#scribbles with mim

[mimhalennia]

“You are very beautiful,” Ilya said. Shane smiled without opening his eyes. “Come on.” “Is the truth. Your freckles.” Ilya grazed a fingertip over his own cheek. “I am nuts about them.” “I have no idea why. I hate them.” “Noooo...” Ilya moaned. “Hollander. They are stunning.” “Stunning?” “Yes. Am I not using that word right? Very beautiful. Um...take my breath?” ― Ilya and Shane, Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry

[mimhalennia]

Ilya desparate-not-to-return-to-Russia Rozanov and a vision of Shane Hollander with his hand extended. 

Only this time, Hollander is holding it out as a goodbye with a question-shaped touch of see you soon, as if the uncertainty of and I guess I thought maybe we- hadn’t already been enough to make Ilya want to grind his own teeth to dust around his stubborn tongue.

He hadn’t been able to see the way the Vegas lights were shining in Hollander’s eyes as he cut himself off, but the quick never mind and the way he retreated made Ilya feel like there was a thread pierced through his heart, unwinding out from him until it coiled itself messily around that boring extended hand.

I guess I’ll - I’ll see you next season?

Hollander’s mouth pressed into a sharper line and his eyes followed Ilya’s movements as he jaggedly loped down the few stairs that separated them.

As soon as Hollander’s back touched the wall, Ilya’s mouth was on him, hands roaming from lapel to hip to the back of Hollander’s neck, and then Hollander’s hands were holding him and almost cradling Ilya’s jaw with their tenderness and and and

Let me give you my breath so that it lingers in your ribcage. Take it back home with you and do not forget me. Let me give you some part of myself so that I can come back to collect it. Give me reason and purpose, memory and motivation to not forget myself before I return.

Ilya wanted more, to remember the feeling of Hollander’s lips, of the way his breath tickled Ilya’s face when they kissed, of the sharp tug at the back of his scalp from where Hollander’s hand had grasped his curls as Ilya felt himself gasp for breath and dive back for another kiss.

Only then the hands were gone, and Hollander looked angry and frightened, and the joy of the moment was struck down a bit within Ilya as Hollander’s words brought reality back to mind. Even the feeling of Hollander reversing their positions against the wall didn’t bring a smile to his face, not when Hollander was looking so thoroughly terrified and - was it fear? Disgust? Frustration?

All Ilya knew was that Hollander walked away from him, no further words exchanged, and that all Ilya had to look forward to was confronting a past that was dragging him abyss-ways when he returned - home? No, maybe not. The way it felt now, it was not his country, the one his mother had taught him to cherish. The Russia he returned to belonged to the men his father and brother were, and he could not, in this moment, find it within himself to care that he was going to disappear beneath the waves of admonitions and displeasure until Boston air called him once more next season. 

[mimhalennia]

under metaphorical eaves

pairings: Hollanov

words: 2.1k

contains: Press Conference, Overheard Conversation Because The Universe Does Not Allow Hollanov To Exist In Peace, and a Reader POV Journalist

warnings: references to mental health struggles, references to depression

(Link to ao3)

You have been in love before, and that lets you see things. Hear things, too, that someone without as much heartbreak to their name might miss.

That’s not quite relevant yet, but promise we’ll get there soon.

You’d taken a wrong turn, but, really, you weren’t to blame. These corridors below the arenas were a fucking maze. You were certain that at some point, amidst the echoes of the crowd and the occasional camera shutter that made you think you were just possibly getting closer to your destination, you’d bump into the Minotaur. And it would be your lucky day because, between the pull-my-hair-out-from-stress vibes you were giving off and the fact that you’re pretty sure the deodorant you’d used that morning could barely even be said to be running on fumes, you think even the Minotaur would raise his hands and back away cautiously from you.

There. Oh thank god.

The echo of shutter sounds were louder now, likely a few test photos before the main stars for the interviews came out. You moved towards the entrance and stopped cold. 

Looking across at the door’s little vision panels, you were horrified to see that while yes, this was indeed an entrance to the media room, you’d somehow managed to stumble your way to the player’s entrance, with about two dozen of your colleagues almost looking right at you.

It was with less of a jump and more of a throw that you launched yourself away from the door. Heart beating unreasonably fast considering you’d been getting in a run or two before work every week and now carried carrot sticks instead of Twix in your messenger bag, you began to move back the way your think you came, turning a corner - 

Just as you heard a voice at the other end of the corridor.

Just as you heard a Russian-accented voice almost-whisper, “I know it is hard for you to imagine, Hollander, what with weak backhand and slow skating.”

Your body was still frozen as you heard the return “Fuck you, Rozanov!”

Your head falls forward slightly. That’s a tone you know.

