, and making a “file” on you troubles you, pull the plug. You are not missing anything. Consider what works better—an impersonal tweet or a conversation with a person in the flesh. Start by making small decisions, and lead into bigger ones. Learn to lower your expectation and set realistic ones. The odds are, the person you pick to be with isn’t any better or worse than if you tried out 50 other people. Living in a tiny apartment for 6 years is nothing to feel ashamed about, it’s how MOST PEOPLE start their life. Cut the things out of your schedule that you do not need, and focus on what matters. Family time should not be on your “to do” list. Watch Dave Ramsey videos on YouTube to learn how to budget your money. Get rid of the social media account that make you feel envious, or like your life should be “more” than it is. Most of the time, life is just life. It has tooth aches, bad tuna sandwiches, flat tires, and Christmases that aren’t as magical as you wanted them to be, and that’s… life. If you can’t tell the difference between Instagram “I took this photo 70 times to impress you and then airbrushed it” and “real life,” get rid of it altogether.

A lot of this anxiety and paralysis, we bring on ourselves. But we can also choose to do something good for ourselves, and … make decisions. Small ones that can lead to big changes.

#question #mbti #self help #self worth #love yourself #millenials #submission

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asterekmess · 4 years

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1-11 Scott/Posey Stans always try to deflect criticism of the way Scott McCall is written in Teen Wolf by claiming that ANY attempt by a fan, a viewer, or a critic of holding Scott to a level of behavior that one would expect of a character who is a main and the self-proclaimed hero of the show is “racism”. Except that their accusations don’t make any sense whatsoever, because Scott’s canonical shitty actions and behavior don’t stem from his race (or canonical lack of thereof.)

Okay hun, this is a doozy, so I’m putting it under a Read More.

2-11 Scott McCall is mean. He’s mean to Stiles, he’s mean to Allison, he’s mean to Derek, he’s mean to Peter, he’s mean to Cora, he’s mean to Lydia, he’s mean to Jackson, he’s mean to Erica, he’s mean to Isaac, he’s mean to Malia, he’s mean to Malia, he’s mean to Kira, he’s mean to Liam, he’s mean to Chris, and he’s even mean to Theo (“You are barely even human!”) Scott McCall is deliberately rude to the Hales, Boyd, Ethan, Danny, Hayden, Jiang, Tierney, and Melissa.

3-11 Scott McCall deliberately USES, INSULTS, HUMILIATES and DEHUMANIZES people in ways that demonstrate that he is fully aware of what he’s doing. Scott McCall deliberately disregards other people’s needs in order to fulfill his own. Tyler Posey being half Mexican doesn’t change the fact that his fictional character Scott McCall is a whiny coward and an abusive piece of trash,

4-11 and that his so called ‘defense squad’ enjoys the power fantasy that Scott can be cruel, can lie, can assault, can lash out, can violate other people’s boundaries, bodily autonomy and consent, can commit premeditated murder, can break the law without impunity, can dehumanize, can gaslight and victim blame his friends to his heart’s content and no one should ever hold it against him

5-11 In both the production and in some Scott supremacist fanfics, there’s often the premise that people are evil and in the wrong if they call Scott out on his bullshit or hold his toxic behavior against him. Take Season 1. As much as the Scott McCall defense squad brigade love framing Stiles and Derek getting shit done and prioritizing people’s life over Scott’s jealous fits and temper tantrums as the height of depravity

6-11 Scott/Posey Stans consciously and steadfastly ignore all the cruel things that Scott says and does throughout the seasons, such as “How much Adderall have you had today?” OR “What are you trying to do?! I just made first line! I got a date with a girl who I can't believe wants to go out with me and everything in my life is perfect! Why are you trying to ruin it?!” OR “The hunters had a reason to slaughter your entire family and pack”

7-11 (As an aside, it’s amazing to me how Fanon rewrites Scott as this brilliant thinker and strategist and mastermind who is so much smarter and better than everyone else in every way even though Canon Scott spends the entirety of Teen Wolf doing absolutely nothing except get his ass handed to him by everyone, whining about wanting to be popular/get his dick wet/play lacrosse, screaming at his friends and girlfriends, being utterly useless when left to his own devices,

8-11 and planning to bite Stiles against his will because he doesn’t know what to do. But I digress.) Or take Season 5. In the rain argument in Lies of Omission (5x09), Scott McCall’s hypocritical, dehumanizing speech to Stiles is one of the meanest, cruelest, most disgusting manipulations I have ever seen a television character deliver to another television character they supposedly cared about. It’s victim blaming and gaslighting at its vilest.

9-11 And, of course, the Scott McCall defense squad focuses exclusively on the idea that Stiles didn’t behave “the right way” in that scene (AKA taking Scott’s bullshit without clapping back like Scott wanted and demanded), and cannot entertain for one moment the idea that Scott provoked that response by dehumanizing Stiles and by accusing Stiles of being a violent, dangerous, inhuman monster and serial killer based on Theo’s words alone.

10-11 After all, it’s part of their power fantasy. Scott being “abandoned” and “mistreated” by his “ungrateful” friends serves another type of fantasy: the poor oppressed martyr. It doesn’t matter why Scott is abandoned or who is leaving Scott, it’s all about Scott McCall’s right to own people and demand his friends’ love, friendship, loyalty, sympathy, forgiveness, obedience and devotion without having to account for his own abusive behavior.

11-11 And that’s Scott Stans’ point: Only Scott McCall Is Important and Damn Derek/Stiles/Liam/Other Teen Wolf character for having a life and motivations that don’t revolve around Scott! To them (and to Canon Scott), the pack exists not to serve all its members, but to serve and validate Scott McWhinyCall. Because, after all, that’s what antis want for themselves – validation in the face of shortcomings and bad behavior.

Wow, that was a lot of anger. Do you feel any better after venting that? I really hope so, it honestly looks p cathartic. Okay, I apologize in advance if I don’t come across as quite so passionate, I’m kinda bleh today and I already used up all my righteous fury in an earlier post, so I’ll do my best.

I honestly understand the worry about people disliking Scott as having racist motivations. As I said in another post, there aren’t a lot of Latino (wait, I read somewhere to use latine? Should I use that instead? I’ll use that, someone correct me if I’m wrong. The thing also said latinx was not great bc of pronunciation issues? I’m not educated enough on this. Halp, please.) Latine protagonist characters in popular television, especially for teen dramas like Teen Wolf. Intentional or not, written into the show or not, Scott is half-latine. His mother is a latine woman. We don’t see them speak spanish or take part in any specific cultural traditions, but that doesn’t make him white. Yes, his character was written for a white guy, but Tyler Posey is the one who got the part and we can’t strip him of his heritage just because the show originally meant for Scott to be white. My husband is almost always mistaken for white, even though he’s also half-latine, but that doesn’t make him any less latine. There’s little enough representation as it is, and if we start being picky about whether characters were ‘intended’ or ‘written’ as POC, everything will just fall to shit. Plus, as a white person, I have literally no rights to decide that Scott’s white. I’m cool with that. Would prefer to just stay in my lane, if I’m honest. With Scott established as being a POC, it’s totally reasonable for other POC and fans of Scott to be worried that those of us who don’t like him have that opinion because of either passive or active racism. There are a lot of occasions where Protags of Color were either liked less, or actively disliked for just being ‘not white.’ It also doesn’t help that Scott is one of very few “good” Characters of Color in TW (whether we agree or not, he is presented as a ‘good guy’). We have Boyd, who dies in 3A and doesn’t get much character developement in the meantime, and Kira, who sticks around for a while, then has to leave because of ‘losing control’ which is apparently a very common stereotype for POC, especially within Fantasy or Supernatural settings. Other than them, the other POC are either bad guys or just morally dubious. I’m not sure where Deaton falls on the scale either. I understand it being frustrating to some people for us to take one of the few “good’ characters and see him/describe him as a villain. It’s important for white people, and honestly, anyone not latine (because even POC can be racist against people who aren’t their race) to be self-aware and analyze the various reasons why we dislike Scott and make sure that we aren’t accidentally being passively racist. Just because we’re sure we aren’t, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t double check. And if we find we are, then it’s up to us to correct that mindset and educate ourselves. There is no shame in learning that you have not great habits or mindsets and working to fix them. That’s how growth works. It’s equally important that when we’re writing fic, we watch how we portray him and the other POC in the show. I’m not saying we can’t write Scott bashing fic. Fuck knows that I’ve written plenty of Bad Friend Scott McCall fic, and I don’t intend to stop. But we still need to be self-critical and make sure that we’re not writing Scott (or the others, please assume from here on out I’m saying Scott and the others) into racist stereotypes. We shouldn’t reduce him to just a “Yes” man, or make him constantly submissive, or constantly vicious and angry and mean for no reason. It’s one thing to write him as doing something bad or cruel and making it realistic for the story. It’s quite another to have him just randomly pop in to say “fuck you” and hit someone (I’m not referencing something specific here, I’m just saying dumb stuff). Honestly, I don’t know enough about this and I’m not really entitled to go into too much more detail. Instead, I’d recommend that even if you don’t think you’re hating Scott for racist reasons, still read This Post about racism in fandom/fanfic. When I read it, it was both reassuring and intimidating. I have anxiety, so I’m usually worried about doing things for ‘the wrong reason’ even when that’s not actually my reason for doing the thing. Reading this gave me a clearer view of my own thoughts, and it honestly made me feel a little more comfortable with my own mentality because it gave me a structure to think about and consider when I’m worried that I’m doing something racist. It’s worth the read. I’d also like to reiterate the suggestion on that post, to check out the blog Writing with Color, which is a great resource for writing Characters of Color. It doesn’t have as many resources for fanfiction writing and the grey area involved in writing characters that your reader already knows, but their ask box is closed at the moment, so maybe when it opens again someone’ll send in an ask about it (If I actually remember to, I’ll do it myself, but that’s unlikely, so if one of you feels so inspired, please do so and help a fic writer out!)

Now. I cannot speak for every single fan of TW who is anti-Scott in some way. Obviously not. But, I can speak for myself and for the experiences I’ve had within the fandom. My issues with Scott are many and complex and a lot of it is intrinsically connected to issues with the writing of the show in general and with the creators and the calls they made. In all the conversations that I’ve had with other fans, I’ve never seen anyone list Scott’s race as a problem. I’ve never seen anyone talk about how they wished he were more submissive or more obedient. Maybe that he would listen to actual adults once in a while, but not that he be unreasonably obedient of white characters. I’m not all-knowing on the subject of racist stereotypes, but nearly every complaint I’ve seen was based on details from the show and specific moments and dialogue, not just a general disgust with his existence. Furthermore, for all the anger I see directed at those of us that prefer Stiles, Derek, or even Peter, I’ve also never talked to anyone who liked those characters who wasn’t willing to admit that there were plenty of points in canon where they fucked up or did something wrong. Again, I don’t know everyone in fandom, so maybe there are people who won’t admit those things, but they aren’t in the majority.

I personally hate the way I see Scott treat people in the show. I hate the really vicious things he says and does and the chronic lack of self-awareness or growth. Even worse, the way the show excuses his behavior, be it intentional or not, has soured a lot of other parts of the show. The clearly impulsive moments that could easily be excused by him being a really stressed out teenager make me a lot more frustrated than they would, had I not known that he would never get better. That he would never stop saying things like that. I can’t even make myself enjoy the genuinely sweet moments with him and Allison or him and his mom, etc. I might hate that he left Stiles’ messages unanswered and skipped an entire day of school during a crisis to hang out with Allison, but I would’ve liked to enjoy their banter, the soft moments between them that are actually really nice. I can’t though, because so many other things about his character have ruined that for me.

It isn’t okay to attack people for disliking a character and throw around such charged words like “racist” and “abuse-apologist” or anything else. First off, this is fiction, and we all need to keep that in mind. These are not real people we’re talking about. Secondly, calling someone racist because they disagree with you (unless they are actively saying/doing something actually racist) isn’t okay and it isn’t an adult way to deal with things. Someone not liking a character doesn’t automatically make them racist. Someone happening to prefer a white character over a Character of Color doesn’t automatically make them racist. Sure, they might have passively racist motivations that even they don’t realize. But it is not up to strangers to come yell and call names without proof. There are plenty of reasons that have nothing to do with race (Not saying “i don’t see race.” I’m saying “Not About Race”) that I like Stiles over Scott, ranging from the fact that he’s physically more my type, to sharing a neurological condition with him, to just preferring Dylan O’Brien as an actor because he makes me fucking cry every time he cries on screen. What’s important is that we self analyze and check ourselves and our opinions to make sure that we aren’t falling into the racist habit of disliking Characters of Color for no real reason. But that isn’t something that other people can do for us, and it’s not their place to tell us what we think. Calling a stranger racist for saying they hate Scott’s behavior in the show doesn’t do anything for racial equality. It just makes people stop listening to the word ‘racist.’

There are times I seriously get frustrated with TW to the point of considering not watching anymore. Of closing my blog and stopping reading fanfic entirely because every single time I read a fic where Scott’s a ‘good guy’ or a ‘good alpha’ or where Derek is glad to be a beta again because he likes following Alpha Scott, I get squicked so badly I have to click out and just sit there for a second to settle. I can’t disentangle the things he does/says in the show from the fic.And I’ve written Good Friend Scott McCall fics. I have multiple wips where he’s either a decent person or he grows from being a dick to being a decent person. With my own work, I know that there’s an awareness to his behavior in the show and an active intent to rewrite/fix his behavior so that he is a nice person. With other people’s works, I don’t have a guarantee (unless it’s mentioned in tags or author’s notes, and I don’t expect people to have to explain themselves that way), and it personally makes me uncomfortable to read something when I don’t know if the writer actually sees Scott that way. It’s a personal preference, and one that I stick to pretty strictly.

Scott brings me no joy, and with him as the main character, I’ve come perilously close to cutting myself off from the most welcoming, loving fandom I’ve ever been a part of (except the Merlin fandom, but I don’t blame anyone who can’t compete with them. They’re fucking magical.). But I’m still here. I still love, if not the reality of the show, then all the potential I see in it when I watch. I love watching Derek and Stiles interact with each other and with the other side characters. I love seeing the glimpses of Boyd that we get, the tiny scenes of Erica, the snarky moments with Isaac. I even like Kira, though I haven’t seen a whole lot of the show where she’s in it/genuinely can’t remember it (I can’t even remember how far I’ve seen total, but I don’t think it was past S4, and I haven’t seen past S2 in months and months) and she spends most of her scenes with Scott, which just....kind of ruins the scenes for me.

That’s the glory of fandom though, of media in general. I don’t have to like Scott. I can love Derek and Stiles instead and I can choose not to read fics where Scott is a major player or an Alpha at all. I can read fics where Kira’s part of the pack without Scott ever getting involved, and see her interact with everyone else. Or fics where Boyd never dies and watch him bake or read or play lacrosse with the pack. I can curate my own experience, whether that means blocking tags or users or filtering fics, or just straight up skipping certain scenes/episodes of the show itself. I cope with my frustrations by coming on this blog and ranting about it. Yeah, this is a public space, but it’s also a space people choose to view. If they don’t like my opinions, they can block me or unfollow me or all of the above. They don’t have to read it, just like I don’t have to read any of their pro-scott stuff. I also read fic that does explore how Scott’s behavior is problematic and cruel sometimes. Fic that either erases him or turns him into the villain, I find fun and interesting and the relationship between him and Stiles cracking into pieces is something I find extremely cathartic, so I read it pretty much every chance I get (though, i’m so picky about fics I read, you’ve no idea). I also write fic. I write the most mushy, self-indulgent sterek fic and Stiles-centric fic and and Scott bashing fic that I can possibly write. It’s a joy and a therapy all its own. Fuck, I’m rewriting the entirety of canon for fuck’s sake and I’ve made so many changes that at this point I honestly have issues remembering what happens in the show, bc I rewrote the damn thing.

