[my entry #2 for @forbiddenforest-campfire event! 🔥]
Summary: Alejandro Salvatori (M!OC) always thought the fire in the Slytherin hearth was comfort—until it spoke back.
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Tags: Psychological Horror, Migraine, Nightmares, Prophecy, Visions, Cost of Love, Curse and Crown, Revelation, Liminal Spaces, Dream vs Reality, Destiny vs Free Will, Angst (?), Slytherin Common Room, Original Characters
Content Warning: Vivid Nightmare Imagery, Anxiety and Sensory Overwhelm, Implied Pain/Restraint, Mild Non-Graphic Blood/Burning Imagery, Psychological Distress, Themes of Coercion and Helplessness. Reader discretion is advised.
★ word count: 2.8k
The fire in the Slytherin hearth crackled softly—a sound that should have been soothing. Tonight, it was not. Each snap of wood clawed at the edges of Alejandro Salvatori’s skull, sharp as glass.
He lay stretched across the sofa, drenched in cold sweat. The room itself felt hostile: stone leeching its chill into his back, leather cushions pressing cool against his skin. Even the air seemed complicit, autumn’s draft creeping in from the Black Lake, carrying a dampness that made his bones ache.
The migraine gnawed behind his eyes, relentless, joined by a fatigue that dragged at every limb. He told himself it was nothing more than work: the burden of being Head Boy, the hours poured into perfecting his classes, the endless drills to sharpen his Chaser’s form. A night’s sleep should have been enough. It always had been.
He stayed here often, claiming the sofa nearest the fire when the dormitory felt too crowded with breath and dreams. His dorm mates had long since grown used to finding him there by morning, quill still in hand, an open book slipping from his lap. It was better this way. He didn’t have to wake anyone. He didn’t have to explain the headaches. Or the strange, pulsing warmth that sometimes crawled beneath his ribs when the world went quiet.
But sleep would not come. Nor wakefulness. He hovered between both, as if the moonlight glancing off the lake beyond the dormitory window had caught him in its reflection, holding him fast in a space that was neither dream nor day. His sea-green eyes shimmered with the same confusion: glassy, restless. His skin, sun-kissed by summer, gleamed now with a fever’s damp sheen. His dark hair, usually disciplined and polished, clung in dishevelled strands across his brow.
He pressed a hand to his temple, as if the gesture could tether him—steady, Ale, steady. The thought sounded like his mother’s voice, soft and familiar. For a fleeting instant, he pictured his brothers asleep in their own towers—one beneath Slytherin’s green glass, the other high among Ravenclaw’s stars. The image hurt more than the pain itself. The last thing he wanted was to worry them. Love, he thought bitterly, could ache at a distance.
The fire popped again, the sound ringing like a hammer-strike inside his skull. He flinched, then forced his jaw to unclench, summoning the last of his composure. One deep breath. One steadying thought. If he could just hold still, perhaps the storm inside would quiet. He’d tamed more difficult things than a restless mind. He could tame this, too.
A current of air slipped across him then cool as fingers brushing skin, eerie in its tenderness. Almost a lullaby. Almost a summons.
Ale did not open his eyes. He dared not.
The wind lingered, weaving through the silence like a song he almost remembered. It brushed his temples, threaded through his hair, and for a moment, he thought he might finally surrender to sleep.
But beneath that thought, another stirred—soft, insistent, wordless.
A pulse behind his ribs, faint but familiar, as though something in him had begun to listen back.
Then the warmth of the fire receded.
The sofa beneath him grew cold—too cold—as though stone had replaced leather. He shifted, or thought he did, and the world shifted with him. The air thickened, damp and metallic, carrying the faint stench of rot laced with sweetness.
His eyelids fluttered.
The Slytherin common room was gone.
Above him, iron candelabra bloomed with flame, their smoke curling into shapes that never dispersed. He lay upon something unyielding, cold as marble. For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then came the voices.
Faint at first—like whispers rising through water. Then louder. More insistent. Dozens, hundreds, overlapping until the sound pressed against his skull. He couldn’t tell if they came from the walls, the air, or from inside his own head.
Every syllable blurred, yet each seemed to claw at his name, shaping pleas he could almost understand.
Help us.
Save us, Salvatori.
Alejandro—please—
He froze. That last one—he knew that voice. The timbre alone was enough to unsettle him.
He tried to call back, but his throat wouldn’t obey. The words my brothers rose to his lips and died there. The sound of it, even unspoken, tore through him.
He clutched at the surface beneath him, trying to anchor himself, but even that throbbed with power—vibrating under his palms like a living thing. The stone breathed in time with his pulse. His body rebelled against him, trembling with effort and fear, his breath short and uneven.