You have been in love before, and that lets you see things. Hear them, too.

Sometimes, it brings sights to the forefront of a situation that you’d rather ignore. Things that make memories twinge that you’ve tried to keep buried. Things that make longing mingle with nausea and an eternal exhaustion of we’ve been over this. I don’t want to think about this. Not today. Please. 

Yet sometimes, it comes in the form of a gift and knowledge, imparted as suddenly as that momentary whited-out vision when you step out of the dark into a white-paved courtyard in summer.

Shane Hollander’s voice was coated in tender fondness.

The conversation was still going on behind you, around the corner, hidden from sight, but the voices had images connected to them as clearly as if you were part of their back-and-forth ribbing. Warm images, filled to the brim with smiles and gentle teasing.

That had been a tone you know.

What must be Russian flits through the air. “Не учи́ учёного, Hollander - is more my expertise, yes?”

Hollander scoffs but it carries the airiness of being comfortably flustered. “I fucking hate your timing, you always do this before important events.”

The response from Rozanov is voiced too low for you to hear, even if you had been straining to listen. You don’t think you’ve ever heard Hollander swear this much. Your brain feels like it’s been tossed into a sketchy tumble-dryer.

“Without hard work, one wouldn’t even get fish out of pond, Shane.”

You imagine Hollander’s face has the same confusion wiped across it as yours. “Ilya - what?”

The voices keep bickering just a bit longer, and it makes you miss Sunday morning breakfast with your parents.

Your latest few attempts at lasting relationships had ended messily and still stung when you let yourself have the time to reflect on them. It was one of the heavier feelings that you carried around with yourself.

It was also the sort of feeling you didn’t wish on anyone else.

The sort of feeling that would grow to drowning proportions in the wake of a romantic scandal the likes of which was heading into the media room now. 

You hear the doors closes behind them as the flashes increase, sending dizzying light jumping around the corridor and across the wall to your side.

With the doors so too closed a lockbox in your mind around the private words you’d heard shared. They didn’t belong to you. A stolen moment between two people who clearly didn’t have many to take to begin with. People who took every chance they could for privacy because they had no chances before the public eye of scrutiny.

In fair Ottawa, where we lay our scene.

That hadn’t been a growing friendship, not the way they had been trying to sell it to the world since they’d announced the Irina Foundation. Even just those few words had something so warmly domestic about them, so filled with adoration that lovers’ quarrel was the only term for it.

You didn’t know that you weren’t the only one who knew with certainty. That the Hollander parents had prepared an extra set of Christmas ornaments last year to keep up their traditions with the newest member of their family. That Ryan Price had jokingly grumbled to himself that he’d resign if the office run-ins went three-for-three at next off-season’s trainings camps. That four little Pikes had gained an uncle and loved him to bits. Even if you did know, that wouldn’t bother you - because it wasn’t any of your business.

But in a few months, you wouldn’t be the only stranger to know anymore. Everyone was going to make it their business, and your job would mean that, to your great disgust, your boss would make it your business, too. And you would find yourself, not the slightest bit inexplicably, with a vendetta against a random asshole called Brad.

Fuck. Brad.

Three months from now, those words were the background of a new dartboard you’d made for your closet door.

Right now, you finished searching up the arena schematics, thanking a number of deities that your reception had finally turned back on in the depths of the Hell Maze that was the Ottawa Catacombs.

60 feet and three corners away at most. Fuckssake.

Your turned and jogged towards the proper doors, pushing them open as quietly as you could. Not that anyone would have heard you over the rumbling frenzy that the media turned into at every Hollander-Rozanov standoff. 

You sat close to the back on one of the last open chairs, pen and paper ready, shorthand itching at your fingertips.

Then you watched, and you listened. You tried to think of at least one question that could redeem you today.

But you were watching. And listening. Suddenly, there was so much more to observe than before. A fraction of an eye roll from Hollander at Rozanov’s antics that was almost unnoticeable. How Rozanov’s knuckles pressed to his lips as he listened to Hollander answer a layered question for him, eyes unfocused just the slightest amount. Rozanov’s quick reply of “Your source sounds like liar” to an observation about Hollander’s slightly faster skate speed, and Hollander’s responding smile hidden in his suddenly softer eyes.

The game questions came and went. It was getting close to things wrapping up when a recent post by Yuna Hollander and the dog-eared report in your bag spun your mind back into action.

A hand raised, a lucky selection as both of their eyes found yours, and a quick cough to keep you from tripping over your words.

“This question is for the both of you, if you’d like. The Irina Foundation has been making remarkable strides with its work in the Ottawa and Montreal Game Changer Hockey Camps. Is there any chance we’ll be seeing an expansion into the US, maybe Boston for old times’ sake?”

