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⟡ intj | 4w5 | melancholic-phlegmatic written by donna tartt directed by david lynch soundtrack by lana del rey

[megarchival]

♱༺𓆩❦𓆪༻♱

MEET THE CREATOR⌞ ⌝

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ 𓂃 ⋆ intj 4w5 melancholic-phlegmatic

collector of a thousand tabs, ten thousand thoughts, and one little corner of the internet.

american history enthusiast, chronic daydreamer, and CEO of my own pinterest board.

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everything i create here reflects a part of me. i love fashion, cinema, art, history, and, most of all, writing headcanons and short stories inspired by the fandoms i hold close to my heart.

✦ asks & messages welcome

by fallensweetheart𑁤

[megarchival]

paradise was never meant for us

part one — september, 1996

summary: five years of hating each other. what could possibly go wrong?

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!oc

trope: enemies to lovers · slow burn

setting: sixth year / 1996

status: a little preview for a fic that may or may not happen 👀

author's note:

okay so... this is technically not a full fic yet 😭 it's more like a shortened version of the story / a little test to see if anyone actually likes this idea. if you do, i might turn it into a proper fic

i'll be posting the next parts on tiktok (megarchival) first though, so if you wanna follow along, they'll probably show up there faster!!

***

Hogwarts Express, September 1996

Returning to Hogwarts after the summer holidays always felt the same: too many people, too much noise, and far too few empty compartments. For Margaret Delacroix, this was already her sixth year.

She sat by the window, watching the landscape blur past the glass while Hermione enthusiastically talked to her about their schedule for the upcoming term.

Margaret mostly listened, occasionally answering in short phrases. Not because she wasn't interested. Ron Weasley had simply decided, once again, to inform the entire compartment just how much the number of students at Hogwarts annoyed him.

— It's ridiculous. How are there more people here every year? — he muttered. — Soon there won't even be enough room to walk around.

— You say that every year, Ron, — Margaret pointed out without taking her eyes off the window.

— Because it gets worse every year!

Hermione laughed quietly.

— He's kind of right, Meg. It's the same thing every year.

— Thank you, Hermione. At least someone understands me.

— That's not what I meant.

Margaret smiled.

She had long since grown used to conversations like these.

After all, spending five years in the same company as Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger made getting used to chaos practically a requirement.

Although, if someone had told her parents six years ago that their daughter — a pure-blood witch from an old French family — would spend most of her free time with the boy known as the Chosen One, a red-haired Weasley, and a Muggle-born girl, they probably wouldn't have believed it.

Margaret Delacroix had never particularly cared about how pure someone's blood was.

She cared about people.

Though sometimes, she wondered if she was

becoming too different from her own family.

— I still think Malfoy's become a Death Eater, — Harry said suddenly.

Margaret finally turned away from the window.

Ron rolled his eyes.

— Harry, you think about Malfoy way too much.

— Then what do you think he was doing at Borgin and Burkes?

— Maybe he was buying something for his father.

— His father's in Azkaban.

— Right. Well, maybe he wanted to buy himself some new furniture.

Margaret snorted.

Hermione shot Ron an annoyed look.

— Harry, either way, you don't have any proof. It would be strange if you just announced Malfoy's a Death Eater out of nowhere.

Harry merely rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath before looking at Margaret.

— What do you think, Meg? — he asked.

Margaret shrugged.

— I think he's probably hiding something.

When the train finally began to slow down, students started crowding into the corridors.

Margaret waited for Hermione to collect her things before following everyone else onto the platform.

The station was noisy. First-years huddled together, trying to take everything in at once, while older students hurried towards the carriages.

But something had changed.

Luggage was being checked at the entrance to the castle.

Professor Flitwick stood nearby with a long piece of parchment, checking each student's name.

— Names?

Ron sighed heavily.

— Professor Flitwick, you've known us for five years.

— Those are the rules, Mr. Weasley.

— Of course they are.

Margaret smiled faintly.

— Margaret Delacroix.

She went first.

The others followed, giving their names before moving on.

They were almost at the carriages when a familiar voice sounded behind them.

— Well, well. Potter.

Margaret didn't turn around immediately.

She already knew who it belonged to.

— I hope you're happy with yourself after all your little antics last year, — Draco Malfoy sneered. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott stood beside him.

Harry turned around.

— I hope your father enjoys the walls of Azkaban, Malfoy.

Ron immediately stepped closer to Harry, taking a more defensive stance. Margaret and Hermione remained slightly behind them.

Draco clenched his fists, clearly considering a sharp response, but Blaise interrupted him.

— Come on, Malfoy. The carriage isn't going to wait. – He nudged him lightly with his shoulder, hoping to get him moving.

