When The Writers Botch The Protagonists’ Internal Conflicts
A lesson in internal conflict and how overlooking it breaks both your main characters and your story, featuring Stranger Things
⭐️♥️🌈
Every well-written main character goes on a journey in their narrative, and at the heart of this character arc is an internal conflict: the push and pull between what the character wants and the fears and lies stopping them from getting what they want.
Internal conflict, especially for multiple characters, can be tricky to pull off, but it’s what makes characters relatable. To everyone. We all have desires, fears, and misbeliefs about the world or ourselves that stop us from going after our desires.
Internal conflict is The Clash between desire & fear.
The average story is able to create payoff with the main character’s conflict, having them (and in turn, the audience) learn something along the way.
But when you decenter the emotional arcs of your main characters, or steer those arcs off their trajectory, the entire story falls flat and the audience walks away learning nothing from your story.
What Is Internal Conflict & How Does It Work?
Internal conflict is made up of 3 ingredients:
Desire: What the character wants most at this point in their life
Fear: What the character is afraid of
Misbelief: The lie holding a character back, which they are often oblivious to until they confront their fear in their aha moment. It is then that they realize “I’ve had it all wrong.”
The protagonist’s misbelief is, ideally, written as the opposite of the story’s theme.
Why is that important?
Because when the main character has their “aha moment”, the audience has an aha moment of their own. They identify their own misbeliefs and apply the moral of the story to their own lives.
So, let’s apply internal conflict to Buddy The Elf.
Desire: Buddy wants to find belonging, to find the place where he “fits in”. When he finds out he’s not actually an elf, Buddy hopes to find his real family, where he belongs.
Fear: Buddy is afraid that his family will reject him.
Misbelief: “I am an oddball, there is no place where I belong, and my real family doesn’t want me.”
Buddy's misbelief is challenged during his "aha moment" when the real Santa arrives, and he realizes his Christmas cheer IS valuable after all. Once Buddy challenges his misbelief, his family accepts him. Buddy gets what he’s been shown to want the most over the course of the film. That's the payoff for overcoming his fears.
Now, let’s apply this to the protagonists of Stranger Things to show what happens when internal conflict is ignored and the audience is scammed out of an emotional payoff.
By protagonists, I mean these sweethearts:
Will Byers ⭐️
I think it’s safe to say that love defines the character of Will Byers more than anything. Love separates Will from Henry Creel, who he foils. Unlike Henry, Will has a loving family and friends, who are key to Will snapping out of possession in Season 2 and honing his powers in Season 5. Internal conflict arises for Will when romantic love enters the picture, something which *sigh* Henry has and Will doesn’t. Platonic love defeats romance, yay! Except Lumax, Lumax is the most powerful ever!!
Anyways, Will’s internal conflict in the later seasons is set up around romantic love, and the shame he has around it because of his queerness and trauma from (CSA coded) abuse. This shame around romance is something I expected Will to overcome, because he also has a desire for romance that is so pure and inseparable from his queerness arc. I explain how Will is written to be a romantic hero here.
Will’s Internal Conflict
Desire: To be loved by someone who doesn’t see him as fragile/weak or a mistake, to be loved for exactly who he is, and to find romantic love like his friends.
Fear: That he really is a freak, a mistake, and that nobody will love him if they knew the truth about his queerness. That he will never find love because he is gay and because of the trauma he experienced, because he is outcasted.
Misbelief: “I’m not gonna fall in love, I don’t deserve love, because of who I intrinsically am.”
Misbelief stated:
How Will’s misbelief should have been handled: Will should’ve been shown that he is deserving of the romantic love he wants. And Will wants Mike up until the end.
Will should’ve realized that his desire to fall in love was a GOOD thing, not a BAD thing. His love should’ve overcome his fear and shame.
Will’s misbelief is that he doesn’t deserve Mike; he squashes his feelings for Mike down time after time. Will should’ve been shown that he DOES deserve Mike, the boy who sees him for exactly who he is.
Will’s ideal aha moment would involve him realizing that Mike does love him, and that Mike’s love gives him the courage to fight on, to stand up to the fear Vecna has been instilling in him.
The theme shown to the audience would be that love overcomes fear, and that queer kids, abused kids, too, can have the romantic love they desire.
If the point was to show that Mike made Will feel bad about himself, they didn’t give Will an alternative love interest who made him feel better about himself. This is what happens in The Holiday, where Kate Winslet’s character is in love with a man who strings her along, but then Jack Black’s character is introduced as a better match for her.
Again, it’s fine if Mike wasn’t the right boy for Will, but there wasn’t another boy for Will.
You don’t just write a character to want romance and… not give them romance. In Will’s case, that’s homophobic, actually.
What the writers did instead: They portrayed Will’s desire for romance as a weakness he had to overcome.
Characters can have misbelief-based desires (ex. a character who wants wealth or success), but if the protagonist’s desire is misbelief-driven, the pursuit of it is usually shown to hurt the characters around them.
For example, in A Christmas Carol, Scrooge’s desire for wealth is lamented by the townspeople, and his work partner Bob Marley warns him against it.
By contrast, Will’s pursuit of Mike is shown to be a net positive - for both Mike and Will. Will’s love, expressed through the painting he gives Mike, encourages Mike to be brave. It results in Mike’s growth as a character, as well as Mike and Will’s bond repairing.
Desires that are portrayed as good should be achieved by the character in an emotional payoff.
What the writers did instead: They set Will on the exact character arc Robin has been on.
Why this doesn’t work:
Robin didn’t work at Scoops Ahoy with Tammy Thompson.
Romantic love has always been decentered from Robin’s character arc, which is about acceptance and community. Even when Robin pursues Vickie in season 4, a lot of focus is put on her friendship with Steve and how that gives her the confidence to show Vickie her interest.
“But Steve was paired with Robin for all of Season 3, and he had a crush on her. They didn’t end up together.”
Steve’s crush on Robin was resolved by the end of the season.
If the California plot was supposed to be Scoops Troop 2.0, there was no bathroom scene.
If Byler was meant to be unrequited, it should have been a hard no by the end of Season 4.
Instead of addressing Will’s crush on Mike and “ripping off the band-aid”, the show set up Mike and Will to grow closer together in Season 5.
This is a very different approach to the other unrequited love plot lines in Stranger Things, which are resolved in one season.
El Hopper 🌈
El/Jane’s arc centers around finding family, connection, and belonging after being abused, as well as taking your power back (literally) from your abusers.
She finds the most solace in Hopper, her adoptive dad, Max, her best friend, and Kali, her lab “sister”.
I know some of y’all are going to say she finds solace in Mike, but he is shown to cause her more grief than happiness from Season 3 onwards. She explicitly tries to end the relationship twice because, in her own words, Mike 1. lies to her and 2. doesn’t understand her.
Mike is security, stability, the boy El falls back on because she grew attached to him first. Her internal conflict works best if it ends in her growing away from Mike.
El’s Internal Conflict
Desire: To find her family, learn about the world, and live a happy life free from the lab.
Fear: That she cannot break away from the lab or end the cycle of abuse she was subjected to. That she will never adapt or be accepted in the real world.
Misbelief: “I do not belong. Anywhere. I am a monster, and I am not cut out for a normal life.”
Also, “I need the validation of others, of men, to be worthy of love.”
And perhaps “I need to ‘adapt’ and live a normal life to be happy.”
Misbelief stated:
How El’s misbelief should have been handled: El’s arc in Season 4 should’ve continued as it was set up when she stood up to Papa. She should’ve been shown that external validation was never the answer.
Yes, this external validation she is misguidedly seeking includes asking Mike to tell her “I love you”.
If Mike was supposed to be a good thing in El’s life, they should not have written him to use the same language as her abusers (ex. “What did you do?”), and he should’ve made her happy instead of stressed.
Kali’s return gives El’s another option, taking her own life by choice, but this option is contrary to El’s desire for belonging.
In order for her misbelief to be proven wrong, El had to realize that she DOES belong, somewhere.
If El’s misbelief is “I have to adapt, to be a normal girl”, she should’ve been shown that she belongs and can be happy in spite of her powers and past. That these things, in fact, made her lovable.
El’s ideal aha moment could go one of two ways.
A. El realizes that she never needed Mike, that she was happiest broken up with him. Then, out of her own free will, she chooses to stay with the Party and Hopper instead of risking her own life, because they are her family. Or she chooses to leave the Party, because she wants to be independent.
B. El realizes she belongs with Kali, and she discourages Kali from taking her own life.
She chooses to live a happy, independent life with Kali (who understands her situation) and leave the Party behind, and they use their presence to break the cycle.
The theme shown to the audience would be that connection and making your own choices is the right way to heal from abuse. Not romantic attachment, and not ending your life.
What the writers did instead: They portrayed El’s desire as something unattainable. They also showed that her fear and misbelief were true, she was right about her inability to belong in the real world.
El’s character arc was filler for the Duffers, who ultimately saw her as a prop and symbol whose purpose had to be fulfilled by dying.
They fridged her, letting her fear and misbelief stop her from ever being able to pursue her desire.
They did that instead of having El confront her fear and misbelief so that she could pursue her desire.
As with Will’s internal conflict, this is just showing the audience that “sometimes, you never get what you desire most in life”.
Mike Wheeler ♥️
Mike’s internal conflict is the hardest to pinpoint, because he doesn’t seem to have one at all. Mike Wheeler appears to be a cardboard, static character. In every season, he loves El, he’s El’s boyfriend, and he’s loyal to his friends.
Until Season 3, where you start seeing the cracks in Mike’s relationship with El, how it makes him insecure, how it causes him to push his friends away, especially Will.
Mike’s arc then becomes one of identity and insecurity. He loses himself, his role as the heart of the Party, in his relationship with El. The relationship feeds into Mike’s insecurities about himself, as he places El on a pedestal and reduces himself to a “nobody”.
Then Will comes around and tells him that’s not true… which WOULD be the perfect challenge to a misbelief that is barely explored at all.
Desire: To be a hero who can lead his friends to victory over the Upside Down; to hold his friend group together.
Fear: That growing up will tear his friend group apart; that he will lose the people he loves.
Misbelief: “I’m just some random nerd, a nobody. I can’t do anything to support my loved ones. In fact, I’m not important to them at all.”
Misbelief stated:
How Mike’s misbelief should’ve been handled: Mike should’ve realized that Will believed in the person he wanted to be all along; that El was holding him back from embracing his role as the “heart of the Party.”
Will told Mike that his value was in his words, his leadership, his heart, so he should’ve used that to help his friends fight.
Mike should’ve had to confront his fears and insecurities on his own. Instead, he barely lifted a finger in the supernatural plot.
Mike’s ideal aha moment would’ve happened after he feels like he’s lost both El and Will (disaster moment). This would’ve forced Mike to realize that he himself has value, outside of his loved ones, even when he can’t save his loved ones. Even better if Mike surprised the audience with depths they didn’t expect - Mike could learn to love all of himself, even the parts of himself he was afraid of.