There was the slightest of motions at the bottom edge of the table cloth, like one of them had bumped their legs together and the displaced air wanted to be loud loud loud to only those who were ready to listen.

“If I can start?” Hollander’s gaze was sharp but seemed appreciative. It was the first question of the night about the Foundation. Your nod was quick and his answer seemed to live at the front of his mind.

“Geographically, it is currently the most straight-forward plan to have summer camps in Ottawa and Montreal. Even though the summer is technically a break-time from the season, there’s still a lot going on for players, and that means the two weeks we get help for is often-times the only free slots people will have - given that we do need to remember MLH players are still human, too, and need to rest and recover both mentally and physically before we throw ourselves onto the ice again. Ilya and I want to be around for the sessions, as well as any necessary meetings for the Foundation, which means sticking around our own team cities in a bit of a priority in the early days.”

A quick nod from Rozanov in the corner of Hollander’s gaze had the Voyageur continuing.

“However, the Irina Foundation is something we both want to see existing for a long time. I can say for the both of us that this is something that will continue on after our eventual retirement, and that we hope it gets to grow to help as many people as it possibly can - through the Game Changer summer camps, additional locations pending, the resulting donations towards charities and any other developments we might be seeing in the future.”

Hollander turned - well, Shane did, because that’s who was looking at Ilya Rozanov right now. Who was checking to see if the man beside him felt comfortable, felt ready to speak about the foundation that bore his mother’s name.

Ilya Rozanov, as the world had come to know him, did not disappoint.

He leaned forward, adjusted his hands from where they had been toying with the microphone, and spoke.

“I am proud of work I see the Irina Foundation do. Is good, to see people working and fighting to help those who maybe don’t have strength right now to do so themselves. And it is good feeling to welcome people to hockey when they did not think it was safe space for them to be in. Is worthy cause, and one I am very proud to support.”

Ilya looked across at Shane, and his gaze stayed there for his next words. 

“My mother sadly never had chance to meet her, but I can say with confidence that if she had, she would agree with me that there is no better person than Yuna Hollander to take on this challenge.”

The broad grin on Hollander’s face won its battle against his media training, and if the shutter clicks were anything to go by, everyone knew what their leading image was going to be.

The weight in the room lifted slightly as he shrugged, the man who was Rozanov sliding into place with nonchalance over the voice that had spoken as Ilya.

“Boston are great team, very good people, home until few years ago to best player in league.” There was a smattering of laughter, as always when mention of their rivalry was reinvoked. “If it is possible with bureaucracy, then I think it would be great addition to our schedule, although I am not certain about logistics. And America is very different to Canada, yes? So we will see - may have teething problem, but first pancake is always lumpy.”

Hollander leaned forward with a light smile. “It may take some time until the Foundation can support a bigger range of summer camps, and we’d need to look for more volunteers from the various leagues for coaching, but it’s a wonderful idea.”

Rozanov locked eyes with Hollander, and for a moment in your vision, the air was filled with soft sparks and and the ghost of whispered first names between them. 

“There is saying - Кто не рискует, тот не пьет шампанского. English version has less champagne, which is sad for English, but ‘fortune favors the brave’ is not all bad. People who stand up for others, people who stand up for themselves. All of you who take it one day at a time, who keep trying even when it does not work right away. You are brave, brave beyond words, and I am proud to carry so many of your stories with me now through the Irina Foundation. Thank you.”

Rozanov gave a quick nod to the crowd, Hollander cleared his throat and thanked them for their time. They stood up at the same time, left the dais to the sounds of media organisers calling up the next set of interviewees, and the doors closed behind them with a soft thump.

[mimhalennia]

There have been countless written and spoken words that have moved humanity.

Grand declarations of love and conflict. Guidance of the soul and spirit. Mourning, grief-drenched exclamations that unmake civilisations and shatter illusions.

Tales of far away places that bloom to life in ones mind. Golden-gilded heroes who bare their humanity, wear it as a cross and persevere. Lifetimes written in ink and charcoal, placed carefully from one tongue into the heart of another.

But none of them held the same weight as this. None blanketed him in sensation as this did. Looking above himself and seeing this vision of brightness and joy corporeal; this mess of emotions that became untangled with breath and faith in this feeling that clung on with sharp claws and desperate touch.

All of spoken and written word, all humanity, paled in the face of this moment.

A voice, calling out, drawing him in until he was drowning, yet still asking - pleading to be dragged down further into the depths.

What deity could he pray to for the help he needed when the altar he worshiped at was warm and real and light right here?

