Well, we just saw him, and now we can’t unsee Sebastian in that young man, so...
me, @sepawstian and @antivanblessing
Aurors: /searching for a murderer/
Sebastian: /works for the Auror Office, undercover… in a brothel/
Marvolo and Rowan: /show up at the brothel for another shady deal, also undercover/
Sebastian: . . .
Marvolo: . . .
Rowan to Marvolo: …look at that beauty over there, maybe we should…?
Marvolo: Don’t you dare.
Rowan: But—
Marvolo: DON’T. YOU. DARE. Touch my brother-in-law.
Rowan: What?
Marvolo: What?
Also, Sebastian and Rowan:
Rowan the Wolf belongs to @legacyshenanigans, we just love this guy so much that we couldn’t help seeing him in this situation—and now we can’t unsee it 👀
Poppy: And what do we say when we want something?
Daughter: *innocently* Give it to me or my daddy will beat you up.
Poppy: *frowns at Marvolo*
Marvolo: Correct.
Poppy: We're like a big, happy family. And I'm the dad and Marvolo's the mom.
Marvolo: Why am I the mom? What gender roles are we pushing here?
Leander: I know you're probably thinking I am the son, but I'm not. I'll be the gay emo cousin.
Garreth: I will be the son, the hotshot, whose ONLY dream!… is to be a star…
Sebastian: I feel like I'd be uhh, the fresh-out-of-jail uncle.
Ominis: And I'm the sassy aunt, who talks shit about everyone.
Poppy: Guys, c'mon. Marvolo isn't that bad, and Anne is a delight to be around-
Poppy: ...guys?
Anne and Marvolo: *death-glaring at each other* Yeah, sure, whatever you say.
_________________________
Host: What instruments do you play?
Everyone: *silence*
Anne: UR NERVOUS SYSTEM-
_________________________
Ominis: Blink twice if you're being held hostage?
Anne: *creates a nervous tic with both eyes*
_________________________
Annie, after Bombarding the shit out of her unwanted fiancee: Oh no, I’m terrible. How am I better than the dark wizards? I don't need the Unforgivables to hurt people. What would Sebastian say if he learns about this?..
meanwhile, Sebastian after all three Unforgivables: Nope, not a dark wizard at all, I'm fucking awesome 😎 and depressed.
__________________________
Situation where there was an attempt to make the Gaunts and Sallows related, and Seb didn’t want to give Annie away so much that he simply replaced her.
In a dress, wig, everything.
Aldair Gaunt looks at this and is like: "Merlin, what an ugly bride."
Meanwhile Marvolo is trying (and failing, so help him....) to keep a straight face but still laughing his ass of in Parseltongue. Also, it's good that Ominis doesn’t see this shit. Marvolo would definitely share the memory with him later.
how Sebastian imagines the weekend at the Gaunts': *dark magic at every turn, someone's tortured screaming in the basement, nightly sacrifices in the name of blood purity*
the actual weekend at the Gaunts': *Ominis and Marvolo are sitting over tea (with whiskey) and gossiping about the TERRIBLE look of another witch at another ball*
Sebastian: *explains to Anne that it is absolutely SAFE to go into the ominous infernal-infested catacombs*
Ominis: *sends hints that the idea is absolute shit and hopes for help from above*
MC:
Ominis's birthday; breakfast in the large hall, an unfamiliar owl flies in and drops a bundle on Ominis's head. Inside is a small signet ring (which strongly reeks of protective charms, something suspiciously looking like blood magic), a cupcake and an envelope, which, when opened, in Marvolo’s voice says something along the lines of:
“Congratulations, you haven’t been kidnapped by the gypsies, keep up the good work.” hissing in the background, followed by a slightly awkward cough: "….happy birthday, ahem, yes."
Sebastian, Ominis, Anne and MC are sitting in Hogsmeade. There is a sudden pop of apparation; Marvolo appears.
Marvolo: *climbs into a corner, takes out a flask, chugges the contents*
Everyone: …
Marvolo: Would you look for me in your company?
Everyone: … no…?
Marvolo: My family won't either. Pretend that I'm not here and do whatever you were doing.
Stardust AU:
James: *works as a marketing analyst, fucked his routine up completely so he could see Regulus; goes to a coffee shop by himself, flexes his metaphorical muscles, always introduces himself by different names*
Remus: *works as a teacher, never has time to get to the coffee shop himself, which is why students and colleagues are always sneaking drinks for him. Just a million different people and they all go by the same (his) name*
Sirius: *counts the cups taken in Remus's name by DIFFERENT people*
Sirius: WHO THE FUCK IS REMUS LUPIN?????
