YOU'RE LIKE LIGHTNING.

misericors. (adj.) merciful, compassionate, tender-hearted. derived from misereri, "to pity", and cor, "heart". mortemhq. penned by jess. featuring harry potter, rahim lestrange & cassius rookwood.

[valians]

there   is   no   disdain,       no   anger,       rather       …       an   insurmountable   dismay   in   himself   ,       and   who   he's   supposed   to   be.       he   could've   done   more,       he   should've   done   more.       he   should've   passed   into   another   lifetime   before   anything   could've   hurt   his   brother,       jumped   in   front   of   any   curse,       and   let   himself   fall   victim   to   the   darkness   he   would   never   let   his   siblings   know.       there   is   no   true   victory,       without   sacrifice       ...       and   he   will   eternally   curse   himself   that   he   wasn't   the   one   who   took   it   that   day.       the   tale   of   icarus   is   retold   in   the   life   of   james   sirius   potter       :       one   bred   of   valiance,       and   blazing   wings   of   unwavering   fervour       —       eager,       brave,       and   thoroughly   reckless.     gold-hearted,     oath-driven,       and   loyal   to   an   unforgiving   fault,       yet   born   of   mortal   flesh       ….    how   soon   will   it   be   until   he   burns   at   the   sun's   flames,       and   falls   an   unfulfilled   hero       ?       he's   not   a   god,       rather,       just   man       —       first   son,       and   eldest   brother       :       born   to   live   a   prophecy   of   a   name   a   two   generations   above   his   own.       james   never   regretted   any   of   his   choices,       even   this   one.       no   matter   how   much   of   his   father's   anger   he   has   to   face,       nor   the   disappointment   in   his   eyes,       his   head   still   held   high,       sorrow   hidden   beneath   a   purse   of   his   lips   as   he   entered   the   office.      he's   not   coming   to   see   his   father,       he's   been   summoned   by   the   leader   of   the   order.       he   disobeyed   a   direct   order,       and,       because   of   it,     endangered   the   life   of   one       :       the   life   of   someone   much   more   precious   than   him.       “       you   called,     dad       ?       uh,     sir,       ”       he   quickly   corrected   himself,       eyes   searching   for   harry's   own,       pale   green   gifted   from   the   grandmother   he   never   got   to   meet.       “       …       i'll   accept   whatever   punishment   you   give   me.       no   missions   or,       if   you   were   to   derank   me,       or       …     anything.       it   was   my   fault,       and   i   accept   that.       i   should've   done   more.       i   should       …       be   more   than   this,       ”       he   started,       breath   taken   into   his   lungs   before   he   continued.       “       —     i   held   back,       i   didn't       …       want   to   hurt   anyone   there.       not   really.       i   couldn't   kill,       and       …       maybe   for   that   i'm   not   the   soldier   you   want   or   need   me   to   be,       ”        

[misericors]

When James had come in, when Harry had turned his gaze from the photograph of him, safe and alive in perpetuity, to the horribly fragile flesh and blood boy in reality, his heart had turned over. "Yes, I'd like to know what you thought were you doing, running into a mission you had no business being in," Harry said flatly. He was trying to approach this calmly, but that was not so easy. Not for him. Not when it was James. All he could think was that it was a miracle he was still alive, that Harry hadn't lost him. By all rights, it should have ended very differently, as it always had before. The pressure in Harry's chest, that had been building for days, tightened, and then erupted. ""As if you, only you, could save the day! That isn't how this works, that isn't how any of this works!" And didn't Harry know that too well. He closed his eyes, and behind them, Sirius fell through the veil. As Harry had led him there. The bodies laid out in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. As Harry had led them there. His eyes flew back open, green sparks flashing. "We had a plan, a strategy in place! One that didn't, it may surprise you to hear, need you in it! You were reckless, foolish - it plays right into their hands if we act like this, one person rushing off! Your hero act, all it does it put people in danger! All is does is get people killed! Do you understand that? They are counting on you, everyone is counting on you, they believe that you can save them, but all you do is fail, every time, all you do is get people killed!" Harry stopped short. It ocurred to him, a little too late, that it was not James that he was yelling at. It was not James that he blamed for leading the Order to the deaths, time and time again. Harry suddenly felt so very tired. The anger - it was gone. Inside, he was stricken. "James. You aren't a soldier to me," he said, a sort of despair in the words,desperately searching his son's face, imploring. "That isn't - I've never wanted that from you -" Surely, it couldn't be that broken between them. But clearly, James thought he was, that that was how Harry saw him, that that was how Harry used him. He felt it back again, the desire to sink his head into his hands. He certainly could not bear to look at James. The little boy who, every night, when Harry had placed him into bed and tried to get him to sleep, had reached out his hands to Harry. He hadn't wanted Harry to let him go, and that had suited Harry just fine, to cradle James in his arms instead, until he slept. To have a moment of peace, after all the bloodshed, in which he could kiss James' forehead, and murmur, that's my brave boy, do you know how much Dada loves you, and believe, one day, one day, it would end, that Harry would give him something more than this. That boy now, here, apologizing to him for not being a killer. Harry felt sickened to the very bone. "Is that really what you think I want?"