The theme shown to the audience would be that you are lovable just as you are - you don’t have to be a hero or savior. And/or that accepting yourself makes you strong, gives you the courage to inspire others and fight on. What better ending for a “show about outcasts” than the “everyman” character accepting that he himself is an outcast, and finding power in that?
What the writers did instead: They had El tell Mike that he indeed is valuable to her, when the narrative did nothing to support this. When, in fact, El hindered Mike's character growth.
We were never shown WHY El loves Mike. “You understand me better than anyone”… point to three times in the show where that’s true. Where Mike “gets” El more than Hopper, Max, or Kali do.
We were, however, clearly told why Will loves Mike.
They reduced Mike to the boy El and Will love, when he should have faced his fears and misbelief independent of them.
They proved Mike’s fear, being separated from the Party and his loved ones, right. That’s exactly what happens at the very end when he loses El, with no arc of him learning to accept loss. He’s just miserable.
I think you can tell what I'm getting at here. Fear and misbelief win, because the "lesson" is "sometimes, things just don't work out."
Why Does This Matter?
Internal conflict isn’t just putting your characters on a journey, it’s the tool writers use to teach their audiences the themes of their story.
Letting a character’s fears and misbelief win is exactly how you “assassinate” that character.
By shooting down the emotional payoff of three main character arcs in Stranger Things, the audience does not learn anything about themselves by the time the credits roll.
It’s soulless and designed for passive viewing; happiness and comfort to weakly charm the masses. And the worst part is, Stranger Things had the potential to be a story that challenges what the audience thinks about themselves and about others.
It's bitter men sacrificing good storytelling in lieu of "you get what you get, and you don't pitch a fit."
he opens up to you for the first time since you knew him.
tags established relationship, hurt/comfort, late-night feelings, internal conflict
warnings none
you don’t notice at first. you think he’s just quiet again, one of his moods where he drifts around the room like he’s borrowed someone else’s body. but then you hear it. the way he exhales like something inside him has cracked.
you turn toward him.
he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands limp. and his eyes—god, his eyes are somewhere you can’t reach. somewhere he’s spent years trying not to go back to.
"scara?" you whisper.
no answer.
you take a step. just one. he flinches like you slapped him.
“don’t,” he rasps, voice small and raw. “please. just… don’t come closer.”
your heart almost caves in on itself. he never asks like that. never begs.
“why?” you breathe out.
he let's out a sound that isn't really laugh. not really anything. he pulls his legs close to him, head lowering in defeat.
"i don't want it to happen again. i can't let it happen again."
you kneel slowly, keeping distance, but lowering yourself to the floor so you’re not towering over him. “can’t do what?”
he drags a hand over his face. “lose something i thought I didn’t care about.”
your breath hitches. he squeezes his eyes shut, and for a moment he looks like a child—terrified, furious, emotions to big to handle.
“scara, i’m not leaving—”
“yes, you will. you always do. everyone does.”
“i’m not everyone.”
“that’s what they all said,” he sighs.
his voice cracks at the end. not dramatically. not loudly. just enough to sound human in a way that terrifies him.
you move closer, only enough that your knees brush his.
he doesn’t move away this time. but he's trembling, it looks like it hurts to breathe.
“look at me,” you say, soft, pleading.
he does.
and the look in his eyes—empty, desperate, terrified of needing you—shatters something you didn't know could break.
“i don’t know who i’m supposed to be,” he admits. “i don’t know how to be… real. i don’t know how to exist without waiting for the next person to decide i’m not worth it.”
“i would never—”
“don’t lie to me.” he says it with tears in his voice, even if none fall yet. “don’t tell me i matter. don’t tell me you love me. don’t tell me things people say before they disappear.”
your throat tightens painfully. “i’m not disappearing.”
“you will,” he repeats, like he’s convinced the universe has already decided. “you’ll realize i’m too much. too broken. too wrong. and one day i’ll look over and you’ll be gone, just like—” his breath shudders. “just like everyone else.”
you climb onto the bed cautiously, your hands shaking. he watches with wide, frightened eyes, like he doesn’t know whether to run or fall into you.
you cup his face.
he stops breathing.
“i’m not leaving,” you whisper.
his voice is barely audible. “don’t promise that.”
“why?”
“because if you break it…” his mouth twists, trembling. “…i won’t survive it.”
the honesty hits you so hard you it hurts. this is scaramouche—sharp, cold words, storms in his chest—and he’s looking at you like you’re the last star in a sky that keeps burning out.
you pull him into your arms.
he resists for half a second. then he collapses.
not gently. not gracefully.
he just breaks.
his fists clutch your shirt. his forehead presses into your shoulder, so hard it's sure to leave a bruise, it's almost as if he’s trying to bury himself in your ribs. his breath stutters, catches, shivers—tiny, fractured sobs he tries and fails to swallow.
“i can’t lose you,” he chokes out. “i don’t know how to do this but i’m trying, i’m trying so hard—”
you hold him tighter. as tight as he needs.
“i’m right here,” you murmur, voice thick. “you’re not losing anything.”
“don’t let go.” it comes out strangled. “don’t let go of me.”
“never.”
you feel him shake harder. you feel the way he clings like he’s been waiting centuries for someone to hold him together like this. he’s crying silently now—breaths shaking, shoulders trembling, tears soaking your collarbone.
“you always see too much,” he cries out. “you look at me like i’m someone worth loving and i don’t understand it. i don’t—i don’t deserve—”
“stop,” you warned, pressing your forehead to his temple. “you deserve everything. every bit of love i give you. every soft thing in this world. every good moment you never got.”
he gasps—a sound of pain, of disbelief, of something inside him finally giving up the fight.
you wrap your arms around him, warm and reassuring, like arms he can actually come home to. the candle burns low. the night presses in. his breathing slowly steadies against your chest, still shaky, still wet with tears.
but he’s holding you like he’s afraid to let the world touch you. as if you’re the only thing keeping him together.
and when he finally whispers, “please stay,” it’s the most honest thing you’ve ever heard from him.
you kiss the top of his head.
“i’m staying,” you whisper. “even when it hurts. even when you push. even when you’re scared. i’m not going anywhere.”
he exhales, a long, shaking breath that sounds like surrender.
I enjoy seeing your writings pop-up in the character tags. I also especially like how much fun you have with some of the prompts.
I saw requests are open, so I have an interesting request for you. The HSR Universe is ripe for suggestions and weird things, so why not?
I couldn't decide on who to pick for this prompt. So for maybe like 3 HSR characters of your choice, can I ask for a reader that decides to take an experimental drink, thinking nothing of it, but it ends up leaving reader reader with a temporary heart mark on their skin that turns colors based on their emotions? (I.e. A mood ring type of situation?)
“Feelings Are Just Colors in Disguise”
Tags: Sunday x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Slow-Burn Hints, Emotional Connection, Magical Realism, Light Mystery/Speculative Magic, Emotion-Based Magic, Slight Introspection and Internal Conflict, Light Banter (Especially with Anaxa), Gentle Warmth and Comfort (Mydei and Sunday), Themes Of Identity And Vulnerability.
Warnings: Minor Injury Mentions (No Graphic Violence), Emotional Vulnerability And Exploration Of Complex Feelings, Mild Existential Themes and Philosophical Reflection (Anaxa, Sunday), Brief References To Past Trauma Or Loss (Handled Sensitively), Experimental Magic and Body Markings.
A/N: I'm glad you enjoy them! <33
The battlefield was quiet for once.
You sat near the campfire, a little tent away from the rest of Mydei’s soldiers. Your fingers curled around a strange flask handed to you earlier by one of the alchemists from Okhema. “Experimental drink,” they’d said. “For fortification.” You barely listened—tired, thirsty, and desperate for anything that didn't taste like boiled roots and despair.
The liquid was sweet and strange—like pomegranate but effervescent and tinged with cheese. Oddly comforting.
Within minutes, a sharp warmth bloomed across your collarbone. You looked down and gasped.
A glowing heart-shaped mark pulsed there, tinted gold-orange.
“What in the—?”
“...You’ve been marked,” came a voice behind you, low and steady.
You turned to see Mydei, the Guardian of Amphoreus himself, crouching beside you. His eyes narrowed at the glowing heart. “I’ve seen marks of magic, but not this.” His gaze was calculating but not unkind.
“It changes color,” you muttered, pressing your hand over the glowing skin. “Based on emotion, I think.”
“It’s orange now,” he murmured. “Hopeful. Curious.”
You swallowed. “Is that...good?”
Mydei’s fingers brushed yours away gently. His gauntleted hand hovered near the mark, not touching—but close enough that you felt the heat between you.
“You should rest,” he said. But he lingered. “I’ll stay. To make sure it doesn’t...spread.”
You caught a flicker of red in the heart.
He noticed too. A rare smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Red. You fear me?”
“I—No!” you stammered. “That was—surprise. Not fear.”
“Mm.” He tilted his head, hair catching the firelight. “We’ll see.”
The mark flickered again—a warm, soft pink.
He didn’t tease. He didn’t gloat. Just leaned in closer and whispered, “Then you have nothing to be afraid of.”
“Drink this,” Anaxa said, sliding a shimmering vial your way across the cluttered workshop bench.
You frowned. “Last time you said that, I couldn’t stop quoting dead philosophers in rhyme for three hours.”
“Consider that a success,” he grinned, wild-eyed and amused. “This one’s subtler. Stimulates emotional resonance. I hypothesize it’ll project your internal state to the surface.”
You rolled your eyes—but downed it anyway. It was teal and fizzled like starlight.
And then it happened. A searing sensation just over your heart. You yanked your shirt aside, revealing a vivid heart symbol on your skin—magenta.
“Fascinating!” Anaxa clapped. “Magenta—emotional intensity. Possibly love. Or embarrassment. Maybe a repressed desire to throttle me. Which would be fair.”
You stared, horrified. “It glows!”
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “So does truth. Most people just spend their lives hiding from it.”
The heart flickered bright red.
“Ah—anger now. Excellent emotional range. You're practically a living thesis.”
You stood up. “This is humiliating!”
He didn’t stop you—just followed you out into the moonlight, curious.
Silence stretched. You wrapped your arms around yourself, heart glowing violet now.
He studied the color. “Fear and mystery,” he said softly. “But not of me.”
“No,” you admitted, voice small. “Just...of what this means. Of being seen.”
Anaxa was quiet a moment. Then, to your surprise, he took off his glove, revealing a crimson sigil glowing faintly on his palm. “Then let me be seen too,” he said, placing his hand just inches from your heart.
The mark shifted to silver-blue.
Clarity. Vulnerability. A chance.
It happened during the layover at a celestial observatory.
You wandered through the festival bazaar, eyes catching on a Halovian vendor’s glittering elixirs. You asked for something new. Something unique.
They gave you a gentle drink, honey-smooth with lavender undertones. The moment it touched your lips, you felt warmth settle over your chest. Then—the mark appeared.
A faint heart, right above your sternum. At first, it shimmered pale blue.
You found Sunday sitting on the edge of a terrace, eyes watching the cosmos.
When he saw you, his wings fluttered gently. “You’ve changed,” he said, and your breath hitched.
You explained quickly, nervously—about the mark, about the drink.
