Penguin

Penguin, Meredith or Mac - 18+ - my writing blog, my main is penguins-penguins - too many fandoms to list - feel free to ask me stuff - it’s nice to meet you :) (thepenguinclub on ao3)

[thepenguinclub]

Hi, and welcome to my writing blog! My name is Meredith, but you can call me Mac or Penguin. I use she/her pronouns.

A little bit about me. I'm a minor, I have two dogs and a cat, I'm aromantic asexual, and I don't know if you could tell or not, but I really like penguins.

My ao3 is here, my main is here, and if you're here for my writing, you're in luck because that's all I post on this blog! As well as asks or any bonus information that has to do with said writing. My writing tag is #penguin writes.

This pinned post also operates as a writing masterpost, so that'll be under the read more. Have a good rest of your day. :)

Sanders Sides:

Name 'Verse

My ongoing oneshot series. This world is an afterlife au that also happens to be a zombie apocalypse au, and everyone does their best to thrive.

It's ongoing, but isn't my top priority so updates are sporadic. The good thing, though, is that everything is a self-contained oneshot, which means there are no cliffhangers. Even the multichapter works are only grouped for efficiency, not because they have an overarching plot.

Featuring romantic LAMP, romantic dukeceit, familial dark sides, platonic creativitwins and more. This series gets it's own masterpost, isn't that neat?

AO3 series ~ Masterpost

Teacher Virgil

My ongoing oneshot series in the universe that holds genius!Virgil, who ends up using his genius to teach a class of high schoolers. He also meets his soulmates. And helps out his students in many different ways.

All can be read as stand-alones and while the first part is Virgil-centric, the others are more focused on the oc high school students that Virgil has a major effect on, so he is a main character in those installments, but the other sides aren't. Still, they'd sweet and the ocs are to die for so I wouldn't knock it 'till you tried it.

AO3 series ~ Masterpost

#cuteboyfriendchallenge

A oneshot in a tiktok format, centering around romantic LAMP. What it says on the tin. It's very fluffy.

The oneshot: AO3 ~ Tumblr

Extra info: AO3 ~ Tumblr

And You Said We Couldn't Act.

A oneshot for Day 7 - Free Day of Analogical Week 2021. Centered around, you guessed it, romantic analogical. Also very fluffy. Virgil and Logan keeping their relationship a secret because they are Petty and the shenanigans that happen later.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

Their Society

A oneshot framed like a story idea, describing a universe where people can be powerful, powerless, or. Definitely read warnings for this one. No romantic relationships defined, a lot of this is up to interpretation.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

The Ups and Downs of Everyday Life

A simple oneshot centering around Virgil. Platonic c!Thomas & Virgil, platonic Patton & Virgil. There is a dog. Starts out angst-ish, ends with hopeful-ness. Inspired by this post.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

you're a peach, darling

A oneshot focusing on platonic dukexiety, from Remus' POV. Remus is a prince who doesn't want to be a prince, Virgil is a nomad who loves his life and his freedom. Angst, mostly, with a hopeful ending and hurt/comfort there at the end. Background romantic dukeceit, background romantic Roman/Logan/Patton.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

until parted by death

A short oneshot that sounds angsty and probably should be but is in actuality one of the fluffiest things I've ever written. Romantic prinxiety, Good Friends Janus and Logan, Virgil being anxious and then not, weddings, the whole shebang. Does contain main character death but there is -100% angst attached.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

the diner

A short oneshot that was a writing exercise and an excuse to write a lot of descriptions. Platonic DLAMPR, Janus POV. It's a good character study I think.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

this is nice! something's probably wrong.

A very very short fluff fest that has no angst whatsoever just some sleepy boys. Enjoy. Romantic LAMP, Virgil POV.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

floriography

Virgil vs. mental health, told through the language of flowers. There is nongraphic self harm, and a constant struggle with depression, but I'm quite proud of it and as long as the warnings don't bother you, I recommend. Brotherly Virgil/Remy, background romantic Remile, Virgil & Emile, Virgil & Janus, background platonic DLAMPR but the other sides don't make big appearances unfortunately.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

Merlin:

In a World of the Same, You're Different

A oneshot from Merlin's point of view, which is the point of view of someone cursed to be a dragon. And he'd really like to be left alone. The beginnings of romantic Merthur, it's heavily implied. The Knights of the Round Table are besties. Angst then fluff, hopeful ending.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

Harry Potter:

Happily Ever After

A oneshot that covers seven years of birthday presents from Harry to Draco. I'd say it's 90:10 fluff and angst, and my longest posted HP oneshot to date. Drarry.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

the monster's gone, he's on the run (and your daddy's here)

Harry drops out of the muggle world in order to find himself, and finds four children instead. His response? Guess I'm a dad now. Boogie woogie woogie. Small instances of angst but it's mostly fluff with a little bit of crack treated seriously in there. All platonic relationships between Harry and his kids.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

just a normal boy, with a normal life

A Harry Potter Miraculous Ladybug AU. Why? Because I can. Harry as Ladybug and Draco as Chat Noir. Developing relationship. It's a cute oneshot, what can I say. Platonic Drarry with some appearances from various friends.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

it's raining, it's pouring

This is soft and chill Drarry. No dialogue, short oneshot. Just them existing and being in love.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

dancing with our hands tied

My only current Jegulus work, this is a short oneshot that explores an AU where Regulus is a prestigous dancer and James is smitten. Open ending, allows the reader to continue the story. Implied/Developing Jegulus, mentioned other characters (Sirius, Dorcas, Evan).

AO3 ~ Tumblr

eras

My one and only chaptered work for HP so far, this is a canon divergent retelling of the entire HP series through the lense of Taylor Swift albums. Nothing super specific, but each chapter is a year of Harry's life as he grows up and develops along with the vibes of TS albums.

Chapter updates are whenever I get them done, so sporadically. Please be assured, however, that this fic will be finished, even if it takes me years (I do not plan on it taking me years).

AO3 ~ Masterpost

[knightswaypoint]

Merlinktober Day 19 (on day 23): Scales

A celebration of some Dragon!Merlin fics I’ve enjoyed! (close-ups and fic links under cut)

In a World of the Same, You're Different by @thepenguinclub

Rating: Gen | Word Count: 8,058 | Chapters: 1 “You know,” the prince started, and Merlin grunted in frustration, turning away. Princes were always the same, “I don’t appreciate you talking about my father like that.” Merlin stopped and narrowed his eyes, before slowly looking back at the prince. He studied the prince's face intently. “And who, exactly, would your father be?” he asked, fury crackling through the calm sounding words. He was not in the mood to be played with by a prince. “Uther Pendragon,” the prince said calmly. Merlin’s tail lashed so hard against the rock next to him a large piece of it chipped off, rocketing through the air and over the edge of the mountain. --- Merlin was cursed to be a dragon, which was fine. It was fine, he was fine, he was happy, thank you very much. Everything was great. Except for all these knights and princes that kept bothering him. That, that was not fine. It was annoying. It definitely wasn't the only human interaction he ever got, he was fine. So if this odd group of knights and their king would leave, that would be wonderful.

A Dream of Dragons by @slantedknitting | with Art by LFB72

Rating: E | Word Count: 40,640 | Chapters: 1 Merlin, a fierce dragon, is captured and held prisoner in a deep cave under a castle. He believes he will perish, miserable and alone… until a second prisoner arrives. The man is small and annoying at first, but gradually they get to know each other, and soon enough the cave is almost tolerable. Then the man escapes, and Merlin realises his whole world has been changed.

running back home by @sourw0lfs | with Art by @kokoshka67

Rating: M | Word Count: 25,126 | Chapters: 7 With another growl, the monster surges forward, pressing its full weight into Arthur and toppling his footing. They both go down hard with just the damaged sword as a barrier between them. Arthur’s arms shake with the effort to keep it that way, pressing upwards with all the strength he can muster to free himself. The monster barely budges, lips pulling back in a snarl that reveals a mouthful of half-sharp, half-dull teeth. Through his panic, Arthur finally realizes why this monster seems so different from the attacks in the past. His gaze trails from the jagged teeth snapping angrily at him to the side of the creature’s face that isn’t covered in scales, to the side that’s so obviously and glaringly human. Because the monster isn’t a monster at all. It’s something else entirely, some kind of cursed hybrid never before seen. Worst of all, though, Arthur finds that he recognizes the human face beyond the scales and fangs. “Merlin?”

Tales of a Dragon and His Prince by @0hheytherebigbadwolf

(Summary for the first in the series) Rating: Gen - E | Word Count: 42,121 | Works: 15 They cannot have even one hunt without something going wrong on some level. A horse throws a shoe. A crossbow string breaks. A storm blows in. A giant beast attacks. Merlin turns into a dragon. The usual things.

(and also With the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet because it's a similar dragon design and both fics are so very fun)

[thepenguinclub]

eras masterpost

The masterpost for all of my eras chapters.

eras is a multichapter canon divergent retelling of the hp series that explores harry's growth and development, with each chapter being based loosely off of a Taylor Swift album

Here is the link to the fic on AO3.