[reductorx-deactivated20240824]

Her heart stuttered as his voice reached her ears, the voice that she had grown to love so much. The voice of the man who had grounded her in so many ways and helped to give her strength. "You know I would never say no to some help," her voice was soft, barely above a whisper as she continued to stand there. She didn't need to turn to look at him to know what was rattling around in his head. She didn't need to look at his exhausted eyes and see the slump in his shoulders to know that the guilt was starting to take it's toll. She didn't need to see it because she simply knew. Harry had always been like this, he had always taken everything so hard and deep. She hated how heavy everything weighed upon his shoulders, so if she had to keep everything locked up to help him carry this weight she would. Anything he ever needed Ginny would be there for him with no questions asked whether it was telling their foes off or simply holding him close and giving the silent comfort he needed. She was always there. Ginny didn't realize how much she craved his hold in that moment until his arms were wrapping around her, until her body was slumping slightly against his own as her shoulders truly sagged. She didn't realize how much she needed to release the deep breath she held until it came shuddering out of her.

"Thank you," the words were soft as she nodded, her eyes burning with tears that had yet to fall for tears would not help Albus. Tears would not help any of their children who had faced such horrors. Tears would not help sooth the worry for her other two children as they waited for Albus to be okay and alright. Are you alright, they were the words that she had dreaded being asked. Finally looking at him, the love with in his gaze, the sheer force of it, it made her lips quiver ever so slightly. Her gaze blurred as she nodded, her lips pressing tight as her brows pulled together tightly. "I'm fine," yet she wasn't fine but she had to be fine because there would never be a day that she would ever hold Harry at fault for anything. There would never be a day that she would blame him for the horrors, no that blame went solely to those who served the vile creature that had ruined them all. "Why our babies? Why them?" Ginny didn't expect an answer because she knew deep down he would blame himself but she couldn't help but wonder why the cycle had to repeat itself.

[misericors]

Harry took in her, a long look, that assessed the state Ginny was in, and brought him the comfort of looking at her, all at once. He smiled, a small curve of mouth, faintly etched by heartache, but still, a smile. "Then I'm here," he responded in turn. As he always would be, whenever she needed him. He moved around the kitchen quietly, thw two of them moving into sync. It was comforting, the old, familiar rhythms, until it couldn't be anymore. Until he couldn't stand any distance, not even that of one length of their shared kitchen. Holding her was the best comfort he had, no matter how wretched he felt, how her pain tore at him. His head shook helplessly, where it rested against hers. "If I could take the targets off their backs..." Harry trailed off hoarsely, as his arms folded her tighlty to his chest, a lifeline. Anything. He would do anything. But there was no answer he could give. Voldemort, it was Voldemort to blame, as it always had been. Who had taken everything from Harry, time and time again. And yet he, Harry, had always known that too. Guilt drenched through him.

His eyes met Ginny's once more, not unflinchingly. She wouldn't like to hear this, Harry was sure, but he had to say it. "We do have safehouses all over Europe. Maybe if you and the kids ... just for a little while ... some distance... from me..." That was it, after all, the root of it, always, always him. He had never been supposed to have this life, to have them. Harry had known that from the start. Why had he ever let himself ignore it? Yet he knew that too: he had loved her too much, wanted her, wanted the future he saw in those eyes, the children they could make together. The happiness it promised, the escape, from the unending bleakness and misery he had otherwise forseen for himself. Harry had grasped instead at that faint, steady light, that he had always looked at from the outside, and wanted so badly. A family. It had been a mistake. If he could go back ... but the thought of undoing any of it, of undoing any of them, to lose Lily and her fierce spirit, Al's tender sweetness, James' vibrant daring, to lose even a minute of the time he had had with them, happiness greater than anything he’d ever known… no, Harry could not bear that either. That had always been the crux of the problem, that Harry could not bring himself to do anything but hold them close. All the while knowing that to hold them close was to damn them.

[battle-scvrs]

This section of beach, this slice of England that he had carved out just for his family was somewhere that Bill would always find a sense of peace. Sure, there had been sadness here too. Bill would never forget returning here after the Battle of Hogwarts and screaming into the crashing waves over the loss of his parents, over the loss of Fred. But there was goodness too - their children running freely, building sandcastles without a care for the horrors of the world. Bill always knew that no matter what happened each day, the waves would wash it away and he could start afresh. "It's personal...related to business, but more personal," Bill said, lifting the bottle of beer to his lips again. "There's a beer for you there if you want it," he gestured to the crate that he'd settled in the sand. "I'm sorry to take you away from your family right now. I won't take too much of your time...but without Fleur here, and I couldn't..." even all these years later, Bill struggled with the feeling of burdening his siblings with problems of his own, despite shouldering many of theirs without a second thought. "I just needed to speak to someone."

[misericors]

He took a moment to listen to the silence, waves crashing on the shore the only sound. Hard to imagine there was a war raging outside the protective charms. It was, of course. Harry couldn't forget it, not for a second, could never let down his guard. But if there was anywhere outside of Grimmauld Place where he could feel something approaching safety, it was here. Harry took a beer, and gave him an assessing glance, "Anytime, Bill. You know that." He gave a small laugh. "If nothing else I certainly owe you some favours." They all did, really. It was Bill who had carried the broken Weasley family on his shoulders after the loss of their parents, which had then essentially meant the large majority of the Order. And Harry, too, clinging on for dear life to those shattered pieces, swept back up along with them. That was what was so strange about this - he couldn't recall a time Bill had ever asked for help, at least not for himself. He was quiet now, still. Harry had never really been much of a talker, but for now, he supposed that was what was required, for him to listen, leave the space for it, whatever it was Bill was dealing with. There was a readiness in his stance, despite his relaxed pose - no mission here, perhaps, but it was hard to shake the habit, to not prepare himself to take on whatever this was.