He studied it silently. Then: “It’s...beautiful.”
You blinked. “It’s revealing.”
“Most beauty is.”
The heart glowed peach, soft and warm. Sunday’s eyes flicked to the color.
“I wonder,” he murmured. “What would I see if I bore such a mark? Guilt? Longing? Maybe...hope.”
You sat beside him. “Try,” you said, lifting his hand and placing it near your heart.
The heart turned a deep gold.
For a moment, Sunday said nothing. But his halo glowed softly, and a breeze stirred his scarf.
“That’s new,” he said. “It means you feel...safe. Around me.”
You looked at him, truly looked—and saw the flicker of conflict behind his serene mask.
“Maybe you could try,” you whispered. “Letting someone in.”
Chase was spoken to like he was an adult, an equal, or a computer from the moment he was born, so doesn’t know who he is without his bionics and being mission leader. He is arrogant and egotistical in an attempt to see important because he believes no one will keep him around if he’s not useful enough. His greatest fears are being replaced and being a failure. He can’t imagine his future self; assuming that he will die before he has a chance to grow old.
Skylar
Skylar didn’t have a stable upbringing, and spent years as a comic book character instead of an actual living being. Losing her powers for years was the worst thing that could happen to her because she needs her powers to be the character ‘Skylar Storm’. She feels like she doesn’t belong on Earth or on her home planet, the only place she could call home was Mighty Med, and now the Diaz family and everyone they loved are gone, and she isn’t surrounded by other superheroes anymore, so she looks like even more of a freak, weirdo, and outcast.
Bree
Bree is the scapegoat sibling. Everything is blamed on her for being too irresponsible and careless, but she’s just trying to find out who she is and what she wants to do with her life. She often has to put her family’s needs over her own dreams. Whenever she voices her opinions, her brothers, uncle and dad always made her feel like they didn’t matter. This leaves her resentful of the life she wanted to have, but wasn’t allowed to. Nobody cares nor understands and they expect her to suffer in silence.
Kaz
Kaz is more of a babysitter than a brother. Having 11 siblings, he was lost in middle, and constantly ignored, unless his younger siblings needed help with anything. His parents were constantly working to afford 12 children, his older brothers were both criminals, and most adults in his life labeled him as ‘dumb’ and ‘lazy’, so he didn’t have many role models to look up; hence his admiration for Tecton. Kaz worries his friends will grow tired of how annoying and selfish he is due to him being touch starved and ignored by everyone else in his life. His parents didn’t even notice when he moved out to Centium City, until people mentioned they saw him on the news to them.
Oliver
Oliver grew up with two very strict and demanding parents. His dad was serious, emotionally distant, and detached, while his mom was overprotective, controlling, and obsessive. No one comforted him about their divorce, and he was never given any time to process it. Horace was a better parent figure than either of them, and raised him after his Dad ghosted him and Mom became a supervillain, but when Mighty Med was destroyed, he lost his new family as well. Growing up, he and Kaz were very co-dependent on each other, but now they have the Elite Force, Kaz doesn’t need him anymore; leaving Oliver jealous, possessive, defensive, and resentful.
Author's note: More of Olly in Husbandry AU! I collaborated with @c-u-c-koo-4-40k on this next set of chunky chapters. Thanks for writing with me! This was a lot of fun. :) Thanks to @felinisnoctis for letting me borrow your Chaosy boys!
Summary: Olly rapidly escalates into coordinated crisis response, securing Felix’s aid at the cost of future debt while briefing Claude to discreetly mobilize Khopesh and the wider network. As Faroh’s threat becomes explicit and time-sensitive, Olly commits to containment and elimination planning while carefully managing who knows what—and when.
Warning: Coercion and blackmail involving a target (Jophiel), Threats of harm to a civilian (Lullaby), Genetic experimentation / reproductive manipulation references, Psychological stress and emotional overwhelm (Olly), Implied past unethical human experimentation (Mars-era Primaris development), Threat of systemic exposure / institutional collapse risk, Tension involving organized violence / assassination planning, Emotional dissociation / controlled shutdown under pressure. LMK if I need to add anything else.
Olly has plenty of things to do and little time to do them in. Kerubiel and Thressl are going to help by contacting Khopesh, Lullay, and Nanael. Likely Cedric will be looped into this- after all he’d sent Thressl and Kerubiel to check on him when his vitals became erratic for seemingly no reason.
Olly pauses as he thumbs his vox bead before sending a message to Felix. The older Primaris Ultramarine is- unnerving in some ways. Not just because he’s a Chaos Marine- although that is a large part of it.
“Oleandros.” The Chaos Primaris Marine says curtly. “I am curious as to why you of all people are contacting me brother.”
“I have a… favor,” Olly says the words slowly, carefully tasting the words- there is a… bitterness to them that has him wondering if this is the right choice.
“Oh?” Felix says, sounding a little bit more curious and focused on his fellow Primaris Ultramarine.
“Yes- and I’d like to discuss it in person- at the Park on Main Street at Gannet point in an hour if you have time.” Olly replies.
“I’m always up for helping my brothers,” Felix says- and he is- for a price. After all- nothing comes for free. “And I have time available today to speak with you.”
“Thank you, brother,” Olly says, one must mind their P’s and Q’s when asking a favor.
Olly wonders how much debt he’ll rack up with this favor, alas, he will do this for Jophiel- for Lullaby. And- Olly’s eyes slide away, Felix enjoys having others in his debt- and he knows that the other will cash them in. He will do what is necessary to protect those he cherishes.
The park is overflowing with greenery and stone. There are some plastic and metal play structures for young baseline humans in the middle distance. Olly approaches the bench that Felix is seated at- with Batsy leaning against a tree while Mic is fiddling with some- mechanical thing.
“Oleandros.” Felix greets Olly glancing over the younger Primaris Ultramarine trying to cold read information out of him.
Olly inclines his head slightly, as he approaches Felix- both of them are in armor- while Olly’s taken off his helmet and mag locked it to his hip. Felix is helmeted. Olly has a large rock- he’d snagged one on the way to the meeting place- his hands carefully not-worrying away at it as he carefully not-eats it. He knows that messing with eating stone- to those that know him- is a sign of stress- well can be at least.
“Felix,” he greets back simply. For a moment or two- there is silence, stillness the wintery wind fainting weaving its way through the chinks in their armor.
“You sounded… hesitant.” His gaze flicked across Olly’s face, cataloguing micro-expressions with Astartes precision. “That is unusual for you. You have always struck me as direct.”
Olly exhaled slowly through his nose.
“I am being direct,” he said. “I require assistance. The nature of that assistance… is delicate.”
Felix’s mouth curved faintly — not quite a smile. More the suggestion of one.
“Delicate matters are often the most interesting.” He gestured toward the bench. “Walk with me.”
They moved along the promenade at a measured pace, their strides naturally synchronizing, a relic of decades of drilled formation marching neither had consciously chosen. Batsy and Mic watch them move on. Olly knows that with their Primaris acute hearing that the other two will hear everything else they say.
“For whom is this favor?” Felix asked.
Olly pauses as he thinks over what to say, “... Myself- and Jophiel.”
He doesn’t add in Lullaby- as he doesn’t want them to get into Felix’s cross hairs. Anrir and Hura would be more than a little annoyed if certain things were learned about by Felix -who’d use that information for his own benefit. Be it keeping secrets or selling it to the highest bidder. He’s watched- well- overheard such mutterings more than once and knew how to put two and two together to paint a picture that was more fuzzy for others to put into focus.
“What’s up with Jophie?” Batsy calls out, while Felix raises an eyebrow.
Batsy is fond of Jophiel- the younger son of Sanguinius is rather sweet and someone that Batsy flies with regularly. Olly isn’t entirely sure if Batsy being fond of Jophiel is entirely a good thing.
“There is a First born blood Angel- Faroh,” Olly starts carefully, “... He was on Mars- during the training of the first wave Primaris.”
“And that’s relevant how?” Felix asks.
“... He was involved in the genealogical management and experiments with fertility and cross breeding programs.” Olly says. “... And wants to begin those experiments again.”
“I see why you want him dealt with.” Felix says after a moment of silence. “You will need to lure him out of wherever hole he is in for us to… eliminate the threat.”
“I have a plan in place for that- and… he’s given an Ultimatum.” Olly says.
“Let me guess- hand over Jophiel by the end of day or else he starts talking about secrets?” Felix deduces.
“Yes.” Olly says with a nod.
Batsy’s wings flare in agitation at that, “That shithead.”
“Of a sort yes- Nanael and I are going to bait and trap Faroh- and bring him to a secondary location for you to… ensure he’s no longer a threat.” Olly says.
“I think we can come to an accord.” Felix says pleasantly.
“Good.” Olly says with a nod.
“Do you want to know what we do to him?” Felix asks.
Olly shakes his head, “I’d rather not know what… you do to him. Only that he’s no longer a threat.”
“Fair enough.” Felix says with a nod.
“... How much is this going to cost me?” Olly asks carefully.
“Oh you are giving us a new… person to amuse ourself with- so long as you and yours catch and hand him over… only one favor of a similar value to be cashed in later.” Felix responds with a razor sharp smile. “It's a pleasure doing business with you brother.”
Olly… Olly doesn’t know how to respond to that- what to say to that. He knows that in part- Felix is helping with this- because it’s in Felix's best interest to keep certain aspects of Primaris - that are non-Rubicon Primaris- quiet. Self interest is a powerful motivator- especially for Chaos Marine types.
“I will message you once it’s done.” Olly says to Felix.
The other Primaris marine nods. “I will await your call- should you need more aid- that will cost another favor.”
“I will keep that in mind.” Olly says with a nod. “I have several more things to do today in rapid order.”
Felix waves him off and Olly turns away and heads off to where Claude is- having Claude be the one to tell Khopesh will likely be better? Hopefully at least. He sends Claude a message.
[I need to speak with you privately.] Olly sends the message to Claude.
[Where do you wanna talk?] Claude responds quickly. [Are you ok?]
[I am adequate. Will talk more in person away from ears and eyes.] Olly responds.
[Wilco.] Claude responds.
Olly sends a message to Claude the coordinates of where he wants Claude to show up. He pauses in a decently light and shadowy place and there are a pair of night dark eyes that blink out of his shadow as Claude steps out of Olly’s shadow and looks him over.
“What’s going on?” Claude asks.
Claude’s gaze sweeps the area automatically, habit layered over instinct. His posture is casual in the way of someone who could vanish into the nearest shadow without warning. The night-dark of his armor drinks in the low winter light, making him appear more absent than presence.
Olly studies him for a long moment, jaw working faintly before he speaks.
“There is an individual resurfacing,” Olly says quietly. “Firstborn Blood Angel. Name Faroh.”
Claude stills — not outwardly, not to baseline perception — but Olly knows him well enough to catch the subtle tightening in the line of his shoulders.
“That name sounds unpleasant,” Claude replies evenly. “Should I already hate him?”
“Yes.”
Claude exhales once through his nose. “All right. Continue.”
“He was present on Mars during early Primaris development,” Olly says. “His specialization involved… genealogical oversight. Fertility manipulation. Cross-line experimentation.”