The tag for this fic is #penguin writes eras.

Chapters:

1 - debut 🦋

2 - Fearless 🌻

3 - Speak Now 🎆

4 - Red

5 - 1989

6 - reputation

7 - Lover

8 - folklore

9 - evermore

10 - Midnights

11 - The Tortured Poets Department

[thepenguinclub]

eras

Chapter 3: Speak Now

The third chapter in my hp fic 'eras'!

Here is the eras masterpost. Here is the previous chapter.

Read under the cut.

Speak Now 🎆

----------

Flying was freedom. It was the dropping of a stomach, and the tears in your eyes, and the sound of rushing air and pumping blood.

Most people didn’t, but Harry knew freedom - you can only really know it if you’ve lived without it. Harry lived the first eleven years of his life grasping at freedom the way a dying man grasps at life, or maybe how a leaf clings to a tree. Desperately, while knowing it would never last.

But flying. Meters above the ground with nothing but the open air and birds for company, that was freedom. Having complete control over yourself while still having to surrender to gravity, the rush of adrenaline that came with a complicated move, the weightlessness at the top of an arc. Harry had never experienced something so freeing, and he never wanted to stop.

“We should go inside,” Draco said, smoothing his hair back and away from his face. As high up as they were, it was chilly with a strong breeze, resulting in red coloring Draco’s nose, cheeks and ears. He scowled as the wind blew his hair into his face again, and Harry laughed, more easily than he ever could on the ground.

“We still have a while until dinner,” Harry pointed out, spinning in place. They were over the forest, so high that the tallest tower in Hogwarts was still a ways below them. Harry liked to fly over the forest and see if he could spot anything exciting, although it was nearly impossible as high as they were. “We can take a few more laps around the lake.”

Draco adjusted his grip on his broom and shivered.

“I know, but we promised Hermione we would be back to study,” he reminded. “We already blew her off for the first part of the afternoon.”

Harry sighed and chewed his lip. 

“I know,” he groaned. “But it’s so nice up here. I can’t imagine leaving all of this for a Potions essay.”

“Snape is cruel,” Draco agreed. “But we really should do it.”

“I know,” Harry repeated sullenly. Draco drifted towards him so he could lightly bump their shoulders. 

“We can come back out tomorrow,” he promised. Harry nodded, then shot Draco a smirk.

“Race you there,” he said, just before shooting off towards the ground.

“Oh, you little-” Draco yelled after him, before dissolving into an elated laugh as he, too, started his fast descent.

The wind whipped through Harry’s hair and stung at his eyes, causing tears to leak out the sides. The grass approached quickly, and Harry let out a laugh, before pulling to a stop just a meter above the ground. 

Freedom, Harry thought as we watched Draco scowl and grumble on his broom next to Harry, was better than he ever thought it would be.

–

The Hospital Wing’s sheets were sterile and crisp, nothing like the soft cotton of the Gryffindor dorms. Harry pressed his head back into the pile of thin pillows under his shoulders and sighed. The ceiling swam in front of his eyes, bending and twisting in a dance without music. Harry blinked, and his eyelids were heavy, and he wished he could simply sleep, but he couldn’t. 

Someone in another bed coughed feebly in their sleep, and Harry clenched his teeth in frustration. He wanted to sleep, so badly, but it was all so different. The air was stale, and there were no sounds of breathing or snores. The windows were closed so there was no soft breeze, and no sounds of the outside. The only sounds were the ticking of the clock in the corner, and the intermittent coughing from the other side of the room. It was just slightly too cold, and the blankets and pillows were thin, and sterile, and crisp, and they were nothing like Gryffindor.

Hot tears welled in Harry’s eyes, and he blinked them away fitfully. Not for the first time, he cursed the Dursleys for making him so uncomfortable sleeping, even existing, in unfamiliar territory.

He wasn’t allowed to leave, though. Not until his bones fully regrew into his arm, which was simply such a ridiculous idea that Harry had a hard time believing it at all. He needed to look over at his floppy wrist and forearm to actually remind himself, but then it only reminded him of the overwhelming itchiness and discomfort that came with regrowing bones. So he would stare at the ceiling and count the granite slabs, but then after a while it would move with the swirls and surges of exhaustion. And then Harry would be right back where he started: hot tears balanced on his eyelashes, a stinging in his sinuses, and a thick lump in his throat.

Harry swallowed heavily and closed his eyes to clear the tears. He twisted his good fingers into the hospital sheet and sighed through his nose to clear it. He was so tired, but he couldn’t sleep, so he resigned himself to hours more of the same cycle of listening to the clock tick and the kid cough.

Then, of course, there was the slight creak of a door. Harry’s eyes shot open and he turned to the front of the Hospital Wing, where the door was slightly ajar. It closed slowly by itself, and for a moment it was quiet and Harry thought he had hallucinated it, but then there was the rustling of fabric and a shock of red hair.

“Harry!” Ron whisper-shouted with a smile. 

“Ron?” Harry asked in a similar whisper. He pushed himself up onto his existing elbow. “What are you doing here?”

“I figured it might be lonely here and all,” the other boy explained cheerily, taking a seat in the chair closest to Harry’s head, “so I thought I should come and keep you company! I borrowed your cloak, hope that’s okay,” he added as an afterthought, holding up the silvery fabric he had bunched on his lap.

“That’s fine.” Harry struggled to sit up, and Ron rushed to press a hand on his back to steady him. “Thanks. You know you didn’t have to come, though.”

“‘Course I did,” Ron assured him seriously. “I wouldn’t like being all alone here, and I know you don’t sleep easy in new places, so I thought you might be awake already.”

“I was,” Harry confirmed hesitantly, brows furrowed. “How did you know I don’t sleep well in new places?”

“You always toss and turn a lot when we first get here,” Ron said with a shrug. “And you don’t ever fall asleep in the common room with me and Hermione those times we stay up late. My brother was like that for a while, Mum had to always go and pick him up from sleepovers.”

“Oh.” Harry allowed himself to smile, then, at his best friend. It was so incredibly Ron that Harry’s sinuses started to sting again, but it was much easier to push the feeling away than before. “So, what do we do?”

“Fred taught me this game the other day,” Ron told him excitedly. “It’s a speed game that he learned from one of the muggleborns and he kept beating me so I thought that if I taught you, then we could both learn together and it wouldn’t be so unfair.”

As he spoke, Ron scooted closer to Harry’s bed and started dealing cards from a regular muggle card deck.

“And I know it’s a bit unfair because you only have the one hand,” he continued, pausing to huff a piece of his hair out of his eyes, “so I’m gonna play with one hand too.”

Harry’s sinuses burns, and his throat ached, and his eyes grew warm, and then wet, and by the time Ron had finished talking Harry was wiping away a few stray tears. Ron looked up when he was done dealing, and his smile dropped quickly.

“Oh no, are you okay? Does your arm hurt? We don’t have to play if you don’t want to, we can just talk, or lay together if you want. I can leave, actually, if you’d-”

“No, no, no,” Harry shook his head and swiped his hand through the air as if to bat the idea away. He smiled, wide and toothy, at Ron, whose brow furrowed. “I like having you here. I’m excited to play.”

“But… you’re crying.” Ron chewed on the inside of his cheek nervously. “I wanted to make you feel better, not make you cry, mate.”

“I know,” Harry replied brightly. “You did make me feel better, Ron, I’m just being a bit ridiculous.” He crossed his legs in front of him and nudged the cards laid out on the bed, watching Ron relax back into his grin. “How do we play?”

Reassured that nothing was wrong, Ron jumped back into explaining the mechanics of the game, which was made a bit more difficult with the limitation of only having one hand, but only resulted in hushed giggling and thrown cards. They must have played for hours, each boy becoming more comfortable and trying to sabotage each other. Ron migrated onto the end of his bed for better reach, and before either of them knew it, the sound of birds was floating through the Hospital Wing windows and Harry was only missing three of his fingers. 

It was only when the other kid started to groan awake that they decided to call an end to their game, though. Ron slipped the cards back into their box and draped the cloak around his shoulders as Harry situated himself back in his bed, until he was leaned back against the pillows and waving goodbye to a floating head.

“Thanks for coming, Ron,” he said genuinely. Ron beamed at him and gave him a light shove on the shoulder.

“Anytime, mate,” the other boy replied. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Right.” Harry bit on his smile as his friend pulled the hood up and disappeared from view. His last goodbye was an invisible hand tickling the bottom of his foot through the thin hospital sheets, and then he was gone. 

Harry turned onto his side and watched as he flexed his fingers and wrist. They felt strange and new, but nowhere near the uncomfortableness of the night. Settling down into the mattress, he turned away from the ceiling, instead facing the chair next to his bed. He pulled the thin sheets up to his shoulders, closed his eyes, and slept.

–

It was interesting, Harry thought, the changes that someone could go through over only a year of time. The timidness that most of his grade had felt disappeared, and, as second years, they were found everywhere, eagerly chattering with each other. Harry himself didn’t feel any more confident in his place in the wizarding world, but he did feel more familiar with the workings of Hogwarts, despite the strange whispers he had been hearing in the walls.