[misericors]

As Harry made his way to the infirmary - more a second home than ever, now he was visiting his children as often as he could - he caught a flicker in the air from the corner of his eyes. Almost impossible to see, but something was just off. The precise effect Harry was used to observing when someone was using a Disillusionment Charm. He felt a smile rise irrepressibly on his lips, before he even knew it. For the first time in days, it reached past his mouth, a real, true happiness he felt in his chest. It was so like Lily, her inextinguishable spirit, and it was such a relief to see it, inextinguishable. The imprisonment had not destroyed her, it had not taken her. She was here, she was alive, and that was enough for Harry. That was hope restored. From the simple fact of her life, he could borrow all the strength that he needed. "You know," he began, scarcely concealing his amusement in favour of a serious expression as Harry spoke aloud as if to himself. "If there was someone invisible in the room, perhaps sneaking out from a stay at the infirmary which they have been well-advised to stick to, that would be very serious. As the leader of the Order, and, perhaps, as the person in question's father, I'd certainly have something to say about it. I'd say... I have something much better for that." With that, he pulled on the fabric in his pocket, the Invisibility Cloak close to hand, and threw it in the direction of the person who every instinct knew to be Lily. It was, perhaps, slightly irresponsible of him, but last he'd heard, she was all better, and Harry was no stranger to the desire to be out, active, doing something. Nothing drove him mad like an enforced stay in a hospital bed. Lily was like him in that. Too like him, Harry thought ruefully, and yet,the relief, utter and total, that had not left him since they had brought her home, was still with him. It had been a torture like no other, imagining Lily in the hands of his worst enemies. Knowing that she was his heart, his weakness, that they would use it, would destroy him in the worst possible way. They had been dark days, despair like none he had ever known. By contrast, Harry's eyes were now fond and indulgent, in this moment - as was not ever entirely unusual with Lily, his youngest child - he would have denied her nothing. @boggart

[firstlvght]

al  doesn’t  mean  to,  he  really  doesn’t,  but  at  his  father’s  embrace,  holding  him  tighter  than  he  has  in  a  long  time,  albus  becomes  undone,  and  he  finally  lets  the  tears  flow  as  he  cries  into  his  father’s  shoulder.  he  didn’t  realize  just  how  frightened  he  had  been.  the  focus  had  only  been  on  rescuing  his  sister  and  other  family  members,  and  for  once,  albus  shared  the  same  fearless  courage  as  the  ones  most  important  to  him,  but  after  being  so  close  to  being  one  of  the  ones  lost,  al  doesn’t  know  how  he’s  been  in  their  family,  always  feeling  misplaced.  he  blinks  away  some  of  the  tears,  some  still  falling  as  his  father  speaks  to  him.  and  he  knows  he’s  only  trying  to  comfort  him,  but  there’s  still  that  guilt,  the  one  that  makes  him  feel  like  he  should  have  never  gone  to  if it only ended in  hurting  his  family  this  way.  but  albus  nods  his  head  anyways,  sniffling  as  he  finally  reaches  up  to  wipe  away  some  of  the  tears.  a  soft  “okay”  is  his  only  response,  and  he’ll  work  on  it,  he  truly  will,  but  it’s  not  just  something  that  one  conversation  will  be  able  to  fix.   he  instantly  knows  by  the  change  in  his  father’s  demeanor  and  tone  that  there  was  loss  at  the  manor.  it’s  something  that  he’s  had  to  experience  his  entire  life,  experience  loss  of  important  people  in  the  order  that  aren’t  family  by  blood,  but  they  might  as  well  be.  al  is  going  through  the  ranks mentally,  and  he  hates  how  he’s  already  listing  in  his  head  those  they  might  have  lost,  but  as  harry  speaks  again,  the  name  xue  coming  from  his  lips,  and  al  starts  shaking  his  head,  the  tears  already  beginning  to  fall  again.  his  stomach  turns  at  the  mention  of  torture,  and  his  face  blanches,  becoming  pale  again  as  if  all  the  color  he’s  regained  since  healing  is  gone  again.  the  idea  of  someone  like  xue,  someone  so  good,  having  an  ends  that  cruel.  he’s  speechless  for  a  moment,  having  trouble  believing  it,  and  if  it  was  anyone  else  besides  his  father,  he  would  have  called  them  a  liar,  telling  them  to  get  out.  “it’s  not  fair,”  albus  says,  his  voice  small and cracking  as  he  leans  into  his  father’s  hands  once  more,  a  fist  bunching  the  sheets  as  he  tries  to  ground  himself  with  the  news.  “do  we  ...  do  we  know  which  ones  did  it?”  he  knows  it’s  too  early  for  the  order  to  have  been  investigating  into  it,  but  he  wants  to  know,  needs  to  know.  albus  isn’t  a  fighter,  he  doesn’t  want  to  be,  but  he’s  starting  to  think  that  maybe  it’s  becoming  a  time  where  he  doesn’t  have  a  choice.  