Claude’s expression goes flat in a way that is almost more alarming than anger.
“And he wants to resume this work,” Claude says, not asking.
“Yes.” Olly replies, one of his shoulders twitching as he turns the rock in his hands to dust as his fingers squeeze it tightly.
“He’s discussed his demands with me.” Olly hedges a little bit.
“What is Faroh’s ultimatum?” Claude asks, glancing at Olly.
“Produce Jophiel by end of day,” Olly says. “Or he begins disseminating information regarding unauthorized lineage experimentation and certain… anomalies present within Primaris conversion data… And he goes after Lullaby.”
Claude mutters something sharp and Low Gothic under his breath.
“I assume,” Claude says, “that complying was never under consideration.”
“No.” Olly says shaking his head, “He’d only twist the deal to make it more suitable for his tastes.”
“Good.” Claude responds. Claude folds his arms, thinking rapidly. Olly lets him. Claude is very good at this part — assembling threat maps, social vectors, worst case spirals. “What is your current solution?”
“Nanael and I will lure him,” Olly says. “Contain him. Deliver him to Felix.”
Claude’s head snaps up. “You already spoke to Felix.”
“Yes.” Olly replies slowly, it’s not a decision he made lightly.
Claude closes his eyes briefly. Claude doesn’t curse- but that is a very near thing.
“That,” he says carefully, “is a very expensive choice.”
“Yes.” Olly agrees scratching one of his cheeks, and he hopes it’s not a choice that will haunt him too much in the future.
“How expensive?” Claude asks.
“One favor. Equivalent value. To be determined at his discretion.” Olly responds, he makes sure to say it softly, lightly, gently.
Claude stares at him. “Oleandros.”
“It was the most efficient path to guaranteed removal of threat.” Olly says jaw jutting out a little in stubbornness.
“That was not my question.” Claude says with a sigh.
Olly meets his gaze evenly. Claude sighs slowly, dragging a hand down his faceplate ridge. Making deals with Chaos was… never in the favor of the ones who were more desperate.
“All right,” Claude says. “We will survive Felix’s future whims later. What do you need from me now?”
“Khopesh must be informed,” Olly says. “Discreetly. He will notice if Jophiel’s behavior changes or if Nanael and I begin acting unusually. I would prefer he hear it from someone he trusts who can present it… with care.”
Claude tilts his head slightly. “You mean not you.”
“Yes.” Olly says, “It would seem more natural if you spoke to him- I worry that Faroh may be monitoring my movements.”
“That’s fair,” Claude says bluntly.
Olly accepts that without offense.
“Is Jophiel aware?” Claude asks.
“No.” Olly says his gaze looking away from Claude at his quiet admission.
Claude swears again, quieter this time.
“He deserves to know before he becomes bait by accident,” Claude says.
“He will,” Olly says. “But not until containment planning is finalized. Panic could compromise safety.”
Claude studies him for several seconds, weighing that.
“…You’re right,” he admits reluctantly. “He’d try to confront Faroh himself. Or worse, volunteer.”
“Yes.” Olly winces- as flighty as Jophiel could be at times- if there was a threat to someone else he’d stand firm as any Astartes would.
“Stars, he absolutely would.” Claude says with a wince. “Got an idea how to handle him?”
“Lullaby and Jophiel will be together in a safe place- Jophiel as part of a look out to keep them safe.” Olly says. “You or Khopesh or someone else can talk about the two of them about things in a less… unpleasant way.”
They lapse into brief silence, wind stirring fallen leaves across the stone path.
Claude shifts closer, lowering his voice further. “What is the failure scenario?”
“If Faroh escapes,” Olly says, “... Faroh will - at least he implied that he’d go after Lullaby and release certain… Mars made alterations to the Primaris that are non-rubricon to those that may use it against those who have it.”
Claude nods once. He understands exactly how catastrophic that cascade could become.
“All right,” he says. “I will tell Khopesh. Carefully. He will want to help.”
“I expected as much.” olly says with a hum.
“Are you going to let him?” Claude asks.
Olly hesitates — very briefly — but Claude notices.
“…Within controlled parameters,” Olly says.
“That means no,” Claude translates.
“That means minimized exposure." Olly responds.
Claude considers arguing, then decides against it. Not because he agrees — because he knows Olly has already optimized risk calculations six steps ahead.
“Where do you want Khopesh to meet me?” Claude asks.
Olly sends the coordinates through a short-range burst across their shared channel. Claude’s visor flickers acknowledgement.
“One more question,” Claude says.
“Yes?”
Claude studies him with an intensity that has nothing to do with tactics.
“You’re doing this because it is correct,” he says. “Or because you care about Jophiel personally.”
Olly pauses.
The stone in his hand gives a faint, brittle crack under unconscious pressure.
“…Both,” he admits.
Claude nods once, satisfied.
“Good,” he says. “Those tend to be the choices worth making.”
He steps backward, already dissolving into shadow. The darkness gathers around him like a cloak reclaiming its owner. Only his eyes remain visible for a moment longer.
“Try not to owe Felix two favors in the same week,” Claude adds dryly.
“I will endeavor to maintain fiscal responsibility,” Olly replies.
Claude snorts softly, then vanishes entirely.
Olly stands alone again in the winter park, vox bead warm against his temple, the weight of impending violence settling across his shoulders like a familiar mantle.
9 Questions to Better Identify (and Clarify) Internal Conflict vs. External Conflict
from K.M. Weiland ("Internal Conflict vs. External Conflict: The Shift From Projection to Agency in Character Arc"):
Is your protagonist primarily reacting to the antagonist’s actions? Or is your protagonist making progressively more conscious choices that shape the direction of the conflict?
Does your protagonist believe the story’s problems exist entirely because of the antagonistic force? Or will the protagonist be forced to confront how personal limitations are affecting the outcome of the conflict?
Is your protagonist trying merely to defeat the antagonist? Or is the protagonist being asked to change in order to resolve the story’s central conflict?
Does the conclusion of the story’s conflict happen solely because the antagonist is removed? Or does the conflict resolve because the protagonist develops the inner capacity to create a different outcome?
Where might your protagonist be giving away personal power by focusing on what cannot be controlled instead of developing what can be controlled from within?
What personal responsibility might your protagonist be avoiding by focusing exclusively on the external conflict?
In what ways does the antagonist expose personal weaknesses, fears, or misconceptions the protagonist would rather not confront?
Does your protagonist earn moral authority through growth and difficult choices? Or is the protagonist gifted legitimacy simply by opposing the villain?
Where does your protagonist need to reclaim agency in order for the ending to feel earned?
Charms had always possessed a unique danger. Not because of the magic or the coursework, not even because one incorrect wand movement occasionally resulted in someone's eyebrows catching fire.
No, the true danger of Charms lay entirely in Professor Flitwick's voice.
The tiny professor stood atop his usual pile of books at the front of the classroom, enthusiastically explaining the finer points of spell precision while enchanted diagrams floated lazily through the air beside him. You were trying to listen, truly you were.
You had every intention of being an attentive student.
Unfortunately, Professor Flitwick's voice had somehow become the educational equivalent of a lullaby. The classroom was pleasantly warm, the winter chill trapped safely beyond the castle walls while pale sunlight streamed through the windows. Quills scratched steadily across parchment as students copied notes, and Flitwick's gentle voice drifted rhythmically through the room,"...and if one focuses properly upon the pronunciation..."
You blinked, then blinked again. This was getting dangerous, very dangerous.
Your attention drifted almost instinctively toward your satchel beside your desk, more specifically toward the book hidden safely inside it. The thought alone immediately sharpened your attention. While Charms taught you about wand precision, the Patronus guide supposedly held answers.
Or at least it was supposed to.
You glanced toward the front of the classroom, professor Flitwick remained completely absorbed in his lecture, most of your classmates equally occupied with their notes.
Carefully, you slipped one hand into your satchel and, a moment later, the Patronus guide emerged. You rested it atop your textbook, mostly concealed beneath the edge of your parchment.
Hopefully concealed.
The sight of the worn cover alone made your pulse quicken. After all the trouble, you'd gone through to get it, the searching, the failed attempts, the increasingly suspicious older students... and well, Fred you still hadn't actually had the chance to read it, today would finally change that.
You eased the cover open; immediately a directory greeted you, your eyes skimming rapidly down the contents page.
History of the Patronus, classification and Forms, interpretation of Manifestations. Blah Blah Blah
Then—there.
Page fifty-two, steps to Conjuring a Patronus.
Perfect.
You immediately flipped ahead, the pages slipping quickly beneath your fingertips before settling back in your chair, excitement bubbling quietly in your chest. Finally, someone was going to explain how this impossible spell actually worked.
The chapter began with several pages discussing the history of Patronuses—their creation, their purpose, famous casters throughout history, documented uses. You skimmed quickly, absorbing enough to know it was interesting, even helpful.
But it wasn't what you needed.
You turned another page, then another. Finally, you flipped to the section.
How to Produce a Patronus.
Your eyes raced eagerly across the parchment.
To successfully conjure a Patronus, a witch or wizard must focus entirely upon a quantifiable memory of happiness.
You nodded to yourself, continuing to read with a quickened haste, The next paragraph continued- The emotional strength of said memory acts as the foundation upon which the charm manifests.
Still reasonable.
Then, the paragraph ended. You paused, looked down, and read the page again. Brows scrunched in confusion you turned the page, and there laid nothing.
Your eyes slid to the next page, racing over the neatly written text.
Patronus Forms and Their Symbolic Meaning.
You frowned before immediately flipping back. Your confusion deepened with every turn of the page, that couldn't possibly be it.
You read the paragraph again, then again, then a final fourth time. Each reread somehow made the problem worse, one page, one single page, an entire book dedicated to Patronuses, and only one page explained how to actually cast one.
That couldn't be right. Surely there was another section buried somewhere else, an appendix or a follow-up chapter, something.
Your fingers twitched impatiently against the parchment as an overwhelming urge to start flipping wildly through the book seized you. You wanted answers, explanations, anything that explained why every source insisted on repeating the exact same advice.
A happy memory.
As though that somehow explained everything, because if it were that simple you would've managed it already.
Your grip tightened against the edge of the page before you forced yourself to stop.
No, you couldn't, not here, not in the middle of Charms. The last thing you needed was Professor Flitwick discovering a restricted library book sitting openly on your desk. The image alone convinced you, however reluctantly, to close the book with painstaking care even though every instinct you possessed screamed at you to open it again immediately.
There had to be more, there simply had to. Perhaps you were missing something, perhaps the answer hid elsewhere within the text. Or perhaps more frustratingly the answer really was that simple.
The possibility irritated you far more than you cared to admit.
Across the classroom, Professor Flitwick's lecture gradually drifted back into focus,"...and therefore wand control remains one of the most important foundations..."
You glanced toward the classroom clock, there were still twenty minutes left. Twenty entire minutes until the lesson ended, then lunch, then freedom. Then, finally, you could search through the book properly without worrying about professors, classmates, or accidentally revealing yourself as a complete lunatic.
The thought alone made waiting feel almost unbearable.