Remus, for once going to the coffee shop himself and finding this circus: ???
also on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53021149
"What would it be today?", chuckled Sirius, comfortably grabbing a really-fucking-big coffee cup and playing with a marker in his left hand, littered with rings. James knows (it was a Very Big Secret) that they did cost Sirius, like, a thousand fights with the administrator - though he won the right to keep them in the end.
James frowns and sighs as dramatically as possible: he almost fell asleep at 3 a.m. playing with Frank in the Net, spilled his morning tea onto his favourite shirt, now having to put on a different, absolutely mongrel blue-with-white-stripes one. He almost forgot a folder with documents in a cab - he wanted to check out the papers over the weekend, - and there are most definitely two very boring and useless board meetings in his future today. So, two shots, please. Right in the head. With additional final blows, if you please.
Sirius raises his brow. James sighs. Again.
“Black”, he whispers, trying to sound as grim as possible. “Like my soul and the centre of our Universe.”
Sirius smiles with just the corner of his lips and doesn't turn like any normal person would. He tilts his head back, checking for supplies - now weirdly resembling a humanisation of his nickname.
Big Black Dog, really.
“I’m afraid we’re fresh out of the shitton of foamed milk, darling, and this is so not a kindergarten bar,” he snorts, looking normal again.
James almost shoves him. The counter stops him. That, and some basic decency mixed with zero agreement of calling each other friends or whatever. Disregard the fact that every morning, noon and night - for the last six months with 12-hours shifts, mind you, - they did moan (sarcastically) at the transience of life.
“Such a shame, peaches. You’d make an excellent babysitter,” James grins. In a beat, he adds edge house, makes the voice a little thinner and practically squeaks: “Siwy, Siwy, I swear that it was Pete who hit himsewf with a rattwe. Twice. Don’t bwame me!”
Startled, Sirius coughs, and now it’s James’ turn to raise a brow.
“Oh hell no,” the barista lifts his hands placatingly. “First of all, I’d make a terrible babysitter, and secondly - don’t you lie to me, young man!” he frowns for a moment and then relaxes, feeling sorta relieved. “FYI, I’m still waiting for your order.”
There’s a doorbell ringing somewhere behind James, and he straightens up, stopping messing about. God, he’s tired.
“Just make it a double Americano with milk. And a filthy amount of caramel syrup, else I’ll fucking die withing first 30 working minutes.”
Sirius snorts. It’s an understanding kind of a snort, though.
“And today’s name would be..?”
James tilts his head, thoughtfully drumming the finger on the table. In fact, he knows which name he’ll use to take the order for, but, in the end, the appearance of lazy thought and erudition (which was, in fact, the result of fanatical preparation) is part of his inimitable charm.
“Alsciaukat,” he proudly announces.
For some reason, Sirius chokes on a gurgling laugh, writing the name on the cup.
James grins triumphantly and moves into the waiting area, leaning against the tall counter with pots of Sansivieria built into the center, bobbing his head to the beat of The Last Shadow Puppets.
He loves this coffee shop. Sometimes, only the presence of Stardust on the ground floor of a neighboring building reconciled him with the disgusting “from nine to Fridays wine” routine of a marketing analyst. A small, incredibly cozy coffee shop with an abundance of flowers and stars inside, which were glowing softly with the onset of dusk or bad weather, was a hundred thousand times better than any other coffee shop in this city. Seriously, Starbucks was way overrated.
Moreover, James couldn’t help but admire the special advertising move: even the barista here had a special star nickname. Could you blame him for wanting to match the aesthetics of the place? That's what he thought. It is forbidden. Strictly. So - yeah, he’s justified in all respects of the star atlas and its appendices, heh.
So, during the six months of their close acquaintance with Sirius, James managed to go through almost all the star charts with the names of rare constellations and nebulae. Last month his name could have been Mr. Orion, tomorrow - Wasat, next week - Kratz, and today- Well. A little of the courage and grace of Lynx would definitely not hurt him.
Sirius knew for sure that none of the suggested names were real, but for some reason he didn't mind their little game. It was fun; like a game of ping pong.
When James gets his deliciously hot and huge coffee cup back, he throws an emphatic look at Sirius, who just winks slyly and takes off to his new customer.