He looked down. What he’d taken for stone was an altar, carved and marked: chalked constellations in white, etched sigils deep, the gleam of glass vessels filled with light like captured stars. Their glow pulsed faintly, each flicker a heartbeat.
And there, at the far end, a silhouette stood.
The flames carved her figure into light and shadow, her presence swelling until the chamber itself seemed to bow around her. She did not move. She did not need to. He felt her smile before he saw it—a curve of presence more than flesh, as if she had been waiting for this very instant—for him.
The witch.
She was beautiful. Terrifying beyond reason, but beautiful. Like a storm: magnetic, inescapable—a force that drew him closer even as dread dug into his spine. Shadows clung to her like veils, shifting and alive, bending to her will.
Her gaze found him. Sharp. Luminous. Ancient.
His chest tightened, breath shallow. It felt as though her eyes could unmake him, thread by thread—and still, he could not look away.
“The Sun rises,” she whispered.
The words fell like a blessing, like a curse, like the closing of a door that would never open again.
The voices did not stop. They sank back into the walls, into the air, into his blood—faint, but still there, still pleading.
Save us.
Don’t let it take us.
He wanted to shout—take me instead—but his body betrayed him. Only silence answered.
The witch tilted her head—listening, or perhaps commanding. When her lips parted, the air itself trembled.
“Listen well, child of dawn,” she said, her shadow stretching over him like a veil. The fire bent toward her, its roar dimming to her breath.
“This is your story. Your curse. Your crown. Remember.”
Her words sank into him like coals pressed to flesh. He tried to turn his head, to reject the heat crawling under his skin, but the effort only drew him deeper into its pull. The altar’s light brightened, spilling gold across his face, reflecting the tremor in his eyes.
He wanted to resist, to cry out, but something older than fear rooted him to the marble. A part of him knew this place—not as a dream, but as a wound, sealed long ago and left to fester.
The witch smiled, and the chamber exhaled.
She began.
“Child of dawn, whose heart is flame—
greater yet than sire’s name.”
Her voice split the silence, low and resonant. The words were not sound, but force—each syllable threading through air, blood, bone.
The chamber pulsed. The altar thrummed beneath him, light crawling up the carvings like veins of molten gold.
For a breath, the fire felt kind. It poured through him, warm as a mother’s touch, soft as mercy.
Then it broke.
The heat thickened into pressure, into ache. His brothers’ faces flared into being—eyes wide, hands outstretched through flame.
Then others: his mother’s voice, trembling through smoke; the faces of friends he could not name but knew in his bones—laughing once, now screaming.
Each vision shattered as he reached for it, leaving only ash where skin should be.
“Light to bind, or fire to rend;
all you love may find their end.”
The witch’s words sank into his chest, and the marble shuddered like a living thing.
Light burst through the sigils, flooding his vision until he could see nothing but white.
When the light dimmed, the world had changed.
He stood beneath a sky the color of dying suns—red and black, torn open.
A creek wound before him, its waters thick and glinting—not water, but blood, rippling with gold.
The air stank of smoke and iron.
He stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees by the shore. The surface mirrored him—pale, hollow, trembling—before it rippled, and the reflection smiled back, eyes blazing with ruin.
Behind him, voices began to rise—faint at first, then multiplying, a hundred, a thousand—strangers, loved ones, ghosts.
Save us, Salvatori. Help us. Why didn’t you—?
Their tones tangled, pleading, accusing, their cadence weaving into the witch’s next line.
“When warmth is mercy, life shall grow;
when wrath is kindled, all shall know.”
The creek boiled, the blood steaming. Faces surfaced in it—his brothers again, his mother’s hand slipping beneath the red, his friends swallowed by shadow.
He tried to reach for them, but his limbs turned heavy, his will hollowed. The more he fought, the weaker he became.
The chant surged louder, echoing between the cries.
“The brighter burns the lover’s spark,
the deeper cuts the shadowed mark.”
The world convulsed. Fire fell from the sky. Cities screamed and cracked apart.
He saw himself—older, colder—standing in the ruins, his wand raised, his name spoken like a prayer and a curse.
Crowds reached for him—hopeful, desperate—until the air burned them to cinders.
You promised, the voices whispered. You swore to save us.
He clutched his head, choking on heat and guilt. “Stop,” he rasped, but the chant did not stop—it fed on him.
And then the world split open.
“Threefold trial, night and day;
blood shall call, and soul shall fray.”
Three doors unfolded from the red horizon—
Behind the first: his brothers, mother, and friends burning alive, each calling his name as if it were salvation.