At the same time, Scott fans are gonna write their power fantasies. They’re gonna write anti-Stiles stuff and anti-Derek stuff, and whatever else tickles their fancy. They’re gonna make their own rant posts and gifsets. And to be quite honest, I don’t give a single flying fuck. I already have those tags filtered out on Ao3. I don’t follow any pro-scott tumblrs. That shit doesn’t show up for me most of the time, unless it’s not tagged properly, and even then I just click out, take a second, and move on.

No one is required to like or dislike specific characters, and it’s unfair of anyone to tell us otherwise. Fandom is built on choice. The choice to disagree with canon, or to re-envision it altogether, or to love it entirely. No one can take that away from you. So long as you aren’t hurting anybody, just keep doing you, friend. I’m here for you to vent to when it gets to be too much.

#personal #go for it #anti-scott mccall #meta ramblings #Anonymous #rant #much love #I didn't mean to sound so preachy #oops

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amitojo · 4 years

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6 Steps to Overcome Fear / Self-Limiting Beliefs

6 Steps to Overcome Fear / Self-limiting Beliefs

At first, I didn’t think I’d write about this. The challenge to myself was to just post the video, that’s it. But witnessing such amazing response I thought I’d share more and give you a background of what was going on in my head and how I chose to go past my limiting belief.

I recently uploaded a video on all my social media profiles. This video was purely out of my commitment to my growth and me moving beyond my mind-made fears and limitations. If you haven’t watched the video — Watch it below 👇 (not for content but for context)

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Notice how I put “mind-made” in bold; it is because there are two kinds of fear. One is real, one is not.

One is life-threatening, like you falling down from a height or fear of crossing roads in fast moving traffic, etc.

The other fear is made by our mind to “protect” the ego, to keep us in a safe, comfortable place (emotionally). Basic example of mind-made fears is — one not raising their hand in class which is equivalent to one not sharing / communicating cause of fear of being judged. This fear encourages behaviour which is safe and comfortable. There’s not much to lose per se, but then there’s not much to gain as well.

Growth is outside the comfort zone. Growth is in doing things we’ve never done before, learning things we haven’t learnt before.

I am going to be talking about mind-made fear / self-limiting beliefs.

I am certain we all have gone beyond our mind-made fears / limitations some time or the other, out of necessity if not by choice. However, in this article, I will share the exact steps I took that inspired me to go beyond the limiting belief so it can be replicated and we can choose to move beyond our made up limitations at whim and not only when it is absolutely necessary.

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I thought of this idea (of sharing a video) last week. I remember I was in the shower, just contemplating life, dreams, goals.

I thought about my dream of leading/influencing people (leading, educating, training, DJing). That lead me to think about the repercussions of coronavirus on the music, entertainment, and training/education industry. How a lot of artists/leaders/trainers/educators are going “live” on various social medias to further their vision and provide value. I thought about how I could also do the same and that’s where I stopped. I immediately said to myself, “Nah, I can’t do that.”

I introspected, why can’t I do that?

The answer was fear of being judged.

Thats when I thought I’d take a step beyond this fear and upload a video.

One half of me (the higher-self) instantly agreed to do this as it saw all the possibilities, the bright side, how it will expand me. It took this as an opportunity. I thought to myself, here I am, one who dreams to perform in front of people, lead people, one who dreams of fame, etc, and I am not comfortable with myself?

How could I lead people when I am not confident about myself? How could I play in front of people if am not confident about myself? — To be specific — When I get conscious of people looking at me and listening to me! [I have been comfortable with 1 on 1 conversations but 1 to group, not that much — working on it]

I thought to myself — How could I be everything that I wanted and more without being completely comfortable with myself — be it with the way I look, the way I talk, the way I am in general.

I assume that all the people I aspire to be like — the ones who are leading, the ones who are performing, the ones who are comfortable putting out videos, etc, are like that because they are comfortable with themselves, how they are, who they are, and are confident about themselves.

I have got to own myself and accept myself as is, I thought to myself! This is it, this is me!

Extra motivation came in the form of the realisation that I will be able to share / contribute much more value via video on top of what I am and will be providing through just writing.

So I said to myself — challenge accepted!

I took this idea as a stepping stone to achieve my goals and dreams.

The other half of me (the ego), however, did not like this idea at all! It was not confident about this. It thought this idea was stupid, pointless. It’s funny how the ego was giving me two contradicting reasons to stop me from recording and uploading the video.

People will make fun of you. You’ll look like an idiot. No one cares about your upload or what you’re doing, etc.

You are just doing this to satisfy your ego (lol) [I read somewhere, as we learn more, become smarter, our egos do too. #JusSharin]

Basically anything to get me not to do this.

My ego was asking me not to take any action — to protect itself. I had a lot of reasons not to do this, one of the main ones being — “what will people say or think?” (Hence I took around a week to upload a 30-second video. I did it nonetheless.)

This question of “what will people think/say?” alone has stopped me from living my best life since forever. I get present to this thought’s deep-rooted nature in my life, in my way of being each day. I get present to the impact it has on my life, the opportunity costs and it drives me to move ahead, go beyond this dialogue and be/do/say whatever I want to be/do/say. [It does, a lot of times, make me feel like a loser too, I won’t lie— mainly when I accept the limitations and I don’t take any action. ]

“Action may not always bring happiness, but there is no happiness without action.”

Benjamin Disraeli

I have been on a conscious journey of self-expression since 2013, I think.

Self expression for me = to be, do, say who I am, what/how I feel — unapologetically.

I have noticed how I suppress my thoughts, emotions, point of views and I am actively working on communicating the same.

I have come a long way from where I was back then, no doubt, but there is still a long way to go!

3-4 years back, I gave myself a challenge to write about my feelings, share my journey, my point of views. I was pretty nervous back when I started. It was new for me. But it was a small step towards self-expression. Once I did start writing however, it felt freeing and I got really positive response from people around me. Now I am pretty comfortable with that — so much so that I started a blog!

Now, I gave myself another challenge — to put out a video of me on social media.

This meant A LOT to me. I don’t know if you have noticed, but I am not one of those who post their pictures, selfies, or post videos of themselves or go live. I’m not comfortable getting clicked… So, posting a video which I took of myself — online? 😅

But I did it. And you know what, I felt great. I respect myself more. I love myself more. I am proud of myself.

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So down to business, 6 steps I used to overcome my fear / self-limiting belief

Identify the fear / limiting belief

Get present to the impact it has had on your life till now.

Get present to its impact in the future, if things remain the same — the opportunity costs

Imagine if you didn’t have that fear — what would you be/do/say? How would you look like? How would life look like?

Ask yourself, what is one thing you could do today that would take you closer to that you/life without fear? One step to take you beyond that fear/limitation. It could be a baby step.

Take that step and acknowledge / celebrate it (It is extremely important to acknowledge and celebrate. Success breeds success. — Small victories form momentum and bring about big victories.)

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”

Lao Tzu

I took the baby steps and I love myself for that. I feel powerful. I guess the most powerful feeling is when you go beyond your own limitations; when you prove it to yourself that YOU CAN DO IT! That’s a different kind of high.

I felt so good and freeing after posting the video and receiving the amazing response, that I made a youtube channel! 😂

PLIS Subscribe 🙂 https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9hui_ukYf811voHO6HrT1g?

Also, I used the above-mentioned method to start waking up at 5am!!! I don’t know if you know, but I have always considered myself a night person. It was effortless for me to stay up till 4,5,6 am and the best time to sleep for me was when the sun was rising. My closest friends call me DK (Dark Knight) cause I always meet them late at night, nothing to do with the fact that I usually wear the color Black (haha). I never saw myself as a morning person, but now I am waking up at 5 am 2-3 times a week. My aim is to wake up at 4 am on weekdays at least.

Late nights were productive (when I was at home). Late night is a good time to work because there’s little to no distractions. Same is the case with waking up early morning though. There is little to no distraction And trust me when I say this — the most productive days of MY LIFE have been when I woke up at 4/5 am!

*Bonus Tips*

If your mind says you can’t do it — Look for other people who have done what you’re committed to doing. If they can do it, you can do it! (Learn how they did it, what worked for them)

Repeat! — If you keep repeating the 6 steps, be it in any area of life, for any reason — you will not recognize yourself when you look back. The amount of growth and expansion you will achieve is going to be insane.

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To conclude, this method did work for me in different areas of life and I believe it will work for you too if you apply it as per the steps outlined above.

Don’t be hard on yourself if you don’t see results right away though, it is a journey. Be patient, and more importantly, be consistent with your effort and never give up (characteristics of the people who succeed).

Start with baby steps. I am certain that you can accomplish whatever you set your mind to!

Extremely important note — ***All of this (me sharing and expressing my point of views), is possible because of the amazing listening and reception I get from my community (both online and offline) — my friends, family — all the generous, loving, and supportive people who have made this journey of self-expression, self-awareness so pleasant, peaceful and joyous. Thank you so much for being so supportive and encouraging always! Means A LOT!***

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you 🙏

Lots of love!

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hillnerd · 4 years

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Waking Up - Chapter 3

Rating M A03 ff.net [previous chapter] [start at the beginning] chapter length: 14,438 Huge thanks to @abradystrix @amysthefardareismai for wonderful beta-ing- truly y’all are the best. And thank you to the people who have read this, and especially those who reviewed- I appreciate you so very much.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: NSFW scene, cursing, depresssed/anxious thinking, talk about eating & weight gain/loss, PTSD, brief mentions of substance abuse

CHAPTER 3- logistics

A breeze was gently rustling the trees and the dappled midmorning light shone merrily through the bedroom window. Hermione inwardly cursed. There was something appalling about a lovely day when her mood was bleak and her whole body felt stiff. Hermione rubbed at her neck and cringed as a beam of sunlight hit her right in the eye.

She’d put off planning to retrieve her parents for three weeks, but she couldn’t in good conscience keep it up. She had to accomplish something, even if it was only a tiny milestone. She’d set herself up in her camp bed, a number of papers around her as she scribbled maths and tried to mark out a plan.

Portkey. Taxi. Hotel. Food. Yellow pages. Government records. Private investigator.

Before the hunt for Horcruxes she’d envisioned immediately flying to her parents and undoing the memory modifications she’d placed on them. The three of them would fall into a heap crying over each other and all would be well.

Now she could no longer fool herself into believing such idealistic outcomes. The reality was too grim.

She’d purposefully made it difficult for anyone magical to find her parents, but now she had no clue where in Australia they’d gone or how she’d retrieve them. At the time she didn’t want to know their location; what she didn’t know couldn’t be tortured out of her, but this left the task of hunting them down as daunting as the Horcrux hunt. She’d made her parents untraceable by owl, ‘Point Me’ and a variety of other locating spells and potions.

She’d need to use Muggle means: searching travel documents and yellow pages for dentist offices, possibly making inquiries with the government to find them. She might need to use a private eye. None of that would be easy to access, especially all the way in Australia.

What’s more - it would cost money; money that Hermione did not have. Her parents had loads of money put aside for her education, but all of it was in her parents’ name — so it was all somewhere in Australia with them.

She only had fifty pounds and a pile of books to her name, not enough to buy proper groceries for the Weasley family, let alone fly herself across the world to search for her parents. Portkey fare, hotel, food… It was all going to cost so much. How would she possibly manage this? Get a job to save up the money to travel there? Who would hire someone who didn’t even have N.E.W.T.s, or a diploma (Muggle or otherwise.) She could forge a Muggle one, but it felt wrong somehow to pretend she had an education she hadn’t earned. Perhaps she could camp instead of stay in a hotel? The thought of camping again made her hands begin to shake. No. She’d have to save for a hotel.

The only equity she had was their family home. There was no way she could liquidate that asset and turn it into cash. She could perhaps rent the house out, now that the war was over— but that would waste precious time to try to find a trustworthy tenant. And who would want a suburban house for only a few weeks? The more she thought on it, the more outlandish her ideas became:

Sell all the things she owned? Ask Harry for a loan? Sell her story to the Prophet for money?

Her mind trickled like treacle. All her pointed motivation and smarts she’d had in spades before the war felt scooped clean out of her, as sure as Ron’s splinched shoulder. She’d become blightedly useless.

Others were working to re-establish the government, or rebuild Hogwarts, or volunteering to help orphans. Ron was stepping in to take care of his mother and the household. Everyone else was able to find a way to be of use, with perhaps the exception of George — but he had a real excuse didn’t he? He was in deep mourning.

What was Hermione mourning? Sure, she’d lost friends and people she cared about, but that wasn’t the same. She had no excuse to be so tired all the time, her brain so sluggish and unresponsive. Even with the locket around her neck she’d been brighter than this, had more fight and more solutions than this. Her presence at the Burrow was so pointless.

She only had a few months to find her parents, and was wasting what time she had left.

McGonagall, now headmistress of Hogwarts, had written to say she and the boys were welcome to finish their final year there. For a moment she had been pleased. She’d be able to have a full and proper education after all! She had something she could work on! But it wasn’t for months, and now it narrowed her timeline.

She had a proverbial ticking clock, and what was she doing? She was contributing nothing, comforting no one, napping multiple times a day, leeching off the Weasleys, burdening them with her despondent moods; all when she should already be in Australia fixing the problems she’d caused!

In disgust, she shoved the papers to the ground, put a silencing spell on herself and laid down to nap. She’d almost nodded off when she was awoken with a knock and the sound of someone saying her name.

She gave a start to see Harry standing in the doorway looking at her expectantly.

“Sorry,” he said with a forced smile. “I knocked, but you didn’t respond.”

Hermione moved her lips to answer him but no sound came out. Damn, she’d forgotten about her silencing charms. With a wave of her wand the spell was broken.

“I’m fine, thank you. Is breakfast ready?”

Harry narrowed his eyes at her and carefully sat himself on Ginny’s bed. He was looking pink-cheeked and his hair was even more of a mess than usual, no doubt Ginny’s doing. The carefree appearance was a stark contrast to the look of concern on his face.

“Why did you have a silencing spell on yourself?”

“It’s nothing, Harry,” she primly answered, leaning down to gather the parchment from the ground. She tapped the sides of the parchment against her thigh to evenly align them. The last thing she wanted was him seeing how disparate her notes were.

Harry continued to stare at her, discernment wrinkling his brow. “Does Ron know about this?”

“About what?” she snapped, holding the papers close to her chest.

“That you’re putting silencing spells on yourself when you sleep.”

“It’s only temporary.” She stopped her tidying. “No one else needs to know about it.”

Harry made a face at that and his gaze became even more grim.