[misericors]

It was difficult to watch Albus cry. No, impossible. Harry held him tightly, stroking one hair through his hair, trying to soften his hands, which wanted so furiously to clench into fists. The anger in his chest was tempting to give into, the urge to go out and find a Death Eater to fight, any Death Eater, Voldemort himself. But he wanted to be here, now, for Albus, even if this feeling of utter helplesness in the face of his pain was maddening. There was no fight Harry could take on that would heal this pain, he knew that. There was nothing he could do to bring Xue back. He held the eye contact with his son for a long moment, checking that the message had sunk in, searching for signs that Al blamed himself. Al's eyes were too streaked by grief for Harry to really read much more there. He would watch over him, for any signs. After all, he had just gone rogue in a way Harry would not have expected from his younger son. Unfair though it might be, given the words he had for James, Harry could not bring himself to lecture Albus now, not with the frail, broken-hearted look in his eyes. "We're still looking into it," he said, a careful answer to the question Al had put to him. He wouldn't lie, nor conceal anything. It had always been better, in his own experience, to know the truth. "I'm sorry. We don't know yet." Harry's voice was very gentle, a tender timbre about the consonants that belonged only to his children. "It may have been retaliation. For ... for the rescue of the hostages. Or they may have been concerned about his abilities. It might have been entirely random. We might never have all the answers, Al." Harry hesitated. "I know how it feels, when you lose someone ... close. But promise me you're won't do anything reckless. Al, what happened to you ... you almost died. I can't lose you-" Harry broke off, looking away from him. He felt the pain of it all over again, like stab wounds into his heart, what it had been like to watch him fall.

[reductorx-deactivated20240824]

Standing in the kitchen, hands resting against the counter with her head tipped down, her long fiery locks draping to block her face from the rest of the world around her. She took in a deep and heavy breath. How could this have happened? How could her children truly be suffering through all of this. She had hoped that there would never come a day where they would go through all this pain and horror. She had hoped that things could have ended and they could have lived the rest of their lives out in joy and laughter. Ginny wondered if her parents had felt like this when she and her siblings were growing up. She wondered if her mother and father had the constant worry that they would be swallowed up by war as well. She wondered if her parents wished that things could have been left well enough alone for a life of peace. "Peace," a small scoff at the word and what a funny word that was. It didn't seem like there was such a thing anymore. There was no happiness, no days that passed without worry. There was nothing but a glance over your shoulder and a wand held tightly within your grasp. Her shoulders felt heavy as she stood there, baking ingredients spread out in front of her, in times like this she often got lost in the baking aspects. She had gained the skills from her mother but never truly put them to use until the day she lost her. Even now with her family in shambles and the never-ending worry swelling inside her she resorted to baking. It was something she often used to distract herself, perhaps that's why her mother always baked when they were growing up? To distract herself from the terrible things going on in the world. Ginny couldn't bring herself to actually mix things together, to create something, yet at the sound of footsteps coming near the kitchen she quickly shook her head, "it's not ready yet," her voice called as she forced herself to actually look like she was doing something. @misericors

[misericors]

Harry's words were quiet as he moved into the kitchen, taking in what his wife was doing. Or rather, not doing. He knew her well by now, after so many years of marriage. She would put on a brave face. Harry loved her for it, always had, but he would never leave her alone to suffer through it. "Can I help?" He stepped forward, a part of him tentative, weighed down by his sense of guilt. He knew better by now, or he tried to, but there was one thing Harry would never be able to bear, and that was if there was ever a look of accusation in her eyes. There should be. He deserved it. Still, he craved to give her comfort, and to receive her comfort in return. Ginny had always had that power over him. To block out the worst things. To make everything quiet. She gave him peace, and - what had Harry done? Selfishly clung to it, clung to her, when all he would ever bring her in return was this. Harry pulled her in, his arms around her, his mouth pressing against her hair, breathing her in. His fingers shook a little, as he touched her. "I was just with Al," he said, into Ginny's hair. "He looks stronger now, better. He'll be alright." This time, Harry thought, but didn't say, his throat closing in. He closed his eyes as he rested against her, but could only see it, again and again, as he did every time he closed his eyes. Al falling. James and Lily covered in his blood as the three of them desperately fought their way out. They'd carried Albus' body, not knowing if he was alive or dead, as Harry had carved a path for them through the Death Eaters. He opened his eyes again , pulled back, and met her gaze. It always pierced right through him. He felt a blazing rush of love, and a equal measure of pain. What had he done to her, to their family, their children, to their lives. "Ginny. Are you alright?"

[battle-scvrs]

If the conversation he wanted to have wasn't so heavily confidential, Bill might've asked Harry to meet him in a pub. He couldn't risk being overheard while they conversed about a spy, nor about the steps Bill had taken to assist their spy. If Fleur wasn't busy with her own missions, Bill would've talked this through with his wife. Even all these years later, Bill still tried to keep from burdening others with his troubled thoughts - and yet this was not something that he could let bubble up inside him. Bill knew himself and he knew that if he didn't speak about this with someone he trusted then it would fester within him. So he'd owled Harry, asking him to meet him that evening on the beach near Shell Cottage if he was free. Many years ago, Bill had extended the protection charms and repelling charms that covered shell cottage over a section of beach directly by the house so that their children could play safely, and now he sat in the sand alone, nursing a beer as he waited for Harry to arrive. @misericors

[misericors]

The summons was one he would always answer. He knew Bill wouldn't make it lightly, so even now, when there was little Harry wanted to do less than leave his family's side, leave Albus and Lily as they recovered, he made the apparition out to Shell Cottage, just outside the wards, and found himself walking slowly, cautiously, down to the beach. So much had happened here, sorrow and happiness in equal measure. Harry found himself focusing on the happiness today, smiling a bittersweet smile as he remembered Remus overflowing with his happiness as he announced Teddy's birth. It stung less, after all these years, felt good to remember him like that. As the smell of the ocean hit him, Harry's eyes fell on the red haired man waiting by it, readied himself. "You didn't say much in your letter," Harry said, sitting down beside him. He smiled, but there was a certain wariness in his eyes. "Is this business or pleasure?"

[blvnk-art]

In sickness and in health.