Behind the second: faceless crowds collapsing, their bodies turning to ash mid-prayer.
Behind the third: nothing but darkness—until it bled into glass.
A mirror.
And then—
everything went silent...
No chant. No voices.
Just him.
He turned toward the mirror, every breath scraping raw in his throat.
His reflection stood there—same face, same eyes—but lit from within, molten and wrong.
The mirrored version smiled, slow and terrible.
“You were always the fire,” it said.
The witch’s words returned in a whisper, distant, echoing from somewhere above:
“If love endures the tempest’s breath,
the Sun shall bless, not bring to death.”
The mirror cracked. Light poured from the fractures. Shards splintered outward, embedding in his skin.
He gasped as each cut flared gold, blood burning like liquid dawn.
“Warmth may heal, or fire consume;
in the brightest light, you’ll find your gloom.”
The reflection reached through the shattered glass, seized him by the throat.
He struggled, clawed, but its grip tightened—every heartbeat fusing pain with light, every breath turning to ash.
It leaned close, whispering in his own voice:
“This is the cost of love.”
“If love holds fast, the blaze shall bless;
if faltered, all shall burn to ash.”
His scream was swallowed by the silence. The reflection dissolved into him, folding back into his body like smoke re-entering a flame.
The witch’s voice rose once more, joined by the whispers of a thousand unseen mouths, each syllable tolling like a bell across the void:
“Threefold binds: I love, I die, I live—
the Sun decides what fate shall give.”
Then—
the world exhaled.
The red sky bled away.
The voices fell quiet.
Only the altar remained beneath him, cold and slick with light.
Ale lay trembling, his breath ragged, his skin aglow where the shards had cut him.
Something had changed.
Something that would not change back.
The witch bent nearer—close enough for him to see fire shimmer in her eyes, close enough that her words poured into him like smoke.
“When you wake,” she whispered, each syllable deliberate, “this night will fade. Its edges will blur like a dream forgotten at dawn. You will swear it never touched you.”
Her shadow lengthened, folding over him like wings.
“But dreams are patient things. They return when the hour calls them back. So too will this one. And when it comes again, it will not be to lull, but to guide… or to wound.”
Her lips curved—neither smile nor snarl, but something that knew both.
“You will remember when you most need to. Remember, and tremble. Remember, and choose. That is the mirror I leave you: your curse, your crown, your sun. Only you can decide how it sets.”
Ale wanted to speak—to plead, to shout, to curse her—but his throat locked against him. His body wouldn’t move. The silence she pressed upon him wasn’t absence; it was command.
No.
The thought ripped through him, fierce, wordless.
I don’t want your crown. I don’t want your fire.
He tried to lift his hand, to claw free from the altar’s hold, but the marble only tightened its claim, alive and cold beneath his palm.
Give it back. Take it back. Anything—just not them.
He saw their faces again: his mother, his brothers, his friends—eyes wide, reaching for him through the smoke—and the helplessness rose like bile.
The witch’s gaze softened, almost pitying. That hurt worst of all.
His pulse thrashed beneath his ribs. His chest burned, his limbs shook, but still he fought—against the power, against her, against the fate that coiled itself around his name. The defiance had no sound, only force, raw and desperate, pressing back against the curse like light clawing through ash.
But the more he struggled, the heavier the air became—until even his thoughts slowed beneath the weight. His rage dulled to ache. His protest to breath.
And through that last thread of strength, a single truth formed, unwanted and immutable:
She was right. He would remember.
He tried to deny it, but the fire already lived in him—patient, waiting.
The witch did not fade. Even in silence, she lingered—like smoke in his lungs, like shadow sewn beneath his skin. He did not need to look to know she was smiling still, certain of what she had sown.
Ale’s breath came uneven, trembling, each exhale dragging the remnants of his defiance with it. He closed his eyes—not in surrender, but in refusal to let her see him break.
The chamber dimmed. The marble pulsed once beneath him, like a heartbeat answering his own—then went still.
And in that stillness, the world expired.
A sound cracked the dark—sharp, blinding—like a snap of fire splitting wood.
Ale jerked awake, breath shattering into the quiet. He was on the Slytherin sofa again, chest heaving, palms pressed to sweat-slick leather. The common room swam before him: firelight flickering over damp stone, the faint scent of the Black Lake drifting through the air. Everything was as it should be. And yet—nothing was.
His shirt clung to him, his hair matted to his temples. His pulse thundered, wild and ungoverned, as if it still belonged to the dream. When he tried to rise, the room tilted; the hearth warped in his vision, the firelight dragging shadows across the floor like living things.
