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August prompts inspired by Lover Rules & FAQs

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August 14 - flung

Inspired by Cornelia Street Rules & FAQs

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August 13 - handful

Inspired by ME! (feat. Brendon Urie) Rules & FAQs

[sidelit]

Prompt: Vending & A leap of faith For: @taylorswiftmicrofic & @monthlywritingchallenges WC: 1.2k Summary: Thirteen-year-old Quirinus Quirrell has never spent a week away from his family before. Fortunately, Gilderoy’s dad has a lorry full of broken vending-machine parts—and Quirinus has always liked taking things apart.

He asked Gilderoy about the back of the lorry one afternoon after Gilderoy’s father returned home from work. It was glorious.

There were bits of metal all over the lorry’s bed. There were springs, screws, bolts, nuts, and all sorts of mystery components Quirrell had never seen before.

Although Gilderoy seemed to think nothing of it, Quirrell found them fascinating. At home (the word brought up an ache in his centre), he built crystal radio sets and liked taking apart kitchen appliances, but these parts were different.

Gilderoy hopped into the back, then extended a hand to pull Quirrell up into it.

“All this? Dad services fruit machines and vending machines at pubs on his route. I don’t know which parts go with which, but that’s what all this is.”

Mr Lockhart came out to look in on them and grinned when he saw Quirrell settling onto the floor with a handful of parts. Mr Lockhart bore a strong resemblance to Gilderoy, especially when he smiled, though his hair was sandier in colour and he wore a large moustache.

The lorry’s floor was made of wood, pocked and splintered from the loose metal parts rattling around.

“Never seen you back here before, Gilderoy,” Mr Lockhart said.

Gilderoy looked up and shaded his eyes from the sun, but smiled at his father.

“Quirinus wanted to have a look, but I don’t know what anything is.”

Mr Lockhart pulled himself up into the lorry’s bed and crouched down to look at the parts Quirrell had picked out.

“You’re a clever lad. I reckon you can work out what this part is for,” he said, and pushed a metal bit towards Quirrell.

At thirteen, Quirrell was still small for his age, and Mr Lockhart seemed to loom above. The pulse point in his throat felt like it was fluttering, but he managed a nod.

“Yes, sir. I think it’s to take in coins?”

Mr Lockhart nodded and bade Gilderoy to sit down. Gilderoy did so, pulling his legs up like a yogi. He began to pull out parts that interested him. They were all shiny, Quirrell noticed, and tended to be gold, copper, or bronze in colour.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Mr Lockhart said and joined the two boys on the floor. His hands were as scarred and battered as the lorry’s bed. “Turn it, and you’ll see where some fool tried to put in a slug instead of a proper coin and jammed it all up. Only thing I could do was replace it with a new coin acceptor.”

Quirrell turned it over and found an ugly, tarnished metal disc stuck inside. He felt his eyes go wide, and grinned at Mr Lockhart, who nodded and patted his knee.

“You can keep that, if you like. Look it over. If you can figure out how to clear the slot, I’ll pay you a quid for it. How’s that sound?”

Gilderoy looked up, eyebrows raised, pile of shiny parts forgotten. “May I have one too?”

“If you help him fix it,” his dad said, and laughed. “Now come on out of there, both of you. Go in and get your supper.”

Quirrell climbed down, turning the part over in his hands. For the first time during his one-week visit, he forgot about home, about his mum and dad, about his grandparents.

He followed Gilderoy inside, past his sisters, who were setting the table. They were both older than Gilderoy, and both squibs, though Quirrell had thought nothing of that. His own mother was a Muggle, as was Mr Lockhart. Non-magical folk were family too.

Mrs Lockhart intercepted Gilderoy and held him out at arm’s length, her brow furrowed. She ran the inside of her wrist over his forehead, but then broke into a smile when he smiled at her.

“Mind how long you’re in the sun without cream, dear,” she said, then looked at Quirrell as well. “Both of you. You’re much too fair for all that sun, Quirinus. Your father will never trust me with you again if you go home burnt.”

Though Quirrell didn’t think that was so, he froze, brain reeling. What did one say to that? Should he reassure her? Should he thank her?

Finally, he chose.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nodded her approval, then cupped Gilderoy’s face in her hands, studying him a few more seconds.

“It’s a good thing you tan well,” she said, then sent him off to wash his hands.

Although Quirrell missed home, he was glad he’d taken his dad’s advice to be brave and visit his friend for the week. He’d not wanted to at first. He bunked with Gilderoy all school year, every school year. Did he really need to see him in the summer too? But often alone, Quirrell found that, yes, he truly did want to see the one friend he had.

Sometimes.

“You seem a little happier today,” Gilderoy said abruptly. He glanced at Quirrell in the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands. “I’m sorry you cried last night.”

The bridge of Quirrell’s nose felt warm, and he looked down at the coin acceptor Mr Lockhart had given him instead of Gilderoy. It wasn’t as though Gilderoy hadn’t seen him cry before at school, but he wasn’t proud of it.

“I had a nice time today,” he replied. “But I never stayed anywhere but home or with my grandparents before.”

“Really? No overnight with a friend before?” Gilderoy said. He dried his hands with a pink towel, then moved aside so Quirrell could wash.

“No, I never really had friends.” Quirrell picked up the bar of white soap and ran it over his palms. “My dad said I’d have to trust this to work out. A leap of faith, he called it.”

“That seems a bit much,” Lockhart said, handing Quirrell the towel.