“You shouldn’t keep this from him. He’ll find out eventually.” She gave a deep huff at his presumption. “Why are you doing it anyways?”

“It’s not that hard to figure out,” Hermione bit out, putting her papers on the bedside table and making her bed, spending far more time than necessary giving it hospital corners so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

“So are you… yelling from nightmares or something?”

Hermione looked at her hands spread across the corner of the bed. “Yes, something like that…”

“Have you tried dreamless sleep potion?”

“You can get addicted to it far too easily.”

“Yeah, well… it works doesn’t it?”

Hermione turned to look Harry over. He didn’t have the deep bags under his eyes that she or Ron had, and was refusing to look her in the eye.

“You’re not taking it every night are you? You’re not supposed to take it for more than three days in a row!” she admonished. “After three days you’re supposed to stop taking it or there’s a rebound effect and your dreams could become even more vivid, but you also have trouble falling asleep without it! That’s how you get addicted. You can take the potion again, but you have to—”

“Skip it for five days between. Yeah I know. I take cold medicine on the other nights.”

“Harry, you shouldn’t be self medicating like that.”

He gave one of his piercing glowers and rose from the bed. Now she’d done it. When he was feeling harangued and defensive he always obstinately lowered his head and glared from under his eyebrows. He had no idea how very intimidating that look could be.

“You really think it’s better to suffer through? To use a silencing charm so no one hears you?”

She ignored his jab and forged ahead. “Different potions combined could be dangerous.”

“I keep seeing all of you dead,” Harry quietly snarled. “Every single one of you. Or the snake attacking us, or Voldemort killing me, or you at the Manor getting tortured to madness, or Ginny getting killed by Bellatrix, or Ron splinched and bleeding to death.”

Hermione’s chin began to wobble.

“It doesn’t do any good to see it again and again!” he continued, voice suddenly escalating in volume. “It’s hard enough to ignore it all when I’m awake. There’s no fucking way I’m going to willfully think about the bleeding war when I’m sleeping! I’m tired of waking up feeling like I just survived a battle, or lost someone again! I- I just need to sleep... We went months without sleeping proper, and I’m fucking tired of it.”

Hermione felt tell-tale stinging in her eyes and she blinked furiously at them.

“I’m following the instructions for the potions! I don’t mix it with alcohol or other potions. I’m not stupid!”

“I never said you were!” she gasped.

“Well then maybe try not talking to me like I am. Should I be putting a silencing charm on myself like you do? Nap all day, scream all night? How’s that working out, Hermione?”

Hermione shook her head and the tears finally fell down her cheeks. She hated it when he talked to her like that. She’d never done well when people gave her a dressing down, especially when she was just trying to help. He was right, though. Nothing was working out. She didn’t know what she was doing. Everything was so impossible now that she’d never sort it out. She swiped at her lashes.

Harry gave a sigh; one she’d heard from him use thousands of times.

“Look,” he said in a much more gentle tone. “I’ll be extra careful. And— and I’ll try to wean myself off it all over the next month or so, okay?”

Hermione gave a stiff nod.

“I just came to let you know breakfast is on soon. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said putting a tentative hand on Hermione’s shoulder.

“I’m fine,” she said roughly wiping at her eyes, shrugging off his hand. She didn’t care how upset he was, there was no call for him to jump on her like that. “But Harry… I meant it. I’d rather you not tell Ron about the silencing charm.”

Harry’s look of gentle concern seemed to harden.

“I don’t like lying to him.”

“I’m not asking you to lie, I’m just asking you not to go and tell him about this one thing.”

“If he asks, I’m telling him,” he stubbornly answered, a defiant tilt to his head making her want to smack him.

“I know you prefer Ron to me, but are you really incapable of keeping ONE secret for me?”

Harry gave a hurt look. “That’s not fair.”

“Well it’s not fair how your first concern wasn’t how I was doing, but rather if I’d told RON about this!” Hermione bit out, all patience gone. “For you he’ll always come first, and I understand that. I really do. I know I’m not the ‘fun friend’ or the one that makes you feel good. I know I’m the nag—”

“You’re not,” he feebly replied. They both knew that wasn’t true.

“I am. I know I am sometimes, but I was trying to help and you leapt down my throat for it!”

“I’m sorry for that...” he said, a look of true contrition on his face.

“It’s fine,” she sighed, though she didn’t feel it. She didn’t have it in her to try and keep up a fight with Harry. He had very few coping skills for his anger and trauma and they’d never gotten on very well when she was concerned about his well being. “But please — don’t say anything about the silencing charms to Ron? I didn’t want anyone to know, Harry, but I especially don’t want Ron getting worried about this. He has so much on his plate, and I just… Please.”

Harry quietly looked away, seemingly wrestling with it, before he finally nodded. Hermione’s whole body sagged with relief. She looked longingly to the camp bed she’d just made. How easy it would be to curl up on it and nap the rest of the day.

“What’s all this?” Harry asked, picking up her parchments from the side table.

“Nothing! It’s just scribblings!” she cried out, clawing the parchment right out of his hand.

He looked unconvinced. It was a pathetic excuse. She wasn’t even sure why she didn’t want anyone to know about her flimsy Australia plans. Perhaps it was because she didn’t have a clue on how to undo all the wrongs she had done.

If Ron had seen the papers he’d keep pushing her to tell him what was on the parchment, but Harry was never very relentless when it came to Hermione’s personal life. He never inquired about her mad schedules in third year, S.P.E.W., who she wrote to, or anything much about her life outside of Hogwarts.

Harry cared about her of course — the two of them loved one another very deeply and would do anything to protect one another — but there often was a lack of curiosity about her life from him. At times this would sting — she invested so much time and energy fretting over Harry and he put in a tenth the effort for her — but it also could prove rather convenient to have a friend who let you have your privacy. She could go about her business and not be questioned or stopped. It was much like with her parents. She had so much freedom to do what she liked without any interference, and definitely took advantage of it at every turn.

That was what was different about Ron. He was the one person who had absolute interest in her — not her brain, not her achievements, and not what she could do for him— her.

Ron knew just about everything about her, and paid her so much attention. It was like that even in their first year. Ron she could gab with for hours about everything in the world, and he’d avidly listen to her like no one ever had before. He genuinely cared about every little thing in her life. She’d go off about something, but instead of tuning her out how everyone else did, Ron sat and listened, engaged, argued, asked questions, added his thoughts on it, would have a real conversation with her.

When she was secretive he’d interfere with her plans, grill her to know what she was up to, and try to get into her head to follow her line of thinking. She’d never had anyone show her that much personal attention. It was so refreshing, was it any wonder she housed a soft spot for the lanky redhead?

As much as Harry ignored Hermione at times, he loved a good mystery. He stood frowning down at her papers a moment too long.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” said Hermione, hoping to distract Harry. Food didn’t work. He was starting to riffle through the papers! “Did Ron cook it this morning?”

She knew Ron was one topic that could thoroughly distract Harry.

“No, he didn’t,” said Harry looking at her, lowering the papers to his side. Yep, mentioning Ron worked every time. “Mrs Weasley cooked everything so I’m sure it’s a particularly good meal.”

“I’m sure that’ll be a relief for Ron,” said Hermione, going into the hallway. She could just sprinkle Ron’s name around like catnip for Crookshanks, coaxing him towards her and away from the papers. “Though I’m surprised he didn’t help her. He’s been doing that every morning.”

She had to suppress a triumphant grin when he set the papers down and followed her into the hallway.

“He’s not up yet.”

She looked at him with surprise. Ron had been up before everyone for weeks, always helping with breakfast and other chores around the house. Why would he suddenly be sleeping in? Even at Shell Cottage he’d been up before most of them. Had something happened in the night to exhaust him? Had he taken a potion to force himself to sleep? Was he avoiding her and her dark moods?

“He’s still sleeping?” she asked, hands nervously clutching her middle. It was a testament to how close they’d grown over the last year, because Harry eyed her hands and expression before giving a sympathetic smile.

“Hermione, it’s a good thing he’s sleeping in.”

She fiddled with the hem of her shirt, unconvinced.

“You know as well as I how little he’s been sleeping,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept in like this for almost a year.”

“Exactly! Why would that suddenly change?” She cringed at the hysterical edge already in her voice.

“Maybe some things are getting back to normal,” he said, giving her a small pat on the shoulder.

Hermione bit her lip and glanced up the stairs. Nothing had just ‘gone back to normal’ recently, and she didn’t see how Harry could be so nonchalant about it.

“Maybe I should wake him…”

“His mum asked me and Ginny not to. He’ll be grateful for the kip,” he said, poking her down the stairs.

“I should just check on him.”

“I already did. He was tucked up and snoring away minutes ago. He’s fine.”

Knowing he wouldn’t appreciate her continued worrying over something so trivial, she went to the living room to feed Crookshanks. The moment the cat’s kibble hit the bowl he padded over from behind a couch and wound his way around her legs.

She’d missed her wonderful cat when they’d been on the Horcrux Hunt, and he seemed to have missed her just as vehemently when they were finally reunited. That day he’d yowled and thrown himself at her stomach so hard she would have fallen over if Ron hadn’t caught her from behind. Pig had similarly cheeped and hooted for Ron, excitedly flying around his head until Ron snatched him from the air and petted the owl’s little puffed up chest. Harry’s face had fallen ever so slightly as he watched their reunions and looked away. Ron had caught her eye and the two of them did their best to keep the affection with their pets away from Harry a bit. He’d been devastated upon losing Hedwig. It wasn’t the same as all the people they’d lost, of course, but neither of them wanted to rub it in.

Crookshanks’s joy upon her return was short lived. After an hour or so of meowing and purring the cat’s resentment at being left for months came to the surface. He ignored Hermione, not deigning to so much as look at her for three days. He’d thankfully forgiven her since then.

“Well, at least one of my ginger boys is up.” She laughed as the large cat continued to purr and nearly tripped her with his vehement headbutts to her ankles. She gave his head a scratch before returning to the kitchen, feeling somewhat calmer.

Harry was putting glasses out on the table, Mrs Weasley was slicing tomatoes and tending to the streaky bacon, and Ginny stood at the stove looking a touch cross. She was flipping over eggs and cursing as yolk after yolk broke in the pan.

“I can do that,” Harry murmured, but Mrs Weasley answered for Ginny.

“She has to learn some time. She can’t keep leaving all the cooking to me or you boys.”

Ginny gave a crow of triumph as one egg’s yolk stayed intact, giving Hermione a grin.

“Ron coming down?” Ginny asked as she plated the deflated eggs.

“He’s still having a lie in, it seems…”

“And I don’t want you waking him,” said Mrs Weasley, giving a wave of her wand that filled the pitcher with pumpkin juice. “He’s barely sleeping, poor thing, and I’m glad for him to finally get some real rest!”

Wishing to help, but knowing she would be just as hopeless as Ginny at flipping eggs, Hermione began distractedly putting out plates and silverware for the table, as Harry took platters to the table.

Mr Weasley had already gone to work early that morning, and without Ron breakfast was a rather quiet affair.

Hermione half heartedly picked at her food. Her persistently tiny appetite hadn’t waxed over the weeks at the Burrow, much to Ron’s chagrin. She’d narrow her eyes in resentment every time he prodded her to eat a few more bites. He wasn’t here now, though. She had to admit she missed his prodding as she silently stared at her plate. Everyone had finished their eating well ahead of her, but she was still wrestling with her first egg and piece of toast.

“I was thinking,” said Ginny as she leaned across the table to a third helping of streaky bacon. “We should go out today.”

Hermione shuddered at the thought of leaving the Burrow.

“Go out?” Harry repeated, taking his and Ginny’s plates to the sink, where Mrs Weasley was doing the washing.

“Yes, out!” Ginny cried, giving a large grin.

“But we were just at Hogwarts yesterday…” Harry had a perplexed look on his face.

“I mean doing something that isn’t rebuilding after the war or chores. Anything. The village. Luna’s place. Quidditch. Diagon Alley— “

“You are not going to Diagon Alley, young lady!” Mrs Weasley interjected as she scrubbed a pan. Ginny bristled and flushed. “They’ve yet to round up all the criminals from this war, and not weeks ago Diagon Alley was a den of destruction and desperate destitutes.”

“Say that three times fast,” Ginny murmured under her breath, too low for her mum to hear. Harry and Hermione barely hid their smiles.

“Plus, you’re not seventeen yet!”

“Fine, Mum. No Diagon Alley,” she said in a congenial tone, belied by the angry set of her jaw. Ginny tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“So, besides the ‘din of D’s,’” she said with an agitated look towards her mother’s back, “where would you like to go?”

“I dunno… Whatever you like is fine,” Harry said with an aimless shrug. He looked as keen to go out as Hermione did.

“I say Luna’s then,” she said with an excited grin. “What about you Hermione?”

Hermione forced herself to smile and feign excitement. “Maybe the village? I’ve never been before. Ron mentioned the pub he’d call me from and a paper shop as well.”

“Well, they don’t have much as far as quills go, but you might find something you like there!” Ginny said, looking positively jovial.

“Maybe we should wait and see what Ron wants to do,” said Hermione, giving a look up the stairs.

“I won’t be surprised if he chooses to stay close to home,” said Ginny before adding sotto voce, “I think he worries about leaving Mum alone in the house for long. He’s not left the house except to check on George, and he’s been doing a lot around here, hasn’t he?”

“He has, yeah…” said Harry looking at his hands. “We’ll leave it to him then.”

Harry’s mouth tightened further and guilt was working its way onto his face. Ginny put a hand over his and gave it a squeeze. A loving look passed between them and Harry leaned in to kiss Ginny’s temple, prompting Hermione to look away.

She and Ron hadn’t quite figured out how to have little moments like that in front of others. After the ‘getting caught snogging by his mother’ debacle they’d been less inclined to touch one another, even innocently, around others. She couldn’t figure out why it was so hard; After all, the first time she snogged Ron they’d done it right in front of Harry! There was no reason they couldn’t be just as demonstrably in love with one another as Harry and Ginny! Well… maybe that was the problem.

Hermione certainly loved Ron, but wasn’t as certain he felt the same way. In every action she felt cherished… but he hadn’t said he loved her. Not truly. He’d said ‘I love you’ once in passing their sixth year while he was still dating Lavender. She’d replayed the moment in her mind for weeks, but there had been no repeat performance in real life.

She’d nearly said ‘I love you’ to him a few times, but always caught herself at the last moment.

The previous week his Mum had been crying because George had patently refused to come home. As his mother cried, Ron took over the half made meal. He’d overcooked the chicken a bit, and the gravy he’d attempted was watery, but he’d somehow managed to finish the meal in time for the family who came for dinner— all of them save George.

Afterwards they’d gone to the apple orchard and he sat beside Hermione stroking her hair, fretting about the meal and his mother. She looked at him from under her lashes, and a bit of sun hit his hair so perfectly it almost seemed to glow as if he were the source of the light, and not the setting sun behind him. He squinted with worry, and the words ‘I love you’ rang in her head so loudly she could barely keep them from spilling forth.

She wasn’t entirely certain what kept her from saying it. It was hard to imagine Ron rejecting her or reacting strangely to the revelation. He was so loving and patient with her, prodding her to eat food and checking in with her if she looked the least bit upset… But then Ron did that with everyone. That was just his way. He doted on Harry, his mother, and his siblings just as much as he did Hermione.