[misericors]

‘ i would rather break the world than lose you . ’ ( zelda & cassius )

What was marriage, in the end? He had no especial feeling for it, had never believed in that which some called love. Cassius had not felt it, not in his youth, though he had learnt to mimic it, to pretend. Others seemed to like him more if he could make the gestures of it, and it was so much easier to get what he wanted that way. Which was, of course, the quest for his power, alone. The world that would be his.  No longer. That world, when he took it for his own, he would now lay at her feet.  It was dark, after midnight. Blood trickled down his arm from where he had made the mark, cut it with a knife. His hand was covered in it. He offered it to her, took Zelda’s own, pressed their hands together, bloody as they were, and held them over the conjured fire. The blood dripped from their joined hands into the flames, made dark shapes, smelt like burning flesh. “You will never lose me,” Cassius said, voice low. His eyes were dark with devotion, desire, as they fell to her lips. “I’m yours. You’re mine. There is no one else for me. There is no one else who can touch you. Not as I can. There is nothing but this, but us.” It was a vow like no other he had ever made, but he could find no regret. Never had Cassius thought he would swear to anyone, that he would find a cause he would willingly seal with his own death should he break it. His heart had always been faithless, but the power her eyes had over him was absolute. He would die for one press of her lips against his, and that he took now, took her mouth with his. Yes, Zelda was the only cause he would die for. As willingly as he gave his blood now, weakened himself, to call her his. He broke away only reluctantly, breathing heavily. He would never have enough of her. But their blood was still fresh, their covenant still to be sealed. Cassius spoke roughly now, lust-darkened, veracious, his eyes piercing Zelda's, close as ever he could come to sacred: “If ever I fall, take the world for me. I will tear it apart for you. Let all your enemies die by my hand, let me unmake them, or die in trying. If ever I betray you, carve my heart from my chest, take it, let it be yours still.  If what we do on earth rips our souls in two, let the pieces of mine find yours, in whatever wretched state. There is no other way for me. I swear it to you with my blood."

[thrustfists]

Closed : @misericors

Location : Greengrass estate

When she walks through the doors of the house she grew up in there is an emptiness about her that matches the interior. Something is missing. She knows that. Something has happened, something terrible, and someone has taken the memory from her. That is what she assumes, at least, because the knot in her stomach grows ever tighter until she stops at the bottom of the staircase, hand over her mouth in fear she might throw up. What happened, Pippa? What fucking happened?

The kaleidoscope of emotions is overpowering. Like a stormy sea, each wave that crashes against the lighthouse is different - confusion, fear, terror, horror, anger, anger, anger !!! Her mother always said she shouldn’t be left on her own - that her mental health is fragile, she was born weak and one day it might just kill her. She feels it now as she stands in the coldest house in the world, head in her hands as if trying to reach in and retrieve what is lost herself. She needs to talk to someone, she needs reassurance that she’s not losing her sanity in the trenches of war. Rahim. A text is sent, frantic, potentially manic, and as she goes to put her phone in her pocket she sees a flash of RED.

The scream that escapes her lips echoes through the corridors of the estate. Why is there blood on her hands ?! Why did she not see it earlier ?! Whose blood is it ?! Her feet force her to the closest bathroom as she attempts to wash it off but it won’t budge. She tries again, harder, with more soap, hotter water. Still, the fingers remain stained scarlet red. TATTOOED AGAINST HER SKIN, A SCAR FROM AN EVENT SHE DOESNT REMEMBER. When the door opens and she hears the footsteps of one she would recognise anywhere, in any lifetime, she is wild. No, she is not crying, but the ghost of tears are echoed against her features - the bloodshot eyes, the smudged mascara.

“ Rahim, look ” words usher him to the sink. “ look, I scrub and I scrub and I scrub but the blood won’t wash off. It won’t come out. I don’t - ” the water is running clear, her hands are cleanest they’ve ever been ( if not raw from the event ), and yet the calls of blood won’t stop.

[misericors]

There was a part of him that had already shifted into clinical mode, the moment he'd gotten the text. Rahim spent most days now expecting something to go wrong - it was useful to have his experience as a Healer, almost a second self, a second personality he could switch into. One that cared about nothing but getting the job done. One that didn't have time to cry over the wound, to feel it. That had been his problem for so long. Every wound had haunted him. He'd had to learn to shut it off.

He tried to stick to that old training now, as he approached Greengrass Manor. Approach, situate himself, diagnose. As simple as cauterizing a wound. He left himself in, the wards here recognized him, so often he and Pippa were at each other's home, an interchangeable pair over the years.

Then he heard the scream and started running. Not so the impenetrable cool of the healer anymore. "Pippa? Pippa?" he yelled back wildly, chasing the echo of the scream through the long hallways until he came to her room. Not her. Not Pippa. Somehow she was the one thing in his life he felt was untouched by this, the stable rock Rahim had cast himself by. They could destroy the world, break him - but not Pippa. Her spirit was unbreakable, unchangeable, and he truly, truly needed that. He wouldn't be alive without it, without her. He wouldn't still be fighting.

"Stop, stop," he said, softly, gently, approaching to take her hands with his, still her movements. Now he was closer, Rahim stared down, expecting to see the blood she was talking about. Her hands were red, yes, but not with blood. There was nothing there. At least, not anymore. From the look of her, he didn't think pointing that out would help. "I know a spell for this, don't worry. You don't see me coming home from the hospital covered in blood, do you? That'd look a sight. It's probably frightening enough for the patients to have to look at my ugly face, right?" He got out his wand, started tapping over her palms, sparing a moment here and there to brush her hair back, squeeze her fingers, small touches of comfort alongside the magic he was pretending to perform. This was Pippa. Pippa. Alongside the pretend spells, he'd run some real diagnostics hidden amongst the rest. She was shaken, but not hurt. He met her eyes very carefully, spoke very quietly. "What happened tonight?"