So instead, you remained exactly where you were, pretending to listen while your mind stayed entirely occupied by one thoroughly irritating paragraph.
A quantifiable memory of happiness.
That was it, that was all the instructions offered. And somehow, you'd finished the chapter with more questions than when you'd started.
***
The moment Charms ended, you were on your feet. Not running (that would be suspicious) but certainly walking with purpose.
The Patronus guide disappeared quickly back into your satchel while students around you packed away parchment and books. The classroom immediately filled with the familiar chaos that always accompanied the end of a lesson. Chairs scraped across stone, students exchanged complaints about homework, someone knocked over an ink bottle, and Professor Flitwick, still perched atop his stack of books, cheerfully reminded everyone about next week's assignment.
You heard approximately none of it. Your thoughts remained entirely occupied by one deeply irritating paragraph. A quantifiable memory of happiness.
That was it, an entire restricted book, an entire week of effort, and somehow the answer remained exactly the same.
The frustration followed you into the corridor, where students flooded around you in every direction. Third years hurried toward their next lesson, fourth years lingered in noisy groups, and somewhere nearby a pair of Hufflepuffs had become deeply invested in an argument about Quidditch. You barely noticed any of them, shoving your hands into your robe pockets as you continued toward the staircase.
You needed to find Ginny, preferably immediately. Maybe she'd spot something you'd missed, because surely there had to be more than a single cryptic sentence hidden inside an entire book.
You rounded the next corner and nearly walked straight into someone, "Careful" the voice called.
You stopped abruptly as a familiar laugh followed almost immediately afterward.
Of course.
Fred had the peculiar ability to appear at the most inconvenient moments, and lately you were beginning to suspect it wasn't entirely accidental.
The redhead stepped neatly aside before the collision could happen, one hand resting lazily against the stone wall behind him as though he'd been standing there for some time. You let out a slow breath once your heart settled, "You nearly gave me a heart attack," you countered, unable to keep the annoyance from your voice.
Fred looked entirely unrepentant, "I was standing still."
"You appeared suddenly."
"I've always considered that one of my talents."
You rolled your eyes, earning another grin in return as students continued weaving around the two of you. Portraits chatted idly overhead, someone hurried past with an armful of books, yet Fred seemed entirely unconcerned by the crowd pressing through the corridor.
Almost like he'd been waiting.
The thought surfaced unexpectedly, drawing your brows together before you could stop it.
Fred noticed the change immediately; he always seemed to notice. His grin softened into something more curious as he tilted his head, "And what's that look for?"
"What look?" you asked with a brisk frustration.
"That one."
You narrowed your eyes, "Very descriptive, Fred."
Shaking your head, you stepped around him, fully intending to continue toward the staircase. There was no point lingering here, every moment spent entertaining Fred's teasing was another moment you weren't finding Ginny, and another moment you weren't making progress on the spell.
Naturally, Fred fell into step beside you as though he'd intended to all along.
You sighed, "Do you need something?" you asked.
"No."
"Then why are you following me?"
Fred looked almost offended by the accusation, "I'm walking," he replied matter-of-factly, his brows knitting together.
"You are walking suspiciously close to me."
"That's because you're walking in the same direction."
You casted an exaggerated glance down the enormous corridor surrounding you. There was more than enough room for the both of you, yet somehow Fred continued matching your pace almost shoulder to shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the point you were trying to make.
For a few moments neither of you spoke. Students drifted past in scattered groups while beyond the towering windows snow continued falling lazily over the grounds, coating the castle in another fresh layer of white.
Fred glanced sideways, "You look disappointed."
You paused for only a heartbeat, your eyes flicking toward his before quickly looking away again.
His grin widened immediately, "Oh, there it is."
"There what is?"
"The reason you're disappointed."
You sighed heavily, not offering another reply.
Fred scoffed, the sound echoing lightly through the corridor, though this time some of the teasing gave way to genuine curiosity, "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Something happened," He pointed toward you with complete confidence, "You have the face."
You stared, "What face?"
"The thinking face."
"I do not have a thinking face."
"You absolutely do," The certainty in his voice was deeply irritating, mostly because he sounded as though he'd noticed it before. You looked away first, an unfortunate habit whenever Fred seemed particularly pleased with himself.
"The mystery book isn't helping?" he asked in a very unserious tone.
Your steps faltered, not enough to stop but just enough.
Fred noticed, of course he noticed. You looked toward him to find exactly what you'd expected. He looked smug, a truly unfortunate expression.
"I knew it."
You sighed, "Must you always be this pleased with yourself?"
"Yes." The answer came instantly, without hesitation or the slightest hint of shame. You couldn't even argue, because it was true.
Fred shoved his hands into his pockets as he continued beside you, his expression relaxing into something more curious. "So..."
You groaned, "So?"
"What did the book say?"
You hesitated before releasing another slow breath, Fred waited patiently, entirely too patiently. Eventually, you relented, "Nothing."
"What?"
"It said nothing."
"A whole book?" Fred frowned, genuine confusion replacing the smugness on his face, which somehow made you feel marginally better.
"There was one page."
"One page?"
"One page."
He looked skeptical and you nodded, "See?" you asked rather defeated.
"Who writes an entire book and only includes one page of instructions?"
"That's exactly what I thought. "For the first time all day, it felt like someone actually understood your frustration.
Fred shook his head with exaggerated solemnity, "A tragedy."
"It is."
"A crime, even."
A huff of amusement escaped before you could stop it and your mouth ever subtly lifted to a smile. The motion wasn't much, just a quiet scoff of amusement.
Fred looked entirely too pleased with himself. The expression was becoming alarmingly common, "You laughed."
"Don't make it weird."
"I wasn't going to."
"You absolutely were."
Fred only grinned, offering no defense whatsoever, and despite yourself, some of the frustration you'd been carrying since Charms had already begun fading. Not disappearing, there was still a maddeningly vague book sitting inside your satchel.
Ahead, the corridor split in two. One passage led toward the Great hall, while the other curved toward the staircase where you'd promised to meet Ginny. Your pace slowed instinctively, and beside you Fred's did the same.
For a brief moment neither of you moved. Then he nodded toward your satchel, "The book will figure itself out eventually."
You raised a brow, "That's your advice?"
"It worked for me," he claimed.
Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You've never learned a Patronus?"
"Those details aren't important"
You huffed another laugh, shaking your head as the corners of his mouth tugged upward in quiet satisfaction. Despite the book and despite the fact you still felt no closer to mastering the spell than you had yesterday, the conversation had somehow made the problem feel a little less impossible.
Fred took a step backward toward the opposite corridor.
"Good luck."
You watched as he lifted a hand in farewell before disappearing into the steady stream of students winding through the castle. For a moment you remained where you were, eyes lingering on the place he'd vanished, before shaking your head and adjusting your satchel once more.
***
You found Ginny exactly where you expected to. In the Great Hall, eating of course.
The lunch rush had only just begun, students filtering into the hall in clusters as morning classes exchanged and schedules shifted throughout the castle. The room hummed with its usual familiar chaos—conversation bouncing from table to table, bursts of laughter carrying overhead, the occasional complaint about homework already being assigned on the first day back. Platters continued appearing and disappearing down the long tables as house-elves kept pace with the growing crowd.
Ginny occupied her usual place at the Gryffindor table, a plate piled entirely too high sitting before her. She was halfway through buttering another slice of bread when you dropped into the seat beside her.
She looked up, took one look at your expression, and lowered the knife back onto her plate with the resignation of someone who had seen this particular mood before, "Oh no" she hummed at you expression.
You frowned at her reaction, "What?"
Ginny gestured vaguely toward your face with the piece of bread still in her hand, "You have the face."
You stared annoyed before eventually slouching with defeat, "Fred said that too."
A flicker of surprise crossed her features before it disappeared just as quickly. Instead, she looked deeply disappointed, "That's unfortunate."
You rolled your eyes, choosing not to ask whether she meant Fred noticing or the fact that apparently you did, in fact, have a face that announced your thoughts before you spoke. Instead, you reached beneath your robes, fingers wrapping around the worn spine of the Patronus guide.
Ginny straightened almost immediately, "Wait."
Without another word, you dropped the heavy book onto the table between you. The solid thump rattled the plates and nearly sent her goblet tipping onto its side, "I read it," you announced.
Ginny blinked once before looking from you to the book, "And?" she asked.
You pointed dramatically toward the open cover, "It's useless."
Her brows shot upward, "What do you mean, useless?"
"I mean exactly that," You folded your arms, "It's entirely useless."
"That's impossible." Her lunch was abandoned without another thought, curiosity quickly replacing hunger. Ginny pulled the book closer while you slid it across the table toward her. The chapter was already marked, the offending page already lying open beneath your finger.
She leaned over it, reading carefully. At first her expression remained thoughtful, then it shifted to confusion, then came the concern and then something bordering on disbelief. She turned the page, paused, then flipped back. She read the paragraph again, slower this time, before lifting her head to look at you with an expression that perfectly mirrored the one you'd worn after finishing it yourself,"...That's it?"
You pointed triumphantly," That's exactly what I said."
Still unconvinced, Ginny lowered her gaze again, rereading the page as though another paragraph might quietly materialize if she stared long enough. Unfortunately, it didn't.
The page remained exactly as frustratingly brief as before, "'A quantifiable memory of happiness,'" she read aloud under her breath, her eyes lingering on the sentence.
You nodded, "That's the entire section."
"The entire section?"
"The entire section," you repeated back.
Ginny leaned back in her seat looking personally offended, "That's ridiculous."
Shaking her head, Ginny looked back down at the pages. She flipped ahead, scanning the next section only to find descriptions of Patronus forms instead. She frowned and flipped backward then forward again. Then back once more, searching with increasing determination for the chapter you'd somehow overlooked.
When she finally closed the book, it was with considerably more force than necessary, "That's rubbish."
You pointed across the table almost immediately, "Exactly."
For a few moments the two of you simply sat there, united entirely by mutual frustration. Around you, the Great Hall continued exactly as it always did. Students shuffled onto benches with overloaded plates, conversations rose and fell in every direction, and somewhere farther down the Gryffindor table Ron burst into loud laughter at something Seamus had said, neither of you paid the slightest attention. Your focus remained fixed on the irritatingly ordinary-looking book resting between you.
Eventually Ginny released a long, theatrical sigh, drumming her fingers thoughtfully against the cover before looking back at you.
"What?"
She tapped the book once, "Keep reading."
You paused, a frown creeping itself to your features, "What?"
"The whole thing."
Your frown deepened into a full crease, "I already read the important part."
"No," Ginny shook her head patiently, "You read the part labelled important."
The distinction immediately annoyed you mostly because it sounded frustratingly reasonable. "You think there's more?" you asked hesitantly.
"There has to be," she rested her hand against the thick stack of pages, "Nobody writes an entire book and only includes one page worth reading."
You raised an eyebrow, "Have you met wizard authors?"
Ginny couldn't help laughing, "Fair point."
Despite yourself, you found your own certainty beginning to waver. The book was thick, extremely thick. Surely there had to be something hidden elsewhere inside it, an observation of sorts, a story of provoking interests, anything to make the book worthwhile to you.