He could not move his eyes, even if the highest moment had passed, even as the person he tried to burn into his memory, the person who already lived in his mind, his days, and his nights - even as he shifted above him, spent, this tragically beautiful man breathing life back into him with a mere word.

“Ilya."

[mimhalennia]

from palm to fingertip, i know you

pairings: lumax (max mayfield and lucas sinclair)

contains: mention of Upside-Down related traumas, Season 4 Vol. 2 spoilers (although we’re gonna pretend certain things didn’t happen), minor-aged character dealing with disability (vision loss)

word count: 1.8k

Max, having lost most of her sight, learns the ridges and smooth planes of hands to match them to their owners. Their voices had already been burned into her mind from countless calls over walkies that had given her a fluency in static frequencies and an appreciation for the scuffed wall phone that hangs in the trailer. Their images are gently placed in her mind, memory-sights she often calls upon when nightmares are wicked enough to pretend as though waking up doesn’t throw her from explosions into a cooling fire pit where no embers are left to light the way.

Mike and Nancy’s hands bear the vague similarity of siblings - his longer, hers daintier, but both just this side of bony and with a little backwards bend at their last knuckle joint. Mike’s nails are often trimmed or ripped short, while Nancy’s are orderly, regularly coated in thin, smooth layers of polish that, Max knows, distract from the way she picks at the skin around them. Nancy’s hands feel like a broad-toothed comb with how deftly but gently she cards them through Max’s hair, braiding it now by habit following months of physical therapy and her hospitalisation, the older kids having kept her company when they could, exchanging spots throughout the day like clockwork but with a gentleness that made her eyes prickle even thinking about it.

Dustin’s palms are broader now, and Max wonders if it means the nerd is gonna go through a growth spurt one of these days. They remind her a bit of Steve’s - although where Steve’s hands learned the transition from piano keys to splintering wooden nail bats with little resistance thanks to a toughness gained by sports in simpler times, Dustin’s hands remain smooth, a last reminder of his youth. She knows there is dirt caked under his nails more often than not, could feel the way the dusty earth would settle against his skin. His hands are always in motion, from explaining stories to setting up examples of layouts with household items so she could get a sense for a room or building before they visited it. One time, he had her holding onto his hands while he told a story, and she swore he almost dislocated her good shoulder with how much his arms were flying around to emphasise his soaring tale. But even telling him off wasn’t so serious when they both couldn’t stop laughing for the first time in weeks.

Erica’s hands still hold small hints of her childhood, most notably that her never-ending energy and motivation are growing alongside her. It were Erica’s hands that had been the first to open medical textbooks on acupressure, and that gently guided Max’s own hands along her points of pain and stubborn stiffness that were a daily reminder (as if she needed another) of what she had gone through. Erica may be trying to grow up faster to join her friends in their adventures, but her scattered collection of puffy 3D stickers always brings a smile to Max’s face when she finds them stuck to the side of her sunglasses and water bottle. It’s fun to guess what stories they’re telling, because Erica has the same penchant for storytelling that Mike does, even if Max knows exactly what kind of identically offended expressions they would both wear as a result of that comment.

Steve’s hands are the ones that coax her through the braille alphabet for the first time, even though it’s really the fourth try and she’s still on the verge of tears. It’s all so much to process, so much to try and understand when she can’t see and all she wants is to make her own way through places again. That’s when Steve’s fingers gently encircle her wrist, picking up her hand with his much larger one until he’s guiding her to his hair and telling her to go nuts. He ends up with six different started braids, two of which managed to cross over into some hybrid beast, a set of tiny pigtails and what could generously be described as an attempt at a styled fringe. The hilarity of feeling it with her fingers makes her glad to see with her hands, lets her cackle as she can picture and more importantly feel the world around her, and truly sense how she’s not being left behind by the rush of it all. That she will always have her people.

Eddie’s fingers are singular - while Robin also plays an instrument, hers doesn’t form the ridges across her fingertips that Eddie’s do from countless hours slaving away over his guitar strings. The weight and temperature of his rings are comforting. There’s familiarity in sensing the always warm metal atop her head when he ruffles her hair in greeting. He’s got dry patches along his skin that she remembers are paint splotches, most likely from miniatures, and invisible smudges to her senses from where his pen leaks while drafting lyrics and new campaign plots that leave her howling for minutes on end when he tells her them in a whispered, enthusiastic rush before anyone else gets to know (he says she’s a tricksy master manipulator, she just shrugs and says she’s a young, innocent lady with no such intentions, and that sets them both off again). But she especially likes the still moments that they try to find between the chaos that is the Party and its babysitters, when Eddie places a guitar in her hands and guides her slowly through fretboard finger-placements and a simple chord or two, giving her something to do; something to create.