“Maybe. For you it would be. But for me, it’s true. Because all I’ve had is bad things happen outside my family. So I had to trust that your family would be nice.”

Gilderoy put the damp towel in with the other soiled linens, then took out a new one and hung it.

“You’ve met my family before, though. In London. Before school started. Surely you knew they liked you.”

Quirrell said nothing to that. He did know. He liked Mrs Lockhart, and even Gilderoy’s sisters, who loved to tease their baby brother. Gilderoy loved the attention, and he teased back just as hard. Even Mr Lockhart had turned out to be nice. A friendly man with a ready laugh and the incredible moustache.

“I was just scared, I think,” Quirrell said. “But I’m not scared now.”

“And all it took was the offer of one pound.” Gilderoy laughed, but not to make fun. Quirrell knew the difference. “After dinner, why don’t you owl your parents? You can tell them about your day. Then we can pry the fake thing out of whatever-that-part is called.”

“Coin acceptor, I think is its name,” Quirrell replied. “And I’d rather work on that first, if it’s all right with you. I think it’ll be fun. I can owl them in the morning.”

tag: @atomicvomitgoblin

[fictionalsimp09]

Vending - Nobelflower - @taylorswiftmicrofic - 250 words - AO3

Shaking herself dry like a wet dog, Alice heads inside, avoiding the puddles around the pool, not wanting to risk being severely mortified if she slips onto her clumsy arse. But she stops in her tracks as she approaches the vending machine, seeing the most gorgeous woman, with long, blond hair tied back in an elegant plait, a baby blue swimsuit revealing her tall pale legs. 

The woman turns around after getting her drink to find her staring, wide-eyed and mouth slightly open, positive she looks ridiculous right this moment. “Err…can I help you?” 

“No, I- uh, sorry. I'm just…you're very beautiful, you know.” 

Her embarrassment of this situation immediately fades away when the woman smiles, her cheeks turning a stunning shade of pale rose. 

“You are too,” she says. “I...like your freckles.” 

“Thanks.” Alice looks down at the floor, unable to look into her mesmerising blue eyes as she admits, “I like your moles.” 

“Thank you. I'm Narcissa.” 

“What a lovely, unique name. I'm Alice.” 

“Do you want to go sunbathe by the pool with me?” Narcissa asks, voice coming out a quiet, like she’s afraid someone would hear her flirting with a girl. 

“I'm more of a swimmer actually.” 

“Mind if I watch you swim then?” 

“I'd love that,” Alice smirks and extends her hand, the two of them heading back outside, too preoccupied by her that she forgot about buying her own drink. Worth it, to feel Narcissa’s soft skin against her calloused fingers. 

@mushroom-enby @sidelit @spitefulwizard @sren-yeah @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @wolfstarisareligion @ghostlymakercat @rheoxies @ninjitheninjaturtle @hardlandnight @regulusablackwhodontswim @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @in-your-wall-s @astrolevl @definitelyregulusblack

If anyone else wants to be tagged when I post my microfics, just let me know!!

[onehundredfandoms]

6 (oops, I forgot to post this on time) | friends | 792 words @taylorswiftmicrofic

Marinette couldn’t believe that she was actually friends with Adrien now; it wasn’t the only thing she wanted to be with him, but it was a big start.

“His eyes are so green,” Marinette continued airily, swinging her legs off the edge of the roof she and Chat Noir were stationed atop for their nightly patrol.

“My eyes are green,” Chat said. He sounded more irritated every time he responded to her daydreaming, but she hardly noticed. Not when she had such a long list of things to tell him that she loved about about Adrien.

“His hair is so blonde,” Marinette said, fingers twitching. “I just want to run my hands through it.”

Chat growled. “My hair is blonde! And you can run your hands through it!”

“Please, Chat. You’re nothing like Adrien.”

She didn’t mean to let the name slip, knowing how important it was to keep their private lives private — and that included their love interests — but she was just too excited about him.

She breathed his name out again, the word almost coming out a whimper. “Adrien.”

“And my name is Adrien!” Chat was practically shouting with indignation now, but that couldn’t even possibly be true.

“Silly kitty,” Ladybug cooed. “You don’t have to be the same as Adrien for me to like you.”

“Bugaboo,” Chat said, but his tone was so flat, so serious in contrast to her own playfulness, that Ladybug snapped her head to look directly at him and focus on his next words. “I think — I think you’re in love with me.”

His voice hitched on the last word, which made Ladybug feel terrible for having to deny him again. There was just no way that perfect Adrien and immature Chat were possibly the same person.

“I’m sorry, Chat,” Ladybug said softly, hoping her delivery would be enough to ease the blow. “I’m in love with Adri—”

“Claws in,” he muttered, just as softly. “With me.”

Ladybug felt her mouth go slack, her jaw dropping in absolute disbelief. Chat and Adrien were the same person, and she had just been pouring her heart out to him about him!

She thought she might scream.

Or throw up.

She couldn’t even be concerned with the fact that Chat Noir had just revealed his identity to her; she was far too hung up on the fact that Chat was Adrien.

“I think you are, anyway?" Adrien asked, cheeks turning pink in embarrassment, as if he has gotten it all wrong.

Ladybug only nodded her head, knowing the words would just come out jumbled if she tried to say anything at all.

“You know how in love with you I am, Ladybug,” Adrien said with a confidence that she envied. “My feelings for you don’t change when I detransform.”