Because if the answer truly amounted to one vague paragraph, then the Restricted Section suddenly seemed wildly overprotective.
Ginny pushed the book gently back toward you, "Keep reading."
Your gaze settled on the worn leather cover before another sigh escaped you. You seemed to be doing that rather often lately, "Fine," you muttered begrudgingly.
A small smile tugged at Ginny's mouth as she watched your silent tantrum. You rolled your eyes upon noticing her amusement, though the corners of your own mouth threatened to betray you.
***
By the time evening settled over Gryffindor Tower, the castle had grown quiet.
The occasional burst of laughter still drifted through the common room while a handful of students lingered around the fireplace discussing homework. Others occupied the corners of the room with quiet games of wizard's chess, their pieces muttering insults as they battled across worn boards. Compared to the bustle of the afternoon, however, the tower felt almost peaceful.
Curled into one of the armchairs nearest the fireplace, you had your father's spellbook resting beside you while the Patronus guide lay open across your lap. For the better part of an hour, you'd done little besides read.
Across from you, Ginny occupied a patch of carpet beside the fire, sitting cross-legged amongst a growing collection of parchment and textbooks. Every so often she muttered something under her breath about Professor Flitwick's Charms homework before scratching out another sentence with considerably more force than necessary.
You turned another page and then another. Another quiet sigh escaped before you could stop it.
The sound immediately drew Ginny's attention. She looked up from her parchment, watching you for a moment over the top of her textbook. Your brow remained furrowed, your eyes moving quickly across the page with the same determined expression you'd worn for most of the evening.
Focused but increasingly frustrated.
A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, "Find anything yet?" she asked with a smirk.
You continued reading for another heartbeat before finally closing the book. The cover shut with a quiet thump against your lap as you leaned back into the chair, "No."
Ginny winced sympathetically.
You rubbed lightly at your eyes before gesturing toward the book. "Plenty of mentions about the applications of a Patronus," you muttered, tapping the cover with one finger "Plenty of stories." Another tap followed, "Plenty of theories."
Your shoulders sagged as another sigh escaped, "But almost nothing about actually conjuring one."
Ginny groaned dramatically, letting her quill fall across her parchment, "Brilliant" she remarked.
You laughed softly, though there was very little amusement behind it.
The frustration had been building all day. Every chapter seemed determined to explain why Patronuses were useful, how powerful they were, what they could do, how remarkably rare they were, yet every time the text edged toward explaining how to actually cast one, the instructions dissolved into vague observations and philosophical nonsense.
It was as though every author assumed the difficult part was already understood.
Ginny finally abandoned her homework altogether, allowing the parchment to slide forgotten into her lap as she shifted to face you more fully, "I think you're killing your brain with all this reading."
You glanced toward her with a pointed stare. She pointed toward the book resting across your knees ignoring your glare, "You should give it a break."
You raised an eyebrow, "A break?"
"Yes." She nodded firmly, completely serious, "Sleep on it."
Ginny pressed on, "Maybe it'll come to you when you're not staring at the same page for three hours."
Your gaze drifted back toward the worn leather cover before returning to her, "Doubtful."
She only smiled, the small reassuring sort she reserved for moments when she genuinely believed what she was saying, "You'll get it."
A quiet huff escaped somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.
Around you, the common room continued settling into the evening. Several students rose from their chairs and disappeared toward the dormitories while conversations gradually dwindled into comfortable silence. Yet almost without thinking, your eyes found the Patronus guide again.
Frustration twisted somewhere beneath your ribs,"It's of no use to me if I don't learn it soon."
Ginny's smile faded while you lowered your gaze to your hands, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the book, "What if there's another intrusion?" you asked.
The words came quieter than you'd intended, immediately your thoughts returned to the train and the horrifying sensation of every happy memory being ripped from your chest until nothing remained but fear.
You swallowed, "Knowing a complete history of Patronuses isn't going to help me in a real situation."
The fire crackled softly between you, neither of you spoke for several long moments. Ginny understood, you knew she did. The previous year had given both of you more than enough reasons to worry. Eventually she nodded, her voice gentler than before, "I know."
Your gaze wandered toward the windows, watching snow drift across the darkened grounds beyond the glass. After another moment Ginny shifted on the carpet, sitting a little straighter before speaking again, "You're putting too much on yourself."
You looked back at her and she shrugged lightly, "You're a third year." she paused, her eyes staying locked on yours, "I'm not even sure seventh years learn Patronuses."
You opened your mouth to argue then closed it again. You weren't sure if they did either, the spell was advanced, every book you'd managed to find seemed to agree on that much.
Ginny smiled again, softer this time, "Genuinely," She nudged one of her textbooks aside before folding her hands in her lap, "Give yourself some grace."
The words settled quietly between you as the firelight danced across the walls.
You released another slow breath, a real sigh this time, "I know."
And you did know, logically at least you knew she was right. Logic simply wasn't the problem, fear was. Your gaze dropped once more to the Patronus guide resting across your lap, "But I'll sleep better at night knowing I can defend myself against those..." You hesitated, searching unsuccessfully for the right word.
Creatures didn't seem sufficient and monsters didn't either. Neither truly captured what a Dementor was, "...things."
Ginny nodded without hesitation, "I will too."
The admission caught you slightly off guard, yet it shouldn't have. She'd been on the train too and she'd felt the cold, the helplessness. Whatever comfort the Patronus promised you weren't the only one searching for it.
Ginny began gathering her books, stacking parchment into neat piles and closing textbooks with practiced efficiency before climbing to her feet. Once she reached your chair, she rested a hand lightly against your shoulder.
The simple gesture made you smile. For a moment neither of you spoke, then she tilted her head,"I'm going to bed."
You looked around the common room for the first time in what felt like hours. The fire had burned noticeably lower, and most of the students had already disappeared upstairs.
Ginny adjusted the books balanced against her hip, "Are you coming?"
Your eyes flickered toward the chapter still lying open across your lap before drifting to the staircase leading toward the dormitories. Then back to the book, "I'll be up soon."
She gave you a look, a very specific look, one you'd become intimately familiar with over the years. The I don't believe you for a second look.
You offered your most innocent smile (it accomplished absolutely nothing).
"Don't lose sleep over this." she demanded in a stern tone.
"I won't."
The answer came a little too quickly. Ginny narrowed her eyes and you laughed quietly. "I'm serious," she spoke.
Holding up the book slightly, you smiled again, "I'm just going to finish this chapter."
Ginny released a long, dramatic sigh before finally nodding, "Okay."
You smiled, quietly victorious. Unfortunately, she immediately pointed a finger in your direction, "But seriously," there it was.
You bit back another grin as she pressed you further, "Come to bed soon."
You nodded obediently, "I'll be right up."
Ginny studied you for another moment, appearing to genuinely debate confiscating the book altogether. Eventually, much to your relief, she relented.
With one final suspicious glance, she turned and disappeared up the girls' staircase.
You watched until she vanished from sight.
The common room settled into comfortable silence once more, the fire crackled softly. Snow drifted lazily beyond the windows and the moment you were finally alone your eyes found the open page again.
Just one more chapter.
***
At some point, the words had begun blurring together. The account of a wizard from the eighteenth century discussing Patronus messenger charms faded into another paragraph and then another.
The common room continued growing quieter and quieter as students disappeared toward their dormitories. You told yourself you'd finish one more page, then one more chapter, then one more section. Eventually sleep won and the Patronus guide remained open across your lap.
Your head rested awkwardly against the arm of the couch, and your brows continued to stay drawn tightly even in sleep, as if even slumber couldn't offer you reprieve from your thoughts.
Much later, long after curfew the portrait hole swung open.
Fred climbed through first, George immediately behind him.
The twins were covered in evidence of whatever poor decisions they'd spent the evening making. Snow dusted their robes and George was carrying what appeared to be three stolen Honeydukes pastries.
Fred wasn't entirely sure where the pastries had come from and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know.
The common room was dark now, only the dying fire illuminated the room which was racing towards burning out.
George yawned, "I am never climbing through that window again."
"You said that last time," Fred joked, dusting particles of snow from his robes as they crossed the room.
"I mean it this time,"
Fred laughed but the sound was abruptly cut short when his attention caught on something near the fireplace. Something out of place, or rather, someone. He stopped walking, pausing halfway through his stride. George nearly walked into him, "What—"
Then George saw it too, following his twins gaze, "Oh."
Curled into one of the couches near the fire sat you, fast asleep in a position that didn't look at all comfortable. The Patronus guide remained open across your lap, open to a page with text so small it looked migraine inflicting.
Several loose sheets of parchment had fallen onto the floor, your father's spellbook sat beside you.
George immediately snorted at the sight, "The book must've been fascinating." he commented proudly. Fred rolled his eyes while George pointed, "Look at her," he insisted.
Fred did. You looked thoroughly exhausted like you'd spent hours reading, which, knowing you, was probably exactly what had happened.
George grinned, "Nothing says exciting literature quite like unconsciousness."
Fred shook his head, "Or she's been reading it all day."
"Same result."
George's grin softened slightly then he glanced toward the dark windows, toward the empty common room and toward the sleeping third year. His brow furrowed devilishly, "You know."
Fred nodded before George even spoke, "Yeah."
With Sirius Black still somewhere beyond the castle walls, nobody particularly liked students wandering around alone at night, or falling asleep in abandoned corners of the castle, especially not after everything that had happened that year.
George crossed his arms, "We should teach her a lesson."
Fred looked toward him, "What kind of lesson?"
George shrugged, "I don't know, a harmless one," his tone was unconvincing.
Fred immediately shook his head, "No."
George looked disappointed, "What?"
"No," Fred repeated firmly, giving his twin a sterner look.
"Why not? "George insisted.
Fred raised a brow, "Because I enjoy being alive."
George stared, then immediately understood, "Ginny." The redhead winced, fair. Messing with you was one thing, messing with you and then having Ginny discover it? That was a completely different matter.
George sighed dramatically, "You take all the fun out of things."
Fred gestured toward the boy's staircase, "Go to bed."
"What about you?"
"I'll be right up."
George glanced between Fred and the couch, then smirked, dangerously. Fred pointed immediately, "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to,"
George grinned, then wisely retreated toward the dormitories leaving Fred alone. For a moment he just looked at you, the common room remained silent, the fire crackled softly, though the embers were near their deaths, the light murmuring in an out through the room.
Fred sighed, "You really should know better" he spoke to himself in a hushed tone. He stepped closer, reaching out to lightly shake your shoulder. The response was immediate and you startled awake, eyes blinking rapidly as confusion crossed your face.
For several moments you looked completely lost then your surroundings caught up and your eyes locked firmly on him. You rubbed at your eyes as you turned slightly, taking in the bare room, "What time is it?" you spoke barely above a whisper.
Fred laughed softly, "Far too late for you to be out of the dormitories."
You immediately glared despite clearly having just woken up, "Then why are you not in the dormitories?" you asked pointedly.
Fred shrugged, the smirk never quite leaving his features, "Duty called."