He told himself to breathe. To reason. It had been a dream—nothing more than a dream. But the word felt hollow, too small to contain the weight that still coiled inside his ribs.
The fire hissed. A single ember cracked. The sound crawled across his skin.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, as though to steady what had already shifted. Something throbbed there—slow, foreign, deliberate. His heart, yes, but not entirely. The rhythm was wrong, too heavy, too ancient, echoing somewhere deeper than bone.
And the dream—was it a dream?—was already vanishing. He reached for it, but it blurred beneath his grasp like smoke. Faces, voices, fire—each dissolving into light until only a single word lingered.
Remember.
It clung to him like breath against his ear, vanishing the moment he tried to name it.
He sat there for a long time, staring into the hearth. The fire looked ordinary again. Harmless. But its warmth no longer reached him. It stopped just short of his skin, as if recognizing something in him had changed.
Ale exhaled. The sound came out small. Mortal. “It’s over,” he whispered to no one, though even he didn’t believe it.
Still, in that fragile hush, his pulse began to steady. Slow, defiant, alive. There it was again—the flicker that refused to die. Hope, or maybe stubbornness; the same thread that had always pulled him through.
But when he closed his eyes, he felt it—the echo beneath the quiet. A watchful presence. A seed taking root.
He did not know its name, but it knew his.
When he finally pushed himself upright, his reflection caught faintly in the window. The firelight touched his face—and for a breath, the light didn’t move right. It seemed to follow him, clinging to the edges of his silhouette before sliding back into place. His eyes, too, held something different now: a shimmer that wasn’t wholly gold, nor wholly human.
He blinked, and it was gone.
Tomorrow, he told himself, would bring lighter hours. Tomorrow, he would rise as he always had.
And yet, beneath that fragile faith, something waited—silent and patient—as the dawn does before it breaks.
[author's notes:]
☀️ thank you so much for reading! ❤️🔥 i hope you didn't read this before bed 🤪
☀️ non-native english speaker here 🫣 + i only write for fun! 🪄
☀️ shout out to my platonic wife @accio-bagel for beta reading and for her helpful feedbacks! 😌❤️🔥
☀️ the cute sun divider belongs to @saradika-graphics 💞✨
☀️ for more helpful ale facts, you can tap the following links 🔗: character guide ; random facts
ENFPs are people-centered creators with a focus on possibilities and a contagious enthusiasm for new ideas, people and activities. Energetic, warm, and passionate, ENFPs love to help other people explore their creative potential.
+++
...typically agile and expressive communicators, using their wit, humor, and mastery of language to create engaging stories. Imaginative and original, ENFPs often have a strong artistic side. They are drawn to art because of its ability to express inventive ideas and create a deeper understanding of human experience.
About the ENFP-A
Someone who is an ENFP-A is also known as an "Assertive Campaigner." This ENFP subtype tends to be more confident and has more emotional control in their relationships.
💜 Enneagram 8w7 Personality Traits
They tend to be self-confident, sociable, and pragmatic in their behavior.
They are ambitious and independent, preferring to follow their own path.
💥 Basic Fear
Eight with a seven wing fear being controlled by others. They dislike authority and prefer to work alone.
🌠 Basic Desire
Their basic desire is to remain in control of their own lives. They also want other people to be free, and are often advocates for those less able.
💫 ENFP-A + 8w7 can look like—
The core desire of the ENFP 8w7 is to maintain control. Unlike other thinking types, their need for control is centered around their emotions and values. Thus, this personality type is extremely protective of their emotions and feelings. They will also exert control in other parts of their lives to a lesser degree.
The core fear of the ENFP 8w7 is to be controlled, manipulated, or deceived. How they choose to achieve this will depend on the particular individual.
ENFPs are known to have big ideas with a clear lack of discipline. Not this ENFP. ENFP 8w7s are driven to accomplish their goals and targets. This usually comes with a lot of self-determination and grit. Thus, you can expect this type to achieve whatever they set their minds to do. Their willpower is very strong, to say the least.
ENFPs are idealists. Thus, they might be too optimistic for their own good. They might look at the world as it ought to be and not what it is. However, ENFP 8w7s are different. They are more realistic with their goals and plans. This is probably one reason why they are more successful than typical ENFPs. This also allows them to have multiple backup plans. In this regard, they might look a bit like the ENTJ or INTJ.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . ✦ ˚ . ★ ˚ ✦ . ˚ . ✦ ˚ . ★
Moving on, let's meet...
☀️ Alejandro 'Ale' Salvatori!
(MBTI) ENTJ-A + 1w9 (Enneagram)
—
💜 What are ENTJs like?