His schedule was familiar. His friends were familiar, and his coursework. While the grounds changed with the seasons, they never lost their warmth and vast ability to steal Harry’s breath when the sun hit them just right. That was something that Ron, Draco and Hermione could agree with, so they made it a part of their week to walk the grounds in the afternoons or after dinner. Harry had never had a grounds to walk, or friends to agree with, before coming into the wizarding world. It helped him settle into a calm, a peaceful, intimate way of life.

“I dare you to jump in the lake and touch the squid!” Ron yelled, shoving Draco’s shoulder so that he stumbled towards the bank.

“Why would I do that when I can touch an ugly, dirty being with little brain function right now?” Draco drawled back, dusting off his robes and then reaching over to mess Ron’s hair up. Ron squawked loudly, pushing him off, and then the two were off, chasing each other and yelling.

“Boys,” Hermione scoffed derisively from where she was walking next to Harry. Harry nodded in consternation, pursing his lips to hide his smile. “Not you, Harry, of course. Not that your not a boy, I just mean that you’re much more mature and easy to be around than those neanderthals.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry replied sweetly, allowing his smile to show a bit. “I like being around you too.”

“It’s good that our group ended up being this way,” she continued thoughtfully, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “We balance each other out well, I think. Although it would be nice to have more friends from different houses. Have you ever noticed how much they separate our houses from each other? It’s so strange…”

Harry hummed in agreement as Hermione began listing the pros and cons of the Hogwarts house system, though he was only half-listening. His attention was caught by the boys on the ground in front of them.

Ron and Draco had managed to run to the curve of the lake, about half the length, where he guessed they had gotten tired and decided to wait for Harry and Hermione to catch up. They were both sprawled in the tall grass, arms and legs akimbo, staring up at the sky. They seemed to be discussing something, though Harry was much too far away to tell what. He could see both of their faces lighting up with a blush, though, so he figured he probably didn’t want to know anyway.

He agreed with Hermione’s earlier statement, about how balanced their group was. Him, Hermione, Draco and Ron, they felt complete. A set of four. He couldn’t imagine his life without any of them. Without Ron, Harry thought he would be shy and quiet, probably lonely too. Without Hermione, Harry would become overwhelmed and panicked. Without Draco, Harry decided that he wouldn’t have much happiness, or much will for life. 

They were maudlin thoughts, of course, but Harry had always been prone to such things. He was only twelve, but a lifetime of dark cupboards and swinging fists will make anyone a cynic, he thought. It was a whole different world at Hogwarts, and Harry found himself having difficulty switching back to the positiveness and color that Hogwarts exuded, so used to his colorless life with the Dursleys. 

In the distance, Draco rolled onto his stomach to lay face down, while Ron curled up into a tight ball, laughing loud enough to reach where Harry and Hermione were walking. It caused Hermione to cut herself off with a slight giggle of her own.

“You’re a very good listener, Harry,” she told him. Harry shrugged a bit, unused to compliments. He liked listening to Hermione talk, even if his mind did wander sometimes. It was soothing. He told her as much, which just resulted in another laugh.

“You’re very sweet, too.” She reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing it lightly. Her skin was dark and warm, an interesting contrast to his pale brown. Harry had only learned last year that with enough sunlight he could become the golden brown his father was known for, but Hermione had apparently learned personal care from her mother, and took her skin and hair care seriously, resulting in smooth, clear skin and healthy curls down her back. 

Harry squeezed her hand back and gave her a smile.

“You always say such nice things to me, Hermione. I’m never quite sure what to say back,” he confided quietly, eyes fixed on the lake to their side. The surface rippled calmly with the breeze, reflecting the sun when it appeared from behind the clouds.

“My dad always said that if you think something nice about someone else, you should say it to that person,” Hermione replied calmly. “Compliments always make someone feel good, and if you’re thinking it about them, why not tell them and make them feel good?”

“Your dad sounds like a nice person,” Harry noted, cutting his eyes away from the lake and to Hermione, fixing on her thin nose, sharp chin, and hazel eyes, all features he knew she got from her dad. She smiled brightly.

“He is,” she confirmed happily. “But you shouldn’t have to worry about how you respond to a compliment, Harry. I don’t say those things because I want you to say something back. I say them because I want them to know they’re true.” 

“I know,” he said. And he did know that Hermione believed what she was telling him when she said those nice things. Whether they were true or not was different, but Harry didn’t bring that up. “I’m just not used to it, I guess.”

“Well, I’ll keep working on fixing that,” she promised him, bringing the hand that wasn’t in his to squeeze his upper arm comfortingly, pressing their cheeks together briefly. 

They walked in comfortable silence the rest of the way to the boys, who had graduated to skipping rocks across the lake’s surface.

“Took you long enough,” Ron teased as soon as they were within earshot. “Been stuck with Malfoy for way too long.”

“Oh, come on, Weasley, we were having a moment,” Draco drawled with a grin. He made his way back to Harry’s side, and Ron stepped up to Hermione’s other side. 

“A moment?” Harry asked curiously, turning to look at Draco as they continued their walk. Inexplicably, Draco blushed, the red flush climbing up to his hairline and around his ears. 

“Nothing important,” he assured Harry. “Anyway, what were you and Hermione talking about?”

“Nothing important,” Harry replied, smiling a bit. Draco nodded and bumped their shoulders, and Harry had reached out and interlaced their fingers before he could even think about it. 

Maybe it was because his other hand was still held in Hermione’s where she was talking animatedly with Ron. Maybe it was because he wanted to show Draco he appreciated his understanding to drop the subject. Maybe it was to see if the blush could spread down Draco’s neck too (it could). Maybe it was just because he wanted to.

Regardless of why, he did it, and it only took a moment for Draco to squeeze his hand tightly, resolutely looking out at the lake. Harry settled into a smile, chest warm.

He squeezed his hands, and immediately received two squeezes back.

–

Harry felt his heart in his throat, squeezing his panting breaths out in wheezes. He ran behind a stone column, eyes wide behind his cracked glasses and tears smearing the dirt caked on his face. The raspy sound of the monster’s scales on the floor echoed around him, sticking his breath in his chest.

“Come on out, Harry! This can be quick!” Tom Riddle taunted from the center of the room.

He didn’t know what to do. Fawkes had blinded it, sure, but it was still a three-story tall snake for Merlin’s sake. He was twelve! 

The sound of the basilisk receded down one of the many sewers. Harry let out the breath he had been holding, his chest burning from the effort of staying so quiet. Carefully, he checked around the column and, when he found it clear, ran straight back to where he knew Ginny would still be. 

She was paler still, and even her hair was losing color. Harry bit back a sob as Riddle laughed above him.

“It’s almost complete,” he taunted, appraising his own hand that was slowly becoming more solid. “Soon, your Lord Voldemort will be very much alive. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Harry’s chest heaved as he fought for air, the stench and dampness of the sewer leaving him breathless. Something shimmery caught his eye, but, before he could turn to it, the basilisk burst out of the water, shrieking and flailing. It’s massive body thumped onto the stone only a few meters away, and Harry whimpered. His legs screamed at him as he staggered to his feet and turned away, ready to start running.

Just then, he noticed the sword sticking out of the limp sorting hat, its sparkling hilt standing out sharply against the muck of the chamber. Harry practically threw himself at it, just barely missing the snap of the monster’s jaws where he had been standing. 

He picked up the sword while he was running, some form of a plan coming together. He eyed the giant statue of Slytherin before he made the mistake of glancing behind him and found the basilisk already in pursuit of him, it’s eyes still shooting blood where the phoenix's claws had gauged them out. 

Harry skidded to a stop before the flowing layers of stone that made up Slytherin’s beard, spared one deep breath, before leaping and catching himself on one hand. Hysterically, he thought back to when he was a child and used to do the same thing to escape Dudley and his pursuits. The basilisk slammed into the stone beneath him, a sharp reminder that he was not dealing with Dudley.

Harry climbed faster than he had ever climbed anything before, hardly even feeling the strain of muscle in his arms and the weakness in his knees when he finally made it to the top of the statue, solely focused on the swaying head in front of him.

The monster’s giant mouth opened in a roar, rows of sharp teeth on clear display. Harry waved the sword in front of him in hopes of warding it off, but it simply roared again and lunged, causing Harry to jump backwards. He smacked his head on the stone behind him, and sparks flew across his vision. His mouth flooded with liquid copper, and he cried out, though of course no one heard him.

The basilisk lunged again and knocked a chunk off the statue a little to Harry’s right as he desperately tried to get his bearings, blinking and shaking his head. 

“Sword,” he croaked out loud, in some wretched effort to get the weapon back in his position. It glinted at him from its place balanced precariously on the edge of the statue, and Harry urged his exhausted body to crawl over to it, grabbing it just before the statue shook dangerously due to the monster, once again, biting off a chunk in its effort to get to Harry.

It reeled back and shrieked, which caused Harry’s whole body to throb. He knew he couldn’t survive another attack from the monster, so, using everything he had left, he stood, the sword held in his trembling grip. 