You stared "Duty?" you asked in an unconvinced tone, your tired eyes narrowing on him and the speckled frost on his robes.
"Duty," he affirmed.
The look you gave him suggested you didn't believe that for a second (a correctly made assumption).
Your gaze drifted toward the book still resting on your lap after a moment.
Fred followed it, "So?" he began. You groaned immediately; the reaction amusing him. "Is the book so informative that you've started falling asleep over it?"
You huffed, "The opposite."
"Oh?"
You sat up slightly pushing loose strands of hair from your face, "I've spent all day reading it."
"And?" Fred inquired.
"Still no decent information."
Fred looked skeptical, the sort of skeptical that immediately annoyed you, "You must not be reading it properly." He states
You stared, then stared harder, "Yes," you spoke, your sarcasm practically dripping from the word, "Because you're the master of reading."
Fred smiled, "Obviously."
You rolled your eyes and turned your gaze from him. The movement earned another grin, then Fred held out his hand, "Let me see this useless section," he spoke, coming to your side on the couch.
You frowned as Fred crossed the common room toward your side of the couch, the movement making you instinctively shift your legs farther beneath you to give him room. The cushion dipped under his weight as he sat beside you, close enough that your knees nearly brushed, and he held out an expectant hand.
"Let me see this supposedly useless section."
You sighed through your nose before surrendering the book, "You'll regret asking."
"I've regretted plenty of things," Fred replied easily, taking the Patronus guide from your hands. "Usually because George was involved."
Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched upwards into a smirk.
He balanced the book across both your laps, smoothing the worn page flat with one hand while the dying fire cast an amber glow over the faded text. For several moments neither of you spoke, Fred's brow knit together as he read, his expression surprisingly thoughtful, while you found yourself rereading the same paragraph over his shoulder despite having practically memorized every word by now.
Finally, he tapped the page with one finger, "It tells you how to do it."
Your brows scrunched in confusion,"...What?" you demanded.
"Right here," he spoke, tapping the offending paragraph again.
Your eyes followed his finger to the same paragraph. The same singular, infuriating paragraph that had occupied your thoughts for the better part of the day. You looked back at him in disbelief and irritation, "You cannot honestly think that's enough detail."
Fred glanced between you and the page as though he couldn't quite understand the problem, "Why not?" he spoke flatly.
"Because it's vague," you insisted with vigor in your gestures.
"It seems straightforward."
You stared at him and he let at a shallow laugh, "What?" he inquired with disbelief.
"The fact you think this is straightforward is horrifying"
Fred looked almost offended, "It is."
You leaned forward, pointing emphatically at the page balanced between the two of you, "'A quantifiable memory of happiness and that's all?" you remarked almost amused.
"Yes."
"Yes?" You repeated incredulously, "Fred, that's hardly instruction."
"It tells you what you need."
"It tells me absolutely nothing."
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he shook his head disapprovingly, "I think you're overcomplicating it."
You let out a short huff, one born entirely of exasperation, "I've spent all day trying to work out which memory it's referring to."
"Well, that's your problem."
You frowned, "My problem?" you repeated.
"You keep saying which memory" He closed the book gently, resting it across the cushion between you rather than trapping the answer back inside its pages. Leaning farther into the sofa, he propped one arm along the backrest, turning slightly so he faced you instead of the fire. "You're treating it like there's a correct answer hidden somewhere."
Without really thinking about it, you mirrored the movement, drawing one leg onto the cushion beneath you so you could face him more comfortably. The forgotten Patronus guide remained between you while the fire crackled quietly at your side, leaving the two of you bathed in the last warm light spilling from the fireplace, "Isn't there?" you asked.
"I don't reckon."
You searched his face for answers he was uninterested in giving, "But I've thought of dozens." you spoke.
"I'd imagine you have."
"But none of them feel..." You hesitated, struggling to explain something you barely understood yourself, "...enough."
Fred considered your question for a moment, his fingers absently tracing the worn edge of the Patronus guide before his expression shifted ever so slightly, as though another thought had occurred to him"...Well," he murmured with a smirk.
You looked up, "What?"
"The ornament, "He spoke rather plainly. Your brow furrowed, an inquisitive expression etched into your features as if questioning what he was getting at, "The one you bought your mum in Hogsmeade."
You paused, "What about it?"
Fred shrugged lightly, as though the answer seemed perfectly obvious, "Didn't that thing already do the difficult part for you?"
You frowned as he continued, "It showed you your most cherished memories, didn't it?" He nudged the closed Patronus guide resting between the two of you. "Seems to me you've already got a shortlist."
Without meaning to, your mind drifted back to the ornament.
You could still remember the little Christmas shop in Hogsmeade, the delicate glass sphere turning slowly between your hands as silver wisps swirled beneath its surface. One by one memories had appeared within it—your mother laughing across the kitchen table, Ginny grinning triumphantly after beating Ron at chess, Christmas mornings at home...
Then the Burrow, rain striking the kitchen windows, Fred laughing across the table as thunder rattled the little house as wind pressed against the windows making a horrible shutter noise. It hadn't bothered you at the time, not when you were with Fred at least.
You remembered the panic that had followed when you saw that memory. The ornament had barely finished displaying the memory before you'd hurriedly tucked it back into its wrapping, hoping no one had noticed. Had he...?
Your gaze lifted slowly to meet his, Fred was already watching you. A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, not smug exactly, but knowing enough to make your stomach tighten. "What?" you asked, a little more defensively than you'd intended.
His smile widened, "I'm just thinking..." His head tilted ever so slightly. "Surely at least one of those memories was provoking enough."
Your pulse stalled, so he had seen, at least that's what he was implying to you.
Heat crept up the back of your neck before you could stop it, and without thinking you looked away, pretending sudden interest in the dying fire. The flames had shrunk to little more than glowing embers now, each quiet crackle sending soft ribbons of orange light dancing across the common room. Shadows stretched long across the floorboards while snow continued drifting silently beyond the tall windows, leaving the castle wrapped in a hush that somehow made every heartbeat feel louder.
Fred didn't say anything immediately, but you could feel him watching you, waiting for a reaction or a response. "There wasn't," you said at last, the words coming quieter than you'd intended.
"Hm?"
"There wasn't." you insisted again, pointedly keeping your eyes on the fire.
Beside you, Fred gave a thoughtful hum,"Yeah?" his tone carried the unmistakable edge of amusement.
Slowly, you looked back at him.
His elbow had come to rest against the back of the sofa, his cheek propped comfortably in his palm as he faced you completely now. The dying fire painted warm amber across one side of his face while the other disappeared into soft shadow, and his eyes never left yours.
"There wasn't," you repeated, your brows knitting together as annoyance finally won out over embarrassment. "I don't know what you think you saw."
"I think," Fred replied, fighting a smile, "the ornament was fairly convincing."
"It wasn't."
"No? "His eyebrows lifted.
You folded your arms,"...There was absolutely nothing interesting in that ornament."
Fred studied you for another beat before letting out a quiet laugh, "We've already established you're a dreadful liar."
Your mouth fell open defensively, "I am not lying."
"No?"
He gave you another look. The sort that said he didn't believe a word you'd just spoken.
"I am not," you insisted again, hearing your own voice grow just a touch more indignant.
Fred's smile only deepened, "You always do that."
"What?"
"Repeat yourself when you're trying to convince somebody."
You huffed, somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement.
By now the fire had burned almost completely away, leaving only a handful of glowing embers nestled beneath blackened logs. Their light flickered lazily across the space between you, just enough to catch the amusement lingering in Fred's expression and the warmth steadily rising in your own face.
The worst part wasn't that he'd seen the memory, it was that he seemed perfectly content to believe he understood it.
You tore your gaze away from the dying embers and looked back at him, the warmth lingering in your cheeks finally giving way to stubbornness, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Fred laughed quietly, the sound low enough not to disturb the sleeping castle, "I'm fairly certain I know something."
"Oh?"
You shifted on the couch until you were facing him properly, one knee drawn beneath you as you leaned your elbow against the back of the sofa. Somewhere during the conversation, the Patronus guide had become completely forgotten between you, and you found yourself meeting his gaze without the usual instinct to look away, "What exactly do you think you know?"
For the first time that evening, Fred hesitated. It was a brief hesitation, barely lasting a heartbeat but you caught it. His smile faltered just enough for you to notice before returning with practiced ease, "Well..." he began, scratching thoughtfully at the side of his jaw, "it rather takes the fun out of it when you decide to play dumb."
One of your brows lifted and a smile, slow and unmistakably pleased with itself, found your face, "Does it?"
"It does."
"That's unfortunate."
Fred narrowed his eyes ever so slightly, watching you with a keenness you'd come to recognize when it was just you and he. You tilted your head innocently, "I think I'm having rather a lot of fun."
The words settled between you with surprising confidence. Fred looked at you for a long moment, whatever teasing remark had been waiting behind his grin never arrived.
The common room seemed to shrink around the two of you.
The fire had burned almost entirely away now, leaving only a handful of glowing embers that pulsed softly beneath blackened logs.
Neither of you spoke, you weren't entirely certain who should.
Without his usual animated gestures or relentless joking, there was something unexpectedly calm about him. The corners of his mouth still hinted at amusement, but it no longer felt like he was trying to win the conversation.
He was looking at you in the manner you caught him doing occasionally. Your heartbeat picked up for reasons you couldn't quite explain.
The realization unsettled you enough that you glanced briefly toward the dying fire before looking back again, only to find his eyes hadn't left yours.
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of Fred's mouth, "There it is."
You frowned, "What?"
"That look," he stated
"What look?"
"The one you get when you're thinking too hard."
A reluctant laugh escaped before you could stop it, "You've imagined that" you claimed rather defensively.
"I haven't."
You shook your head, unable to suppress another smile, "You're insufferable."
"So I've been told."
"And yet," you replied, your voice carrying just enough amusement to betray you, "you never seem particularly interested in improving."
Fred's grin returned in full, "I've found people tend to lower their expectations eventually."
You laughed again, quieter this time, the sound lingering between you as the final ember shifted in the hearth with a soft crack.
Almost instinctively, both of your eyes drifted toward the fireplace, the last of the flames flickered once, twice, then disappeared altogether.
Darkness settled gently across the common room, leaving only the pale moonlight filtering through the tall windows to soften the outlines of the furniture. For a moment neither of you moved.
Even without the fire, you had the distinct feeling he was still looking at you.
You swallowed, "I..." Your voice came out softer than you'd intended. "I should probably go to bed."
After a moment, Fred nodded,"Yeah" his answer was just as quiet "You probably should."
You reached for the Patronus guide, tucking it beneath your arm before standing. The room suddenly felt much colder than it had a moment before, and you couldn't decide whether it was because the fire had gone out or because the conversation had.
At the foot of the girls' staircase, you glanced back over your shoulder, "I'll try your theory."
Fred folded his arms comfortably across his chest "When it works, I expect full credit."
A small huff of laughter escaped you, "Your theory is still painfully oversimplified."
"It usually works."
"We'll see."
Shaking your head, you turned toward the staircase once more, "Goodnight, Fred."
"Night."