[battle-scvrs]

As she stood before her brother, heart racing, there was only the briefest moment where Ana wondered why he might have been in her store room in the first place. A thought flittered where she wondered precisely what her brother had been planning on taking, and what he was planning on brewing. There were more pressing issues to deal with though, such as the body of her betrothed that she had behind in the forest. Lifting her hand she roughly brushed away the tears that leaked from her eyes, and she swallowed a thick lump of emotion in her throat as she met Rahim’s gaze. “There’s no time to wait. There’s no time…I’m in trouble,” Ana rambled, quite unable to form the words ‘I killed Tobias’. "I can't say it...I can't..." she was shaking, her hands trembling under the weight of her actions.

“Let me show you.”

Reaching for her brother’s hand, she waited for him to acknowledge what she was about to do before she disapparated them back to the scene of the crime. Now was not the time to be dealing with a splinching, not when her mind was full of panic. With a wave of her wand, she revealed Tobias and his bundle of limbs before looking back to Rahim with desperate pleading eyes. “Mother’s going to kill me. She’s going to know it’s me if he…she’s going to know. He was awful, Rahim. Awful. And she's going to kill me.”

[misericors]

The world they lived in, the people they were, there was almost no one who Rahim would trust so entirely, who he would take by the hand and let take him away, unquestioningly, without blinking. It was, he thought, really only Ana. And so he let the disapparition take him away. It was far from the first body he'd ever seen. He was frozen, not because of that, not really. It didn't surprise him that Ana was capable of murder, he knew it already. And Tobias had been ... not what he would have liked for her. She was right, though. Octavia would be ... even Rabastan ... and then there was the Dark Lord himself. He nodded, as if to himself, awareness of the world coming back to him. Three enemies. His mind started calculating.

"She's not going to know. Because there won't be a body to find. I know spells that can ... dissolve him." It was dark healing magic, wrong healing magic, but he knew it, all the same. "People disappear all the time. The Order is active, hunting. He was another casualty. Or he ran away. Like my mother. Like hundreds of us. I never thought he had the stomach for the war, to be honest with you. I'll tell Father so, if he asks." Only if he asked. There would be no need for Rahim to bring it up, that would only look suspicious. He turned to her, his calmness shielding the inner panic Rahim was feeling, but that he could force down. It was what he did, day after day. He turned to Ana, seeing now the look on her face, enough to undo him. He held out his arms, quickly drew her in for an embrace, partly so he wouldn't have to see her face. He wouldn't be able to force that down, not seeing her like this. It wasn't something they did, really, embraces of affection. Not the Lestranges, the family that he had somehow become a part of, that he had never stopped feeling he had to earn his place in. But this - wasn't that. With Rabastan, it was always that. With Ana, it was simply that he loved her. She was his sister, no matter what else. Three enemies. The people that knew them best, and the Dark Lord himself. Versus the two of them. It would not be easy to do. It could be deadly. Still, what had all his spying and subterfuge been for, if not to protect the ones he loved? In a strange way, it had been practice, for this moment. "We can do this," Rahim said. "I know we can do this."

[firstlvght]

seeing  his  father  barely  holding  it  together  is  the  confirmation  he  needs.  albus  has  been  going  in  and  out  of  consciousness  for  days,  and  now  he  understands  the  severity  of  it  all.  he  doesn’t  recall  just  how  close  he  was  to  being  another  order  member  fallen,  how  the  mediwizards  around  him  had  spoken  in  hushed  tones  about  how  lucky  he  was  to  have  gotten  there  just  in  time.  but  seeing  harry  looking  worse  for  wear  is  what  al  needed,  a  reminder  that  he  should  stay  where  he’s  told,  that  there  is  a  difference  between  bravery  and  stupidity.   “i’m  fine,”  albus  tells  him,  a  small  smile  on  his  features.  “i’m  not  feeling  anything  right  now  honestly.”  it’s  an  attempt  to  make  his  father  smile,  but  he  knows  the  need  for  medicine  as  intense  as  the  ones  he’s  on  is  weighing  too  heavily  between  the  two  of  them.  as  soon  as  harry  sits  next  to  him,  al  leans  forward,  throwing  his  arms  around  his  dad,  bandages  and  injuries  completely  disregarded.  al  knows  that  he  needs  the  physical  reassurance  that  they’re  both  okay,  despite  where  they  are.  he  holds  his  father  tight,  both  as  apology  and  proof  that  his  father  is  in  one  piece  as  well.  he  stays  like  that  longer  than  he  normally  does,  lips  pressed  together  as  he  tries  to  keep  the  tears  from  falling.  he  had  never  meant  to  put  himself  or  his  family  in  the  position  of  losing  him,  but  the  need  to  help  getting  his  family  back  was  too  much  for  his  typical  self-preservations.  “i’m  sorry,”  he  says,  voice  small  and  on  the  verge  of  breaking  as  he  finally  breaks  away  from  his  father.  “i’m  the  one  who  should  be  apologizing,  i  didn’t  mean  for  any  of  this  to  happen.”  the  words  come  out  rushed,  albus  barely  taking  a  pause  as  he  looks  at  his  dad  through  blurry  eyes.  “but  we’re  all  okay,  right?”  because  there’s  been  so  much  going  on  in  the  infirmary,  albus  can’t  remember  what  was  a  dream  and  what  was  real.  