He sobbed. He was going to die.

The basilisk’s head snapped towards him, its mouth opening once again to display its massive fangs. Harry swayed where he stood, but brought the sword towards the monster, arms shaking. 

The monster growled, reared back, and lunged.

–

Harry stared into the fire until it burned itself into his eyes, until he saw its imprint even when he squeezed his eyes shut. The heat licked along his face, flushing his face and gathering sweat at his forehead. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to move away from it.

Distantly, he was aware of the rest of the Gryffindor common room. The place that was usually so filled with life subdued and quiet, no one speaking above a whisper. Harry felt their eyes on the back of his head, almost as hot as the fire.

Draco shifted slightly next to him. It was his first time in the common room, something he had been nervous about doing before. No one had made a big deal about Harry and Draco being friends past the initial surprise of seeing their green and red next to each other, but Draco lived in fear of the day that the flip switched and everyone started to push him away from Harry.

Of course, he would never admit it, Harry mused. Draco had walked into the common room confidently, chin high and eyes caught on Harry and Harry only. He had walked straight to Harry and the fire, settled down next to his Gryffindor counterpart, and hadn’t moved since. At some point, someone had draped a blanket around their shoulders.

Hermione and Ron were on the couch behind them, talking in hushed voices like the rest of the room. Unlike the rest of the room, though, Harry didn’t mind their eyes on him. He knew they were just worried. They all were, he thought, though he wasn’t sure he appreciated it as much from the people he didn’t know. 

Harry leaned into Draco’s side, suddenly sagging with a wave of exhaustion. Draco didn’t make any noise, just opened his arm to allow Harry’s head to rest in the curve between his shoulder and his neck. Harry breathed deeply, trying to parse the heat and ash of the fire from the lavender and pine of Draco’s shampoo and soap. Draco’s hand came around Harry’s shoulders to pull the blanket tighter around them.

“Harry,” Draco said. Just that, just his name. Harry blinked up at him slowly, sifting through the tone. Draco didn’t sound mad, or worried, or upset. He sounded just like he always did: a little sharp, a little serious, a little like he knew a secret.

At some point, Harry had curled his body towards Draco, so his arm was caught in between their bodies. Now, he pulled his arm free, pushing his sleeve up and over the bandages there delicately. They were pristine and white. Madam Pomfrey would never have let him go so soon if there was any chance of them reopening. Fawkes had done a good job, for sure, but for some reason Harry could still feel the lighting in his veins; could still feel the tearing of muscle and breaking of bone.

He curled his hand into a fist and felt the muscles clench, felt the strength of his arm under the bandages. They were performative, of course. Just there to make him feel better about it. As if a little piece of white cloth would change what happened.

Draco’s hand was cold where it curled over Harry’s, fingers pale and slender where they flowed in between Harry’s. He manipulated them until Harry’s limp hand was clutched in Draco’s. It was something they had done plenty of times before, holding hands. Nothing new.

But, for some reason, it felt like it was. Harry marveled at the contrast between their skin tones, the difference between them stark but unimportant compared to the simple feeling of Draco’s hand in his. The press of cold skin against his own heated forehead, and Harry tilted his head up to meet Draco’s gaze, which felt like the most important thing in the world. Draco brushed Harry’s fringe away from his forehead with his free hand, exposing his scar, which Harry knew would still be angry and red. 

He didn’t like to think about it, didn’t want to think about it, so instead he fell back into Draco’s shoulders and breathed him in again. The fire didn’t seem so important anymore, so he pressed into Draco more, until he heard a quiet huff of breath. Draco pulled Harry into his lap gently, until Harry was curled into a little ball, scar pressed into the skin of Draco’s throat and hands still clasped between their bodies.

“I like this,” Harry told him. It seemed crucial, like if he didn’t cement this instance into words it would never happen again.

“I like this too,” Draco replied, chin rested on the crown of Harry’s head. 

I like you, Harry doesn’t say. I thought I was going to die yesterday, and all I could think about was you, and how much I wished I could have seen you again. I thought nothing could possibly hurt more than a basilisk fang in my arm and then I thought about what it would be like if you didn’t like me back. I thought that if I could have anything in the whole world, I would want this. You, and me, and us together.

Draco looped his other arm around Harry’s shoulders and tugged him almost impossible closer.

I wish I wasn’t twelve, Harry thought. I wish I was grown up, because then maybe it would be normal to be me. It would be normal for me to be using a sword, it would be normal for me to be the most famous kid in the school, and it would be normal for me to feel like I need to have you with me all the time. It would be normal to feel so much sometimes that I think I might explode.

“You should try and go to sleep,” Draco whispered, words pressed into the side of his head.

I don’t know what to do. Harry closed his eyes. I don’t know how to make this better for me without making it worse for you. I don’t want to hear Tom Riddle in my head. I don’t want to feel the poison in my body. I don’t want to go back to the Dursley’s and be all by myself for months. 

I don’t want to leave you here. Please don’t leave me.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

–

(Fawkes perched next to Harry on the floor, crooning softly. The sound was beautiful, but all Harry could focus on was his arm.

It was the worst pain he had ever felt. He could feel the poison working through his bloodstream, burning the inside of his body and creating the feeling of fire in his veins. He could feel every move he made, no matter how slight, stretching his already torn muscles and shifting the shards of bone still in his skin. 

Harry cried. He heaved gasping breaths, his vision swimming in front of him. His throat was cold and dry, his mouth full of blood that was tangy with copper on his tongue. His head was splitting down the middle, his skull crumbling under the pain. He couldn’t breathe.

He was going to die. He had thought it, distantly, during the fight, but this was real. This was real blood and bone and tears, and he was going to die.

His mind flashed to blond hair and silver eyes. Draco. Through the pain, Harry’s mind latched onto the thought of Draco. He was going to die, and he was never going to see Draco again, or feel his hugs, or hear his voice. What would Draco do? Would he stay friends with Ron and Hermione, or would he go back to Slytherin? Harry hoped he wouldn’t. 

Harry was dying, and he was thinking about Draco. What did that mean? Harry was pretty sure he knew, and it only made it all worse. 

He was going to die, but that was the worst part, he thought. He couldn’t see Draco again, or tell him anything, or even sit with him.

Distantly, cold spread through his arm as Fawkes continued to sing. His fingers twitched. In the haze of pain, Harry had one thought: I want to sit with Draco again.

He passed out.)

-----------

hey. i was really hoping to at least get through red before i lost this but obviously that didn't happen. this chapter has been a big source of contempt for me because ive been staring at it since before i even posted fearless. speak now is my favorite ts album ever and i really wanted to do it well, and then i just generally lost control of my brain and then nothing was getting done.

but, im back. after not working on it for six months, i managed to hammer out the rest of this chapter in one day and i gotta be honest, i am really proud of myself. which is a little ridiculous because it took be six months to write less than 6000 words but this has been a massive sticking point for me for so long and being able to finish it was a really satisfying feeling. i dont know, im hoping this starts an upward trend and i get to start writing more again because its something that i really enjoy and i want to keep doing it.

enough about me, though. this chapter represents speak now which, like i mentioned earlier, is my absolute fav ts album. i love love love so many songs on this album, and i adore the music composition on this album more than any of her other works. i think this is a very well rounded album, and has very few skips for me. hopefully i managed to get the vibes of it across well here!

again, this is for fab, and i thank you for being so patient with me as i work through all my stuff. i love you.

im thepenguinclub on ao3. love you all. have a good rest of your day.

Masterpost

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[thepenguinclub]

eras

chapter 2: Fearless

Second chapter of my hp fic 'eras'!

The eras masterpost is here. Here is the previous chapter.

Read under the cut.

Fearless 🌻

----------

Over the forest, the sun started its day. Golden rays peaked through the branches and spread up into the sky, turning it orange and pink. Harry watched as the last of the night clouds blew slowly away, leaving only open sky behind them.

It was a rare sunny day in Scotland, lacking the gray cloud cover Harry had become accustomed to. A warm draft made its way through the open window, ruffling Harry’s fringe where it layed over his scar. 

His dormmates would be up soon, he knew. It hadn’t taken long to discover that they weren’t early risers like he was, but that Dean was a light sleeper, and that as soon as light hit his face he was up. Dean wasn’t a very quiet person, and once he was up, Seamus and Neville followed. Only Ron slept past sunrise, and never for very long, years of being called for morning chores and breakfasts getting him up and up out of bed with just enough time left to get ready before they needed to head to the Great Hall.

Harry liked the time when they weren’t awake, though. Years of early mornings, late nights, and jumping at the noises in the walls meant that he was up more often than he wasn’t. At least at school, Harry had the freedom to sit in the window of his room, instead of having to stay hidden under his covers in the dark.

On the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, a centaur wandered around, arms stretched over his head as he woke up. His blonde hair glowed in the dim morning light, shadows being cast around the contours of his body and down onto the ground around him. Harry watched him, observing as he gave his hooves a few stomps before starting into a light trot that he kept up until he disappeared into the thick of trees.