The passionate kisses they’d shared a few times left her breathless and in no doubt that he was attracted to her, but attraction was a very far distance from romantic love, was it not? He’d been able to snog Lavender for months while not showing particular regard for her romantically.

There were so many passionate and loving moments between them that seemed they HAD to be based in love. But a war, and all those adrenaline filled flashes of tension… Maybe it was just shared trauma they were mistaking for something more. Perhaps he was just mixing up the deep platonic love he felt for Hermione for romantic love, and hormones were making up the rest of the difference.

Everything felt so dissonant and uncertain, she didn’t want to deny herself the comfort of Ron by throwing in a declaration of love before she knew he felt the same way. There didn’t seem to be a mature rational way of discussing it with him to collect more intel, not that she could think of anyway. It felt every bit as daunting as breaking into the Ministry or Gringotts.

It was like one of those trust fall exercises her parents had to do at a work retreat. You had to fall backwards with your eyes closed and have faith everyone would catch you. She trusted Ron with her life, but wasn’t sure she could trust she’d fall back into his arms shouting ‘I love you’ and come out unscathed.

Hermione pushed her plate away, feeling too wane to eat more. The three of them helped Mrs Weasley clean up the kitchen, after which the matron claimed she had a headache and went to rest in her bedroom. They then shuffled about waiting for Ron, playing uninteresting games of chess, throwing a marble around for Crookshanks, and generally feeling a malaise only a Ronless few hours could create. When he still hadn’t made an appearance Hermione finally broke.

“I’m going to go get him.”

“How about I see if he’s still sleeping,” said Harry in an annoyingly calm tone. The glare she was about to give him lost its potency when she saw he looked every bit as impatient to get Ron as she.

“You two are a real mess when he’s gone,” Ginny commented fondly, finding a brush and sitting down with Crookshanks.

Harry and Hermione shared a glance that was more loaded than Ginny could know. They’d never told her about the time Ron had left the Horcrux hunt. In fact they’d never even discussed it with one another or Ron.

“Right, well, he’s just upstairs,” said Harry with a pointed look at Hermione before ascending the stairs. Ron hadn’t left them again. He was just sleeping in! The sudden feeling of panic and abandonment were completely unfounded. How ridiculous she was.

Ginny gave her a consoling look. Hermione managed a halfhearted shrug and sat with a groan beside her. She would brush her cat and try to suppress the growing unease.

A few minutes passed before Harry made his way downstairs, a tired looking Ron in tow. It took everything in her to not launch herself at him, whether to kiss him or demand answers she wasn’t sure.

“Ron says we should do quidditch today,” said Harry, sitting beside Ginny.

“I told him you were too lazy to walk over to Luna’s or the village!” said Ginny with a teasing smile, pushing a covered plate towards him that housed some breakfast.

Ron made a face and stiffly took a seat at the table, barely sparing Hermione a glance. Had she done something? Why wouldn’t he look at her?

“I’m never going to go to that house,” said Ron, tearing into the plate of food.

“But we’d get to see Luna!”

“Luna’s great,” he said before pointing a fork at Ginny, “but I’m not going to go over there.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not having glumpy tea with her lousy dad skulking about,” he said with a snort. “Don’t forget, the man tried to hand us over to Death Eaters.”

“Well he was in an impossible situation…” Hermione offered. Ron rolled his eyes.

“It wasn’t impossible. You don’t turn people over to Death Eaters,” Ron said simply, taking a bite of sausage. Hermione wanted to argue the finer points of it, and could see the other two didn’t agree with Ron’s assessment either. Ron looked between them all before giving a sigh. “Look, if that old bleeder ever shows a whiff of remorse for it, I’ll be happy to let bygones be… but he could have gotten us all killed, so I’m not going to go over there and play polite waiting for an apology.”

“Fair enough,” Harry cut in before anyone could argue the point further. Ginny began to describe the progress made on the Lovegood’s home repairs, but Hermione only half listened. Instead she concentrated on Ron. Despite the extra sleep he was excessively pale, his freckles standing out like cinnamon on top of cream. The shadows under his eyes were pronounced, and he was unshaved.

Ron swallowed a mouthful of eggs before finally speaking to Hermione.

“Did you get enough to eat at breakfast?” he asked in an undertone.

Her stomach felt very full after her egg and toast, but she knew that wouldn’t be considered ‘eating enough’ for Ron. She hesitated to answer. He didn’t look her way, instead he sawed a piece of toast in two and began to spread egg on it, before cutting up some sausage and making a nice little half sandwich. She assumed he was back to ignoring her, and gave a start when he spoke again.

“Try and eat this?”

The half sandwich had been wrapped in a napkin and slid across the table to her. She took it, though she had no intention of eating it. If it weren’t a sandwich she’d press it in a journal, chalking it up to another sign that he cared about her, even when he was looking poorly.

“Well, let’s play some quidditch!” Ginny said with a broad smile. Hermione shook her head at how the girl could be so lighthearted after everything. She envied her, really. Harry was brooding and hurting after the war, and there was Ginny being light and warm for him, prompting smiles out of him, making him go out and do something fun. Hermione didn’t know how to do the same for Ron. She didn’t want to go out. She didn’t know how to tempt him into something that would lighten the load.

“Where’s Mum at? Does she need us to do anything before we go?” Ron asked, looking about.

“She went up to take a nap,” said Ginny, her tone gentler than it had been the whole morning. Ron quietly nodded and a sort of understanding seemed to pass between them because he suddenly put on a grin almost as broad as Ginny’s. Hermione could tell it was forced. His eyes didn’t crinkle up in that inviting way they did when he was genuinely happy, and his smile was always slightly lopsided when he was in genuine amusement, a hint of a dimple creasing his right cheek.

“Alright, get ready for me to kick your arse, Gin,” he crowed, throwing his sister wildly off balance with a hip check, before darting out the door.

“Fat chance! I’m going to throw a quaffle right through your teeth!” she cackled, chasing after him.

Harry smiled at Hermione before chasing after the two siblings. He had a spring in his step she hadn’t seen in well over a year, really. Weasleys had that effect on people. Even Ron’s forced smile could make Hermione feel lighter. She knew something was off with him, but with the sun shining across his hair as he laughed, she could pretend he was alright for the time being. She was a bit irked, though, that he’d barely interacted with her except to criticize how little she’d eaten.

Having no urge to be on a broomstick, she darted up the stairs to get her notes regarding her parents, as well as some books she’d pretend she was reading, should someone wonder what she was doing. When she approached the quidditch field the other three were in the air tossing the quaffle about, large grins on all of their flushed faces. It was rare she wished she was good at flying, but when she saw how carefree they all looked she couldn’t help the feeling of jealousy prickle at her. How could they all be so filled with happiness and able to just enjoy things again? She transfigured a clump of dead leaves into a blanket and sat herself next to an apple tree, taking her books and parchment out from her book bag.

As they played, darting through the air with practiced ease, she scribbled away at her papers trying to come up with a cohesive plan to get her parents back. After well over an hour the best she could manage was ‘find a Muggle library to do some research.’ She’d listed off a number of topics to research when she got there, as well as possible contacts she could use when a shadow fell over her.

She looked up to see Ron, ruddy from exertion and the sun on his ginger complexion. There was a good bit of sweat staining its way through his thin t-shirt. Him all sweaty and panting should have been mildly disgusting, but her mind was more agreeably occupied by how the shirt clung to him, and emphasized how much broader his chest and shoulders had become. She let out a sharp breath as he lifted the shirt to wipe the sweat off his face. Did he have any idea what he did to her? She was on edge enough! She didn’t need him enticing her to jump him and snog his face off in front of Harry and Ginny.

“We’re packing it in,” he said with a guileless smile at her. No, she was fairly certain he had no idea she wanted to tear his shirt off of him. He inspected the ground below him for pebbles and twigs before he placed his broom then sat to her left with a groan. This gave her just enough time to quickly stow her parchment in a book.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked, eyes trailing over the wet hair at the nape of his neck, just teasing the top of his collar.

“Probably would have if Ginny wasn’t flying like a bloody Hungarian horntail. She was going all out. My fingers are still numb from it!” he laughed holding up one of his large long-fingered hands. “I don’t think I have the same callouses as I did last time we scrimmaged either.”

“Hmmm…” said Hermione putting her much smaller hand in his. She loved his hands. They were always so expressive, warm and strong. She took her other hand and gently inspected his fingers. There still remained a few swirling silvery scars from when the brains had attacked him in fifth year, and a few short scars on his hands he’d picked up over the years. She hoped none of them were from the time she’d attacked him with birds in a jealous rage. Her fingers ghosted over the ruddy knuckles, down the long digits, to his too-short fingernails, finally stopping at his calloused thumb and finger tips. “They’re definitely rougher than mine.”

“Ah, well let’s take a look,” he said, bringing her hand under his nose for a closer inspection. She felt a thrill building within her as he glided a finger down a line on her palm, and hoped he didn’t mind the ink stains. “Hmm… According to my deep knowledge of palmistry this line right here indicates that you read and write too much for your own good…”

His finger went further down her hand trailing along the inside of her wrist so gently a pleasurable shudder passed through her. “And this line means you’re highly passionate about house elves.”

“Oh it does not!” she laughed in mock indignation.

“Excuuuse me. Between the two of us, who dropped out of divination, and who took it for three years?”

“You failed to get an O in it, if I recall.”

“That was due to the bias of the geezer testing me, and not because of my excellent palmistry skills,” he said with a sardonic twinkle in his eyes. “Do you want me to continue?”

She nodded her acquiescence, and his finger went back to her palm.

“Let’s see now… strong double head-line means you’re highly intelligent and kind. But it’s straight so you’re stubborn as all hell…”

A snort escaped her mouth.

“These short little lines on your lifeline show you’ve had some times of danger, but it seems to be nice and trouble free further down and these little lines along your wrist mean you’re gonna be prosperous— Looks like you can retire well then! And then your love line…” His voice tapered off.

“What about my love line?” She didn’t look at her palm as his finger caressed her. She studied his freckled face, which was quickly turning a deep shade of crimson.

“Erm, it’s… it’s good,” he stammered. “It’s— the little swoopy bit here ends on the mount of… Neptune? No, Jupiter! That means you’re honest and- and love deeply…”

“Does it say anything about if I’ll be loved as well?”

“You’re loved,” he said with certainty. He nodded his head and poked the side of her hand. “Got a strong marriage line and everything! I remember all the girls giggling over that one in divination.”

“Oh…” Disappointment bloomed within her. For a bit she thought he’d been trying to tell her something. He’d just been remembering old divination rubbish.

“To sum up, you’ve got a case of reader’s hands,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips for a short kiss. “All except your thumb and index finger, that are calloused from gripping quills too tight.”

“Hmm…”

“So what were you up to while I got my arse kicked round the pitch?” he said with a nod at the book beside her.

“Looking at some of the rune translations I did on the Horcrux hunt,” she lied, quickly pushing her book with the Australia plans away from her.

“Why would you be doing that?”

She should have known better than to bring them out with Ron around. He’d winkle the truth out of her rather quickly if she let him.

“Well…” she scrambled, “I wanted to see if I did them right, now that I have a clear head and time.”

“I guess…” he said, looking at her sceptically. “You doing alright?”

“I have a bit of a headache,” she lied again. Well it wasn’t a complete lie, but once you’d had a headache for two months straight you stopped counting it as something significant.

“I can get you some potion for that, if you like,” he said, searching her face. “Or maybe some water? How about I get you some water and a good size lunch. You didn’t eat much at breakfast and— ”

“Yes, you’ve said,” she snapped, before grabbing the rest of her items, haphazardly holding them in her arms. To avoid his eye she stared down at the blanket. She hadn’t done the best job transfiguring it, for it was already losing its shape along the edges and turning a mottled brown color. From the corner of her eyes she could see him rising from the ground. Shoulders tense, his body squared itself at her. That stance always portended an argument, but was cut off by Ginny calling to him.

“I’m going to make lunch! Can you help Harry put away the brooms?”

“Sorted!” he called back, before looking at Hermione. He lowered his head, blue eyes piercing her like a hot iron. “What’s going on? You’re acting off.”

“Maybe I just don’t want to be bothered about food and treated like a child!”

His coppery eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“Oh don’t look so surprised! You’ve been on me every day about food and I’m quite sick of it.”

“That’s only because you’re so thin! You’ve probably lost two stone or more over the last year, and you weren’t carrying around much extra to begin with.”

“You think I don’t know that? I don’t need you badgering and prodding me about it constantly, Ron!”

“Well that’s a bit hypocritical,” he said with a churlish look. “You’ve badgered and nagged about plenty of things over the years, many a lot less important than—” His words halted and he let out a deep sigh.

“You know what? I don’t have the energy for all this,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Sleeping in all morning and playing games really took it out of you, did it?” she bit out. She knew she sounded petulant. She knew she had aimed an unfair dig, but she didn’t much care in the moment.

His jaw clenched and he loomed over her, tall as an oak tree. Hermione stood her ground, lifting her chin to glare back at him. He looked as if he had a retort, but bit it back. He took a deep breath before saying anything.

“I know something’s off with you, and when you’re ready to tell me what it is, I’ll listen,” he said, his voice so low it was barely a breath, “but I won’t take shit I don’t deserve. And I don’t care if it drives you mad, I’m going to nag and poke and make you eat some goddamned food. If I have to get a funnel and force feed you like a sick chicken every day, I will.”

She gasped as his audacity. “How dare you talk to —”

“No! I’m done with, with whatever this was!” he said with a dismissive gesture at her before grabbing his broom and storming towards the broom shed. She couldn’t help the bit of panic skittering up her spine as he walked away from her, but calmed as she saw him make a beeline for Harry, broom in hand. He wasn’t apparating away. There weren’t wards keeping him from her. He wasn’t captured and there wasn’t a locket. It was just her he wanted to be rid of...

Books and papers held tightly to her chest, she marched towards the house. She let out a frustrated yell and tried to kick a stick in anger. She spectacularly missed and ended up dropping everything in her hands, the breeze blowing her few notes away from her.

“Oh bloody brilliant!” she cursed under breath, chasing them down. Far too late in the pursuit she realized she’d dropped her wand by her books, and going back to get it might make her lose her notes for good. One piece of paper was thankfully stopped by a bit of overgrown grass, but the other kept blowing away, just out of reach every time she stooped to pick it up. The parchment finally hooked itself on the bottommost branch of an overgrown shrub. She was crawling on her stomach to get the errant paper when she heard Harry and Ron nearby. Not wanting to see Ron as she was still quite peeved, she stayed low in the shrubbery.

“ — right? I really think she could go professional,” Harry was saying as they put away the brooms.

“Yeah. If we could get Gin on the Cannons then they might do well next year.”

“Given the Harpies poster in her room, I’d say that’s an uphill battle.”

“Yeah, well, most things are an uphill battle with the women in my life,” Ron said with a rueful chuckle.

Hermione rolled her eyes, stretching her arm out towards her parchment. Fingers almost touched the edge of the paper. She finally yanked it towards her and scooted out from the shrub when there was a gust of wind. The shed door shut with a great slam making her jump.