“B-but…” Ladybug trailed off, unsure where she was even going. She knew Chat loved Ladybug, but was it possible that Adrien loved Marinette too? Ladybug knew better than to ask the question aloud — knew better than to take the risk when it came to Hawkmoth and their identities — but she didn’t know how to quiet her heart.

She knew that if she didn’t ask now, that Marinette would spend the rest of her life wondering.

“You l-love Ladybug,” she said carefully, and Adrien nodded but continued listening without interrupting. “But what about — spots off — me?”

Marinette stood as tall as she could in her civilian form, daring Adrien to deny her. She knew she was the subpar version of herself, that it would make sense if Adrien loved Ladybug but not Marinette, but that didn’t mean she wanted to hear him say those words. She didn't want to feel that sting of rejection.

Adrien was quiet for a moment before breaking into a wide grin, one of those smiles that always made Marinette’s knees buckle.

Tonight was no different.

Adrien reached out and caught Marinette by the waist just as she began to wobble, his hands curling around the place just beneath her ribcage.

“What about you, Marinette?” Adrien asked, but it was clearly rhetorical because he didn’t give Marinette a moment to reply before continuing on. “You are beautiful, kind and funny. You are so talented and brave — even when you aren’t Ladybug. Why do you think I’ve been talking to you so much more lately?”

“I thought…I thought you wanted to be friends.”

Adrien shook his head, his grin never faltering. “We were always friends, Marinette.”

“And now?” Marinette tried not to be too hopeful, but she was afraid to breathe, hanging onto whatever words he might say next.

“Whatever you want, Princess,” Adrien promised, moving one of his hands up to cup Marinette’s face.

Marinette leaned into the touch, letting herself believe. Her eyes fell shut and she whispered, “everything. I want everything with you.”

[sidelit]

Prompt: Lame & Letting someone stay For: @taylorswiftmicrofic & @monthlywritingchallenges WC: 1.2k Summary: Lockhart’s DADA office needs repairs. Quirrell offers to share his Muggle Studies office for a fortnight. By day three, he remembers that Lockhart has a rather expansive definition of “sharing.” Snape unexpectedly observes. Note: This occurs between parts two and three of Attentive Reader.

By day three of sharing the Muggle Studies office, Lockhart had colonised most of Quirrell’s space.

Portraits of Lockhart, with Lockhart’s portraits inside, lined the walls, and assorted photographs of him in frames scattered through the office. The photographs smiled, waved, or carried on their depicted heroisms, wedged between Quirrell’s abandoned cups and tottering stacks of books.

But the encroachment wasn’t just on the walls. Lockhart also brought in the full collection of his written works and a full-length gold mirror positioned so that he could look at it whilst seated at his desk.

He also brought in a deep-red changing screen, which Quirrell shrugged off at first. Its purpose became clear once Lockhart wheeled in a rack of his outfits.

“You never know what situation may arise requiring an outfit change, Quirinus,” Lockhart said. “Why, what if I need to rush in and coach Quidditch to relieve Madam Hooch? Or what if the headmaster requires a special task of me?”

“Gilderoy, it’s fine. You don’t have to explain. I understand. How one looks is critical.”

There was a (very) brief pause as Lockhart looked over at him, almost as if he were trying to detect a joke. But Quirrell must’ve passed whatever silent exam Lockhart conducted. A big smile appeared, and he levelled a finger.

“Yes! I wasn’t sure you understood, because you always wear the same sort of thing, you know.” Lockhart crossed the office to inspect Quirrell’s outfit. “We could help you out, if you’re inclined. Or perhaps you dress like this intentionally.”

Sat at his desk, Quirrell looked up at Lockhart, who examined Quirrell’s suit and robes.

“It’s on purpose,” Quirrell said. “I chose these and got them properly tailored. Did you think they were cut to fit by accident?”

“No, of course not.” Lockhart took a step back, appraising. “But why don’t you want to stand out? Make people take notice of you?”

“I’ve never wanted people to notice me that way. My way is fine. You worry about your way.”

Lockhart patted his shoulder and went back to his desk, beaming. Although they’d not spoken in nine years, Quirrell knew that smile. It was satisfaction. Somehow, Lockhart had heard ‘yes, I’d love you to help me select a new wardrobe’.

And that was only day two.

Quirrell didn’t mind especially. He’d grown up with Lockhart. Bunked with him, classes with him, meals with him, homework with him. And they retreated to Lockhart’s bedchamber nightly to work together on the next adventure book. So on a scale of annoyances and inconveniences, this registered as minor.

A pipe had burst behind the wall of Lockhart’s office just after the Potter boy sat for detention. Dumbledore told them the damage would take a fortnight to repair, and Quirrell offered to share his office. Simple enough.

Now, on day four, Lockhart stood in the doorway, examining the office, Quirrell supposed.

“Why are you waiting in my doorway, Gilderoy?” Quirrell asked after roughly ninety seconds had passed. That seemed plenty long enough to assess decor.

“I’ve always been waiting in your doorway,” Lockhart replied absently. “I think the portraits—”

“Difficulties, Lockhart?”

Lockhart’s eyes went wide, and Quirrell tried not to laugh at his expense. His friend was seldom startled, but Lockhart was a professional. He conjured a new smile, his business smile this time, and turned. A tidy pivot, hand outstretched as if to bid welcome.

“Severus, you startled me. Come to admire my handiwork, have you? Housewarming gifts are accepted, of course, ha ha.”

Chewing the insides of his cheeks was the only thing that kept Quirrell from laughing this time. The ‘ha ha’ was partly real, and partly spoken.