“G’morning, Harry,” Dean greeted in a raspy voice, causing Harry to tear his gaze away from the rising sun. Dean was sat up in bed, blinking and rubbing his eyes. “Up early again?”

Harry nodded, and gave the other boy a small smile. He hadn’t quite found the confidence that all of the other first year boys had adopted after only a few days at Hogwarts. He supposed a life of neglect would do that.

Despite the uncharacteristic warm weather, uncurling his legs and hopping off the window ledge still caused a chill to travel up Harry’s spine. He padded over the cool stone floor to his trunk and pulled out his robes, changing quickly in the time between Dean leaving to use the bathroom and Seamus and Neville waking up fully. He was just finishing his tie when Ron started to stir, alerting Harry that he was awake by letting out a groan and cough.

Harry turned to look at him with furrowed eyebrows. The groan was normal, but the cough was not. 

“Are you alright, Ron?” Harry asked, moving to the side of Ron’s bed. His friend looked back at him miserably, his freckles stark against the pale whiteness of his skin.

“Feelin’ sick,” Ron rasped back at him. Harry bit his lip, and looked at the other boys. He wasn’t sure what people usually did when they were sick. He was pretty sure they didn’t just ignore it, at least, and that was what he always did. He didn’t think they got swaddled and kept in bed like Dudley was, though.

“Better stay here, mate,” Seamus said to Ron with a twist of his mouth. “Don’t wanna be catchin’ anythin’, now do we?”

“When you’re feeling up to it, you should head to the hospital wing,” Dean added. “We’ll tell McGonagall that you’re sick.”

“Thanks.” Ron sighed and closed his eyes again, snuggling into his pillow. Harry worried his lip between his teeth. He usually ate breakfast with Ron. Looking back at the others, it was clear they weren’t an option, with Dean and Seamus stuck to each other's sides and Neville’s nose buried in a book.

Harry sighed and made his way out of Gryffindor Tower with his head ducked low. After the first few days when it became very clear how awkward and unfriendly Harry really was, people generally left him alone, but he could still feel eyes on him. If there was anything Harry hated, it was people staring at him. He would much rather disappear into the crowd than draw any kind of attention to himself.

Herds of students made their way towards the Great Hall, their chattering conversations echoing off of the high ceiling-ed hallways. It was loud, louder than anywhere Harry had ever been before, and he still wasn’t used to it. He knew the Great Hall would only be louder, and he clenched his teeth just thinking about it. Without Ron there to distract him, it would just be him, the noise, and the eyes on his back. No, thank you.

He turned into the next hallway he saw, which was blessedly empty. Harry continued turning and wandering until he was well and truly lost, each wall looking the same as the next. The portraits on the walls were the kinds that couldn’t talk, so they only watched him curiously as he walked past them. After the third time he passed the woman brushing her dog, Harry decided to just give up. He would try again when it got closer to class time. For the time being, he made his way to the small cutout in the wall that he had eyed the first few times he passed it.

This was the kind of place that Harry liked. Small and compact, but comfy and easy to get out of if he needed to. It reminded him of the good parts of his cupboard, with none of the dark and danger that he had hated.

With his back to the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest, and the slight curtain that draped from the ceiling, he had the perfect place to observe without being seen. It was too bad there wasn’t anything interesting to observe, Harry thought. He always had liked people watching.

Not even a second after the thought crossed his mind, there was the sound of footsteps from the end of the hallway. Harry held his breath. Whoever this person was, they were probably bigger and older than him. He was all by himself. Anyone could do anything to him.

It wasn’t that he thought there were a lot of people who were looking for stray Harry Potters to beat up on, it was that he was just prepared in case there was someone looking for a Harry Potter to beat up on.

It was only a second later that shiny black shoes, a green tie, and platinum blonde hair entered Harry’s sight. He sighed. Just his luck.

Draco Malfoy spotted him almost immediately, despite the cover the wall and curtain provided. Maybe someone was looking for him after all.

“Stuck in time out, Potter?” Malfoy taunted with a patronizing grin. “How embarrassing.”

“Just comfortable,” Harry replied neutrally. He had no doubt that Malfoy could make his life significantly worse if he wanted to. So far it had just been rude comments here and there, but Harry was no stranger to people who thought they were better than anyone else. He wouldn’t be surprised if Malfoy turned out to be a bigger bully than Dudley. He was much smarter, at least, although that was a fairly low bar.

“Do you relate to the spiders in the corner, then?” Malfoy lifted his chin and sniffed in a move reminiscent of Aunt Petunia. “Ugly and unloved?”

“Woah.” Harry was startled into a small smile, blinking. “That was a bit mean, wasn’t it? Spiders aren’t ugly.”

Malfoy blinked back at him, then narrowed his eyes, an incredulous sound escaping him.

“You’re defending the spiders?” he asked. “I just called you ugly and you’re defending the spiders.”

“If you want to call me ugly, Malfoy, you can,” Harry assured him, lifting his lips into a bit of a bigger smile. This was different. Usually people didn’t keep talking once he had said something smart, instead just opting for fists, “but it isn’t fair to bully innocent spiders.”

“Bully?” Malfoy echoed. He wasn’t very good at hiding his emotions, his surprise, affront and curiosity easy to see on his face. “I’m not bullying you, Potter.”

“Then what are you doing?” Harry uncurled his legs to let them dangle off of the ledge, leaning against the wall behind him. He watched Malfoy interestedly. Things worked differently in the wizarding world. Maybe he had read the situation wrong.

“I- I’m- We’re-” Malfoy sputtered, before clearing his throat. His hands, which had been twisting and fluttering in front of him before, settled on his hips. His lips tilted down in a pout. “We’re enemies, Potter. Arch enemies. I’m just doing my part of our enemy-ship.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” he said seriously. “I don’t want to be anyones enemy. I just want to be left alone.”

“Well, too bad,” Malfoy replied, exasperated. “You’re the goody-two-shoes Gryffindor, I’m the rich, cool Slytherin. We’re supposed to be enemies. That’s how it works.”

“Why does it have to work that way, though?” Harry argued. This was going well! If he could convince Malfoy to stop whatever he was doing, maybe he could actually get through his first year without worrying about anyone being out to get him.

“Because it does,” Malfoy answered. His pale eyebrows were furrowed above his gray eyes. “It’s just how it is.”

“But wouldn’t it be less effort to just ignore each other?” Harry offered. Malfoy scoffed and opened his mouth to retort, so Harry switched tactics. “Wouldn’t it be better to have each other as friends instead of enemies? Then we could help each other.”

Malfoy closed his mouth slowly and looked at him consideringly, but with hesitancy still holding his shoulders tensed.

“A Malfoy and a Potter cannot be friends.” He practically spat the word. Harry bit his lip.

“Allies, then?” he suggested. That was a thing people were, and it sounded more professional. Malfoy seemed to be thinking about it for a moment, before he took a step back.

“We should go to class, Potter,” he said. “Snape won’t be happy if we’re late.” Despite his neutral tone, his face was still just as expressive. While he had seemed suspicious for the beginning of their conversation, now he was simply curious. Harry bit on his smile. He could work with curious.

“I’ll see you around, Malfoy.” Harry nodded politely, and Malfoy seemed to grasp at the goodbye. He nodded back quickly, turned, and walked quickly down the hall. Harry waited a few seconds before hopping off of the ledge and following silently behind him. He followed all the way until they made it to the Entrance Hall, where students were flooding out of breakfast.

Harry watched as Malfoy loitered near the entrance until he saw another Slytherin first year, and then as he joined in stride with the boy. They nodded at each other, but didn’t speak. Malfoy looked lost in thought.

Harry turned on his heel and started towards the dungeons. 

-

The next day, Ron was still sick. He was feeling better, but still contagious. Apparently, it was common for First Years to catch something their first few months at school. Harry was glad he hadn’t gotten it. Ron seemed miserable.

Harry had just come back from the Hospital Wing, where he had been visiting Ron. He thought Ron was great, but he was very talkative. Harry was looking forward to some quiet, so he went to the library, found an empty table, and settled to read his Transfiguration chapters.

It took five minutes for the chair across from him to be pulled out.. 

“If we were going to be friends,” Malfoy started, arms crossed, “we would be best friends.”

“I thought you didn’t want to be friends,” Harry pointed out, checking his page number and closing his book.

“Malfoys don’t do things by halves,” Malfoy told him seriously. “If this is happening, then it is happening.”

“Well, I want this to happen,” Harry agreed. “But you’d have to be okay with Ron being my best friend too.”

Malfoy’s face scrunched up, as if he had smelled something bad.

“Malfoys also don’t share,” he said. Harry bit his lip and shrugged, opening his book back p.

“Too bad, then.” He sighed and shook his head. “Suppose we’re back to nothing.”

A second passed.

“Well, I suppose we could both be your best friend.” Malfoy crossed his arms tighter and scowled. “As long as I didn’t have to be friends with him. And if you liked me better,” he added, as an afterthought. 

Harry pursed his lips to stop a smile. Two friends in less than a month. He was doing well.

