regulus black who wants to be hurt, he craves it because growing up he never suffered the brunt of his parents abuse so he feels the need to constantly be mistreated so that he feels validated in his trauma
GODLIGHT—to know me is to hate me, is to hate what i've become
inspired by godlight by noah kahan
loving regulus black was like midnight rain. he was a breath of fresh air like the wintry cold when the warmth got suffocating. it was comfortable silence and shared whispers, the soft exchanges when it was just you two. it was getting caught up in each other and forgetting the world raging on around you.
but the world worked in funny ways, and now standing in the ruins of your relationship, you felt an empty sort of laughter bubble in you.
"i had no choice," regulus said, sleeve pulled down despite the damage already done. "he would have—i couldn't—please . . . you have to believe me"
and you paused because you did believe him. looking at the boy you fell in love with, you knew he didn't have a choice. this was survival, but then you thought of his pride. you thought of his anger, his darkness, the chiding remarks towards others he considered lesser. you thought of all you turned an eye to because that's what love was, wasn't it? it was rose-colored lenses and letting things past you even when you knew it was wrong because your heart beat louder than your mind thought. but enough was enough. this was different.
so you took a deep breath. you leveled with his eyes. you ignored the slicing feeling in your stomach, and you cleared your throat.
"maybe my love wasn't enough to steer you straight, but i hope leaving you will be."
What if on Christmas every year growing up, Sirius and Regulus never had ‘Santa’ come by. What if every year Regulus and Sirius wondered why all the other children got gifts while they got nothing. What if Sirius figures it out when he’s 8 and Regulus is 5, realizes it’s their parent’s fault not theirs, and tries to fix it. What if Sirius convinces Regulus it’s because they don’t have a tree, so every year now they make Christmas trees out of paper, put gifts for each other around there, and at night when Regulus is sleeping- Sirius slips two extra ones in; one for each of them. What if he keeps doing it every year, until Regulus is 13 and still believing in Santa- because his PARENTS would never do that.
What if when Sirius runs away, it’s Regulus’ first Christmas alone- and it’s hard enough without his brother- but he makes the little Christmas tree and does his little ritual, and then wakes up the next morning to nothing.
What if Regulus’ childhood dies the same day Sirius’ starts, gathered around a real tree with James and his family.
i saw a headcanon once about how ron and harry are probably great cooks and hermione isn't and yk what it changed my life
ron weasley looks at home in a kitchen, and he doesn't know why it comes as a surprise to everyone. he grew up with six siblings and a mum who couldn't do everything herself. plus, with an appetite like his, it just made sense he pick it up.
ron turns to cooking after the war. while his friends dive headfirst into politics (hermione well on her way to be minister of magic) and more fighting (harry becomes an auror almost immediately), he finds solace in the hogwarts kitchen as head chef. there's a sort of special joy, a type of happiness unreplicated elsewhere, found in seeing little eyes light up and smiles grow at the sight of a warm meal he's made.
people talk, and ron sees confusion at every turn of his life (on the face of his friends when he first announced what he planned to do, in his family when he returned to hogwarts, and even with reporters who were at a loss of words). but he's spent most of his childhood at the forefront of a war that shouldn't have come to what it did. he didn't have a choice in fighting then; it was what he had to do. but now? in the aftermath of it all, ron didn't want to draw anymore blood. he'd already lost a brother and far more friends than he could count. he'd been grieving since he was 14, but as the world began to quiet, ron didn't know if he had any more fight left in him.
so he cooked. he baked. he created. ron had always been shoddy when it came to healing. it felt clumsy coming from him—the wandwork and words. hermione was better. harry was too. but he always thought food healed the soul—it healed his.
and sure, he supposed he could have become an auror like harry did or help george out at the joke shop or even find another ministry job like everyone else, but ron wasn't interested in picking up the wizarding world's broken pieces or chasing down final loose ends. he didn't want to spend the rest of his life reminded of the worst of humanity. he wanted to get better. he wanted to feel human again.
and ron felt human when he was tempering chocolate for dessert (smiling at the thought of how he met his best mate, how harry was so willing to spend all he had on shared sweets for some kid he didn't even know) and dicing onions for minced pies (thinking about his first day at school, amazed and overwhelmed by his first hogwarts feast) and peeling potatoes for dinner (remembering his first christmas with harry and hermione, the innocent laughter that befell them before things got so complicated) and mopping the kitchen after all the day's meals were done (holding back his laughter when he heard from the elves that him and fred couldn't possibly be related because fred was a shit cook and mixed up mayonnaise with paste once).