ENTJs are strategic leaders, motivated to organize change. They are quick to see inefficiency and conceptualize new solutions, and enjoy developing long-range plans to accomplish their vision. They excel at logical reasoning and are usually articulate and quick-witted.
+++
...analytical and objective, and like bringing order to the world around them. When there are flaws in a system, the ENTJ sees them, and enjoys the process of discovering and implementing a better way. ENTJs are assertive and enjoy taking charge; they see their role as that of leader and manager, organizing people and processes to achieve their goals.
About the ENTJ-A
ENTJ-A (the assertive commander)—Confident; assumes others' acceptance; less emotionally reactive; handles stress and negativity well
❤️ Enneagram 1w9 Personality Traits
People with a type one wing nine personality tend to be judicial and rational in their behavior, but are generally more calm and balanced than other type ones.
They usually have a desire for justice and equality and can see both sides of an issue easily. They are motivated by a strong sense of right and wrong.
💥 Basic Fear
...have a basic fear of being unethical and corrupt. They avoid making morally wrong choices and can be objective and emotionally reserved.
🌠 Basic Desire
They have a basic desire to be morally good. They advocate for rights of others through teaching and discussion.
💫 ENTJ-A + 1w9 can look like—
ENTJ 1w9s will be more ethical and morally inclined. They will look to do the right thing always.
This is probably because their introverted feeling (Fi) function is more developed. Thus, they have more sensitive personal values. Because they are ENTJs, they will try to assert those beliefs.
They will have high standards and want to stick to them. The big pro here is that their innovative ideas now have a much higher chance of succeeding.
Can see the perspectives of others more clearly. This allows them to soften their stance wherever possible.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . ✦ ˚ . ★ ˚ ✦ . ˚ . ✦ ˚ . ★
And last, but definitely not the least—
☄️ Jacque 'Jake' Jenkins!
(MBTI) ENTP-A + 7w8 (Enneagram)
—
💜 What are ENTPs like?
ENTPs are inspired innovators, motivated to find new solutions to intellectually challenging problems. They are curious and clever, and seek to comprehend the people, systems, and principles that surround them. Open-minded and unconventional, Visionaries want to analyze, understand, and influence other people.
+++
...enjoy playing with ideas and especially like to banter with others. They use their quick wit and command of language to keep the upper hand with other people, often cheerfully poking fun at their habits and eccentricities. While the ENTP enjoys challenging others, in the end they are usually happy to live and let live. They are rarely judgmental, but they may have little patience for people who can't keep up.
About the ENTP-A
ENTP-As are "assertive debaters." More confident than ENTP-Ts, ENTP-As assume that people accept them and aren't as interested as ENTP-Ts in discussing their feelings. They tend to be less emotionally reactive.
🩵 Enneagram 7w8 Personality Traits
They tend to be enthusiastic, determined, and protective in their behavior.
They are generally more tough and work-oriented than other seven (7) types.
💥 Basic Fear
Seven with an eight wing fear being deprived. They want to pursue new opportunities and avoid being controlled by schedules.
🌠 Basic Desire
Their basic desire is to content and satisfied. They love experiencing the world by traveling and going to parties.
💫 ENTP-A + 7w8 can look like—
ENTP 7w8 are charismatic people who strive to enjoy life. They are usually cheerful and are filled with creativity... Their curiosity also means that they can learn a lot of skills along the way. They are literally like a sponge when they find something they are passionate about.
The basic fear of the ENTP 7w8 is missing out on beautiful experiences and ideas. They want to enjoy life on their own terms. To make this happen, they use their creative minds to figure out the smartest ways to achieve their targets.
The basic desire of the ENTP 7w8 is to be happy. To make this happen, ENTP 7w8 will seek out novel experiences and pleasures. They will focus on what they love to do and often neglect pretty much every other thing.
You probably heard that ENTPs are the jack of all trades and master of one. However, with a strong wing, ENTP 7w8s can specialize in an industry and actually build a successful career. While this is true, it might take some jumping around before the ENTP finally settles on the industry that is right for them.
˚ ✦ . . ˚ . ✦ ˚ — E N D — ˚ ✦ . ˚ . ✦ ˚ . ★
[additional notes:]
👻 thank you so much for reading my little (for fun) personality snapshot research! 🧪✨
👻 🔗 reference links 🔗:
🌸 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4
☀️ 1 ; 2 ; 3 ; 4
☄️ 1.; 2 ; 3 ; 4
👻 there's so much more i want to add, but the post would be too long (and frankly, i don't have the attention span for it 😆) so i'll create a more elaborate one next time! 🔥✨
👻 all infos above are the stereotypes that only resonate with my respective ocs ⏫💫 (nuanced/grey area my beloved 🩶)
👻 extra helpful oc facts (if you're interested! 😌🍽️)
Summary: Jake Jenkins (OC) shares a story sharp enough to unsettle the darkness itself, haunting the fragile line between tale and truth.