In seconds an ear splitting explosion thrashed her eardrums. Dust and wood flew in every direction. Her ears rang as she struggled to make sense of what had happened.

Where the door to the shed used to be there was now a splintered mass of wood falling to the ground. Wood dust and particles of debris were still settling in the air. Ron was coughing and turned away from the mess while Harry stood stock still, wand pointed at the shed. His eyes were wide and fearsome, focusing on where the door stood, holding on by one lone warped hinge. She’d only seen Harry look this way during a battle.

“Harry? You alright?” Ron wheezed, giving a cough and waving at the cloud of dust around his face.

Harry didn’t respond. His look was wild and senseless, not acknowledging Ron’s presence at all. If she had her wand she would have frozen Harry in place. Why had she left her wand behind the one time she needed it? She wanted to cry out to Ron to step away from him, but her voice caught in her throat. All that came out was a squeek.

“Mate?”

Harry’s blank eyes finally turned to Ron, and if she thought the feral look on his face was bad, she was ill prepared for the sight of his face beginning to crumple. He looked so close to tears she could barely stand it.

“You’re - you’re alright,” Ron murmured, slowly standing beside Harry, approaching him like a wounded animal. He didn’t touch Harry, but stood rather close.

Harry shook his head and just stood, trying to calm his breathing, hands shaking and wand gripped so hard it looked as if he’d snap it.

Ron finally put a hand on their friend’s arm, but Harry flinched away.

“I just… I - I need a moment… I just… I need…” he looks hopelessly about, taking deep gulps of air.

Ron nodded, backing away only a few paces. Harry removed his glasses to shakily wipe at his eyes while Ron checked on the shed. She could see him keeping an eye on Harry the whole time, even as he secured the brooms and repaired the door. It looked nearly as it had before, though the middle section of the wood now had a subtle warp to it.

“It’s all fixed, Harry.”

That seemed to snap Harry’s attention to the present. He looked away from Ron for one final wipe of his eyes.

“The fuck… the fuck is wrong with me… What the hell?” he said, not allowing himself to fully cry. Ron winced.

“We’re all a bit jumpy after everything.”

“No… not like that… I… I could have hurt you!” Harry almost wailed.

“I’d’ve blocked you just fine,’ Ron said with a reassuring smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. Hermione didn’t like that one bit. Could Ron honestly stand much of a chance against Harry’s fast reflexes? The thought of Harry inflicting that spell on Ron instead of the shed made her want to cry as badly as Harry’s tear filled gaze. “You weren’t really aiming at me, though, were you? Just the door that slammed, right?”

“I just… I just did it on instinct… I didn’t even hesitate…” Harry shook his head. “God, what if someone had been there? Ginny or Hermione...”

Ron’s appeared torn. She could tell he was just as concerned as Harry about it. How could he not be?

“But no one was there,” Ron said reassuringly. “After the last year, it’d be weird if you weren’t fast on the draw now.”

“I could’ve killed you.” Harry’s hand shakily threaded through his hair. “I’m not safe to be around…”

“Well, what’s new? Undesirable Number One and all that,” Ron snorted. Harry looked pained and Ron quickly sobbered his expression. “‘Ok, so… Not your best moment, this, but we can work on it, can’t we? Maybe try next time to just... not do a spell first thing. If you have to point your wand, do it. I do it too— but no spells until you have a chance to give it a proper look, eh?”

Harry mutely nodded and gave a great sniff.

“Want some tea?”

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug, which meant he’d accept the tea and company without complaint. The two went to the house and she saw Ron put an arm around his mate, giving him one of those manly one armed squeezes she’d seen them do. Harry didn’t shrug it off.

Hermione sat on the ground, clutching the papers to her chest, for how long she didn’t know. She felt thoroughly ashamed for how terse she’d been with him. Earlier he’d called her a hypocrite, and he’d been very right about it.

The way she’d been so combative with Ron when he was just trying to help her was exactly what she’d censured Harry for earlier that morning. He was so kind and thoughtful and she threw it back in his face. Her vicious words made it that much worse when she knew very well what all Ron was dealing with… It was a wonder he put up with her at all. How long would he be able to? Would any of them?

Her hands fumbled as she wiped the dirt off her clothes. She slowly ambled to the rest of her things, a terrible numbness leaking into her limbs and mind with every movement. Book bag properly packed, she made her way to the house.

Harry was sitting outside with some tea and, slouched low in the wooden chair with long legs fully extended in front of him, was Ron. To anyone that didn’t know Ron well, they’d say he was just a nonchalant teenager, the way he almost lazily drooped off the chair. He even had a bit of a smirk as he chatted at Harry. But she could see the little things that gave away how very tense he was. The set of his mouth was thinner than usual, his shoulders were tensed, his wand was right at his fingertips, and his eyes were worriedly tracing over Harry, studying him like a chess board.

He’d always had the ability to unflinchingly offer friendship, irreverence and comfort, and it never failed to warm her all over. It was probably what most made her love him. She loved everything about him, truth be told. She imagined she always had. It was hard to keep from shouting it across the garden.

As she approached Harry stared down at his tea, but looked markedly better than he had. Ron glanced up at her with a questioning look on his face, smirk fading to something more serious.

“Ron… Could I talk with you a moment?”

He gave a glance to Harry who waved him off. “‘M fine.”

“Yeah, we can talk,” Ron said with a wary nod, putting aside his cup by the chair. He silently followed Hermione across the yard to behind the back of his father’s shed. It was cool and shaded by a few trees and bushes, affording them privacy. She put up most of the charms she had during the horcrux hunt and dropped her book bag to the ground.

With little warning she pounced upon him, her arms around his neck, bringing him low enough for their lips to meet. At first he was so stunned he did little but stand there, arms hovering over her waist, but after her tongue worked its way into his mouth he suddenly pulled away.

“What’s going on? You were yelling at me not ten minutes ago and—”

“And now I’m kissing you,” she said before impatiently pulling him down to her lips.

“But why—?”

“Because you’re you,” she murmured impatiently, nipping his bottom lip to encourage him to continue.

Whatever doubts he had seemed quashed, for he promptly took control of their kiss. An arm swept around her, embracing her tightly against his strong form. His other hand traced its way through her hair. For a moment she worried at how frizzy it must have been, but as his touch lowered to her neck making her body buzz she found she didn’t care about her hair in the least.

A raw heat coursed through her as the kisses grew in intensity. The smell of fresh grass, sweat, and his hair was filling her senses. Her legs felt wobbly as his hands brushed against her flesh. The hand on her back drifted a bit up her top, making her let out a gasp.

Forcing herself to take a breath, she gently pushed him back from her. His hold on her quickly went slack, and his brows wrinkled with concern.

“Too much? Do you want me to stop?”

“No, I just was thinking we should get more comfortable. Maybe - maybe lying down?” she said, struggling to add a notion of calmness into her tone. Flushed and lips slightly swollen he blinked at her.

“Er, yeah,” he hoarsely responded after a few moments. “Yeah, sure."

With a few quick spells her book bag had turned into a blanket on the ground and began to seat herself. Yes, this looked like a comfortable enough spot to lie down. They’d never lain together as they kissed, and her stomach was anxiously flipping over it. She wasn’t worried about their intimacy increasing — no, she was really rather excited for that — she wasn’t sure her skills would be up to the task. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, how to position herself, and certainly didn’t know how Ron wanted to be touched and caressed.

She knew about the machinations of coitus from books and a rather prolonged talk with her mother, complete with charts, but what about everything else leading up to that? Almost everything surrounding romantic physical intimacy she picked up from erroneous sources. Movies, tawdry romance novels of her mothers that she had scanned through, and random comments from other students made up the majority of her knowledge, if it could even be called that. There didn’t seem to be researched text books that taught you how to touch and kiss properly. If there were such a book, she was fairly certain Ron had read it.

The way Ron kissed and touched her… He seemed to know exactly what to do every time. Was it from all his practice with Lavender? That thought was rather souring. Well, practice made perfect then, because it all felt perfect to her.

Ron lowered himself to the ground, a bit more awkwardly than she as he was all long limbs. Nerves shot through her as she tried to decide how to approach him now that they were both on the blanket. Should she just lie down immediately? Pounce him again? All she knew was if they didn’t continue soon she might go mad.

She was jarred from her fretting by Ron playfully bumping his shoulder against hers. He gave her a boyish smile that calmed her a bit. His hand rested beside hers, but he made no move to touch her. He just stared at her with that easy crooked smile. His slight dimple in his right cheek twitched, and she quickly put a hand to cup it. She grazed her fingers across the rough copper hairs on his face. Dappled light hit across his stubble, highlighting different shades of amber and saffron. She was suddenly acutely aware of how he was very much becoming a man.

She leaned in and the passion of earlier was immediately ignited, making all her worries vanish. He bent his head to kiss her, and it seared through her. The kiss went on for a long while, her palms slowly moved down his chest, and his hands similarly wandered. Somehow she ended up on her side, leg twining around his. His hand that had been at her back slid down until it rested on her buttocks giving them a firm squeeze and they both moaned in unison. Puffs of laughter began to break their kiss, and they both giddily smiled at one another.

“Well, I guess we both liked that, then” she breathlessly panted.

“Fuck yeah,” he grinned, pulling her close again, briefly seizing an earlobe between his teeth. His mouth travelled down her neck finding the spot that always made her turn boneless, gasping and frantic for more touches.

“And...” he said, punctuating each move down the column of her neck with a kiss, “I guess...” Kiss. “You like…” Kiss. “That?”

She nodded her head and muffled a moan, pulling her leaping curls aside so he could thoroughly kiss and suck along her neck.

Her hips rolled against his, and he grunted into her ear, hips automatically mimicking her motion. She was shocked to feel the hardness between his legs pressing into her thigh. He seemed to realize this too because he turned his face away just a bit and gave an unintelligible swear. He began to let go of her, apologizing.

Hermione pulled him tightly against her again, her hips twitching against his. “I like it.”

He let out a deep hoarse “fuuuck” that rumbled through her chest. Their kisses became frantic, and she let out a pleased whimper as his hand went up her shirt, cupped her breast and thumbed the nipple. One of her hands weaved its way through his ginger locks, the other danced down the front of his chest to the edge of his shirt, feeling the wiry hairs just disappearing down his waistband.

She’d never been drunk before, but she now knew what intoxication felt like. Her mind was buzzing yet full at the same time. There was nothing but the blaring thoughts of Ron’s hands pressing solidly into her curves. His mouth perfectly molded against hers. His tongue made wicked thoughts and flames flow down her body.

“Fuck… ‘Mione…” He gave a hiss and thrust against her, hand delightfully clasping her breast.

Their movements seemed to be hurtling towards something Hermione couldn’t quite place, and her thighs squeezed around his as her center found an even more pleasurable angle to grind against him.

“Yesss,” she choked out. She pushed her hips more forcefully against him, seam of her jeans rubbing up and down his hardness with complete abandon.

She was dancing closer and closer to the edge, his solid form overwhelming her, the different sensations filling her with a hot lust she’d never experienced before. The jolts fired between her legs built higher and higher. She arched tightly against him, hardly able to breath.

And then she was cuming, suddenly and so forcefully she let out a loud wailing cry.

Her muscles twitched and trembled as she stilled against him, feeling awfully close to fainting. Ron gave a few last thrusts of his hips, giving a deep lust-filled moan before similarly seizing, clutching her close to him. They both went boneless, collapsing into each other, left as nothing but a panting tumble of limbs.

They spent a few hazy minutes holding one another, her head nuzzled into his chest. After a time one of Ron’s hands caressed her hair, attempting to smooth the curls back behind her ear. Wild and a bit sticky with sweat, it clung around his fingers. He made several failed attempts to disentangle himself, without also smothering Hermione’s face in curls.

“It’s like bloody Devil’s Snare,” he chuckled. “Should I light a fire?”

Hermione normally would have blushed pink over a tease about her wild hair, but her mind felt blissfully warm and blank for the first time in weeks.

“I’ve got it,” she lazily smiled back, pushing back all her hair behind her head.

He kissed her sticky forehead and broadly grinned before squinting down their bodies and showing a look of mild distaste. “Ah... where’s my wand?”

She looked down and saw a spreading dark patch on his jeans and one a bit further down his leg. Hermione felt her face crimson as she realized the second stain on his jeans was from her. They sheepishly rolled apart and sat up to get their wands and say a few spells, before turning back to look at one another.

“That was...” he said with a breathless grin.

“Really nice,” Hermione finished. She knew she must have a foolishly besotted look on her face.

“Really fucking hot.” Ron nodded, ducking his head to kiss her lips as she furrowed her brows at his language. She couldn’t keep her scowl up, and pulled back grinning.

“It was, wasn’t it?” she laughed. He smiled down at her and one of his hands stroked up and down her upper arm.

Had she ever felt so care free?

A sudden pop of nearby Apparition startled them from their reverie, immediately popping the elation she’d felt bubbling through her. It burnt away like morning mist.

Ron was on his feet, a furrowed scowl on his face, turning him from affable lover to menacing warrior in seconds. Hermione quickly joined him, tightly gripping her wand at her side. Whoever it was did not take any care to tread softly. The sound of heavy footfalls came their way, and Hermione exhaled a breath when she saw who was walking towards the house.

“Oh! It’s George!” she said in relief, letting her wand arm go lax at her side. She turned to Ron, expecting to see relief flooding his face. His wayward brother had finally returned home!

She never expected to see a brooding worried expression.

Ron silently paced forward before he remembered himself, looking back at her.

“Can you conjure a mirror or something for us? We need to get sorted and back to the house,” he said, brows crinkling even further as he squinted at brother. George had slowed his pace and stood stock still, watching the house.

Hermione silently conjured a mirror for them. Preoccupied by the sudden shift in Ron’s mood she barely took the time to glance at herself as he quickly straightened his clothes and made sure to spell away the telltale signs of a heated snogging session. She finally took the time to sort her own appearance out when she realized she had stubble burns along her face and neck, along with a love bite at her jugular. She quickly covered those up with some glamours, willing herself to remember to use a tincture for them once she got in the house.

Her hair was a lost cause of snarled knots, so she put it into a large bun at the top of her head. The mirror faded out of existence just as she put the final touch on her hair. Ron undid the security spells around them, while Hermione transfigured the blanket back into a book bag.

“Do I look alright?” she asked, wanting to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything that could give away their previous activities.

“Sure,” he said with a cursory glance before striding towards George, shoulders tense.

Nothing could account for his sober response to his brother returning, at least as far as Hermione could figure.

“Oi! George,” Ron called out.

George gave a start and turned around. Hermione gasped at his appearance. He was unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes, and his skin, normally a bit ruddy, was a sickly pale. He looked as if he’d been hunting Horcruxes.

“Where’d you two come from?” George asked, voice sounding a touch hoarse. Both Ron and Hermione began to color. He squinted at them before his mouth twitched. “Oh I see!”

“We were just at the broom shed,” Hermione protested.

“Yeah, our brooms are notorious for leaving love bites,” George teased, pointing to where Hermione’s neck met her shoulder.

“Ron! I asked you if I looked alright!” she squealed, conjuring another mirror.

“Don’t worry. If he’s leaving marks like that on your neck, he probably thinks you look alright,” George said with a low laugh. Hermione glanced at Ron and expected to see him churlishly bristling at his brother’s tease.