Robin fumbles things with her hands almost as much as Max does these days. Steve tells her it’s something that used to carry across to dropping ice cream scoops mid-service. Robin’s hands are often clammy when she drags Max along to things, and while it’s a little bit gross, it has also become Max’s way of knowing how to react without verbal interactions to an environment. It rarely ever happened just around the Party, so it’s a good guide if one of the parents has rocked up unexpectedly. Sometimes, it’s like Robin’s anxiety can detect someone before her own eyes do, giving Max a chance to notice things before the rest of her friends do. They keep trying to ask how she knows that Mrs Wheeler is approaching, and she likes to creep them out by saying it’s the superhero level strengthening of her other senses. (They’re all a good bit better now that her sight is mostly gone, but she’s far from Matt Murdoch. It can be a bit hit and miss. Doesn’t stop her from having fun with it.)

Will’s hands are a bit like Eddie’s - often stained with various inks, paints and charcoals. She likes to guess what medium he’s working with that week based on how the residue feels against her fingertips. Having once been the smallest of the Party, Will has grown most noticeably. His hands are strong, but still gentle. Despite everything, he has stayed a gentle heart, even if it has a few more hardened layers surrounding it now. Sometimes, he takes his brushes and paints landscapes onto her arms, bringing colour and warmth to her life that she could feel more than see. His hands are delicate when he holds her arm still to make a particularly complex pattern come to life, but she revels in the under-his-breath bitchiness of his comments as they trade insults about anyone who decided to be more than 2% of a moron around them that day.

Jane’s hands, too, are strong. Sometimes, they tense and seem to get stuck in the position as her mind runs away with her. Max will hold on, tapping slow patterns onto the back of Jane’s palm until she can hear the way Jane’s hair sways as she shakes her head back into focus, hear her breathing even out. Jane’s hands help her see so much, because Max still dreams vividly, so when Jade finds the strength and Max doesn’t feel like doing so will make her hate the reality of her disability all the more, Jane crafts dream worlds for Max. On the good days, Jane joins her and they go from mall to forest to a beachside that they can now both recognise to be Somewhere, California. On the best days, days where Jane feels like a live-wire, she gets to see all of her friends. The dreams are shorter, but seeing them again, even if it sometimes leaves a bitter taste behind, is always worth it.

Most of all she knows the weak callouses that have been settling over Lucas’ palm, both firming and wearing down with his endless hours of practice at the school gym and with Steve when the older boy has time between work and driving rotations. The way his fingers twitch just a little before settling when he grabs her hand, like he’s giving her an out should she want it - like he’s not quite certain himself whether to take the plunge every time he opens his heart to her.

She could still remember how those hands had grasped at her like she was trickling sand between his fingers. She had felt like cracking glass in those moments, shifting in the air and ready to shatter to dust if someone didn’t help hold her fragments together.

He had been there then, just like he is here now, muttering in that dorky endearing way he’d picked up from mother-hen Steve. She could picture the way his shoulders would be hunched while he applied bandaids to the spots she could feel stinging from grazes across her palms, the memory of getting back onto her board vivid in the senses she still possessed.

These are Lucas’ favourite hands, even if she doesn’t know it. He knows that she’d scoff if he even whispered as much while inspecting the soft patches of skin that had so far evaded her growing collection of skateboarding badges of honour. He knows with certainty he’d cop a shove to the shoulder if he mentioned how her freckles span across her skin like far-away wildflowers across a field.

(There are many stars and constellations out there, and they are beautiful, but they would always be somewhat cold and far away to Lucas. There had been enough at-arm’s-length for a lifetime between then. He much prefers being close enough to see Max’s face bloom as she laughs.)

Sure, he’d get shoved, maybe lightly smacked, but if he sneaks a look at the right time, he also knows he’d catch the way her blush would start just below her ears before flooding her cheeks as they protest against the smile trying to push its way outwards from her lips.

[mimhalennia]

Haikyu at Hogwarts - Slytherin House

Fifth Years

Sixth Years

Kozume Kenma

Futakuchi Kenji

Miya Atsumu

Seventh Years

Oikawa Tōru

Ushijima Wakatoshi

Tendō Satori

[mimhalennia]

Haikyu at Hogwarts

Be welcomed, one and all, to this uncommonly quiet evening in the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Many have roamed these corridors in the millennia before you, and many more will follow in the footprints you leave upon these stones tonight. 

Although familiar terms may ring in your mind and jog your memory filled with well-worn stories, there are many new faces that have made their home in this sacred space which you will not yet know. For the age of the Chosen One has passed, and peace, however temporary it may be in a world of shifting power, has settled like a gentle dusk over our school. 