Lockhart’s discomfort, betrayed by one lame ‘ha ha’, was an unexpected gift this morning. Gilderoy was rarely caught off his guard and usually recovered immediately, but apparently not when Snape was involved.

“Have I come to admire that you’ve overtaken Quirrell’s office like ivy choking out a tree?” Lockhart had nothing to say, and Snape continued. “No. I need a word with Quirrell.”

“Ah. Of course.” Lockhart strode into the room, glancing once over his shoulder. “Quirinus, old boy, I’m just going to move a few more of your books. I brought a limited edition set of mine that will look smashing where those are.”

Quirrell rose and headed towards the doorway.

“That’s fine. As long as you remember to replace everything where it belongs when you move back out.”

Snape looked down at Quirrell as he exited his Muggle Studies office into the hall. “Do you even know where everything belongs?” Snape asked.

Quirrell scoffed. “No, haven’t a clue. But that’s sure to make him worry once moving day comes back round.”

“Will it?” Snape looked down his nose at Quirrell, black eyes boring into him. “Do you really think he cares enough about you to worry?”

Resisting the urge to back up or look away was still difficult. Snape was intimidating even under the friendliest circumstances. But having physically hosted the Dark Lord the year before changed Quirrell’s outlook considerably.

He held eye contact.

“Probably not. But I still plan to ask him to put everything back. If he panics for even two seconds, it’ll be worth it.” Quirrell lifted his chin. “What was it you needed to see me about, Severus? Surely, you’re too busy to socialise.”

Quirrell expected him to answer straight away, but silence fell. Snape was tall, and pale, and strangely elegant. He always reminded Quirrell of a neglected plant, bleached of colour and stretching for sunlight.

“He’s using you, you know.” A pause. “Just like he did before.”

Stunned, Quirrell stared up at his fellow professor.

“You cannot be serious. You’re going to bring up that essay I did for him in Seventh Year again, aren’t you? His hand was injured from Quidditch.”

“Yes.” No hesitation. But then, Snape never did hesitate much. “Your excuse on his behalf was pathetic then, and you’re doing it again now.”

Unable to believe his ears, Quirrell shook his head. Somehow Snape struck on the one whispering doubt that circled Quirrell’s mind every day since Lockhart cornered him in the hall to ask what happened to his face.

“I’m not having this discussion. You gave us both bad marks for it, that’s resolution enough.” Quirrell managed to keep his expression neutral. Not easy under that intense black gaze. “What did you want to see me for?”

Snape straightened his spine further and seemed to gain another two inches over Quirrell.

“The headmaster wanted to know if you’re comfortable with your arrangements here.”

“And he sent you to ask?” There was no need to add that he didn’t believe Snape’s story. It sounded like an excuse to nose around. “That’s very kind of you both, but we’re fine. I’m letting Gilderoy stay the full fortnight whilst his office is repaired.”

There was another stretch of silence as Snape examined him, and Quirrell reflected he’d had doctor visits with more comfortable levels of scrutiny than this.

“If you insist,” Snape said at last. “But do keep in mind the offer to move him out, should the need arise. We wouldn’t want any… friction, now would we?”

“No, of course not.” Quirrell peered up at Snape one last time. “If you’ll excuse me, I have lesson plans to prepare. I do thank you for stopping by to chat, though.”

He turned and re-entered his office, where Gilderoy was busy levitating stacks of books.

tag: @atomicvomitgoblin

[fictionalsimp09]

Lame - Marylene - @taylorswiftmicrofic - 294 words - AO3

“Girl, who are you trying to impress?” Mary asks, smiling as Marlene—usually so uncaring towards her appearance and throws on whatever is clean, regardless of if it matches or not—stands in front of the full-length mirror, fluffing her short, shaggy hair, applying some smoky eyeliner, smoothing out her brand new leather jacket. She has never looked so hot, which Mary absolutely hates her for. At least before, she could just convince herself that the reason why she didn’t confess her feelings was because they would never work aesthetically, and oh, how she loves her aesthetics. But now, with this new rockstar look of hers, she can’t blame such a trivial thing on her cowardice, not wanting to risk their friendship, risk losing the person who means the most to her. 

“No one. Myself,” Marlene replies. 

“That’s not no one then. You’re not no one.” 

“Yeah, thanks…” She turns to face her, Mary’s heart skipping a beat as she gets a proper look at her. “Do- do you think- Do you think this would be enough?” 

“Enough for what?” 

“To get a girl’s attention. To be cool and exciting.” 

“Babes, let me stop you there. You may look cool right now, but deep down, you’re so bloody lame, and you always will be. But that’s part of your charm, you know. That’s why I love you.” 

“You love me?” Marlene asks. 

“I- uh, yeah…” Shit, shit, shit. “I love all my friends.” 

“Oh…yeah, I love all my friends too.” 

She turns back to the mirror and sighs, shrugging out of her jacket as she mutters, “This is stupid.” 

“No. No, it’s not. I’m sorry.” 

“Just forget about it,” Marlene says as she stomps out the dorm. Well, that was just great, wasn’t it? 

@mushroom-enby @sidelit @spitefulwizard @sren-yeah @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @wolfstarisareligion @ghostlymakercat @rheoxies @ninjitheninjaturtle @hardlandnight @regulusablackwhodontswim @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @in-your-wall-s @astrolevl @definitelyregulusblack

If anyone else wants to be tagged when I post my microfics, just let me know!!