Instead he looked at the house and bit his lip. “Hermione, could you go on to the house?”

George’s expression quickly turned grim.

“I… ” she hesitated, unsurely looking between them. Ron looked down at her, for no more than a second, but his intense blue gaze immediately convinced her to comply. “Of course. Should I tell them George is here?”

“Not yet,” Ron answered for the pair of them, crossing his arms to regard his brother. Silence stretched between them, barbed and filled with import Hermione had no access to. She was terribly curious to know what was happening in this hidden exchange, but quickly realized nothing would be said as long as she stood there.

With some nonsensical excuse she trotted to the house. Inside the kitchen she found Ginny at the counter, letting out a laugh and leaning her head backwards to look at Harry whose arms were wrapped around her waist. A half sliced tomato lay forgotten on the cutting board.

She gave an awkward throat clearing to alert them to her presence. They didn’t immediately leap apart, but Harry rather slowly extricated himself from Ginny. Hermione shuffled through the door up to the loo to properly get rid of the love bites and stubble burn Ron had left her with. When she was sure there were no marks left untended, she scampered into Ginny’s room to peer down into the Weasley’s back yard. She could just make out George and Ron’s red hair through the branches of a tree, but frustratingly that’s all she could see. She felt a touch guilty for trying to spy on them, but that was only because Ron was acting so cagey! Something was going on between the two brothers, and she was determined to find out what.

Returning to the kitchen she found Ginny and Harry had finished slicing produce and set out ingredients for everyone to assemble their own sandwiches.

Ron stumped into the room a moment later, but George was nowhere to be seen. Hermione shot him a questioning look. He shook his head before ushering her into the living room and leaning into her, his mouth almost touching her ear.

“He’s still dithering outside.”

“What did you two talk about?”

“Nothing much,” he said with a shrug. “Mostly checking that he was alright…”

Somehow that didn’t seem like the whole truth. She searched his face, the way he tried to school it to a calm expression, the small downturn of his mouth, and the slight flush across his freckles. He must have caught the argument in her eyes, because he quickly cut her off.

“I can’t force him to come in, and I don’t want to set up Mum and Ginny for disappointment if he bails, so I’m not saying anything, and neither are you.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she assured him, trying not to prickle at his commanding tone.

“Ron, Hermione, we have owls!” Harry called out to them.

“Be right there,” Ron answered, his serious expression robotically flickering into a smile before he entered the kitchen. “Fare looks good. Thanks, Gin.”

Hermione felt a chill settle around her. When had he become so good at putting on smiles that didn’t meet his eyes?

A handsome horned owl with a Ministry of Magic crest around its neck sat perched on the kitchen windowsill, looking about the room in a terribly imperious way. Harry and Ginny stood next to the bird.

“Aren’t you a proud one,” said Ginny, stroking the bird on its feathered chest before feeding it an owl treat.

Hermione primly seated herself at the worn kitchen table, expecting Ron to take a seat beside her. Instead he took a moment to get her a glass of water and an apple. He placed them in front of her with a pointed look. She ignored his gaze and fixed her sights on the owl at the window.

“You should wait until you’ve taken the letter before you fatten them up,” said Harry, though he seemed just as eager to pet the pretty thing, looking at the bird in a longing sort of way. Moments like this made Hermione’s heart clench at how he’d lost his Hedwig. “Don’t want it flying off before we take the letters.”

The owl gave Harry a sharp peck on the finger, as if offended he’d impugn its honor in such a way.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean it,” Harry said with a bowed head before removing three indentically sealed letters and bringing them to the table and handing one each to Ron and Hermione. With the owl gone, Ginny went to retrieve Mrs Weasley for lunch.

Harry had a grim look on his face, but quickly cracked his letter open, hesitating in reading it as he waited for Ron and Hermione to open theirs as well. Ron pursed his lips at his unopened letter and tapped it on the table, glancing to Hermione then back to the parchment.

A wild thought rushed through Hermione’s head. What if the Ministry was going to bring them before the Wizengamot for crimes during the war? They’d broken into the Ministry, Gringotts... Harry even did an Unforgivable there!

Hermione’s hands shook as she inspected the crisp envelope, and for an awful moment she thought she might faint. The parchment was of the finest quality Hermione had ever seen, thick and flecked with little pieces of silvery material woven into the paper. The seal on it was dark purple and had the Ministry of Magic crest pressed into it, making for an intimidating sight.

“Real official, innit?” Ron said into her ear. Hermione nodded back, hesitating before breaking the seal. They each turned to their letters.

To Miss Hermione Granger,

In the name of the Ministry of Magic, the Minister of Magic takes pleasure in presenting the Order of Merlin, First Class to you.

“What?” Hermione gave a yelp, knocking over her glass of water that pooled across the table.

“What is it?” asked Mrs Weasley from the stairs, Ginny rushing past her to Harry’s side and reading the letter with wide eyes.

“Does yours say this too?” Hermione asked Ron, shoving her letter at him. He scanned over it and nodded.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, cheeks flushed, handing her letter over to him. Harry nodded as well. She grabbed it back and voraciously continued reading.

This is to award your extraordinary heroism in the Battle of Hogwarts, and other aid you rendered to the war effort. You have distinguished yourself with conspicuous bravery, valor and intrepidity, at great risk to your own life, going above and beyond any wizard or witch’s duty during the last war. Your actions reflect the highest traditions and tenets of wizardom, and for all this we thank you.

We will be holding a ceremony in August to formally present you with your Order of Merlin, should you choose to accept it.

The Ministry also wants to extend an opportunity for someone of your caliber to continue such works as we rebuild our community. We are offering you the position of Deputy Auror, to begin as soon as you are able. After our abbreviated training of several months, you would be promoted to full Auror. Attached are forms detailing this position, and a meeting must be scheduled for the final papers to be signed, should you agree to accept the position.

The Ministry commends you for all your service, and waits for your reply,

Thank you,

Kingsley Shacklebolt Minister of Magic

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” asked Mrs Weasley, marching over to them arms akimbo.

“They’ve been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class,” Ginny said, breathlessly looking between them all, just as flabbergasted as they were.

“What?” Mrs Weasley cried out, grabbing for a letter to read as well. As her eyes got to the bottom of the page she gave a horrid yowl before hugging Ron and crying. “Ohh Ron… I can’t believe— I mean... We all knew Harry would, but… Oh Ronnie!”

Ron silently patted his mother’s shoulder, still in his place staring at the paper with wide eyes.

“Let me see it?” Mrs Weasley asked her son, and he dazedly handed it over. “Order of Merlin! And… Kingsley wants you to become an Auror? But you haven’t even graduated from Hogwarts yet!”

Ron, uncharacteristically quiet, gave a shrug and looked to Hermione and Harry.

“And we didn’t even have to take our NEWTs,” Harry replied, giving Ron a conspiratorial grin.

“Makes it pretty clear how desperate the Ministry must be for recruits to ask me to join them,” Ron said in a low voice, barely audible as he shook his head. Hermione knew this was a perfect moment to intervene and stop him from his self deprecation, but found herself unable to form the words needed to boost him. Luckily his mother stepped in.

“Oh of course they’d want you, Ron! You’ve an Order of Merlin!” Mrs Weasley proclaimed, clutching Ron to her breast again, great fat tears forming in her eyes. “You all were so brave… ”

“Is everything alright?” they heard from the kitchen door.

There stood George. His shadowed and sunken eyes darted around his childhood home with a strange caginess. He hadn’t set foot at the Burrow since well before the war ended, and didn’t particularly look like he wanted to be there now.

Mrs Weasley, thoroughly overwhelmed by the sight of him on top of all the Ministry news, broke into wet sobs that were even louder than before. She bustled across the room to give George a crushing hug he perfunctorily returned.

“These three just got Order of Merlin, First Class, and have been invited to join the Aurors, no NEWTs required,” Ginny reported as she went up to hug George as well.

“Oh is that all? Nothing impressive like landing yourselves on the Chocolate Frog cards?” George said with a dry smile, slowly extracting himself from his mother’s grasp. “Got any food?”

“Ginny set out some sandwich fixings. Here, I’ll make you one” Ron said, getting up from the table.

“See, Ickle Ronniekins making me a sandwich— definitely a more impressive feat than medals and dream careers,” George said, slumping to the kitchen table and sitting beside Hermione. He smelled a bit of sweat and stale drink. She had to wonder how he’d been spending the past weeks.

“I’m so happy to have you home! I was beginning to think you’d never come back,” Mrs Weasley bemoaned, bustling the kitchen to get some tea going.

“Well… I’m back,” George said, resting his elbows on the table, looking every inch as weary as Hermione felt. “At least for a bit… Might need to take this lot out to celebrate Ron’s sandwich skills later tonight. Big deal, that.”

“It’s nice to have something to celebrate, for once,” Harry said with a nod. “What are you thinking?”

“I dunno, maybe hit the pub in the village,” George said with a shrug.

“No, not the village,” Ron said with a strange amount of firmness, thrusting a full plate of sandwiches in front of George, then another in front of Hermione. His expression had turned grim, and his mouth had become a firm straight line. Hermione stared at him as George, Ginny and Harry speculated over where to spend their evening. Where everyone else was happy to come up with ideas, Ron had grown completely silent. No one else seemed to have noticed the change in Ron’s demeanor, though.

“I’m a bit nervous about Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade— we wouldn’t have much privacy,” Harry noted.

“Harry’d probably be swarmed with people,” said Ginny.

“I know a Muggle club we could hit up,” said George lowly, so his mother couldn’t hear over her ministrations with the kettle. “We’d need to make you all some Muggle I.D.s, but I can manage that easy enough.”

“I’ve never been to a Muggle club! Do I have to dress up?” asked Ginny, eyes bright.

“A bit, yeah— I bet Hermione can help you with that.”

“I’ve never been to a club either!” Hermione let out, feeling nervous at the prospect of it. The most she'd seen of clubs was quickly and nervously walking by them in London. It didn’t seem a good fit for her.

“Well then Angelina can help,” George said, making sure his mother wasn’t able to hear. “How ‘bout we meet at my hotel after dinner here. Round eight thirty? Gives the girls a chance to dress up a bit, and us lads a chance to pre-drink a bit before we leave.”

Ron had little enthusiasm on his face, but seeing George, Ginny and Harry’s attitude about it, gave a nod. Hermione nodded along, standing from the table. She went to the kitchen door and gave Ron a tilt of her head so he’d follow. He quickly took up with her, but not before grabbing a few sandwiches in a clean dish cloth.

“You don’t look too keen on going to a club,” said Hermione as they went out.

“I’m not. You don’t seem too keen on it either, though.”

“No… It sounds exhausting. We wouldn’t even leave properly until nine or later. Plus who wants to be scantily clad in an ill-lit place with banging music and alcohol?”

A small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Scantily clad?”

“The ‘dress code’ for women is a bit underdressed in clubs for my liking. Always something low cut, or short and strappy. Lots of skin.”

“Hmmm if you’re there, I think a Muggle club might not be so bad,” he said, eyeing her body up and down.

“Well, Muggle clubs are very different from any of the pubs or parties you’ve been to, unless you’ve secretly gone to, I don’t know, a Wizard rave of some sort.”

“I’ve seen lots of wizards raving about lots of things the past few years. No idea what that has to do with Muggle clubs.”

“A ‘rave’ is a wild sort of dance party,” she explained. “Politicians were even speaking out against them a few years ago. It’s just not a natural fit for someone like me.”

“We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to, but at the same time,” said Ron, taking her hand to draw her close, chuckling a bit. “I wouldn’t mind getting to see you adhering to the Muggle club dress code.”

She smiled at his cheek, a blush warming her face as his hands encircled her waist.

“Well… it might be fun to celebrate a bit. We’ve not had much chance to celebrate this year.”

“Order of Merlin! Blimey… It feels a bit unreal… You don’t suppose George is pranking me?”

“Of course not!” she laughed.

“Awfully coincidental timing… We get the letters, seconds later there’s George... This is the kind of shit prank I can see him pulling for his big debut back at the Burrow.”

Hermione’s face sobered a bit.

“I don’t think we’ll see him debuting any pranks soon… He looked so tired, and —” she bit her lip, not wanting to alarm him, but also knowing it was best to talk honestly about it. “Ron, I think he has been drinking today. I could smell it on him…”

Ron nodded and his hold on her slackened by a margin. “The last time I visited him he was deep in a bottle… We didn’t get too deep into it. I don’t want to push him too hard about it right now.”

“Well won’t a club be a rather bad environment for him?”

“I’d rather he be drunk with company than without.”

“I suppose… Well, maybe we should do this, if not to have fun, then just to watch out for George.”

Ron kissed the top of her head. “Always a thoughtful one, you.”

She hummed at his attention.

“So… The Aurors…” Ron said with a nervous swallow.

“Oh that!” Hermione said with a snort.

“Yeah… What are your thoughts on it?” he said, gently pulling himself from her grasp.

“A few years ago I might have been flattered at being asked, but I think they have a lot of nerve asking us to go straight into anything like that, given the year we’ve had! And we haven’t even finished our education!”

“So you don’t want to be an Auror?”

“Of course not! I’d rather, I don’t know, scrape barnacles off of dragons. Plus they must know our whole class has been invited back to Hogwarts,” she said with a small scoff. “Honestly, I don’t know how they can expect anyone in their right mind to take such an offer.”

Ron grimaced as he scratched at his jaw, hairs rasping against his fingers with every movement.

“Yeah, probably have to be rather mental…” he said, going a bit pale as his mouth turned down.

“Oh no…” Hermione said with a sudden realization. “You don’t think Harry will take that offer, do you?”

His eyebrows rose. “Yeah, he will.”

“Of course he would! He’s just the sort of brave stubborn person to do it, isn’t he? We’ll just have to convince him not to!” she said, about to march back into the house, but Ron caught her arm.

“Hermione… He’s going to join the Aurors. There’s nothing that’ll stop him.”

“Well not with that attitude!”

“You saw him in there, he was smiling and happy about it.”

“I don’t care if he’s over the moon about it! It’s dangerous, and we’ve been through enough! He can’t just go and throw his life away—”

“How would being an Auror be throwing his life away?” Ron asked, giving a penetrating look. Nerves fluttered in her stomach. “It’s a good career.”

“Of course it is, but it’s dangerous! He could get hurt! Especially without all the training!”

“Well… Let’s look at what training he’s already gotten,” he hoarsely began. “He’s quick on his feet. He’s fairly athletic. He’s trained for years for this really… Giant spiders, tons of duels, battles and snatchers. Was on the quidditch team—”

“Oh what does that have to do with it!” she irritatedly asked.

“There are missions that require flying skills, and it shows he can work with a team,” Ron rattled off in a low voice. “Plus he doesn’t have slow reflexes and has the ability to keep his head about him in battles ok enough… Yeah he could be an alright Auror, even without a seventh year under his belt. He wouldn’t be throwing his life away. And Kingsley says he’s good enough. He’d know that, wouldn’t he?”

“I think you’re painting an overly rosy picture.”

“Well, he’s signing up no matter if he’d be shit or not,” Ron growled in protest, looking oddly heated about it. “So it’s best to just support him. It’s his choice, after all.”