[misericors]

The pressure in his chest hardly eased at what was so clearly an attempt to reassure him. Harry would have shook his head in protest, but then Albus was throwing himself forward, and Harry's hands reached out on instinct to hold on tightly in return. There was a voice in his head telling him to be careful, to be gentle, but he found he couldn't, needed to have Albus this close, the way Harry had held him when he was a child, swearing then and there that he would never let anything touch him, that he would always protect him. Perhaps if he held him tightly enough now, Harry could still convince himself, could still believe in that. "Don't say that," he said fiercely, pullling back only enough to lean his forehead againt his son's. "None of this is your fault. I should have made you go home. We should have had - a better way to get everyone out. But the what ifs, Al - I've spent a lifetime battling them. I don't want to see you doing it. I won't see you do it. This wasn't on you. Promise me, you'll remember that?" He waited, and watched to see Al had heard it, knew it. Because there was more to say. And it wasn't going to be easy, not for either of them. But if anyone was to bear responsibility, he would not let it be Albus. It had been on his orders. It was on his hands, on his head.

"We are, yes -James, Lily, your mother, all the cousins, but ..." Harry broke off. He had been determined to deliver the news himself, had allowed no one else to do so. Albus would hear it from him. But it was difficult, all the same, to look into his trusting eyes and say it. Harry had never sought hero worship, but he had to admit, the utter faith, the complete trust with which Albus had always looked at him was something he depended on. But it wasn't something he could spare himself. Harry owed this. He steeled himself, and continued, a stark grief behind the determination in his eyes. "Xue is dead. He was brave. As any of us who knew him would have expected. It looks like they... tortured him for information. He held out for a very long time." Harry hated himself for saying the words, an empty eulogy for a boy he had known almost his whole life, who had been so much more than clinical words about bravery, words Harry had recited so many times now, for so many fallen. A boy Albus' age, his friend. It could have been him. Harry was so terribly grateful that it wasn't, and so terribly guilty for the relief in his heart. He cradled Albus' face in his hands, unwilling to let go. "I know he meant a lot to you."

[ichorled]

st  catchpole  is  familiar  ground  .  just  east  of  her  grandparents,  she  spent  summers  of  her  childhood  running  through  the  quiet  glen,  inspecting  and  poking  at  the  flora  and  fauna  that  call  the  forest  home  .  and  despite  the  creatures  lurking  in  the  dark,  even  as  a  child,  she  never  felt  afraid  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  trees  .  it’s  like  she  and  the  forest  and  the  creatures  living  in  it  had  an  understanding  .  like  the  creatures  sensed  her  intent,  and  something  familiar  under  her  skin  too  .  the  unnatural  radiance  of  a  girl  just  a  little  unlike  the  norm  .  just  a  little  unnatural,  a  little  agrestal  .  a  little,  curious  creature  just  doing  her  best  to  survive  like  the  rest  of  them  .  

 but  the  catchpole  forest  transforms  on  this  night  .  the  familiar  golden  snidget’s  evening  song  is  silenced  upon  his  approach,  and  the  entire  forest,  once  a  breathing  mechanism,  stops  dead,  as  if  it  never  claimed  to  be  alive  at  all  .  as  if  the  roots  that  stopped  her  from  stumbling  as  a  child  never  animated  .  as  if  the  memories  that  transformed  this  place  into  a  harbor  of  light  disappeared  .  even  the  gleam  of  the  blossom  she  came  to  harvest  appears  to  dull  in  his  presence,  like  he’s  snuffed  out  the  light  from  it  all  .

 fear  threatens  to  immobilize  her  .  the  last  time  she  marked  him,  nearing  a  decade  ago,  she’d  been  a  different  person  .  in  name,  in  elaborate  disguise,  but  also  in  spirit  .  she’d  been  braver  then  .  but  tonight,  her  pale  knuckled  fist  clenched  around  ash,  she’s  never  felt  more  afraid  .  she’s  no  match  for  him  .  in  arms,  in  strength,  he’s  stronger  than  she  is  .  she  understood  that  then,  too  .  but  it  mattered  less  back  then  .  because  back  then,  she  could  pretend  to  be  someone  else  .  someone  that  could  be  stronger,  lethal  .  but  named,  she  feels  herself  retreating  back  to  herself  .  to  the  girl  that  lives  in  the  phoenix  nest  and  refuses  to  take  flight  .  but  perhaps,  she  thinks,  she  can  find  her  old  self  again  .  perhaps,  she  can  pretend  one  last  time  .  the  smug,  unshrinking  smile  of  a  familiar stranger  spreads  slowly  across  her  face  .         “        took  you  long  enough  .          ”

[misericors]

It was hearing her voice again that spurred him into action, her taunt. No, into a loss of control. Cassius disregarded any thought of spellcasting. Instead, he took her roughtly by the shoulders and pushed her backwards, until Victoire was pressed against the spine of a tree. His grasp dug into her sides until he moved his hand to rest on her neck, to hold her there, his thumb stroking tenderly against her skin.

A caress, perhaps, to outside eyes, but they both knew better.