Home to soaring eagles, crows, owls and seagulls, flying high above the swift movements of foxes, cats and weasels scampering along the vine-covered, sturdy walls of our institution, Hogwarts welcomes you with open arms so that you too may learn of how legacy was moulded into reality and monstrous greatness blessed the world through the students who roam these halls.

Come meet the students of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin, along with their teachers, family and friends as we explore how perseverance, talent, skill and enthusiasm shine in this next generation of magic.

(This is a work in progress! Some characters are so far partially planned, others have nothing but House allocation, others don’t even have that… it’s slow progress, but I promise it will get there some day! Also, just because a character is missing from the lists at the moment doesn’t mean they won’t get headcanons written - they might just not have anything written yet - feel free to ask!)

[mimhalennia]

Hinata Shōyō

A week after his 11th birthday, with his mother trying valiantly to hold onto his hand while balancing his younger sister on her hip, Hinata Shoyo entered with stumbling, rushing steps into Diagon Alley. The rough material of his favourite jeans jacket and the squeak of scuffed trainers made him stand out even more than the shock of bright ruffled hair atop his head. He ran forward into the crowd of parting witches and wizards, many of whom bore well-knowing smiles at the sight of an eager new addition to magical life. This was a new world to him, and it was becoming almost too overwhelming to deal with. Colours swirled from cloaks and store-fronts, behind whose windows strangers crowded around trinkets he couldn’t begin to keep track of. Strange scents drifted out from the apothecary and the open window of one of the guest rooms above the Leaky Cauldron, from where a lilac mist trickled down the crumbling, aged bricks. Still unfamiliar names and sights reminded him of the letter. He unclenched his hand, where the parchment had been slightly crumpled but, as though by magic (which, he thought excitedly, it could be!), the ink was not in the slightest smudged. His eyes flew across the vibrant writing, his breathing slowing slightly as he tried to decide where to go first. A gentle touch on his shoulder from his mother had him looking up to where he had blindly run in his excitement. Smile stretching across his face once more, he nodded enthusiastically, moving forward over the well-worn threshold of Ollivanders.

The tarnished silver bell rang once more as he left the shop, some dust from the boxes still clinging to his hands. He wiped them quickly, wanting to just briefly hold his new wand once more before it would disappear into his mother’s bags and from there find its place on a shelf in their home until it was time to leave for Hogwarts in September. 

Apple chooses fine companions, Mr Ollivander had said in a soft tone, for they will not tolerate darkness in a person’s soul. But they are not a doormat among wands, goodness no! Aims and ideals as high as the bough from which it came, apple seeks. Great deeds, certainly, but also great heart and kindness. And a rather flexible phoenix remex as your wand’s core, well, an amateur might see it only as a link to your liveliness, but that is a common misconception when observing the phoenix. More than anything they remain detached from the life we know, far beyond our understanding and, as such, so very far out of our mortal reach. The wand-maker had looked up at him then, curious as his fingers twisted the end of the floating measuring tape between them. Although, it has been known for phoenix feathers to sense things about their wielders. Beings of fire and time, they are more sensitive than others to detecting when a witch or wizard makes the decisive step to burn their brightest. Those silver eyes had stared through him again, although with a bit more warmth to accompany his light chuckle. Apple and phoenix, they seem to have quite the future planned for you, young Hinata-san. 

He could not know it yet, but apple would ring true for Shoyo in the many years of his future travels, flourishing under the ease with which he would learn the native tongues of other cultures and creatures. Bright as the sun but far from burning to the touch, there would never be a desire for even strangers met along the way to keep him at arms distance. Countless memories still to be written, of opponents on the Quidditch pitch and in duelling circuits who couldn’t help but sling an arm over his shoulders and become infected by this man’s contagious laughter and love for life.

Mistaken for a Weasley or a Bones were it not for being a Muggleborn, Hinata Shoyo found his comfort and new family in the Tower of Lions. A little rough around the edges of chivalry - though more due to youth and uncertainty than maliciousness - but overbrimming with courage and nerve, he burns brightest and strongest under the Gryffindor banner. A fifth year now with the distant worries of OWL’s dangling over his head insofar as they affected whether his Head of House would let him keep his spot on the Quidditch team, Hinata thrived on the excitement life in the magical world brought him. He felt his draw towards DADA within the first week of classes, a passion which only grew as tasks became more complex. The push to not fall behind became a personal drive. 

As his dedication to the subject bloomed, the young wizard’s eager magical affinity and duelling endurance becoming clear. Tirelessly developed over years of rigorous practice, as well as many mock (and real) duels with Kageyama. Duelling was an outlet for his restlessness and the boundless energy he seemed to contain, a presence that crackled like wildfire under his skin. 