ALL THE THINGS HARRY POTTER REALIZES WITH EACH PASSING YEAR . . .
angst, hurt no comfort - tw child abuse, trauma, death
harry potter, the boy who lived, is 11 when he first attends hogwarts and realizes that a cupboard isn't a suitable place for anyone to live, except maybe for spiders.
he mistakes his friends looks of horror for judgement when he finally tells them in passing, an offhanded remark amidst their conversation.
"i'm not ungrateful," harry is quick to say, reminded of his aunt and uncle's chiding remarks of his behavior. "any space is a space i should be thankful for, i know, but i wish they'd at least give me a watch. time is hard to tell in the dark."
"that's not normal," hermione says, breaking her stunned silence. "that's not how adults—how anyone should be treating you."
and harry who'd been treated as if he wasn't worth the small space he occupied his entire life was confused. "it's not?"
harry, after an eventful first year, is 12 when he sees he's a child. of course he knew he was a child before, but he realizes that children are supposed to be adored, endeared, and looked after.
"eggs and bacon okay, dear?" molly asks him, deciding he's much too thin for his age and set on loading his plate up.
"i can help," harry says, thinking mrs. weasley's question an invitation to do the cooking himself.
"though i can only make eggs sunny side and scrambled. nothing in between."
molly blinks, looking at the boy before her. "do they . . . make you do all the cooking at home?"
"only breakfast and lunch," he says with a small smile. "because if i don't, then how do i make myself worth keeping around?"
molly thinks her heart breaks. "that's—harry, you're a child. you shouldn't be near a stove, let alone cooking full meals."
"oh."
harry, growing tired, is 13 when he wonders if his life will always be this way.
what felt like exhilaration—of attending hogwarts and facing new adventures each year—was slowly becoming exhaustion. he'd discovered a godfather only to find he couldn't leave his aunt and uncle for him. it was like someone was toying with him, but he was growing bored with this game.
"is life always so . . . much?" he asks dumbledore who looked upon him with curiosity.
"are you growing tired already, my boy?"
"i think i've been tired since i was born, professor."
harry, already fed up with the world, is 14 when he loses a friend when it should have been him who died.
"when does the world stop trying to kill me and succeed instead?"
he ignores the pity. he doesn't need it.
harry, mourning a father for the second time, is 15 when he realizes that others his age haven't faced even half the grief he has his entire life.
orphaned again, harry is desolate and drowning in his own despair. the tears had ceased, his throat was scratchy and sore, and he was tired.
he'd aged overnight, and he was exhausted, fed up with the world. anger festered in him, and he didn't know what to do with all of it.
"does it ever stop hurting?"
remus, heartbroken, can only clear his throat. "i'll tell you when i know."
he laughs bitterly in response but holds his tongue.
harry, standing in water and blood, is 16 when he looks in the mirror and sees the monster aunt petunia and uncle vernon always made him out to be. he wonders if the truth was sitting there all along or if he'd uncovered it only recently.
a monster—that's probably why he was held in a cupboard his entire childhood, why he grieved so many bodies and faced a life of endless punishment. they'd recognized it before he had.
"was i ever meant to be more?" he speaks into the quiet of the bathroom.
silence answers, and it's enough.
harry, raised like lamb for slaughter, is 17 when he wins the war and wonders if life would have been easier had he died that night with his parents.
started rereading harry potter and so much of the first few chapters of the first book is overlooked
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