"Brave, aren't you? I'll add that to the list of what I know about you now. Victoire Weasley. Brave soldier of the light. Liar and traitor. Did you plan to kill me? Was that why you did it?" Cassius asked, more raw accusation than he intended. In his voice there was something unstable, reckless, not his usual careful containment, a yearning that he had kept inside, but never killed. A yearning she had created, and then destroyed. She had been the first. There had never been love in his heart until her. False, but still, the first. He felt now a desire to destroy her in return, pressed against Victoire as he was, covering the length of her body with his own. It was close to an intimate pose. If she let her head fall forwards, it would rest against his chest. He could almost feel it there, the heat of her breath on his neck. He imagined her heart would be racing, because of him, his presence, because she must suspect he would kill her. His own was beating fast as well, gloriously alive. It had felt just like this, before. It could set him alight if he let it.

Cassius offered a taunt in return, his mouth curling into a sneer, "Perhaps we aren't so different. I left you messages, did you get them? You never left an address, so I had to get creative."

[misericors]

Harry sat, in the safehouse's office that he had claimed as his own, shoulders bowed, head clasped in his hands. Xue was dead. The thought was painful in itself, even before he thought of Neville and Hannah grieving an impossible grief - one that should have, perhaps, been Harry's own. Almost been his own, though he had assured himself now of Albus' wellbeing. It took a strength Harry didn't believe he had to lift his head back up again. His eyes fell to the framed photograph on one side of his desk. His father's bright and laughing face looked up at him, entirely insensate of the defeat that weighed Harry down, the heaviness that filled every limb. It felt like looking at a stranger. It had been years since anyone had told Harry he looked like his father. Harry didn't know if that was because he was now older than his father had ever gotten to be, or because there was no one left living who remembered James Potter. The first James Potter, that was. Harry's eyes moved from his father's smiling face to his own James in the frame next to him. He looked just as youthfully invincible, full of light. The starkest contrast to Harry's state of numbness, the hopelessness he felt sinking in. James' face in the frame was so terribly young. The living ghost of his grandfather, in the way Harry could no longer be. Something about it felt prophetic. Harry shuddered, and took out his quill, sent the memo flying off to find James. Its magic would have more luck than Harry had in doing so, or so he hoped. He could hardly have failed to notice that, ever since Malfoy Manor, James was seemingly anywhere Harry was not. James, this is an official summons. My office, now. Perhaps a part of Harry had been glad James had been so difficult to find. He had not wanted to say something he would regret. Yet this meeting had waited long enough. It was time to talk. @valians

[midsommars-deactivated20201109]

—Greta Gerwig, Little Women (2019) Script

[sethkate]

Mayans MC + Xquic (2.05)

[firstlvght]

albus  just  finishes  telling  the  young  healer  for  what  seems  like  the  millionth  time  that  yes,  he  feels  fine,  but  yeah,  the  injuries  still  hurt.  he  has  to  bite  his  tongue  for  a  second,  just  so  the  irritation  at  the  repeated  questions  doesn’t  come  out.  al  isn’t  a  healer,  but  he  just  assumes  that  being  hit  with  a  curse  as  severe  as  the  one  he  was  hit  with  would  cause  some  lingering  pain.  but  at  least  now,  he’s  able  to  sit  and  stand  up  on  his  own.  the  door  to  the  infirmary  opens,  and  al  doesn’t  look  up  right  away,  but  he  can  sense  the  healer’s  posture  change,  standing  straighter.  it  causes  al’s  gaze  to  go  from  the  floor  to  the  doorway,  and  blue  eyes  seem  to  shine  a  bit  brighter  when  he  sees  who  it  is.  “dad!”  al  says,  and  it’s  the  first  time  in  a  few  days  where  he  isn’t  under  the  influence  of  any  potions,  and  he’s  already  taking  in  his  father’s  countenance,  the  replay  of  the  events  of  the  manor  playing  once  again  as  he  takes  in  any  injuries  that  his  dad  might  have.  al  tries  to  stand  quickly,  and  he  feels  a  bit  dizzy,  but  he  only  grimaces  slightly.  “how  are  you  doing?”  he  knows  it’s  a  silly  question  to  ask  when  two  of  his  children  have  been  in  the  infirmary,  but  the  last  thing  he  wants  to  talk  about  is  himself.  / @misericors

[misericors]

Harry paced outside the infirmary, impatiently carving a line back and forth, then made up his mind, heading directly towards the door the Order's mediwizards had dragged him out of, not half an hour ago. One stepped forward, with the half-abashed, half-determined look Harry was used to seeing on the faces around here. "Please, Mr. Potter, I've told you it's a delicate operation. I won't argue with you again, I'll simply send a Patronus to Madam Granger-Weasley-" Harry held up a hand, cutting him off. He'd already weighed up his options, the desperate need to see Al churning in his stomach, and decided he'd been on good behaviour quite long enough. "I'm about due my weekly lecture," he said bluntly, pushing past them all.

He stilled for a moment when he reaching the other side of the door, eyes catching on his son. An unstoppable wellspring of emotion rose up through his chest, wet his eyes. The great Harry Potter undone. It was his legs now that shook, taking a seat on Albus' hospital bed as much from necessity as the desire to be close to him, green eyes meeting their mirror image, assuring himself that Albus was still breathing. Still in one beloved, beloved piece. It was a struggle to keep from embracing him. He didn't look nearly as pale as he had when they'd brought him back, but he still looked bad. And Harry could still remember the moment, seeing him fall. A scene from his worst nightmares made real. He would see it again, he knew, perhaps every night from now on. "That's my line, I think," he said, attempting a smile. It fell flat."How do you feel? I know this curse, it's ... nasty. Cruel." Knew it well, from his own handiwork, but the guilt-ridden shadow passing over his eyes now was not from that memory. "Al. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should never have let this happen."