“You can’t be mean to him, though.” Harry stuck Malfoy with a hard look. “You can’t be mean to anyone. No bullying, or making fun of people, or- or saying that word.”

Malfoy heaved another sigh and waved his hand.

“Yes, yes, whatever. As long as he doesn’t antagonize me.”

Harry grinned. 

“Wonderful,” he replied, pleased. “You can eat with us, and sit with us in classes if you want to.”

“How kind of you,” Malfoy shot back dryly, although his lips were tilted up into a small smile of his own. “Next we’ll be sharing food and holding hands.”

“Come on, Malfoy, let’s at least get through a week first,” Harry teased back. Malfoy rolled his eyes, and then tilted his head as if he was thinking.

“Call me Draco,” he finally said. “Best friends use first names.”

“Alright, Draco.” Harry clasped his hands together in front of him. “Call me Harry.”

“Alright, Harry.” Draco nodded, then looked around. “I should go work on my Potions essay.”

“Have fun.” Harry waved, and Draco waved back. He got up daintily out of his chair, turnd on his heel, and walked quickly out of the library. 

Harry was elated. Two best friends! And they were so different, too. Harry had a moment of worry for how Ron and Draco would get along, but pushed it from his mind. That was a later problem. 

Harry opened his book and ducked his head to hide the grin that overtook his face. Two friends. Two best friends.

Amazing.

-

“We should do something,” Ron grumbled. Harry exhaled out of his nose roughly and shook his head.

“We are small and easy to beat up,” he reminded Ron. “We should let someone else do something.”

“But no one is doing anything!” Ron exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air. Harry glanced over at the subject of the last fifteen minutes of conversation. Hermione Granger was nose deep in a thick tome that was twice as big as her head and surrounded by third year boys. They were snickering about something or another, pointing and laughing and generally being annoying. They had been picking on her since the first round of grades had been posted and her name had been on top.

“How many times do we need to go over this, Ronald?” Draco drawled with a roll of his eyes. “It is not our measly first year responsibility to defend the weak.”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Ron snapped, crossing his arms. Harry closed his eyes in defeat. The two of them had made leaps and bounds from where they were cursing each other nonstop in the first few hours of being mutual friends, but they still got on Harry’s nerves.

“I’m not saying it’s our ‘responsibility,’” Ron continued, doing air quotes and a ridiculous posh accent around the word, causing Draco to draw up in offense, “I’m just saying it’s the right thing to do. You’re all about that, aren’t you? Mister Nice Guy.”

“Don’t call me that.” Draco gnashed his teeth. “I am simply… reformed.”

“OKay,” Harry cut in, before they could really start going at it. “Ron, you’re right. It is the right thing to do. I think what Draco and I are saying is that we don’t want to risk being on the receiving end of their…”

“Bullying?” Draco offered with a smirk. Harry pointed at him and nodded. Ron blew out an angry breath.

“Come on, Harry. We’re Gryffindors. We’re supposed to be chivalrous and brave!” Ron exclaimed. “Not cowardly and weak like the snakes.” He shook his head with derision. Draco glared at him.

“I am not cowardly or weak, lion,” he spit. “I am calculating.”

“If you weren’t a coward, you would be standing up for Granger,” Ron pointed out. Harry immediately saw where that was going, but wasn’t fast enough.

“I am not a coward!” Draco shouted, shoving to his feet. “You know what, suck it Weasley. You can talk all you want, but I’m braver than you because I’m actually going to do something for the bloody muggleborn!” Draco stomped once, turned on his heel, and started speed walking towards the oblivious Hermione Granger.

“Oh no you aren’t!” Ron called after Draco’s retreating back, stumbling to his own feet and running after him. When he caught up they started racing, only they were trying to look casual, so it seemed more like an aggressive bout of power-walking as they shoved each other lightly.

Harry let his head thunk back on the stone wall behind him as he chewed on his bottom lip. Friends were so stressful, he thought. He didn’t know how people could handle so many of them - he only had the two and he already felt like ripping his hair out.

Still, they were his friends, and Harry felt like it might be a friend thing to go support them. Even if they were going to get them all beat up. He sighed and got up, jogging to where Draco and Ron had stopped in front of the third years. 

“Excuse me.” Draco raised his arm in a wave to get the boys’ attention. “Would you mind terribly if we could just steal Granger over there for a moment?”

Ron rolled his eyes so hard Harry was concerned they might fall out of his head.

“What Malfoy meant to say,” he butt in, color rising in his cheeks, “was that you should leave her alone.”

The boys looked at each other with matching raised eyebrows and smirks.

“I think we would mind terribly, actually,” the tallest of them said, prompting a round of snickers from his friends. “You three should shove off.”

“I don’t think we will,” Draco replied, his snootiest voice in full effect. He crossed his arms and propped his hip out. “Unless you want us to shove right into Professor Flitwick’s office and tell him how his students have been acting.”

“Yeah!” Ron declared, crossing his arms to mirror Draco. Harry pursed his lips together to hide the small grin he could feel creeping up. “He probably wouldn’t like that such smart-arses decided that it was fun to pick on a first year.”

The tall boy scowled at them and took a threatening step forward.

“Watch yourself, Weasley,” he sneered. “Your parents can’t pay to get you out of trouble.”

Ron’s face flushed red, and Harry frowned, opening his mouth to defend his friend, but, again, wasn’t quite fast enough.

“Well, good for him, mine can,” Draco scoffed, leveling the boy with a glare. “And I wouldn’t be talking if I was you, Marret. Wasn’t your father just accused of fraud?”

The boy, Marret, twisted his face up in an expression of rage, but before he could say anything, another voice chimed in.

“Really, Marret, I would be more concerned about your own problems than your father’s,” Hermione Granger said calmly, closing her book and hopping off the stone bench she had been sitting on. “Seeing as that plagiarism is punishable by suspension, and you copied your latest Transfiguration essay out of your father’s library.”

She walked through the group of third years confidently and stopped next to Harry with a smile, showing her large but shiny white front teeth. She looked back at Marret.

“It would be a shame if your father, with all the scrutiny that he’s already under, was found aiding his son cheating through Hogwarts. Wouldn’t it?”

“Shut up, mud-” One of the other boys started, but Marret slapped a hand over his mouth before he could finish. The tall boy was pale and wide eyed.

“How do you know that?” he demanded. Granger only shrugged innocently.

“I have my ways of finding out secrets,” she answered mysteriously. “I would suggest you leave me and these boys alone if you want to keep them as secrets.”

Marret scowled, but let out a sigh of acceptance.

“Fine,” he spat. “Come on.” 

There were a few looks of outrage on his friends’ faces, but they all followed Marret obediently. Soon it was just Harry, Draco, Ron, and Granger left in the courtyard.

“Why didn’t you do that sooner?” Ron asked Granger, gobsmacked. “They’ve been picking on you for weeks.”

“I didn’t care very much,” Granger shrugged. “It was getting annoying, but they’re just boys. The girls in my dorm can do more damage than them.”

“Do they?” Harry asked curiously. Granger turned to look at him with a tilt of her head. “Do they do damage? They don’t seem to be mean.”

“They just don’t like that I can read and they can’t,” she allowed, tugging on a curl of her hair lightly. “It’s alright, though. I’m used to being by myself. Thank you for coming to defend me, though. It was nice of you.”

Ron preened under the praise, while Draco blushed and waved away the words.

“It was nothing,” he said. “You obviously didn’t need our help anyway.”

“Maybe,” Granger allowed with another smile, “but it was still nice.”

“Would you want to hang out with us, Granger?” Harry asked. Ron and Draco whipped around to stare at him. That had not been a part of the plan, but, really, there hadn’t actually been a plan to begin with. “You don’t have to be by yourself.”

Granger bit her lip, and Harry felt a strong sense of camaraderie with her. Both people who don’t quite belong.

“If you’re sure,” she agreed, “and you can call me Hermione.”

“I’m Harry, and these are my friends, Ron and Draco,” he replied with a small smile, gesturing to the other boys.

“It’s good to meet you.” Hermione nodded politely. Ron and Draco shared a look before returning it, mumbling ‘you too’ and ‘you as well’ under their breath.

Hermione turned to look at Harry, eyes bright.

“Would you want to go with me to the library?” she asked, only slightly hesitant. “I need to return this book, and there’s a few others I wanted to check out.”

Harry grinned at her. Draco and Ron didn’t really like the library. He thought that this might work out well.

“I would love to,” he replied, folding his hands behind his back and squeezing them tightly. “Let’s go now.”

He gestured for Ron and Draco to follow them. They shared another look with each other, but then seemed to realize what they were doing and looked away quickly with matching scowls. Harry giggled a bit to himself, and Hermione laughed along with him, which was when he realized that she had also noticed Ron and Draco.

She was observant, like him, Harry realized. He looked over at her and she gave him another smile, this time full enough that two dimples appeared on her cheeks. They continued to make their way to the library.

Yes, Harry decided. This was going to work out splendidly.

-

“Are you okay, Harry?” Draco’s voice jolted him out of his daze, and he turned away from the Scottish countryside rushing by outside the window. Harry gave a small smile at the look of concern on Draco’s face.