[sidelit]

The Show Must Go On

Prompt(s): Seconds, Asking for help & Not so secret monologues For: @taylorswiftmicrofic, @monthlywritingchallenges, & @killacharacterbingo WC: 900 | AO3 This Summary: Gilderoy wakes up somewhere dark, in considerable pain, with no idea where he is. Fortunately, he can hear Quirrell nearby. Unfortunately, Quirrell appears to be arguing with someone. Kill-A-Character Bingo Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart bought a mirror. In his defence, it was a very nice mirror. Unfortunately, it was also cursed. Now Gilderoy keeps dying, waking up beside Quirrell the next morning with every unpleasant detail intact. Quirrell remembers none of it. Gilderoy would very much like this to stop.

Gilderoy awakened in the dark. His cheek tingled where it pressed against the icy stone floor.

Everything hurt. The discs of his spine ached deep within, as if bone itself could sob. They'd never been right since the duelling club during his teaching year.

He felt loose grit under his palms, and slowly pushed himself to sitting. A groan echoed. An elderly man, it sounded like, for whom existence itself was pain.

Seconds later, two pieces of information defogged in his addled brain. He was the ‘elderly man’ in question, and the room was mostly bare.

The echo told him the latter, and the nauseating depths of pain told him the former. He must've lain there for some time to hurt this much.

“Is anyone here?” he asked, voice hushed.

It was too dark to see, and Gilderoy dared not risk unwelcome attention before assessing the situation.

There was no reply. Quiet as a mausoleum, and still. The reverberation of his whisper suggested a small room. No windows, clearly.

“Quirinus?”

No answer. He could tell just by the sound that he was alone. But then where was Quirinus? They'd been together…somewhere.

Arms outstretched, Gilderoy slowly made his way around the room. The walls felt like fieldstone too. No door on the walls, but there was the crude frame of a cot.

With rusty protest from his knees, Gilderoy climbed onto the bed frame. If he extended his arms overhead, his fingertips could brush the ceiling.

More blind groping yielded a wooden square.

The iron latch didn’t budge. No light shone between the wide wooden slats, which likely meant there were no windows immediately outside either.

“Is it a priest hole?” he mused aloud. “Where am I?”

Best to treat it that way for now, he supposed. That might explain why the room above seemed as dark as this one, at least.

He heard a scrape from above, then shuffling. Light streamed between the slats and Gilderoy squinted against it, using a hand to shield his eyes.

Voices.

He held his breath to listen.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.” Quirinus's voice, Gilderoy would know it anywhere. Tone steady, but Gilderoy could hear tension beneath it like an overtuned string.

“Yes, you do. You know you do.”

That was a woman's voice.

Ah. An overly ardent fan, surely.

Gilderoy had encountered them before, but nothing at this scale.

“I wasn't even Mr Lockhart's assistant when your father was affected,” Quirinus told her. “And you said yourself no one knows what caused his memory loss. Perhaps it's a medical issue. Or age-related.”

“I know perfectly well what caused it, and so do you,” the woman said. “It's all over that book, Gadding With Ghouls. I knew that story as well as my father did. I'd recognise it anywhere.” A rustling sound. “Professor Quirrell, I'm asking for help one last time.”

“Drawing your wand changes nothing,” Quirinus replied, but Gilderoy heard the tension tune up a notch, even if she didn't. “You showed no demonstrable evidence, and this won't recover your father's memory. You could be upstairs with him right now, but instead you're holding two men captive.”

“Shut up! You know what he did, and he's going to pay for it.”

“Please, Miss Kendall—”

“No. No more out of you. Where do you think I've been the past seven years? Upstairs, with dad.”

Kendall. Gadding With Ghouls.

Gilderoy recalled the old wizard, of course. But how was it that Gilderoy hadn’t known Kendall had a daughter? Not that it mattered at this late date.

He chose his marks with the utmost care and though his skills were dodgy elsewhere, they were quite sharp when it came to his work.

Well, there's the difference between presumed dead and confirmed dead.

A note for the future.

Once Quirinus got them out of this, that was.

“I’ve been upstairs with him whilst he asks where he is. I’ve been there when he can’t remember mum, when he can't remember the trips he's been on. I’ve watched him read Lockhart’s book and not recognise his own story. People all over the world can buy his life’s proudest achievement for five Galleons and never know it was his. And you have the gall to tell me I should be with him? As if I've been anywhere else?”

The wooden square squealed open and Gilderoy saw Quirinus forced down into the hole at wandpoint. Behind him was a woman with straight brown hair and a dark dress. He couldn't make out much else in the wave of light.

“Miss Kendall, please,” Gilderoy said. “It wasn't me, I promise you. There are reasons to remove memories. Trauma, dangerous knowledge, government instruction.” She pointed the wand at him and he held up his hands. “Your father's achievement was remarkable, that's why I wanted to compare notes. But it doesn't mean—”

In front of him, Kendall raised her wand arm. To his right, he heard Quirinus yell his name once, almost deafening in the little stone room.

A flash of green bore down on him.

This cannot possibly be how Gilderoy Lockhart goes out.

Quirinus made a grab for her whilst she was distracted, but the green flash was already on its path.

“Gilderoy!”

That was Quirinus calling his name, actually deafening this time.

Quirinus changed direction.

There was half a second to realise Quirinus intended to take the Killing Curse for him.

I really do love you, Gilderoy thought.

And then nothing.