The cup proudly says: “Quetzalcoatl.”
James laughs briefly, shakes his head and, comfortably grabbing the paper folder, leaves the coffee shop, automatically holding the door for some guy entering.
Tuesday doesn't turn out any better. He stays in the office until late at night, arguing with Peter until he is hoarse about the new reports and stag-ing for another couple of hours in an almost empty building, summing up the latest figures. Because, one doesn't simply warn him in advance, and the bosses needed the presentation first thing in the morning.
Screw those planning meetings. Screw them.
When he finally turns off the monitor and looks at the digital clock on the wall, the numbers are floating. Or are they?
He blinks. Twice.
The dial stubbornly shows two in the morning.
James sighs very, very deeply and can barely contain his Indian swearing. As an edification, he could stay in Pete’s office and stretch out on his sofa - demonstratively, so that in the morning, in a languid, creaky voice, he could say “Good morning, darling, I hope you slept as sweetly as I did,” and no less demonstratively creak all his bones, but... He’s almost two meters tall. He’ll most likely die from curling up on the hard leather sofa of little round Pete.
James sighs and rubs his face with his fingers until it hurts. He needs to get home. Preferably, not falling asleep somewhere on the way to the subway. Was it really that necessary to take the car in for maintenance at such a time?..
He throws his jacket over his shoulders, locks the office on autopilot and practically falls asleep in the elevator as it rushes from the thirteenth floor down. Somehow unsticking himself from the incredibly seductive chrome-plated wall, he steps over the threshold of the building and pauses, puzzled.
Stardust, in the building across, glows softly with lit stars inside.
For some reason, James takes twenty-five long steps and gently pushes the door. It gives in.
Florence flows unusually softly inside, and James is surprised to recognize the Dog Days Are Over - way too perky for two o'clock in the morning. Although, when he sees him, the barista turns the music down and arches an eyebrow pointedly, pretending that it wasn’t him who was dancing slightly with his back to the door a minute ago.
The new barista's badge says "Regulus" in beautiful handwriting, and his fingers, studded with silver rings, are gently wrapped around the computer. James simply can't help but smile, too wide for this blasted night.
“Good evening!” he greets too cheerfully in response.
Regulus raises an eyebrow suggestively, and James feels his heart skip a beat. He’s going to be so fucked.
“Coffee?” the barista asks all too softly, and Potter, blinking three times to count, kinda experiences a small heart attack. Anyway, is it legal to kill guests outright? He, for example, would most definitely fall now and die - very suddenly and very happily - and there’s that, no more little twenty-five-years-old James Potter, and Pete will report tomorrow without him, because he, naturally, doesn’t give the keys to his computer to anyone, and in general-
Regulus asks again, and James hastily shakes his head, bringing himself back to reality.
“Coffee,” he repeats dully. “With milk and a whole lot of caramel syrup.“
Regulus chuckles quietly and James just as quietly dies inside.
“For whom?”
Oh, he's ready. He's so damn ready for this! James broadens his shoulders and uses his most charming smile.
“Orion.”
Regulus glances up at him so quickly that James literally feels two kill shots in his head he wished for earlier.
“Bad idea. Try again,” the barista says curtly, and Potter blinks in confusion. All his brilliant marketing brain can do is…
“…choko pie?”
The look of utter confusion on Regulus's face seems like the best thing that happened for this whole damn day. James perks up.
“How could Orion Choco Pie be a bad idea? C’mon, it’s the best sweet that humanity could come up with!” he leans forward and conspiratorially lowers his voice. “Or haven't you tried?”
Regulus looks at him very, very strangely, then sighs dramatically. He writes something on the cup - demonstratively, but obediently - and turns away, switching on the coffee grinder.
James is absolutely delighted.
James is so delighted that he cannot fall asleep until late in the morning again, and then has a brilliant planning meeting and an incredibly productive working day. When he gets out around midnight and Stardust softly shimmers with stars, James doesn't even think twice as he pushes the door inside.
Okay, in the end, James admits that he absolutely adores the morning Sirius, contently squinting in the sunrays and dancing near the coffee machine to Muse or Arctic Monkeys, but Regulus... If Sirius was a splash of sun, then Regulus was like the quintessence of stardust, the very heart of a quiet midnight coffee shop, and James...couldn't help himself.
“Diphda,” he smiles on Friday, leaning on the counter.
“Deneb Kaitos” is written on his cup in response.