Draco shot him an irritated look, but before leaving, he glanced back at the Gryffindors.

Then his eyes stopped on Margaret.

He frowned.

— Getting smaller and smaller every year, Delacroix.

Margaret slowly raised an eyebrow.

You could never tell what Draco Malfoy meant.

Whether he was talking about her height or her status.

So she just smiled.

— And you're still just as unpleasant, Malfoy.

— At least I don't waste my time sniffing around Potter's arse.

— At least I don't waste my time on people who don't matter to me.

Theodore quietly snorted.

Draco shot him a brief look.

— Very funny, Nott.

— I didn't say anything.

Margaret was already about to follow the trio when Pansy called after her.

— Delacroix.

She turned around.

Pansy stood a little way off, her arms crossed over her chest.

— You're going to the library after dinner, aren't you?

Margaret stared at her in surprise.

— Maybe. Why?

— No reason.

Pansy's eyes lingered on Hermione for just a second.Too briefly for anyone else to notice.

But Margaret noticed.

— Good, — Pansy said, before walking away with the Slytherins.

Hermione watched her go.

— She's strange.

Margaret smirked.

— Very.

She glanced back at Draco. He was already walking away. And for the first time, Margaret noticed something strange.

He was keeping his left hand unusually close to his body.

As though he were trying to hide it.

Margaret frowned.

[megarchival]

a little Harry Potter AU thing i wrote. this is my first time actually writing and posting something like this, so please be kind. I’m not really sure i know what I’m doing, and this might be complete nonsense, but i had the idea and liked it enough to put it here anyway & i was inspired by a song and some art, which i’ll link below.

***

the world for the worthy

characters: Draco Malfoy, Bellatrix Black

relationship: familial / aunt & nephew — not romantic

genre: dark AU, apocalypse AU, post-war

warnings: death, violence, genocide, implied mass death

part: 1 of ?

inspiration: [song] · [art]

it seems that if he turned around — or was it forward? maybe left or right? in any case, it didn’t matter.

ever since Harry Potter — the Boy Who Lived — finally accepted his fate and died, the world had fallen into an apocalypse.

to be fair, he died rather tragically. but with dignity.

Lord Voldemort had finally obtained absolute power. absolute control over everyone and everything. the extermination of non-wizards — or, more precisely, muggles — was well underway.

there was no place for muggles in the new world. no place for mudbloods.

they weren’t even worthy of standing on the same ground as those who truly ruled it.

it was rather ironic that Lord Voldemort himself was the one to introduce such laws — after all, he was a half-blood.

but, it seemed, that didn’t matter anymore. nothing mattered anymore.

the poor, stupid muggles didn’t even understand what was happening. there was no way to reach anyone anymore. no calls. no messages. no voices on the other end.

in fact, there was nothing.

who could have seen that coming?

Draco Malfoy himself — pure-blood wizard, heir to the ancient house of Malfoy, and loyal soldier of the Dark Lord — trudged forward. his boots echoed heavily through the emptiness.

it was difficult to say where exactly he was. everything around him was drenched in red. what had once been the earth. what had once been the sky.

so this was what it looked like, then?

The New World. a world for the “worthy.”

he looked around again. it felt as though he had been walking for hours. in reality, he hadn’t.

something was moving ahead.

at first, Draco could make out nothing more than a tiny black dot. it drew closer, growing larger and larger, until at last it took the shape of a familiar figure. soon, he could see her clearly.

His bloody aunt.

Bellatrix.

her outfit alone was something to behold: a floor-length black lace dress, clinging to her figure in all the right places. wild black curls flew behind her in the wind — if what remained of this place could even be called wind. it seemed that nature itself no longer existed here. nothing existed here anymore.

Bellatrix approached her nephew proudly, yet with something almost teasing in her step. Draco stood nearly a head taller than her, so when she came close enough, she lifted her chin slightly and looked straight into his eyes with a brazen smile.

“who would have thought it would all turn out like this, hmm, darling?” she sang, studying his grey eyes.

Draco didn’t look away.

“who would have thought the Dark Lord would be afraid of his own most loyal soldiers,” he corrected her.

Bellatrix’s smile widened. they had both come here willingly. they had followed his orders. fought for him. killed for him.

and this was his gratitude? perhaps he had simply been afraid. after all, no one could be stronger than the creator of the new world. no one could be better than the man who had cheated death itself — more than once.

Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord.

almost a god of death himself.

and yet, here they were. In nothingness.

“we’ll show him yet, Draco,” Bellatrix promised.

there wasn’t a trace of doubt in her voice. she looked at the blond boy with that same certainty that had once made people step back at the sight of her.

“even if he thinks he’s the cleverest of them all, he isn’t cleverer than the two of us.” she tilted her head slightly, smiling.