The first death was randomly selected by @atomicvomitgoblin

[taylorswiftmicrofic]

August 12 - movies

Inspired by The Archer Rules & FAQs

[taylorswiftmicrofic]

August 11 - vending

Inspired by Cruel Summer Rules & FAQs

[taylorswiftmicrofic]

August 10 - lame

Inspired by ME! (feat. Brendon Urie) Rules & FAQs

[fictionalsimp09]

Seconds - Prongsfoot - @taylorswiftmicrofic - 360 words - AO3

James paces around the living room, watching the seconds tick by on the clock as his stomach twists in knots. What if this goes terribly wrong? What if his parents catch him, or the house elf? What if Regulus sabotages him? What if he never sees him again? 

“James, honey,” his mum places a gentle hand to his shoulder, stopping him from his anxious movements. “Everything will be okay.” 

“You can’t promise that,” he whispers, trying not to cry as he imagines the worst. 

“No, I can’t. But Sirius is a smart, brave, resourceful young man, he will be okay.” 

“Why don’t I make us all a nice warm drink while we wait?” his dad asks. 

James just nods, though all he wants to do right now is scream at how unfair this situation is. Why does Sirius have to run away from his family at all? They should be the people who protect and love him the most, not cause him the most physical and psychological harm. They should not treat their own son so badly that his only option of survival is to run away in the dead of night. 

He sits on the sofa between his parents as they wait. The clock strikes 1 am. Sirius should materialise through the fireplace opposite them any moment now. Any moment now. Minutes pass and his fears of the terrible things that may have happened to him grows exponentially. 

“He’s late,” James says, voice shaky. “Thirty minutes. He’s thirty minutes late. What if-” 

“No, what if’s,” his dad interrupts. “He’ll be here soon.” 

“Hope is a truly powerful thing, my dear,” his mum adds. 

Sighing, he throws his head back, staring at the ceiling and praying for the first time in his life. He prays that his best friend, his soulmate will arrive here safe and sound soon. 

The fireplace crackles and James stands so fast black spots appear in his vision. He blinks and a clearly exhausted, disorientated Sirius collapses into his arms. The tears he’s been holding back all day finally spill over as he holds tightly onto him, vowing to never, ever let go off him again. 

@mushroom-enby @sidelit @spitefulwizard @sren-yeah @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @wolfstarisareligion @ghostlymakercat @rheoxies @ninjitheninjaturtle @hardlandnight @regulusablackwhodontswim @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @in-your-wall-s @astrolevl @definitelyregulusblack

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[sidelit]

Prompt: Indifference & An honest answer For: @taylorswiftmicrofic & @monthlywritingchallenges WC: 900 Summary: When Quirrell’s luggage goes missing, Lockhart generously offers something worse: his wardrobe.

Note: I wrote this on my phone in a hair salon, no beta, no nothing, so be gentle

Although this wasn’t Quirrell’s first time losing luggage, it was his first time losing luggage whilst travelling with Lockhart.

The inn in Bavaria was supposed to forward their trunks to the wizarding hotel in Armenia.

Lockhart’s trunk was here, as promised, right at the foot of his bed. At first, Quirrell assumed that his trunk was in the second room. But, alas, no trunk.

“I shouldn't worry about it, Quirinus. It'll be along soon, I'm sure.”

He knew better than to be shocked by Lockhart’s indifference. This was the man who’d heard about a fire in their Spanish lodgings shortly after they’d left and said, “That’s all right, then. I wasn't there.”

So when the subject was Quirrell’s luggage, everything was fine, because Lockhart’s luggage was here.

“Yes, no doubt it'll show. But in the meantime, I haven't got a stitch to wear,” Quirrell said. He flapped his robe aside to show Lockhart his trousers. “These need a good washing. Not to mention my shoes.”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Lockhart replied, hanging several garments in the wardrobe. “Don't be dour about it.”

“That's easy for you to say. You're not a walking filth and germ factory without nightclothes, day clothes, or any other clothes.”

Lockhart said nothing, but spun to reveal a smile and cream-coloured robes with elaborate gold embroidery at the sleeves.

Quirrell froze as if the robes might attack.

“You can wear mine for the day,” Lockhart said after several seconds, prompting. Quirrell still made no move to collect the outfit, and Lockhart wiggled it at him. “It’s only until we get yours washed and buy you new ones.”

Honestly.

Quirrell held out a hand palm-first and turned his face away. It was more Nosferatu-sees-crucifix than companion-offers-clothing, but sometimes Lockhart required extra emphasis.

“Gilderoy, I've never worn white before in my life. No.”

Lockhart lowered the proffered garment and examined it as though it had betrayed him.

“But it's not white. It's fresh cream. See that tinge of soft yellow?” He tried a second time, extending the robes. “And look at the detail on the sleeves.”

Lockhart advanced two steps with the robes, and Quirrell backed into the dressing table.

“No,” he said.

“You have no idea how striking you'll look in this, do you?”

“Gilderoy—”

“Just try it. You'll love it, I promise.” Lockhart wiggled the wooden hanger one more time.

Quirrell relented with both a smile and a sigh. He stripped off his travel outfit and pulled on the cream-coloured affair instead.

The trousers presented the first problem, and Quirrell erupted into laughter when he looked down.

“We didn't think this through,” he managed between laughs.

Lockhart was at least five inches taller than Quirrell, and likely two stone heavier.

“Oh, let me help with that!” Lockhart had his wand ready before Quirrell could even speak again. Though of the two, he probably knew more tailoring spells than Quirrell did. “I know an excellent Alterations Charm. That's saved me a few times.”