“Fine,” he answered. “Just going to miss you all over the summer.”

“We’ll write,” Draco promised him, bumping their shoulders together. “And it’s only a few months.”

“Maybe we can come visit you, Harry!” Ron offered excitedly, squirming in his seat. 

“He told us he’s not allowed to have visitors, Ronald,” Hermione reminded him. 

“You can come visit me, Harry!” Ron exclaimed. Hermione shook her head fondly and turned to Harry with kind eyes.”

“We’ll miss you too, Harry, but we’re definitely going to write, okay? We’ll talk all summer.”

Draco nodded along with her.

“Time will fly, you’ll see,” he told Harry. Harry just smiled again.

Truthfully, Harry knew time would crawl. The Dursley’s were bound to be worse than ever after a year without him, and he was afraid he wouldn’t handle them as well after being so used to comfort.

But, his friends were right. They would exchange letters and that meant there would be something to look forward to, which always made it easier. 

“Oh, is that the trolley?” Ron asked, perking up. Draco sighed good-naturedly.

“Do you ever think about things that aren’t food, Weasley?” he asked. Ron shot him a glare as he picked out a few sweets. 

“Do you ever think about minding your own business, Malfoy?” he retorted, before stuffing a chocolate frog in his mouth.

“No,” Draco answered honestly, wrinkling his nose at the display. Harry laughed at the two of them. Despite clearly being good friends, they would never admit it, and insisted on antagonizing each other constantly.

“Honestly, you boys are ridiculous,” Hermione scolded, hands folded neatly in her lap. “You would think at this point you would be able to be kind to one another.”

“Why would we do that?” Draco asked at the same time Ron let out a muffled “absolutely not.”

Harry laughed again, and Hermione just sighed, though she was smiling. It was one of the constants of their little group, Draco and Ron’s teasing, but Harry knew they cared deeply about each other. How they both acted in the trials before Voldemort proved it, all loyal and defending.

“I’m happy you’re all my friends,” Harry said, not really sure why. Draco, Ron and Hermione all softened considerably.

“We’re glad you’re our friend, too,” Hermione told him. Ron nodded and swallowed.

“Best mates, don’t forget,” he said seriously. Harry nodded.

“We’ll see you in a few months,” Draco repeated, holding out his hand. Harry grabbed it with his lightly, and Draco gave their joined hands a squeeze. “Best friends, right?”

“Best friends,” Harry agreed, leaning into him slightly. He turned back to the window, and let the sound of his three best friends wash over him. 

-

(The noise of the train platform had overwhelmed Harry to the point of tears, which meant he had practically thrown himself into the first compartment he saw. It wasn’t until he had closed the door and taken a few deep breaths that he noticed he wasn’t alone.

“Are you alright?” the ginger boy asked curiously, blue eyes wide. “I know it’s sort of scary, but my mum says that we’ll get over it in a few days.”

“Y-yeah, sorry,” Harry stuttered, quickly dropping his trunk and wiping his eyes. “I’m not really used to…”

“Oh, muggleborn?” the boy assumed, nodding in understanding. “Don’t worry, I can teach you everything you need to know. I’m Ron Weasley.” He smiled big and toothy, holding out his hand. Harry stared at it for a few seconds before hesitantly reaching out and shaking it, before quickly recoiling and sitting in the corner of the compartment.

“I’m Harry,” he said. “Harry Potter.”

The Ron’s eyes widened, and he shot up in his seat, causing Harry to flinch back.

“Harry Potter!” he exclaimed. “You’re the Boy Who Lived!”

“Um,” Harry replied. Ron seemed to notice his discomfort, because he sat back down quickly. 

“It’s alright,” he assured Harry. “I’ve heard all the stories. I’ve never met anyone famous.”

“I don’t feel famous,” Harry told him honestly. “I’m just confused.”

“I get that,” Ron sympathized. “I’ve got five older brothers and they like to make things confusing. But you don’t have to worry, I’ll help you.”

“Really?” Harry asked cautiously. Ron nodded determinedly.

“Definitely,” he promised. “We can be best mates! That’s what best mates do, is help each other out.”

“I’m- not sure I know how to be a, er, best mate,” Harry said nervously. He didn’t want to disappoint this boy, who was being so nice to him.

“That’s alright. I’ll help you,” Ron repeated earnestly. “That’s what friends do.”

Harry chewed on his lip. He’d never had a friend before.

“Okay,” he said. “Best mates?”

“Yes,” Ron responded eagerly. “We’re going to have so much fun! I bet we’ll both be sorted into Gryffindor, that’s where my whole family went and you’re definitely brave so-“

Harry settled into his corner more comfortably as Ron kept up a stream of chatter, trying his best to keep up with his friend.

A friend. )

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yay that’s it. the chapters will get longer as we get deeper into the narrative but for now we’re building it up. this book is going to be focused on harry as he develops and grows which is why a lot of book scenes will not be featured, but don’t worry, we’ll get into the war and stuff later i promise.

i hope you have a great rest of your day. :)

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[thepenguinclub]

eras

chapter 1: debut

The first chapter of my hp fic 'eras'!

The eras masterpost is here.

Warnings and the chapter under the cut.

WARNINGS: there will be nothing in here that isn't in canon. that includes abuse, bullying, violence, dark themes, swearing, dark thoughts, etc. if people want i can put more specific warnings, but for now i'm going to consider this the warning. if people need me to tag anything specific, let me know in the comments and i will be happy to do so.

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debut 🦋

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There was a tree house. It was old, and withered. The wood had rotted in some places, and always seemed to be a bit damp. Three of the four walls had fallen down at some point, and the fourth one was one strong wind away from doing the same. It probably wasn’t overly safe to be in, but Harry didn’t care. It was hidden, and Uncle Vernon couldn’t get to him, which was all that mattered.

The best part of the treehouse was the view. It was just past the first layer of trees into the small forest, which meant that, combined with the dark wood, people couldn’t see it from outside the forest, but that he could easily peer through the branches and into the park there. He could clearly see the swings, and the playhouse, and the kids darting around, and, most importantly, the parents sat around on the benches.

Harry pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his head on his knees, staring out at the park. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were sat on a faded blue bench, talking with another couple with a big man and a small woman. Uncle Vernon’s mustache wriggled as he talked, and Aunt Petunia’s lips were pursed. They were usually pursed, Harry thought, like she was always sucking on a sour lemon.

The deal was that while Dudley sat and commanded the kids at the playground, Harry could wander off and do whatever he wanted, as long as he showed back up when they were ready to leave. Which meant that Harry spent his time sitting in his treehouse, gazing out and waiting for the time when Aunt Petunia would start trying to corral Dudley into going home. He would scramble down the tree, and appear at Uncle Vernon’s side just as he had finally gotten Dudley to leave by bribing him with some new toy or another.

But that time had not come yet, so Harry was in his treehouse, waiting. He liked this time of the week, when he was by himself and he could just breathe without worrying about his aunt or uncle or cousin and whether they were going to catch him for doing something or another wrong.

Is there anything good up here? a voice asked curiously. Harry turned around, eyes wide and heart racing, but there was no one there. He cautiously crawled to the edge of the treehouse and peered down, but there was no one there either. Oh, nothing. Just a little two-legged.

Harry turned around again, furrowing his eyebrow and pushing his glasses up his nose. His heart slowed, and he nervously curled back into the position he was in before. He was probably hearing things. Maybe it was a freak thing. Harry hadn’t heard voices before, but, he reasoned, he was also only seven, and that meant it could be something he was growing into. The teachers did say that they would start going through changes soon.

A sad little two-legged, the voice mused, sounding louder. Harry closed his eyes tightly, scrunching into a tighter ball. Maybe if he pretended it wasn’t there, it would go away. Very little. This one needs a rat or two, I think. 

Harry peaked over his knees as the voice continued to get louder, like it was coming closer. All he saw was the dark, rotted wood of the treehouse. Except-

Harry inhaled sharply when the wood in front of him started to move. He blinked, and followed the moving wood, until he came up to two curious eyes, and a pronged tongue licking at the air. Harry froze, staring.

Such a young one, the snake hissed. I wonder what you are doing here all alone.

Harry stared at the snake. It was a dark brown, with a little yellow around the head and little black eyes. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was easy to see where the snake’s body curled around itself and then across the treehouse floor. 

“Maybe this is a freak thing,” Harry said out loud, still staring at the snake. “I don’t think Dudley can do this.”

The young doesn’t scream, the snake commented, bobbing it’s head back and forth. That is nice. I do hate it when the two-leggeds scream.

“D-don’t worry, Mister Snake.” Harry slowly pushed his glasses up his nose. “I won’t scream.”

It talks to me! The snake slithered forwards abruptly, approaching Harry’s feet. He tensed, but didn’t move away, afraid of making the snake upset. You understand me, young two-legged?

“Yes,” Harry answered. “I mean, I think I can. I could also be imagining you, I suppose.”

The other two-leggeds cannot understand me, the snake told him. Why can you?