“there are two of us. he is alone.”

[megarchival]

*

¹ devotion

Henry Winter headcanons

in love

*these are just my personal headcanons & interpretation of Henry. they may differ from canon or your own view - that's what headcanons are for.

01. Henry never says "I miss you" instead, he asks whether you've eaten, whether you're sleeping enough, whether you remembered your umbrella before leaving the house. his concern disguises itself as routine, because admitting longing feels far too vulnerable

02. if someone speaks badly about you, Henry never argues immediately. he simply remembers every word. by the time the conversation ends, he has already decided that person will never be welcome in his life again

03. Henry secretly collects little things that remind him of you: a train ticket, a dried flower from inside a book, a receipt from a cafe you visited once. he never calls them keepsakes. they're simply things he cannot bring himself to throw away

04. he writes letters he never sends. pages of elegant, flawless greek, describing things he would never dare say aloud. after finishing them, he burns them carefully, because words that powerful should never fall into the wrong hands. not even yours

05. Henry loves with complete certainty. there is no almost, no maybe, no halfway. once he lets someone into his heart, leaving is no longer an option (for him, at least)

06. if you're sick or in pain, he won't fuss over you. hell simply appear with exactly the right medicine, a glass of water, and a cold compress, then sit in the corner reading until you fall asleep. he doesn't offer comfort, but he offers presence as a shield against the chaos

07. Henry never gives compliments lightly. when he says "you look beautiful" it sounds like a statement of fact, not an opinion. as if he's simply observing the weather or quoting a line from Plato

08. Henry doesn't get jealous of other people. he gets jealous of the past. of every version of you that existed before he met you. of every person who got to see your smile when you were younger, more careless, less marked by the world. It's irrational and he knows it. but he can't help it

09. Henry sometimes catches himself thinking about your death. not morbidly, but as a fact. he imagines the funeral, the eulogies, the way the world would keep spinning without you. and then he forces himself to stop, because the thought alone makes him want to burn everything down

10. he never asks you to stay. he simply makes it so that leaving feels like an act of violence against the natural order. he builds a world around you so intricate, so quiet, so complete, that walking away from it would feel like walking away from yourself

11. if you fall asleep near him, Henry stops moving. not because he's polite, but because the sight of you vulnerable, unguarded, trusting, makes something in his chest tighten so painfully that he forgets how to breathe properly

12. he notices when you're not there before anyone else does. not because he's looking for you, but because the atmosphere changes. the air feels thinner. the silence sounds different. he doesn't comment on it. he becomes more restless until you return

bonus:

headcanons that feel like "Burning Desire” by Lana Del Rey

** he doesn't want you to choose him. he wants you to need him. he wants you to understand, deep in your bones, that without him, something in you would wither. not because he's cruel, but because that's how he loves

** Henry sometimes imagines what it would be like to destroy everything you love, just to see if you'd still stay. just to see if your love is as absolute as his. he never acts on it. but the thought terrifies him more than anything else. because he knows he could

** Henry would never say it out loud, but he is grateful for your flaws. your insecurities. your broken pieces. because they are the cracks through which he entered. if you were whole, untouchable, perfect, you would never have needed him. and he needs to be needed more than he needs to be loved

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RU version on tiktok @megarchival — ENG version here & on tiktok too

[megarchival]

Henry Winter Headcanons

his habits

a small collection of personal headcanons about Henry Winter from The Secret History – these are simply my own interpretation of his character and are not meant to be taken as canon.

01. he reads with his sleeves rolled up, even in winter. he can't stand fabric touching his wrists while turning pages.

02.he never drinks coffee immediately. he always forgets about it until it's almost cold.

03.Henry has the habit of rereading the last paragraph before closing a book, even if he has already finished the chapter.

04.Henry always fixes his collar or sleeves before entering a room. he does it so naturally that he doesn't even notice.

05.he hates being interrupted while speaking, but he will never openly show irritation. he just becomes noticeably quieter.

06.he secretly enjoys old fashioned things: handwritten letters, fountain pens, physical books. he claims it's about practicality, but it isn't.

07.he always keeps his room colder than everyone else prefers. he says he thinks better when it's cold.

08.he dislikes being photographed. he always looks like he's aware of the camera.

09.Henry cleans his glasses when conversations become uncomfortable. it gives him a few seconds to think.

10.he has a habit of memorizing people's routines. he knows who wakes up early, who skips breakfast, who always arrives late.

11.he has a very specific way of making tea or coffee and gets slightly irritated when someone does it differently.

12.Henry is surprisingly competitive about small things. not obvious competitions but just things like chess, arguments, remembering facts.

Russian version is available on my TikTok. @megarchival

by megarchive