“But your outfits are all bespoke.”

“Yes. I've not needed the spell in a while.” Lockhart rested his chin in his hand and thought. “Ah, I've got it!”

Quirrell’s hands darted out to catch Lockhart’s wrist before he could cast. ‘Haven’t had to use it in a while’ had his alarm bells ringing.

“Gilderoy, wait. Are you absolutely certain you remember the incantation? The correct one?”

Lockhart lowered his wand arm. When Quirrell lowered his own arm, the ridiculous sleeve swallowed it whole.

“Do you want an honest answer?” Lockhart asked. He wasn’t smiling, and he peered intently into Quirrell’s eyes.

Was it really so grim?

Quirrell took a breath. “Yes, I want an honest answer.”

Lockhart straightened up and grinned, then bonked Quirrell’s head with the wand.

“Of course I remember it, you dolt. This is what I do for a living.”

“Yes, well, I'm glad you're in high spirits today. But if you get this wrong, it could be rather problematic for me.”

“I won't get it wrong,” Lockhart said. He snapped the wand, hard, almost like a whip. “Vestifex Minor!”

Nothing happened for about two seconds, or so it seemed to Quirrell. Then, sharp as a ripcord pull, the clothes seemed to retreat into their seams.

Lockhart pulled the wand back, and the shrinking stopped. Quirrell stared down at his arms.

“I don't dare go further than that,” Lockhart said. “I don't want to hurt you. But at least you don't look like a child anymore. And see? I knew you'd look fabulous in this one. So handsome.” He turned Quirrell towards the mirrors on the dressing table. “I've got a few blues and purples you might try later.”

“I hope not to be in your robes a second time,” Quirrell said. “Once is enough.”

He inspected the reflection. Burn scars on his face, and a shorn head because his hair grew back in patches. Lockhart stood behind him, watching.

Quirrell wondered what Lockhart saw. Because the words ‘fabulous’ and ‘handsome’ were not what sprang to mind.

“Why do you never seem to notice?” Quirrell’s reflection asked Lockhart’s.

Lockhart pulled out the dressing table’s chair and had Quirrell sit.

“Of course I notice them, they're scars, Quirinus. I was talking about the robes, it’s a very handsome ensemble.” This startled Quirrell into a laugh, and Lockhart grinned at him in the mirror. “Now will you please acknowledge that fresh cream suits you?”

tag: @atomicvomitgoblin

[fictionalsimp09]

Indifference - Black Brothers - @taylorswiftmicrofic - 372 words - AO3

Sirius was furious at his brother, choosing the rest of their family’s side and staying with those people with such disgusting, appalling beliefs. His baby brother, who used to cry when he saw their parents mistreat him or Kreacher or would move worms of the pavement to the grass so people wouldn’t step on and kill it. That sweet, innocent kid with chubby cheeks, who used to follow him around like a puppy, is gone. He chose the wrong side. He chose their so-called family. He chose the dark side. He chose this new ‘Dark Lord’. He didn’t choose him. 

But at the end of the day, he’s still his brother. His little brother. Sirius may disprove of his choices, he may not even like him anymore, but no matter what happens, he will always, always love him. 

“Reg!” he calls out when walking aimlessly around the castle one evening and runs into his brother. 

Regulus takes one look at him before immediately turning on his heels and walking back the way he came. 

Sirius runs to catch up with him. “Look. I’m sorry for leaving you behind, but you know I had to get out of that place. I would have died one way or another if I stayed.” 

“I don’t care, Sirius,” he replies coldly. 

“I get it if you hate me, I just want you to know that I still love you.” 

He sighs. “I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either. My feelings towards you…it’s just indifference.” 

He deflates at that. That’s worse than being hated. Not caring in any capacity is worse than death being wished upon him. 

“I- I love you, Reggie,” Sirius whispers, trying to stop his voice from cracking and the tears welling up in his eyes from spilling over. 

“I don’t care, so just leave me alone.” 

Since he started Hogwarts and left his brother at Grimmauld Place alone for a year, Regulus has been a brilliant liar, amazing at masking his emotions. And as he walks away from him, Sirius cannot tell whether his apathy is real or feigned. But something deep inside fears that his words were true. He fears that he has well and truly lost his baby brother. 

@mushroom-enby @sidelit @spitefulwizard @sren-yeah @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @wolfstarisareligion @ghostlymakercat @rheoxies @ninjitheninjaturtle @hardlandnight @regulusablackwhodontswim @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @in-your-wall-s @astrolevl @definitelyregulusblack

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[sidelit]

Prompt: Sick & Keeping a promise For: @taylorswiftmicrofic & @monthlywritingchallenges WC: 800 Summary: A Sixth Year sickbed conversation, disastrous romantic advice, and one promise Quirrell has every intention of keeping.

There weren’t any other students in the hospital wing.

There was only Lockhart, who still looked a bit greenish. But after getting sick on Jackie O’Leary in the Ravenclaw Common Room the day before, Lockhart likely felt as green as he looked.

Quirrell dragged a wooden chair up beside Lockhart’s cot and laid his satchel on the rough blanket covering his friend.

He sat in the chair and pulled out a Charms text and parchment, but Lockhart didn’t pick them up.

“Our homework,” Quirrell presented with a small flourish. Gold rings on his fingers glinted in the light, which lent a more showman-like air than usual. But if he hoped to cheer Lockhart, he needed a bit of flash.