(Hinata’s restlessness and near human bludger syndrome was the Hospital Matron’s best cautionary tale, delivered with a wink to him and an overly grave face outwards as the side-effects of overusing pepper-up potion were explained to wide-eyed St Mungo’s applicants)

Even if Hinata’s spell knowledge was more limited than that of his classmates, in great part thanks to an ongoing textbook allergy, he managed before a number of his peers to accomplish silent casting, led by trust and magical awareness. But I’m not really doing it how we’re meant to. Equal parts nervous and excited, he once revealed to Asahi-san - feeling the way the spell began to form as it would for a verbal casting, Hinata focused on the moment of the incantation and pressed his magic forward instead, aiming to override the confines of the spell’s structure. Results varied and were barely ever replicated twice in a row at first, but the technique was at its core Hinata - pushing further, reaching higher triumphs until walls rose before him, only to build a new path around any obstacles that sought to slow him down. Wielding reaction times sharper than many of his senpais, his first duel silent casting is interspersed with sporadic bursts of pure magic, linking the gaps in his spells loosely with thin shield charms and flashes that stole crucial moments of sight from opponents. Refining the technique over the years, it would be his first exposure to weaving spell chains together.

Life at Hogwarts was not without its challenges. As spirits rose and accomplishments grew, lows were keenly felt when they unfurled.

It takes him months to summon a Patronus the first time they learn it in DADA. He approaches the Charms Professor about it, but all the advice he receives is that while his form is correct, he may be lacking sufficient intent. Failure sparked self-reflection, something Hinata didn’t often engage in. Life lies before his feet, journeys are far ahead where he must reach them, so it is with great rarity that he would turn his sight inwards to untangle his motivations and mind. 

The realisation was clearer than he expected. While his memories were filled with joy, many felt superficial - the gift of his first quick-draw holster from his mother and sister, beating Kageyama in a duel with only off-hand casting, his openness and vast friendships among his peers - all fine and heartfelt, but nothing so world-shifting that he could feel his magic wrap around the thought and cling to it. Mornings and evenings were spent in the pitch darkness of his dorm, curtains drawn so as to not disturb his sleeping roommates, struggling to see even the faintest of mists from each attempt. The first night he managed to maintain a cloudy vapour for more than ten seconds led him to almost pass out from the mingled rush of pride and exhaustion. 

The next afternoon saw Hinata rushing through the Courtyard to Yachi’s side, nearly tripping over his laces as he made it to where the Hufflepuff was resting in the weak sunlight, observing the edge of the forest as though seeking inspiration for the near-empty parchment beside her. 

The question left his mouth before he could consider it, the swirling thoughts having dominated his mind that day to the point of distraction. 

“How do you know what’s most important to you?” 

Realising how broad and heavy a question he had dropped at his friend’s feet, Hinata attempted to backtrack with limited fumbling success, his own mind still unclear on how to put into sensible words what he was trying to express. 

Yachi blinked as she looked over his shoulder, her head titled in thought. “It’s hard to pin down what ‘important’ feels like. Sometimes, time and pressure can make something small loom over you with a weight that makes it the only thing you can focus on - like a quiz you forgot to study for. Other times, it’s things that keep running on in the background, important in their consistency but not always in priority.” She hummed, nodding as though exploring the train of thought in her own mind. “Somewhat like our education - we have so much going on around us that sometimes we forget that all of this will end in graduation and us leaving Hogwarts for the big, wide world, whether we’re ready or not.” 

Her gaze shifted to Shoyo, head titled forward and fringe hovering over her eyes as she regarded him. “The deeply important things, though? I doubt that it’s ever a concrete set of things - someone can know exactly what it is for themselves, of course, but it’s entirely relative. Family, friends, work, religion, beliefs, magic itself - regardless of what it may be, the one thing you know with certainty is that you cannot live without it. Days would be bleaker, thoughts and focus would stray without its grounding presence. Less inspiration, less hope, less desire to love and entangle yourself in all that life has to offer.” She shrugged, the certainty leaving her tone as her hands rose before her, waving back and forth quickly. “But then again everyone is different! Sorry to ramble, I hope that’s something along the line of what you meant when you asked? Honestly, what’s important to you - well, that’s something only you can determine. No one else gets to tell you what that ‘important’ means.”

Later that night found him perched on his bed again, feet tucked under him as candle light weakly illuminated the items laid out on his quilt. Hinata found himself lost in thought over them. The photo album that had begun with treasured frozen images of his mother and Natsu, joined by signs of movement in the collection as bright banners with lions appeared behind his smiling friends, followed by distant, blurry shots of the drills he and Kageyama flew in after-hours training with only moonlight and each other at their backs, heads of vibrant orange and pitch black glinting with silver. 