Rating: Teen and Up Audiences
Tags: Quidditch Practice, Ghost Story, Banter, Storytelling, Angst and Atmosphere, Original Characters, Friendship.
Content Warning: Dark Themes, Mentions of Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Psychological Horror Elements.
★ word count: 1.6k
The stadium was hushed, save for the thud of a Quaffle against leather and the faint rush of broom bristles through cooling air. Twilight draped the stands in long shadows, the last threads of sunlight slipping down behind the towers. The Slytherin team had already trudged back to the castle, their laughter fading into stone corridors, but Valentine Black lingered, circling the pitch in stubborn arcs.
She pressed forward, jaw set, each pass through the hoops a dare against her own fatigue. Her lungs burned, her arms ached, her palms stung where the Quaffle bit into skin. But she wasn’t done yet. Not when she was still the newest Chaser on the roster. Not when every clean shot was proof she belonged, not a fluke, not a replacement waiting to be cut loose.
The silence pressed in, so thick she could almost hear the ghost of the crowd—roars, jeers, the phantom echo of what it might be like to matter. She chased that echo the way she chased the hoops, sharp dives and narrow throws carving determination into the dusk.
A clean arc, a sharp snap through the center hoop. Val exhaled, pushing sweaty strands of hair from her cheek, already angling for another run.
“Merlin’s pants, you Slytherins really don’t know when to quit.”
The voice cut through the quiet like a stone through glass, rich with amusement, too loud for the settling dark. Val didn’t need to look; only one person bled confidence that thickly into every syllable.
Her grip tightened on the Quaffle. She threw anyway, deliberately ignoring him. The ball smacked through another hoop, defiance echoing in the hollow clang.
“Say something interesting,” she shot back, dry, “or shut up. Please and thank you.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw him swagger closer, broom tucked lazily beneath one arm, the last streaks of sunset catching in his hair. Jake Jenkins, grinning like he owned the whole bloody pitch.
“Wow. So polite of you, Black,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Been practicing your manners? Or saving that sharp tongue just for me?”
Val’s lips twitched before she crushed it flat, keeping her eyes on the hoops, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a smile. His voice still vibrated in her ears though, annoyingly warm, like it could take root there if she wasn’t careful.
Jake lingered at the edge of the pitch, his smirk widening with each perfect throw she refused to let him interrupt. When at last she slowed, sweat cooling against her skin, he tilted his head and called out, voice dripping with mischief.
“May I fancy you with a scary story?”
Val raised a brow, Quaffle balanced in her grip. “How scary?”
Jake’s grin sharpened.
“Scary enough you might start disliking humanity more than you already do.”
That earned him a pause. Against her will, her pulse skipped. She hovered a moment longer, then sighed and guided her broom down. Dust rose around her boots as she touched down, dropping the Quaffle with a dull thud.
“You’ve got my attention, Jenkins.”
“Of course I do.” He sprawled across the grass like the pitch belonged to him, eyes glinting with that infuriating sparkle of challenge.
Val leaned back onto her hands, stretching her legs across the grass. The night air cooled her skin, tugging away the heat of training.
For once, Jake didn’t immediately fill the silence with noise. He tipped his head skyward, letting the moonlight slide across his face. The smirk never fully left his mouth, but something in his expression sharpened: still, deliberate, almost ritual.
“You’re really setting the mood for this, huh?” Val muttered.
His grin curled slowly. “That’s the point, Black. A good story’s got to crawl under your skin first.”
And then his voice dropped, threading smooth through the chilly night air.
“Let me tell you,” he said, “the tale of a boy who borrowed someone else’s life, and wore it so well, no one remembered the face he buried to get it.”
The words seemed to thicken the air. Val’s fingers curled unconsciously into the grass.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived underground. Not in comfort, not in secret, but in chains of soot and hunger. A miner’s son. The dark was his cradle, the earth his tomb. His nails split before he could write, his lungs filled with black dust before they could fill with laughter. His parents didn’t look at him, not really. To them, he was another tool. A shovel with bones.”
Val’s throat tightened. She imagined the reek of smoke, grit grating down her throat, the press of darkness so total it could smother thought itself.
“One night, the mine screamed. The timbers snapped like bones, and fire poured down like rain. The ground opened its mouth and swallowed everything. His sister’s cry. His mother’s face. His father’s silence. All of it smothered in ash, smothered in smoke. And the boy crawled out, blistered and choking, reborn in flame and ruin.”