“Okab,” he rubs his eyes tiredly on Monday night.
“Deneb el Okab,” flying handwriting on cardboard is accompanied by a small drawing of an eagle.
“Mirfak!” he blurts out, slightly out of breath, on Thursday, frantically trying to catch the other’s gaze.
On the cup he is greeted by a schematically depicted human elbow and a short note: “Algenib”.
It's like a game of ping pong, only for professionals. James feels a kind of impossible excitement and tries his best to live up to it.
Finally, he moves on to constellations, and then to the ingenious mathematical names of nebulae. And Regulus, unlike Sirius, is never, ever wrong.
“X Æ A-12,” he declares very seriously at some point, looking carefully at Regulus.
He looks from the marker to James slowly, almost reluctantly.
“You can’t pass off the name of Elon Musk’s son as the name of a new nebula,” he says evenly. James is dying from delight.
“What if Elon Musk named his son after a new nebula, and you just don’t know?” he winks at the barista.
Regulus looks at him as if James has grown a second head.
“Definitely not. Try again.”
And James has to return to the usual metaphorical game.
The only problem is that he can’t be satisfied with their usual jabs anymore. He thinks he’s going so crazy but dictates his number to Regulus as his name anyway. The barista only repeats it out loud and hands him the cup, without even thinking about keeping the number to himself. He doesn't seem to care.
The worst part is that James doesn't even notice when he makes a fatal mistake.
“Rex,” he introduces himself at some point and receives a completely unreadable look in response.
“You can’t call yourself by my name,” Regulus says coldly, adding the usual, “Try again.”
James frowns and puts his metaphorical horns down.
“Why?”
“Because.”
James chuckles.
“So be it, star stranger, I solemnly swear that I will choose another option if you tell me your real name,” Regulus arches a charming eyebrow. James explains, “I can swear it will be as lovely as your nickname.”
Something changes in the barista's gaze, and James frowns, uncomprehending. Regulus doesn't say a word when he hands him the coffee, with the immutable "Rex" written on the cup, faceless and printed.
He doesn't meet Regulus again. Stardust stops working in the evenings for a while, and James stupidly pokes at the locked door for a week. Eventually, he almost becomes convinced that he completely invented Regulus, and all this is a terrible, prolonged dream.
When the coffee shop opens again in the middle of the night after a month's hiatus, James doesn’t believe his eyes. He awkwardly takes a step, two, three, and for some reason pushes the door with trembling fingers.
A charming red-haired girl greets him from behind the counter.
“Good morning, night owl,” she smiles quietly, and James silently opens and closes his mouth, not knowing what to say. He glances at her name tag and freezes.
“Lily” is written on it.
“I… thought… everyone here has star nicknames?..” he blurts, and Lily glances incomprehensibly at her own badge, and then at James’s face. She laughs.
“What? Of course not, all the baristas here have their own, ordinary names.”
James groans quietly and hits his forehead on the counter.
“I’m such a… deer,” he confesses sadly to the stack of napkins at the cash register. “The deer-est deer in the world.”
“Sure, why not,” Lily chuckles cheerfully from somewhere above him, “To the deer-est deer in the world.”
The smile James gives the red sunspot - who, by the way, looks strangely out of place in this nightly atmosphere - is sour, but chuckles politely when she gives him a cup with carelessly drawn deer antlers.
Making up his mind, he calls out to her and awkwardly asks, chewing his lip:
“And Regulus… doesn’t work here anymore?”
Lily looks at him carefully, calculating, and then sighs:
“He is on vacation. Should be working in the mornings for a whole next week.”
And James smiles back at her, gratefully and sincerely.
A week and a half later, his mornings are difficult once again: he has little sleep and he is badly doused from a puddle by a passing truck. The clothes he has to change into are too white-collared, and he himself is disgustingly office-like and at the same time rumpled to represent at least some kind of positive impression. He sighs, wiping his somehow wet hands on his jacket, and pushes the door.
Regulus lifts his head at the ringing of the doorbell and stares unreadably into James's eyes. The latter smiles awkwardly.
Regulus sighs and takes the marker.
“To whom?” he asks coldly and indifferently.
James takes a deep breath, as if about to jump into icy water.
“James,” he says. “Potter, if it’s of any importance,” he adds awkwardly, ruffling his already disheveled hair.
Regulus glances at him, and James awkwardly places a small box of the best cookies in the world on the counter. A white flag.