Piles of class and study notes lay next to the album, margins filled with Yachi’s tips and occasional doodles, his journey through Hogwarts documented in lines and smudges of ink - some informative, others nonsensical, all meaningful. The Quidditch gloves that had aided him through countless winter games, picked under Kageyama’s watchful eye in Hogsmeade. He tried to feel the draw of each object, the weight of the importance they bore. While he could feel them all swirling through his mind, none of them leapt out at him with a memory or emotion he could channel into the charm. Frustrated and exhausted, he flopped back onto his pillows, a canopy of fabric dark above him, drawing forth different memory.

The back of an armoire, its darkness spreading outwards into the room until it gave a weighted feeling to the air, a heavy sluggishness he couldn’t seem to shake. He knew the words to speak, knew the intent to rid himself of the Boggart so the next person in line could have a go - but the stark absence of warmth from his wand made him hesitate. He had looked around, startled at the way Hogwarts had appeared dimmer, worn down and drab. His wand unresponsive, a mere prop in his hand. On a whim he had attempted a whispered lumos, but to growing confusion and his own mounting fright, the spell had refused to function. No matter the force behind his words or the harshness with which he jabbed his wand, nothing happened. His magic refused his call, and as the reality of the situation drew itself from the depth of his mind, hidden amidst the things he wished to never consider, a mirror appeared before him, emerging from that same shifting darkness that had settled over him. 

His reflection stared back, muted and bland. His life force gone, abandoned. Smoky grey lines appeared across the glass, forming strange letters until a final shift had them settling like the stone that had dragged his stomach to his feet. Squib. The word had danced before him and robbed him of breath, eyes desolate and lonely in the reflection in a way he never remembered feeling before. Now the emotion settled itself deep within him, embedded in marrow and thought. Lost, he didn’t see the approaching hand, although the incessantly sharp sting of it pulling at his hair he could not miss. He turned, pulled out of the stupor to see Kageyama’s face - bereft of uncertainty, a vague simmering anger below his features. His eyes drifted down, Hinata’s own following sluggishly until he landed on the outstretched arm, his gaze drifting until it settled on the fist extended towards him. Habit pulled his own hand up, clutching his wand in the fist he had formed with its tip pointing outwards. Their hands connected sharply, once, twice - their knuckles bumping briefly before the bases of their wands connected, bright sparks drifting from the tips in darting spirals. 

Turning with warmth spreading through him, he hadn’t needed to see Kageyama’s eyes to feel the weight of his confidence and presence. Hinata had raised his wand, spell falling from his lips as the mirror warped. Twisting in the concave patterns of trick mirrors, the boggart had been banished back into the armoire within moments, the oppressive feeling fleeing from his shoulders as they shook with laughter.

He blinked up at the canopy that had reappeared in his sight, the memory’s sensations still gripping him.

Who said it had to be one moment, or one feeling, or even one person? The memory still as vivid in his mind as the light they had created countless times, Hinata drew breath and expelled it into words, never straying in his mind from what those sparks represented. His wand arm shook with the force of his concentration. Vapour turned to mist and then mist gained form until, before him, head titled and tongue lolling from between sharp teeth, sat a wolf pup in shining wispy silver glory.

He could barely contain himself the next day, excitement building over the upcoming Quidditch match against Ravenclaw and his achievement the previous night, which he had proudly repeated three more times to both his and the wolf’s delight before his arm had been trembling from exhaustion more than excitement and focus. Now his hands were darting back and forth, impatient for the weight of the quaffle to settle into them. He glanced at Kageyama, seeing his fellow chaser’s hands running through their formation and play signals, each motion translating in Hinata’s mind as he whispered the corresponding names. Bokuto-san stood a little ways down the table as the team gathered together. They made their way down to the changing rooms in a frenzy between the clusters of students leisurely walking towards the pitch. A last minute tactic reviews became a pre-game chant that bled into the increasingly loud cheers from the stands. Before Hinata knew it, he was up in the air, the buzzing constant along his spine as excitement thrummed through him. 

With strength, intuition honed by diligence and stamina driven beyond limits through sheer obsession and will, Lions battled Eagles for their place in the heavens.

It was a feeling of freedom that would accompany Hinata for years to come, the thrill of flying, of being unrestrained. Between the many months spent travelling to explore foreign techniques and magical fields, the stage of the future saw Hinata as a prestigious duelling champion and chaser, his international endeavours returning closer to home whenever he felt a call for stability; to settle roots for awhile. A legacy in the making with each journey he progressed on, long ways had passed since that beaming child had entered the mysterious world of witchcraft and wizardry. With smile lines and spell burns to trace in remembrance, the story of Hinata Shoyo was far from over.