Jake’s smile twisted, too sharp.
“But the world above didn’t care for ghosts. He wandered the streets with coal still in his hair, and the city did what cities do—it chewed him up. A rat among boots. A shadow that stole crusts from bins and coins from pockets. He learned fast that hunger is louder than pride, and sharper than fear. Still, hunger doesn’t stay quiet long.”
Val could almost smell it: sour rot of bins, piss-slick stone, the copper tang of blood where teeth gnawed skin. She swallowed, hard.
“So one night, the boy was caught. Cornered in an alley, piss and rot thick in the air. A knife pressed against his throat. The man wanted blood. Wanted to see a rat bleed out on the cobblestones. And then—” Jake’s hand flicked through the air like smoke escaping fingers, “—the boy slipped free. Vanished. A miracle, they called it. A curse, more like. He walked away untouched, and from then on, they whispered of the Lucky Boy. But luck, Black…” his grin curved razor-sharp, “…luck always comes with teeth.”
The pitch was deathly quiet now. Even the breeze stilled, grass bending as if to listen.
“And sure enough, luck drew the eye of a man too rich to starve and too broken to live. A man with coffers overflowing but no heirs left to bear his name. A man who saw in the boy a blank slate. A vessel. A mask.”
Jake’s voice slowed, reverent, like a priest uttering a curse.
“So the boy shed his skin. Washed the soot from his hands until the water ran black and red. He practiced a new smile in broken mirrors until it fit his face like a blade in a sheath. He learned to laugh at the right moments, to talk like he belonged in parlors and not in pits. He became what they needed him to be. And soon, no one remembered the rat. No one remembered the screams in the mine. No one remembered the boy at all.”
Val’s stomach churned. Her nails dug crescents into her palms, grounding herself in the cold grass. A shiver threatened to climb her spine, but she refused to give him that victory.
“They only remembered the mask. And somewhere, beneath all that polish and shine, the boy waited. Still waiting. Still clawing at the inside of that skin, trying to get out. And if you listen closely—” Jake tilted his head, voice dipping to a whisper that crawled between heartbeats, “—you can hear his fingernails scratching against the bone. Wondering if the mask will crack… or rot with him inside.”
Silence.
It stretched long, heavy, pressing on her ribs until she could hear her own heartbeat too loud in her ears. The moon had climbed higher, spilling cold silver across the grass, hollowing Jake’s grin into something wolfish.
Val sat very still, heart drumming against her ribs. Her palms pressed into the damp grass, grounding her, as though movement might break the fragile line between story and truth.
“Do you always tell stories like you lived them?” she asked at last, voice steady but low.
Jake tilted his head, moonlight cutting his grin into something smug and dangerous.
“I’m just that good.”
“Or just that insane.”
Before he could retort, a familiar voice cut through the night.
“Oi, Jenkins! What’s got you out here, practicing your brooding face?”
Finn Moran strode out of the shadows, broad-shouldered, gait loose as if he owned the night. Beside him, Ellie Crawford kept pace, her scuffed boots crunching over the grass. She shot him a warning glare sharp enough to slice through the dark, as if daring him to charge headlong into trouble anyway. Arms folded, chin tilted, she radiated that quiet defiance only she could pull off.
Jake didn’t flinch. If anything, his grin sharpened, like he’d been waiting for this.
“We were sharing a ghost story,” he said, eyes flicking to Finn with something heavier than the words themselves.
Finn slowed, his expression flickering for just a heartbeat; something sharp and knowing flashing through before his usual mischief slammed back into place.
“A ghost story?” he echoed, throwing his arms wide with mock horror. “Merlin’s beard, Jake, you’re scaring the poor girl.”
Val scoffed, tossing the Quaffle into the air and catching it with a snap. “Please. I’ve heard scarier sounds coming from the Slytherin lavatories.”
Ellie snorted. “Not a high bar, Val.”
Finn laughed too loud, too easy.
But Jake leaned back into the grass, eyes never leaving Finn’s. In the silver wash of moonlight, the glance they shared said more than words ever could.
Because only the two of them knew—sometimes the scariest ghosts are the ones still wearing a heartbeat, clinging like smoke in your lungs until every breath feels borrowed.
And in the hush that followed, Val couldn’t shake the feeling that the Quaffle lying forgotten in the shadow of the hoop wasn’t the only thing abandoned on this pitch tonight.