Hermione crossed her arms and shook her head, thinking of Harry’s rattled response just earlier that day. He was in no fit condition to see action again. She would have argued this to Ron, but he didn’t know she’d seen it, and didn’t feel like confessing she’d been spying on them.

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it… But you’ll have to accept it,” Ron said evenly, though his eyes looked anguished. “You will, won’t you?”

She let out a huff. “I… I will once he’s in the Aurors, but until then, I make no promises.”

“It’s something he has to do,” he said, staring right through her. She’d never seen him so adamant about anything for Harry before. His eyes traced over her face, searching for something. “You can understand that, right?”

“Fine, Ron, I can understand it!” she said with a small eye roll before smiling at him. “Harry’s lucky to have you defend his ridiculous choices.”

He gave a shrug, staring at the ground, looking rather glum.

“Ron, Hermione, dears, come and get some lunch!” Mrs Weasley called from the house.

“No escaping food in the Weasley house,” Hermione murmured, putting a hand into Ron’s that seemed to startle him from his reverie.

“Er right… Better get inside and down a few sandwiches… Need the energy for later tonight,” he said, still looking every inch of him miserable.

“You alright?”

“Just hungry,” he said with a smile. This one didn’t reach his eyes either.

_____________________________________________________ Author’s note: Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it please reblog or review! :D I can’t emphasize how much they motivate me to write more! :D

#Romione #fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #ron weasley #hermione granger #post war #my fics #waking up #chapter 3

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queen-scribbles · 3 years

Note

🖊🖊🖊

You get some of my SWtOR girls; two of them things I’ve been sitting on for a while, and then the new blueberry Jedi, Endrali

So, the first two are semi-related and I’m just gonna sorta do them together. Vica(Jedi Consular) and Khii(Smuggler) both made the opposite choice from what people might expect given their classes and backgrounds when presented the option of Odessen joining the Republic at the end of Onslaught. Vica stayed independent, and Khii joined. (I may have mentioned one or both of those in passing before, but I need to ramble about motivation and that decision as part of their character arcs.)

🖊 That was a really great character moment for Vica. Honestly, the only thing that was on par or bigger was when she started pursuing a relationship with Theron, and I feel like it’s an even bigger deal for her than completing Echoes will be. See, she’s always been the quintessential Perfect Jedi. Humble, kind, self-sacrificing to a literal fault, follows all the rules bc they must be there for a reason.Helpful, sweet, serene, etc etc. She was actually a perfect fit to be my first run through the Consular story, and my “no DS points” toon. The Jedi were her life. She was found to be Force Sensitive at a very young age and whisked away from her parents early enough she doesn’t even truly remember them (doesn’t even know she has a younger sister *cough* Bry *cough* until after founding the Alliance >.>). So she, of course, happily did the self-sacrificing thing to save all the Masters in Act 1. It was her duty; a Jedi’s life is sacrifice, she’s the only one who can do this, she can Save Everyone, no matter what it cost her(sidenote: I really wish they would do something mechanic-wise for the whole “you getting weaker” thing as you shield people). Her views start shifting in Act 2, when she gets to Balmorra, for two reasons:

her massive crush on Tai Cordan that has her questioning the whole “no falling in love” thing even as she tries to ignore her feelings into nonexistence, despite the fact he’s idealistic and kind and driven and a whole host of good, attractive things and she can’t. stop. THINKING about him. It doesn’t go anywhere since BioWare won’t let you flir- I mean, since they both have Responsibilities and she’s trying to be a Good Jedi, which means no attachments like that.

Zenith. The two of them become extremely good friends, even if they seem like polar opposites, and he challenges a lot of the stuff the Jedi spent roughly twenty years drumming into her head, really makes her think about and defend what she believes and why. Some things she’s not budging on; like showing mercy and giving second chances, so they butt heads sometimes still, but they’re unflinchingly loyal to each other and 100% trust each other to watch their backs. (Zenith saying he trusted her felt as much like a victory as completing a romance) He’s the one who really made her start wondering if there was a way to balance her own needs and desires with serving the needs and desires of the Republic and Jedi Council and the Rift Alliance.

She spent the rest of the base game working things out for herself, which means she missed Iresso’s romance, and honestly still feels conflicted about being “selfish” all the way up until the Shadow of Revan prelude stuff, where she meets Theron and goes “OhNO” bc if she thought her crush on Tai was bad, the way her heart sticks in her throat and her words get all jumbled up now are so much worse. And she decides to be selfish for once in her life and thus Theron is the first time she lets herself want something(someone) and actually pursue it, instead of burying the feelings until they go away. (There’s a reason the traitor arc hits much, much harder for her than it did Jaaide, and this is a big part of it)

She finds it a.... tricky but worthwhile balancing act--even if she is a terribly inexperienced flirt, sorry, Theron--to show interest in someone and still mostly be a Good Jedi.But it works. And it makes her happy and the galaxy doesn’t come to a screeching halt, so it’s okay, right?

Over the following years(at least, the ones she’s not frozen in carbonite thanks, Arcann), she also develops her skills at being a leader, not just a diplomat or Jedi, actually a leader. She gets the hang of making decisions not based solely on what the Jedi Code or teachings say, because sometimes they don’t help(sometimes they make things worse), how to run something like the Alliance where everyone is looking to her. And sure, Theron and Lana are a big help and do their share of the work(and then some, on occasion), but she is the Leader. The Commander. And she is proud, in the proud-parent sense, of what they build, and what they endure. And much as being a Jedi still means to her, when given the chance to rejoin the Order and tie Odessen to the Republic she served for so long, she finds she likes the idea of being an independent ally more. She likes being her own person, just with Jedi values as part of her moral code. She likes having that independence and not having to abide by rules and decisions she didn’t help make. (she likes waking up next to her husband every morning, his fingers running over her tattoos, as both of them wonder how they got so kriffing lucky) It was definitely a defining character moment for her that she said no to the Chancellor’s offer. I was honestly sort of proud of her; she was my fourth toon through Onslaught and I thought she’d want to rejoin. But she went “Nah, that’s not me anymore” and it made my day. (nothing against the Jedi or the Republic; I just love it when my characters develop and grow and do unexpected things)

🖊 And Khii. Khii was the opposite; she grew up on Nar Shadda, with no parents after age six. She doesn’t even know if they abandoned her or were killed or what; just that they left one day and never came back. So she got thrown into the life of a street orphan and had to take care of herself. No family, no home, no knowing who she could trust. Not daring to get attached to anyone bc you never knew when a gangster would decide you looked at them funny, or someone would OD or a slaver would come though... there was a long list of ways to lose friends. Better not to have any to start with. Over the course of the base game, the Republic started to feel like a home. An imperfect one, sure, but better than where she came from. And she got attached. Her crew is her family, Bowdaar is her wing Wookiee, and she’s actually pretty happy with the privateer gig. Girl does what she has to to survive, and a steady paycheck from one of the biggest powers in the galaxy is a pretty solid way to do that. (Darmas and Dodonna’s betrayal really stung for her. She’s my only Smug so far who actually killed Darmas bc she was so darn pissed at him. Also, she never liked him. Wanted to shoot him any time he hit on her.). So, of course, much as the Alliance also feels like a home and a family by this point, she really liked the sense of belonging she had as a Republic Privateer and she likes the idea of funding help, so she was saying “sign me up” almost before Chancellor Rans finished talking.

🖊 For Endrali, since she’s only just landed on Coruscant, we’re going with pregame backstory. SO. She’s a child of the Sabosen family (Sabosen’dra’listral for her full name), who are responsible for social aspects like justice and education among the Ascendency in Legends canon. Given the Chiss views on the Force, it was something of a problem for her family when two year old Endrali started making her toys float just by wiggling her fingers. Her parents are both highly placed in their fields, and having a Force sensitive child would be damaging to an extent they weren’t sure they could weather. They managed to hide her away with excuses about being a sickly child until she was four. At that point, her powers were strong enough they couldn’t hide her anymore, and whispers and rumors were starting as to what could be wrong with this child that no one had seen her in two years, and they knew they’d have to give a more satisfactory answer soon.

Her father was.... acquainted with a trader who occasionally visited the fringes of Chiss space, but was not Chiss himself. He happened to come through as they were deciding their course of action, and so Endrali’s parents gave her to this trader, told him to find her a home somewhere outside Chiss space, and paid him handsomely for the trouble. They told any who inquired that Endrali had succumbed to her illness and they were devastated by the loss of their child(which they were; they did love her, they just knew if she stayed it would be death or exile for her and shame for them).

The trader actually kept his word. His first stop was Coruscant, where a Jedi sensed how strong Endrali is with the Force and persuaded the trader to let her take this little Chiss girl for Jedi training. It fulfilled his goal, and Jedi are trustworthy, so the trader agreed rather easily. Endrali’s parents had given him some of her things, which he passed on to the Jedi--including documentation with both her full name and her core name, and a note insisting whoever adopted her never let her come “home”.Those records went in an archive somewhere and were essentially forgotten. She was introduced as Endrali, raised as Endrali, happy as Endrali. The Jedi are her family, and she is content.

#oc gush #vica nerai #khii mera #endrali jade #phew that got long xD #sorry? or not

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manage-mischief · 4 years

Text

Picture Prefect

Read on AO3 here.

Author’s Note: So, I’m not really sure I ship Dramione. At least, not in an endgame type of way. But, this idea came to me while rereading Harry Potter for the umpteenth time. I think there definitely could have been more to Draco’s character than was in the books/movies. I felt like it would be interesting to understand Hermione’s relationship to him, and that there was likely a bit of romantic tension/pining that may have been behind some of Draco’s actions/motivations. You know what they say about little boys and pulling girls’ pigtails on the schoolyard. Anyways, this takes place during OoTP, before Dumbledore leaves. This is also my first FF, so I’m still learning. I’ve just always thought about writing something but have been too nervous before now. Any kindfeedback or reviews would be appreciated. Thanks in advance :)

Disclaimer: I’m not J.K. Rowling. I own nothing.

Summary: Hermione goes on evening patrol with Draco Malfoy and things progress quite differently than expected. Secrets, lies, and broom cupboards may be involved.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we,” she sighed as she descended the stairs and laid eyes upon her patrol partner for the evening.

He gave a noncommittal grunt in return. Uncharacteristically pleasant this evening, she noted. Without a word, the pair set off past the Great Hall and got to work.

When Hermione had first discovered she was going to be a prefect for Gryffindor House last summer, she had been thrilled, but not surprised. She had top marks in all of her classes, and a (mostly) clean disciplinary record. Sure, she, Harry, and Ron had had a few run-ins with the wrong side of the law. Still, there was, at least in her humble opinion, no one more qualified for the job. When she found out that Ron would have the job alongside her, she had been that much happier. During the celebration held at Grimmauld Place, she had never felt prouder. Yes, she was an intelligent girl. Yes, she had even scored a date to the Yule Ball with internationally-renowned quidditch seeker Viktor Krum (and had especially enjoyed the look of jealousy and disbelief on Pansy Parkinson’s face, she might add), but this accomplishment somehow carried more weight for her.

Being muggle-born, she knew that there were some who viewed her as unworthy of Hogwarts. Some would even go to unspeakable lengths to try and force her out of the wizarding world—as she had learned the hard way during her bout of paralysis-via-basilisk during her second year. But, here she was: the top of her class, muggle-born prefect. The prefect title meant something. Anyone in her world could understand the accomplishment, and no one could deny her the honor that the title bestowed.

Ok, maybe she was a bit over-enthusiastic about the role. It did seem that, most of the time, she was nothing more than a glorified hall-monitor. Yet, she wore her badge with honor. And, as she and Ron strode towards the Prefects Compartment on the Hogwarts Express on her first day she felt that nothing could have lowered her spirits. That is, however, until she saw him. Her new colleague, leaning against a table with his usual, haughty, I’m-better-than-you-because-I’m-pureblood air, his blond hair standing out in stark contrast with his dark robes with emerald green accents. Draco Malfoy.

And so, this is how she ended up on evening patrol on this otherwise wonderful night with a boy who was, in her opinion, one of the rottenest snakes to ever roam the halls of Hogwarts.

The first time she had met Draco had been on the Hogwarts Express during her first year. Bright-eyed and bushy-haired as ever, Hermione had hugged her parents goodbye and wandered onto the magical locomotive, anxious yet elated. She had been thrown into the magical world so fast. One minute, she had been running from bullies in the park by her house as they called her a freak. The next, she was meeting with a stern-but-kindly witch who explained to her that she was talented and special. Hermione was determined to learn as much as she could about her knew world as fast as she could, so she would be able to prove herself at school. Once she set her mind on something, nothing could stop her.

Armed with countless wizarding books and a new bank of knowledge, she confidently strutted into a train compartment and took a seat. She cheerfully introduced herself to the three other young wizards already occupying the space. The others followed suit. Two large, intimidating boys introduced themselves as Crabbe and Goyle. She was pretty sure those were last names, but had a feeling that prying for more information would be futile, seeing as they had both grunted out one-word answers to her questions and then looked away. They did not seem very bright. The third boy had brilliant blond hair and smiled in a way that made her blush slightly in spite of herself. “I’m Draco. Draco Malfoy. It’s a pleasure,” he replied with a cheeky grin.

Draco had been overly friendly to respond, and all too eager to converse with Hermione. They asked each other about their wands, their favorite shops in Diagon Alley, and the classes they were most excited to take. “I can’t wait for Transfiguration. I know it’s one of the more difficult branches of magic, but it seems quite fascinating,” Hermione blabbered on cheerfully. She had been very proud of herself for holding her own during this conversation. Her reading and preparation had paid off! Draco seemed to have no idea she hadn’t grown up in a wizarding household.

He smiled at her. “Well, I hope we’re sorted into the same house. It’ll be a shame if I can’t spend any more time with you in the future.” Hermione again blushed. She kind of liked Draco’s cockiness and confidence. “So,” he continued, “where d’you want to be sorted? I know where I’ll be…Slytherin. My family has been in Slytherin for generations,” he remarked, haughtily.

“Oh, I’m not sure I have a strong preference. Although, Gryffindor seems like it would be a good fit. Or Ravenclaw. I guess we’ll see,” Hermione said.

“Where were your parents when they were here?” Draco asked, eagerly.

“Oh…well…they didn’t go to Hogwarts,” Hermione replied. She didn’t know why she didn’t reveal that her parents were Muggles. She wasn’t the least bit ashamed. But, something about the boy’s mention of his Slytherin family heritage made her wary. Hadn’t she read somewhere that Slytherins were obsessed with blood purity? Surely that was ancient history. It couldn’t mean this boy believed that only pureblood witches and wizards were worthy of magical education, right? After all, with such a small portion of the population having magical blood, there must be hardly any purebloods left!

“Oh, so they went somewhere else? Ilvermorny? Durmstrang? My father wanted to send me there, says Hogwarts’ Headmaster is an old crackpot…”

“No, no. They didn’t go to any magical school. They’re muggles,” Hermione interrupted. Immediately, the tone of the conversation took a sharp turn. Crabbe and Goyle both stared at her as if she had grown an extra head. Draco sat up straighter in his seat, and where before there had been a playful look in his eyes, there was now only wide-eyed fear and accusing. “So, tell me, what makes you think you’re worthy to be here, talking about magic to me and my new friends, when your parents are so backward they probably can’t even tell a wand from a stick in the mud?” Draco sneered at her. His two cronies sniggered. Hermione knew she was not welcome anymore. She shot out of her seat, determined not to cry, and stormed out of the compartment. She could hear Draco’s voice in the distance as she quickly scampered away, fuming. “Well, boys, glad we got rid of her, eh?”