“I don’t feel like it,” Lockhart said. “And I prefer it when you sit on the foot of the bed, Quirinus.”

“Yes, well, I can’t spread out our homework very well when I’m sat there. So I’m sitting here.” He took back the text and parchment. Lockhart looked genuinely unwell, but also peevish.

Quirrell would do the assignment for him later.

“Mr Quirrell, you’d do well not to tire him out. He’s still not well.”

Madam Pomfrey had strode up like a wraith, and Quirrell started in his seat.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, resisting the urge to clutch his chest.

The no-nonsense set of her brows softened, and she gave a nod.

“You should be able to collect Mr Lockhart tomorrow evening, if there are no complications.”

“I understand,” Quirrell said.

She continued past, and Lockhart waited until she was at the end of the ward before looking back at Quirrell again.

“Is Jackie still angry with me?” Lockhart asked, voice lowered anyway as though someone were nearby.

“No…” Quirrell said slowly, trailing off. Lockhart was madly in love with Jackie, and had been all year. “She threatened to vomit on you when you got back. Which is a step up from where she started.”

“Ugh. I was in the middle of asking her to Hogsmeade again, too,” Lockhart groaned, draping his arm over his eyes. He removed it suddenly. “Wait, if that’s a step up, where did she start?”

“Well, last night she wanted to kill you, so vomiting is much better, really.”

This time, Lockhart groaned aloud and flung his arm back over his eyes. “Well, that’s sorted, then,” he said, voice muffled by the sleeve of his pyjamas. “I’m never going back to the Common Room again.”

“With any luck, she’ll be back to hating you normally by tomorrow night. I shouldn’t worry about it.”

The arm came away again.

“That’s easy for you to say, Quirinus Quirrell. You don’t have to look at her, or have her glare at you, more like.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, then looked at Quirrell again, irritation cooling. “She’s never going to say ‘yes’ now, you realise.”

Quirrell looked up from the book in his lap. He took a breath.

“Gilderoy, I know this is difficult to hear, but she never was going to say ‘yes’.” Quirrell’s stomach felt twisted in a knot.

In fact, he’d hoped Jackie would say ‘yes’. People were often unkind to Lockhart, and it would’ve been nice if someone genuinely liked his friend. Not just to look at, or roll their eyes at, but for the good things he could be.

“I think if she were going to agree, she’d have done it by now,” Quirrell added, and waited for Lockhart’s outburst.

Lockhart had one eyebrow raised, accompanied by a slight frown, as though he couldn’t tell if Quirrell were joking. Then, he laughed. A big laugh, loud and sure.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Quirinus! Everyone likes me. Why, Jackie likes me just fine, I promise you. She’s just not said ‘yes’ yet. Doesn’t automatically mean she dislikes me.” Lockhart caught himself. “Well, everyone except whoever slipped me the potion to make my stomach this wretched.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t automatically mean she likes you, either,” Quirrell tried again. “I’m sorry.”

With a grand wave of his hand, Lockhart changed the subject.

“Did you figure out yet who did this to me? You said you would.” Lockhart shook his head in disbelief. He was still pale and had purplish circles under his eyes. “I didn’t think anyone could dislike me enough to do that. I’m friendly to everyone.”

The double doors thumped open, followed by the sounds of retching and gagging. A large Seventh Year in a Hufflepuff Quidditch uniform went past, held at the elbow by Professor McGonagall.

“Poppy, could you please see to Mr Cresswell? He was practising one minute, then vomiting all over the pitch the next. And in flight, too. Caused quite a mess, spraying through the air like that. But at least it wasn’t a match day.”

Quirrell slid his eyes upwards to watch, then stole a glance at Lockhart, whose expression was now ecstatic. Still ill, still peaked, but his smile was enormous and his eyes wide.

He grinned and nudged Lockhart with his elbow. “Promised you I’d find out who did it,” Quirrell said.

[fictionalsimp09]

Sick - Wolfstar - @taylorswiftmicrofic - 240 words - AO3

“Sirius, baby,” Remus says from the outside of his bed curtains, “let me help you. Please.”

“Go-” He coughs rather violently, “-away.”

He silently chuckles at the ridiculousness of his boyfriend—his confident, expressive, clingy boyfriend—being the one who refuses to let anyone see him sick. Whereas Remus, usually rather reclusive, is so exhausted when he gets a cold that he just wants to be looked after, he just wants to be held. Though that is not the case after a full, when he just wants to be left alone and forget about the monster he became the night before.

“I'm not going anywhere, Pads, so you might as well just let me take care of you.”

“But I'm all gross and phlegmy.”

“I don't care how disgusting you are. I love you and I want to help.”

This back and forth goes on until Remus finally mutters, “I made you some soup that my mum always makes me when I'm not feeling well.”

He hears a huff and feels the magic making the curtains immovable dissipate. Quickly, before he changes his mind, Remus slides onto his bed and hands him the container of soup.

“Thank you,” Sirius murmurs after a spoonful. “This is delicious.”

Once he finishes eating, Remus lies down and pulls the duvet over them.

“Moony, what are you doing? You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

He places a brief kiss to his clammy forehead. “Worth it.”

@mushroom-enby @sidelit @spitefulwizard @sren-yeah @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @wolfstarisareligion @ghostlymakercat @rheoxies @ninjitheninjaturtle @hardlandnight @regulusablackwhodontswim @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @in-your-wall-s @astrolevl @definitelyregulusblack

If anyone else wants to be tagged when I post my microfics, just let me know!!