[additional notes:]
🔥 thank you so much for reading! i hope you got the chills! 😏😆❤️🔥
🔥 non-native english speaker here, so advance pardon for the errors 🙇🏻♀️
🔥 i'm adding links to the mentioned ocs above, just in case you want more info! (Jake, Val, Finn, Ellie)
🔥 shout out to my platonic wife @accio-bagel for letting me include her beautiful children! (Finn ♥️ and Ellie 💚)
[Jake Jenkins: a side character short introduction ⬇️]
☄️ Who's Jake?
Your typical loud, funny, and sociable Gryffindor jock who loves Quidditch and parties 🍻 (He got that magnetic & reckless charm smeared all over him 🫦)
One would always see him hanging out with his friends, doing idiotic dares, and being in detention after doing something stupid but "fun", for sure.
If you ask me, this kid definitely snorted the line between bravery and recklessness XD
Quick-witted, charming, annoying but the lovable kind. Definitely that one person people flock over even if they know they can accidentally get burned by him (figuratively)—like moths to a flame, if you will.
Can pull his ultimate devil's advocate card once in a while just to see what happens.
Thrives on momentum: the louder the crowd, the faster the pace, the bigger the challenge, the better!
Enjoys verbal sparring with friends. Surprisingly appreciates intellectual conversations and can get easily bored with prolonged small talk.
Simultaneously heavily opinionated & open-minded. Loves people who have an unwavering core and can stand their ground when needed.
Can be perceived as narcissistic or someone with a God complex, as he enjoys joking about being the 'best human to ever set foot on planet Earth'; he thinks the louder his bravado is, the more people won't notice his insecurities. (Typical ENTP, especially during their teenage years)
☄️ Wholesome (?) Facts about Jake!✨
My 'token straight' OC! Yet ironically shares the gayest platonic bond with his best friend, Finn! (OC by my platonic wife, @accio-bagel 💛) That's not so bro-some of you, Jake!!! 😆
Speaking of Finn, Jake named his goldfish after him, insisting that the goldfish is as 'dumb' as his best friend. (Real reason: so he can always bring Finn with him when he's not around 🌈)
Also, fret not! I can assure everyone reading this that toxic and fragile masculinity is scared of Jake. He's that type of boyfriend who would carry your bag and act like he's in a photoshoot 🤣🛍️ (He's a fairy princess inside his restless imagination🧚🏻♀️✨ Just don't argue with him about it, okay? XD)
Quietly super caring. Can easily tell when the ones closest to him are upset or just having a bad day. Likes to comfort or cheer them up by bringing food, throwing gentle jokes, or just sitting beside them.
Remembers and notices even the tiniest details. But can convincingly act like he doesn't.
Loves music! Secretly sings to Finn the goldfish when no one's around 😆🎶 (He thinks it's soothing the fish)
[Additional: Lore Behind Jake's Creation]
Compared to my other OCs (Val & Ale), Jake was unplanned. He's my little 'happy accident', if you will 😆🩵
It started as a joke with my friend @accio-bagel when she shared about Finn. And then we both thought 'why not make it Finn & Jake?' XD. And BAM 💥 Jake was spontaneously born ☄️
It didn't take me too long to create his backstory either which was a first 😅 considering my snail pace lore building 🐌 (Took me 2 days, whereas my other OCs usually take months or a year)
He's here for fun! (mainly) And to balance my usual angsty lores.
[author's note:]
☄️ thank you for reading all of this and i hope you enjoyed! ❤️🔥
☄️ grammatic errors may be present (proofreading, i'll get to you later 😆)
☄️ i have more lore to yap real soon since i'm currently so invested on this kid 🗣️🩵
☄️ shout out to my lovely cinnamon roll @kiwiplaetzchen for this fantastic template! 🥝💚
☄️ credits @saradika-graphics for this cool divider!✨
Mr. Montero being roped into the HLMCU shenanigans
(The unofficially-official story of how Hector became a platonic co-parent to 14 goblin teenagers. ((for legal reasons Cal kidnapping him is purely for laughs /hj.))
♡︎ - Ale & Val @savingsallow, Damien @theladyofshalott1989, Ellie @accio-bagel, Tori @espressoristretto-patronum, James & Sovann @leaping-toadstool-caps, Alyn @ps-cactus, Jo @ravenwind-75, Wren @freddiestheproblemchild.
Back at school.
♡︎ - Val & Ale, @savingsallow, Damien @theladyofshalott1989, Freddie & Wren @freddiestheproblemchild, Ellie @accio-bagel, Alyn @ps-cactus, Jo @ravenwind-75, James @leaping-toadstool-caps, Tori @espressoristretto-patronum.
This has been on hold for some time while I had a creative block, and it’s staying on hold while I focus on getting my Garreth fest art done in time, but I still plan to finish eventually 🖤