Of course, leaving that compartment was the for the best. She had met Neville and, not long after, her future best friends, Harry and Ron. Luckily, not all wizards were as closed-minded as Malfoy had been. She had not let him get to her, and since then, had outperformed him in every class. Still, she always found it strange to reflect back on the one pleasant conversation she had had with him and relate that cute, smiling boy to the absolute toe-rag she knew today.

Speaking of today, it was getting late, and Hermione was becoming fed up, fast. Her and Malfoy had only been patrolling for half-an-hour, yet it felt as if it had been an eternity. They walked in silence, keeping at least a foot’s distance in between them at all times. The corridor was silent. It was shaping up to be a long, dreadfully boring night.

They reached the first-floor bathrooms around 11 o’clock. “I’ll check the girls and you check the boys,” Hermione broke the silence. Malfoy rolled his eyes and sarcastically replied, “no really Granger? What an ingenious idea.” She simply shook her head and went to check for students out of bed. The bathroom was empty.

“Nothing in there.” She saw Malfoy emerge from the boys’ loo across the hall. “Same here.” On they went.

Half of their shift had now passed, and all they had seen was a sleepwalking Ravenclaw first-year, who Hermione had gently guided back to bed. They were passing by the statue of George the Smarmy when suddenly, she heard footsteps. She paused and cocked her head.

“C’mon Granger,” Malfoy sighed. “It’s probably Filtch and Mrs. Norris.”

“Hush!” Hermione hissed. It most certainly was not Filtch. The footsteps clicked, making it clear their owner was wearing high heels. They were approaching fast. She couldn’t ignore her gut feeling that something was amiss. But, what was it? Why did the footsteps sound so familiar to her? “Have you lost your marbles? Let’s go! It’s a professor or someone! Nothing we have to worry about!”

Aha. It was a professor. Of course. That’s why Hermione recognized the footsteps immediately. She could hear in them the haughty sense of purpose that made her loathe Defense Against the Darks Arts classes daily. Umbridge. Just as she could hear the toad-like professor approach their corridor, another pair of footsteps sounded in the distance. Umbridge must have been meeting someone. But who, at this hour?

She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was because she was on edge from all of the secrecy surrounding the DA. Perhaps it was because of the wrenching feeling in her gut that Umbridge was up to more than she let on here at Hogwarts. But, no matter the reason, before she knew it, she was grabbing Malfoy by the front of his robes and pulling him into the nearest broom closet.

“What the bloody hell, Granger?!?” he hissed indignantly. At least he had the sense not to shout. Otherwise, their cover would have been blown. “What’re you playing at?”

“Be quiet,” she shushed him promptly. Quickly, she pulled out the pair of extendable ears she kept hidden in her pockets. As much as she hated to admit it, Fred and George had really hit the mark with their creation. She always kept a pair with her, and had found them to come in handy on many occasions. As she fiddled with the device, Malfoy continued to look at her, wide-eyed. “What the hell are those?!”

“Extendable ears, now, HUSH!” Hermione said matter-of-factly. “Extendable what?” “Ears. They let you listen in on other peoples’ conversations without getting caught. Now please kindly shut up so I can hear what’s going on!”

“…in this time of night. I wanted to do this privately. Most students use this corridor to snog without getting caught, so I thought it would do the trick.”

Umbridge’s girly voice echoed. Malfoy was still staring at her with a look of pure confusion.

A private meeting. But with who?

“Of course, Dolores. Do you have any updates?”

The second voice belonged to a man. She knew she had heard it before. But…it couldn’t be…

“Oh my god,” Malfoy whispered, now seemingly as invested in the conversation as Hermione had been. “What’s Fudge doing here?”

Hermione’s eyes widened. Fudge. The Minister of Magic. She was sure glad she had had the sense to hide in the cupboard, even if she was a little too close to Malfoy for comfort. She couldn’t have had him running away and blowing her cover.

The pair of them remained quiet, now both eager to hear what was going on.

“Well, Cornelius. I’m afraid matters at Hogwarts are far worse than we feared.”

“How so?”

“Well first of all, there’s the Potter boy. He and his little friends seem determined to undermine my authority at every turn! He has no respect for the Ministry. Always going on about You-Know-Who despite my countless warnings and punishments!”

There was heavy silence for a moment before Fudge spoke again.

“And do the other students believe him?”

“Some do. Others think he’s gone mad. Most don’t know what to think, and it has been hard for me to convince them to take our side, despite our efforts to disparage him in the Prophet.”

“Surely these students have more sense than to believe the word of a 15-year-old boy over the Ministry and the Prophet! Why are we having such difficulty keeping this under control? I thought I could trust you to handle this, Dolores.”

“I…I am doing all that can be done! But that’s the thing. It isn’t just Potter who has been proclaiming the story that You-Know-Who has returned. It’s Dumbledore, as well. It is not so easy to discredit the Headmaster in the Prophet. He is too well known and well respected. Students love him. Which is why I am proposing that we focus our efforts on a new plan.”

“Yes?”

“Removing Dumbledore from this school, and making me Headmistress.”

“That is quite easier said than done, Dolores. You said it yourself, Dumbledore has the respect of the student body, as well as most of the parents, I might add. Implicating him in illicit activity to remove him from Hogwarts will be extremely difficult.”

“We almost got Potter, this summer.”

“Yes, and the fact that those Dementors even showed up in Little Whinging was a happy accident! How can we expect something like that to happen again? And at Hogwarts, no less?”

“Yes…a happy accident…well. I shall keep my eyes open for any ‘accidents’ that will allow us to relieve Albus from his post. In the meantime, you’d best be heading back to London. It is getting late. But I promise you this, Cornelius. Come hell or high water, I shall make sure Albus Dumbledore never sets foot in this school again. You can count on me.”

“We’ll see, Dolores. Have a good evening.”

Their footsteps echoed down the halls and disappeared into the night.

“I can’t believe it,” Hermione exclaimed. “That conniving little…”

“Blimey Granger. I thought you were intelligent!” Malfoy rolled his eyes. She glared daggers at him, daring him to continue insulting her. He sighed, “Of course the Ministry’s trying to oust Dumbledore! Fudge is scared of him. He thinks Dumbledore’s going to take his job.”

Hermione was taken aback at his words. She had known this information, of course, thanks to her months of living with the Order. Still, she was surprised that Malfoy knew this information, and that he had been so willing to admit it. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. Draco couldn’t have come across this information by himself. What was his shifty father telling him?

“Like you even care,” Hermione tersely responded. “You and your father have been trying to get rid of Dumbledore since the day you arrived here! And probably before! You’d just love old Umbridge to become Headmistress and become her little pet.” Ok. Tirade over. Yelling at Malfoy, while satisfying, wasn’t going to do her any good. Hermione knew they should be continuing their patrol. Plus, she wanted to return to the Common Room and fill Harry and Ron in on the evening’s events. Hopefully they’d still be awake…

“You always think you know me, but you don’t.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione whipped her head towards him just before she was about to exit their cramped hiding spot. Had she heard correctly?

Malfoy gave a sad sort of grunt. He hesitated for a moment, as if considering whether or not he should continue. Hermione continued staring at him intently. She was mystified.

“You and your little Potter Protection Squad. You all always think you know me, know my story, know my life. ‘Oh, Malfoy hates everything good. He’s always out to ruin things for us. He’s a jerk. He’s the enemy. He’s evil,’” he mimicked her in a high-pitched voice. Hermione couldn’t speak, still baffled. He continued.

“For your information, I detest Umbridge just as much as you do. I just know how to be subtle about it. And I know my place. I know what happens to me if I don’t get on her good side. You wouldn’t understand. You’re from a muggle family.”

“You know what, Malfoy? I am absolutely sick and tired of you bringing up my parentage. I have as much of a right to be here as you! And I understand plenty, thank you very much! I am top of our class and work hard to prove myself to intolerant people like you and your family every single day! Don’t you forget you were impressed by me when we met on the Hogwarts Express first year! Impressed by more than just my knowledge of the wizarding world, I might add!” She spit back, her breath labored from the force of her outburst. She could feel her cheeks flushing. It had been an unspoken agreement between them to never mention their first encounter. She could see his face tint red as well.

He stared at her for a moment. Then, without warning, grabbed her by both of her arms and turned her so they were face to face, which was quite cramped due to their inopportune hiding place. His gesture was not threatening, however. He looked sad.

“You don’t understand. I…I sometimes envy that you’re from…well…your background.” He huffed. “I mean being a Malfoy is an honor. People envy me.” His voiced switched back to the shaky timbre it had been. “But…there’s certain…expectations. My family is one of the greatest pureblood lines in wizard history. Malfoy and Black. We have a reputation to uphold. My father reminds me of that every chance he gets.” His face darkened. “I have to hate Dumbledore. I have to be friends with people like Crabbe and Goyle. I have to suck up to Umbridge and support her for headmistress. You don’t understand what happens if I don’t.”

Hermione continued to stare at him. She blinked, trying to understand why and how Draco was capable of showing such vulnerability with her. He searched her face, almost desperately, for a reaction. Hermione softened her face. Perhaps there was more to him than she thought. Maybe he just needed someone to listen. When he realized her receptiveness, he spoke once again.

“Everyone in my family expects me to be like my father. Become a…” he stopped himself. But she knew what he would have said. “Well, become like him,” he carefully worded. “No one has ever asked me what I want to do. And I can’t tell them. I can’t tell my family to shove it…that I don’t want to be part of their circle! That I’m terrified of what’s coming and of what I’ll have to do!” Draco’s voice broke. Hermione remained silent, entranced. Without thinking, she took his hand gently. They both looked down at their hands, now touching. When he spoke again, he refused to meet her gaze.

“My parents were part of an arranged marriage. Even their lives weren’t their own. Everything…every bloody thing that’s ever happened in my life and before has been about blood purity. About money, and power, and respect. They expect me to uphold that tradition. I’ll marry a pureblood girl. I can’t object. I’ll be disowned. Banished. Burned off of the family tree for even thinking about, as they call it, ‘tainting the bloodline.’” He sighed once more. He finally brought his eyes back to meet hers. His stare was intense and a bit frantic. Hermione felt her heart pounding in her chest and her cheeks growing hot. Who was this boy, and what had he done with the tosser Draco Malfoy? At least she knew how to deal with him when he was being a jerk. But this? This vulnerable Draco standing before her? Her brain could not figure him out.

His voiced softened further. “I’m sorry I’ve called you names. I know you probably won’t believe me, but I truly am.” And then, it rose once more, “But don’t you understand? I have to act this way! You terrify me, Hermione. And…that just…can’t happen. I…I don’t have a choice.”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The pressure in her chest was too much to bear.

“Draco. Everyone has a choice,” she whispered, softly, her eyes still locked on his.

He swallowed. Then, he leaned forward, slowly. She could feel her own body move towards his in response. Her heart pounded and her mind went blank as she felt his strong arms wrapping around her and pulling her into a kiss. She pressed into him, her body moving with his in a passionate dance. He ran his hands through her hair. She could feel her pulse rising, heat surging through her body. The pair continued hungrily for a few more moments. Then, as if on a timer, they both regained composure and pulled back from each other, panting. Hermione smoothed out her hair. Draco fussed with his now-disheveled robes. They regarded each other once again, neither sure what to say to the other.

Hermione blinked in a vain attempt to regain focus. She couldn’t deny that had been the most passionate kiss she’d ever received, including those from Viktor—who had more than once professed his love for her. But, she thought to herself, that will never excuse his behavior. He had humiliated and degraded her, time and time again. The names he had called her were almost unforgivable. Had he changed? She couldn’t be sure. But, one late-night encounter in a broom closet was far from enough proof for Hermione. After a few moments of silence, she realized he was waiting for her to speak. To say something about what just happened. Her mind was still racing too fast to latch onto a single thought.

“I’m sorry about your family Draco. That sounds very hard.”

Oh, if she could have kicked herself in the moment! Sorry about your family?!? That sounds hard?!? She felt like a proper wanker! What an idiotic response to what had just happened!

“I wish things were different,” he replied. This shocked her.

“Are you saying you want to be with me?” She inquired.

“I’m not sure,” he answered, almost inaudibly, sheepishly running his hands through his hair.

“Draco,” she sighed. This was all too much information for Hermione to handle. “I’m not sure, either. Thank you for apologizing for calling me those awful names…but…I’m not sure that’s enough. You just said it yourself. Your family life is complicated. I’m sorry. If you ever want to change, to escape, I will be here for you. And, I may even want…this…too. But, I won’t be the girl who you degrade in public and then snog in a broom closet when no one is watching. I don’t deserve that.”

Draco simply stared back at her for a long time. She could tell he was thinking. Would he really say he wanted her? Would he really change? Would she really want to be with him, even if he did? Ugh, Harry always said girls were confusing, but she was beginning to think that boys that were really the ones who were bonkers!

Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke once again, “I’m sorry. I just…” he shook his head. He glanced towards the door. “We had better finish patrol and then head to our dorms.” Under his breath, Hermione heard him mutter, “I have a lot to think about.”

Unable to form any intelligible words, she just nodded her head. The pair emerged from their cupboard and set off back down the corridor, as silent as before. When they finally parted for their respective common rooms, they met each other’s gaze once again. Draco smiled softly, “Goodnight, Hermione.”

She gave a tentative smile in return. “Goodnight, Draco.”

As she entered the Gryffindor Common Room, she was deep in thought.

“Oi, Hermione! You’re back late,” Ron shouted to her from the table in the corner, on which Harry and him had stacked piles of books and essays. In the back of her mind, she mentally rolled her eyes. Of course, they hadn’t finished their homework.

“Was patrol with Malfoy as awful as we thought?” She gave a noncommittal sigh which Harry took for annoyance. “That bad, huh? What a git,” he shook his head. He and Ron then launched into a conversation about how much they hated Draco Malfoy. Hermione did not listen. She was still deep in thought, her thoughts swimming as if she were looking at them from the surface of a pensive: slippery and liquid and not quite fully formed.

“You alright, Hermione?” Ron asked, snapping her back to reality.

“Fine,” she answered half-heartedly. “Just dead tired. I think I’m going to head to bed.”

She climbed the stairs to the 5th year girls’ dormitory, and told herself she would tell the boys about Umbridge’s conversation in the morning. Right now, she was too preoccupied with thoughts of a certain Slytherin prefect to think about anything else. As she crawled into bed and closed the curtains of her four-poster, she found herself clinging to a small bit of naive hope. It did seem like Draco was serious when he kissed her. Maybe, just maybe, people could change for the better, even people as entrenched in the pureblood movement as Draco Malfoy.

She should have known it was silly to hope for such things.

#harry potter #hp fanfic #hp #dramione #draco x hermione #draco malfoy #hermione #hermione granger #being prefects #order of the phoenix #hp ootp #ootp #can pretty much be inserted into canon without changing much of anything #please be niceeee #my writing

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