***
The girls' dormitory had long since fallen asleep by the time you'd pushed aside your covers and crawled into bed with Ginny. Her brows were knight within her sleep, as though she was perpetually irritated you hadn't come to bed earlier.
Moonlight spilled through the frost-laced windows, washing the room in pale silver while snow drifted steadily beyond the glass. One of your dormmates murmured quietly before settling again, and beside you Ginny slept soundly, the blankets hopelessly tangled around her legs as they always seemed to be by morning.
Sleep should have come easily after everything you'd read. Instead, you found yourself staring at the canopy overhead, the heavy blankets tucked beneath your chin doing very little to quiet your thoughts.
The ornament.
The conversation replayed itself for what felt like the hundredth time that night, "Didn't that thing already do the difficult part for you?"
You frowned into the darkness; Fred had made it sound so obvious as though the answer had been sitting in front of you all along.
Slowly, you rolled onto your side, careful not to disturb Ginny, and closed your eyes. You didn't expect to sleep, but despite yourself and better judgement you wanted to see whether he'd been right.
You resisted the urge to search, that had been your mistake all day according to Fred.
Every time you'd gone looking for the perfect memory, you'd found yourself weighing one against another as though happiness could be measured. One memory would seem right until another appeared, then another after that, each one warm enough to make you smile but somehow never enough to satisfy the impossible standard you'd invented for yourself. Fred hadn't said to find the happiest memory, he'd simply told you to stop looking.
At first there was only darkness behind your eyelids.
Then, almost imperceptibly, memories began surfacing on their own.
Your mother stood in the tiny kitchen at home, laughing as flour dusted nearly every surface after the two of you had attempted to bake together. You could almost smell the fresh bread again, hear the warmth in her laughter as she reached across the table to brush flour from your nose.
The memory drifted quietly away as another followed.
Your first glimpse of Hogwarts across the Black Lake and the impossible feeling that magic was finally real. The moment you realized all the stories your father had muttered across the kitchen table under the watchful eye of your mother were real.
Then well of course, Ginny.
The two of you laughing until your sides hurt after one of Fred and George's elaborate pranks had backfired so spectacularly that Percy had somehow ended up covered in feathers instead.
Each memory filled you with the same quiet warmth but each one faded naturally. Not a single one of them lingered or impacted you.
Your brow furrowed, they were wonderful memories, some of the happiest you'd ever known and maybe ever would. So why weren't they enough? Why weren't any of them provoking or compelling or at the very least able to captivate your attention for more than a few measly moments.
Before the thought had fully formed, another memory emerged.
The Burrow. The crooked house leaning impossibly against itself and Mrs. Weasley's voice drifting through open windows. The sensation of a home, in a way that surprised you even now. Not a home like yours, where things go unsaid and danced around. Not a home that was silent and secretive. No, the Burrow was the type of home you imagined when the word 'family' was mentioned.
The memory settled gently around you, and you allowed yourself to find resolve in it.
Then the sky darkened and rain began striking the kitchen windows. Wind rattled the glass and claps of thunder rolled somewhere overhead shaking the wobblily house.
You frowned; displeasure etched on your face in the darkness. No, not this one.
Yet it continued anyway.
Fred stood opposite you, leaning comfortably against the counter as though the storm outside didn't concern him in the slightest. You remembered the warmth of his presence, the way laughter had seemed to come so easily that evening, the strange disappointment you'd felt when you forced yourself to return upstairs.
Your eyes opened and the dormitory ceiling greeted you once again. That wasn't right, it wasn't even close to the happiest day you'd ever lived. You'd had far better memories, memories with your mother and with Ginny.
You rolled onto your back again, frustration tightening in your chest.
Perhaps it was because you'd been thinking about the Burrow, that was all. One memory naturally led to another and there was nothing unusual about that.
The explanation almost satisfied you.
You squeezed your eyes shut.
Your mind had chosen that memory twice. Once inside the ornament and once tonight. Neither time had you gone looking for it.
A knot settled uncomfortably in your stomach.
If Fred was right and the spell truly wanted the memory that came naturally then every Patronus you ever cast would begin there with the Burrow and with Fred, every time.
The thought felt wrong because of what choosing that memory seemed to imply.
Your promise to Ginny drifted quietly into your thoughts.
"Promise me you won't fall for one of my brothers."
"I promise."
You'd meant it, you still meant. It wasn't exactly like you were breaking that promise by using a memory with Fred in it, but it felt close enough to a line you weren't supposed to cross. Surely there was another memory.
You refused to believe one ordinary evening could outweigh years spent with your family, your mother, or your best friend.
Tomorrow you'd try again, another memory would come surely. One that made sense to you, one that didn't leave you lying awake questioning why your own mind seemed determined to disagree with you.
With that reassurance, thin though it was, you pulled the blankets a little higher around your shoulders and closed your eyes once more.
(OK SO!! its my first time writing something byler, so I really hope you enjoy 💛💙)
The last of the many letters Mike never sent to Will, written in the quiet moments between shared rooms and avoided eye contact.
About loving someone for years without knowing how to name it — and the fear that telling the truth might ruin everything.
(Set just one day before the beginning of S5)
Almost (we were never just friends)
Dear Will,
I’ve never been good at talking, especially about my feelings, so I thought I’d try writing — even if I don’t really think you’re ever going to read this letter, like all the others I’ve written to you before… or if I’ll even finish it.
You’re probably helping my mother set the table for breakfast right now.
I know what I’m about to write will sound stupid, but I’ve memorised the little path you take every morning: the hour you wake up, the sound you make on the stairs, how you lay the plates out from right to left and not left to right… and the way you avoid my eyes.
And I’m sure it’s me — that I’m the one who did something to ruin things between us. And I know I’m also the one who should speak up, but I’m not that brave, and that’s why I’m here, writing this… whatever this is… instead of secretly spying on you from the stairs, as I’ve been doing these past months.
I’ve always known it was something different with you. It just didn’t click right away.
I remember the frustration when you went missing and no one seemed to believe you were still alive as strongly as I did. I remember asking myself why nobody had the same need I had to find you, to hold you and feel that you were okay. How strange it felt to notice that Lucas didn’t feel the urge to hold your hand, or that Dustin didn’t blush when you looked at him the way I did — or how everyone but me failed to notice those small (huge, for me) changes in the sound of your voice and in the light in your eyes.
I used to ask myself why I seemed to be the most terrified of losing you, and why the others didn’t feel that same protectiveness towards you. I got so frustrated and confused about it, because for me, it was everyday life.
I wasn’t able to connect the dots right away, and I hate myself for that.
I think I’ve loved you for a lifetime, but since it was the most natural thing I’ve ever felt, I just felt it — I never tried to understand why.
Looking back now, I understand that I could’ve done better, especially in the last couple of years. When you moved, I didn’t know what that gut-wrenching pain was about. My first guess was always El, because it had to be — it made the most sense. I was never that good at digging deeper into my emotions.
That's when I started writing you letters by the way, letters I couldn't bring myself to send, for a reason I didn't understand at the time.
It got weirdly real the moment I landed in Lenora, and even if I was finally holding her hand, I was still feeling that goddamn void. Only now do I realise it was because you were so close, and yet we were so distant.
I was awful to you that day. I know it seemed like I didn’t care, but it was really something else.
I was dealing with the disturbing realization that El wasn’t either the problem or the solution.
I was scared that you had found new friends, new best friends; that we were too far apart to ever grow close again; that I had to talk to El even though I didn’t know exactly about what; and that you seemed so nervous every time I was around that I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore.
And then it hit me — the moment you asked, “What about us?” Like lightning through a storm. I realised the words that were coming out of my mouth were a huge lie, but once they were out there was no way of taking them back. And again, I hate myself for that.
We’ve never been just friends. At least, not to me. You were always something dearer — something I couldn’t explain until that exact moment.
And I know it wasn’t up to you, but sometimes I still wonder what could’ve been if I had answered differently, or if you had reacted another way.
I think we both noticed the ups and downs after that. Something changed. I saw it in your eyes. And believe me, I was about to tell you the truth at least a hundred times — but I was too much of a coward.
The first time was in your room. I was so nervous. The situation itself wasn’t easy, but mostly it was because I couldn’t hold it in any longer. It was like those words at the skate park had opened a gate, and all my feelings for you came crashing into me. I needed to talk to you, but at the same time I was terrified you’d run away, or never be my friend again, or think I was a freak.
I think I actually started to say something that time. I didn’t lie — it just wasn’t the whole truth either. But at least I didn’t lie. You were so beautiful it was distracting, so much that I forgot the world was ending. I forgot what was possible and what wasn’t. I forgot about the problems we still had to solve, about El, about my dad, about the shame inside of me.
I think you caught me gazing at you, by the way. It was so embarrassing, but I couldn’t make myself look away. I was so goddamn close to telling you — but I couldn’t.
Then we almost died.
Then there was that time in the car, when you showed me the painting. I was stupid enough to think you had decided on your own to draw that for me — that it was your vision of me.
(That was the moment I understood why, when El told me in one of her letters that you were drawing something for a girl you liked, I got strangely irritated.)
But it wasn’t from you. And I felt so stupid for letting myself think — even for a second — that maybe I was the person you liked. And so guilty for not being happy that my girlfriend had commissioned a painting for me.
That guilt was eating me alive. I wish I could make my heart beat for El the way it beats for you.
Then you started saying all those beautiful things about how I made El feel, and it got even worse (it’s not your fault), because all the things you said were exactly the way you make me feel — but I wasn’t even crossing your mind. So I lost hope and tried to hide it as best as I could, even though I know my protectiveness towards you — and the sparks you make me feel — betrayed me a couple of times.
Then we almost died again.
And I felt like the sequence of events in our lives was going exactly the opposite way of what was happening in my mind and soul. Every time something inside me clicked and made more sense, something outside would go wrong. I tried to ignore it, but at a certain point it almost felt like a sign — like someone or something was trying to tell me I shouldn’t feel this way, that it wasn’t right, that if I kept feeling it, things would keep going wrong. So I tried to suppress it. It wasn’t easy, but I had to.
I felt like my love for you was destroying the world. And even though there was nothing I wanted more than to love you, and not doing so was killing me, I couldn’t risk everyone’s life for what I wanted.
So it all started again, from the beginning. Only this time, I was aware. I am aware.
I still feel like I’m burning up when you sit next to me on the couch, when my mum sends us to do chores together, when we go to the hospital to see Max and the waiting room is full so we have to sit close and our knees brush. I still get that huge, shameful feeling when my dad catches me looking at you, or when we go to El’s and I still can’t bring myself to tell her the truth — even though I know she would understand, and I’m sure she already suspects something.
I think I was about to confess this to you at least five times in the last two days.
But I can’t. I still don’t know if I’m able to do it. Saying everything out loud would make it all real — all the mistakes I’ve made, all the wasted chances, all the lies, all the times I brushed your hand with mine on purpose and tried to make it look like an accident when it wasn’t. And I don’t know if I can handle that, if the world can or if I’m just hiding behind this stupid excuse.
So again, I find myself here, cowardly writing that I love y—