“Probably because I’m a freak,” Harry said, biting his bottom lip. “I can do a lot of things that other people can’t do.”

What is that word you are saying? the snake asked curiously. ‘Freak?’

“Oh, it, um. It means not normal. Bad,” Harry attempted to explain. He wasn’t sure how to talk to a snake, and what words they knew and what words they didn’t. 

Not normal and bad are not the same, the snake replied, slithering around Harry’s feet and exploring around him.

“Not normal in a bad way,” Harry tried to clarify, turning his head to follow the snake’s progress around him. It popped its head up on Harry’s left, continuing to sway up and down.

You seem not normal in a good way too me, the snake told him. Who says that you are bad?

“My aunt and uncle,” Harry sighed. “They don’t like that I can do weird things.”

They do not sound very smart. May I go on your legs? You are warm. The snake made its way to Harry’s front again, and waited patiently for Harry to come up with a response.

“I suppose, sure,” he eventually agreed. He didn’t want to offend the snake. He stretched his feet out, crossed his ankles, and leaned back on his hands, and the snake wasted no time by slithering right in between his legs and burrowing its head into his thighs.

You are very small, two-legged, the snake said as it got comfortable. Would you like me to find you a rat to eat? They are very fat this time of year.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” Harry refused awkwardly. “Humans don’t eat rats.”

You must not eat anything, then, because you are much smaller than the other young two-leggeds. 

Harry shrugged, doing his best not to jostle the snake as it settled on his legs. It wasn’t very heavy, it felt a bit like when the school nurse gave Harry an ice pack to press onto a bruise, only the snake was long and thin.

“I don’t eat much,” Harry agreed. “Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia say that freaks don’t deserve meals like other people do. I mostly just eat what I can steal while I’m cooking, or eat their leftovers.”

What was that word, ‘cooking?’ the snake asked, looking up at Harry from his thighs. 

“It’s like hunting, I suppose,” Harry said after a moment. “I prepare the food for my aunt, uncle and cousin. It’s one of my chores.” He paused. “Chores are things that I have to do, like cleaning and fixing up the house.”

So you are forced to ‘cook’ this food, but do not get to eat it? That does not sound fair. Snakes get to eat the food they earn and nothing else, unless you are a young hatchling. The snake moved its head to nudge into Harry’s hip, and the bone that poked out there. Do you need help, hatchling?

“No, no.” Harry smiled down at the snake. “I told you, freak, remember? Aunt and uncle say that this is just how freaks deserve to be treated.”

You have still not made clear what, exactly, makes you a freak, the snake said. Just that you can talk to me, and that does not make you not normal in a bad way.

“My parents died,” Harry started, “my skin is too dark, my hair is ugly and messy, my eyes are too green, I’m too skinny, and I’m not good at reading or writing or any of the maths we do in school.” He shook his head. “Not to mention that weird things happen because of me, like glass explodes, or the weather changes. One time I ended up on the roof of the school, and no one knows how I got there. It’s not normal, and definitely in a bad way.”

Hmmm. The snake slithered up his legs so that it’s face was about level with Harry’s. It was strange, to make eye contact with a snake. It didn’t blink, and its eyes were pure black. It’s tongue flicked in and out of its mouth, and it never seemed to stay still. Not normal, maybe, but I do not believe those are bad things. It sounds to me like you are simply a special hatchling.

Harry shrugged again. 

“With all do respect, Mister Snake, you aren’t a human like me. To you I’m special, but to everyone else I’m just me. A freak.” Harry’s eyes strayed from the snake, tracing across the trees around them until they landed on the park.

That may be true, but-

“Oh no!” Harry sat bolt upright and pulled his legs in, causing the snake to exclaim as it fell onto the wood. “I’m- I’m so sorry, but I have to go!”

He scrambled across the treehouse, heart in his throat. Uncle Vernon was going to be so mad with him! Harry could see the red in his face all the way from the treehouse, and Aunt Petunia’s foot had been tapping. He was in so much trouble.

Wait, hatchling! The snake had recovered from its shock and was slithering down the tree with him. These two-leggeds of yours, they won’t hurt you?

“I- I don’t know, they might,” he answered absentmindedly as he judged whether he could just jump the rest of the way down. He decided it was worth a try, and let go, falling for longer than he thought he would, before the ground slammed into his feet. His knees buckled right after and he caught himself on his hands, but wasted no time and quickly clambered to his feet. His ankle smarted and shot pain up his leg, but Harry put it to the back of his mind. Uncle Vernon wasn’t going to let him out of the cupboard for a week after this.

Oh, geez. The snake landed next to him in a pile of scaled, blending into the brown of the forest immediately. 

“Bye! It was nice to talk to you!” Harry called behind him, already running towards the park.

Be safe, hatchling! the snake called after him. Harry broke through the trees to see that the sun had started to go down, and he flinched. This was not going to go well.

“Boy!” Uncle Vernon barked at him as he came to a stop in front of the family of three, breathing heavily and eyes downcast. “We’ve been waiting for ten minutes!”

“I’m sorry Uncle Vernon,” Harry gasped out, desperately trying to catch his breath. “I’m- I’m sorry, I got distracted-”

He was cut off by a meaty hand folding around his arm, which was so thin that Uncle Vernon’s fingers overlapped with each other. Harry’s whole body jerked as his uncle pulled him along next to him.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, boy,” Vernon grumbled. Behind them, Aunt Petunia was placating Dudley’s whining with promises of extra dessert. “You get right to cooking the chicken, do you hear me? Nothing for you tonight either, not even the scraps. If dinner isn’t perfect tonight, yer getting the belt.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip. He hated the belt.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon,” he whispered. “I swear it won’t happen again.”

“You’re right, it won’t.” Uncle Vernon’s grip on his arm tightened as they got closer to Number 4. “You’ll be staying in your cupboard when we go to the park from now on, boy. Freaks don’t get days at the park if they can’t behave themselves!”

Harry bit his lip so hard he tasted iron. He was so stupid , he shouldn’t have lost track of time. Talking snakes were no excuse to miss something so easy. And now he wasn’t going to ever get back to the treehouse. 

Uncle Vernon threw him through the door, and Harry landed roughly on his already aching ankle. Tears gathered in his eyes against his will, and he looked up at Uncle Vernon where he was towering over Harry.

“Get cooking, boy,” Vernon growled, before stepping past him and into the living room. Aunt Petunia sniffed as she walked by, and shook her head. Dudley finished off the line with a kick to Harry’s side and a mean laugh.

Once they were all sat down with the telly going, Harry got up and walked into the kitchen, getting out the ingredients and stepping on the stool to get the oven heating up. 

Maybe it was good he wouldn’t be able to go to the park, he thought, trying to convince himself. At least there wouldn’t be any more chances to get distracted by any talking snakes.

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today is my dearest friends date of birth. and becuause im insane i decided to write and post a multi-chapter fic to commemorate this despite it being my busiest time of year, so! bear with me! updates will be every other saturday as of me writing this but that is subject to change.

anyway! it is the wonderful fabledfrog's birthday. i have known fable (affectionately known as fab) for over four years now and they are one of my most valuable friends. i love them more than anything, so much that i committed to this fic. i hope that you enjoy it fab and i love you and wish you a successful year!

this will be 11 chapters as of now. they are all planned but not started or finished so everyone cross your fingers that this is finished on schedule. but i promise it WILL be finished, i would never leave fab hanging like that.

in my defense so i dont get swifties trying to kill me, these are loosely inspired by the albums but do not follow any story they tell. its vibes, y'all. vibes. i listened to the album on repeat and wrote. that's it.

i hope everyone enjoys and i love you fab, i hope you enjoy this. <3

this is me on ao3 at thepenguinclub, feel free to pop over and hang out. i hope you have a good day and i love you.

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[thepenguinclub]

dancing with our hands tied

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

jegulus, dancer!regulus, smitten!james, mutually beneficial agreements (ill do soemthign for you if i get to give you a little smooch on the forehead), open ending

Wordcount: 2,423

Summary:

When Marlene had first invited James along to pick up her new girlfriend from her dance studio, he had been slightly curious but mostly more interested in the nachos they were going to get afterwards. But one thing had led to another, and then he was watching Marlene’s girlfriend dance something called a jive with the most gorgeous man he had ever seen, moving so quickly and fluidly that James had, for the first time in his life, had to seriously consider needing to leave a room for fear of embarrassing himself.

So, James being James, he had immediately needed to speak to the man, who had introduced himself as Regulus. And, because James really had no self-control, he had then proceeded to call the man beautiful, asking him on a date, and then giving him his number despite his repeated refusals. Not his finest moment, and James had genuinely contented himself to never stepping foot back in Marlene’s girlfriend’s place of work ever again and possibly also moving to China, but then the unthinkable had happened. Regulus had texted him.

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Regulus needs a favor, and James is more than happy to help.

hey. i think ive decided my presence on this website will just be me randomly uploading shit i speedwrote and did not reread whenever motivation strikes, and you know what? im okay with that.

this is my first jegulus work, i love them. this idea hit me in the shower and instead of imagining a whole book surrounding this one interaction i decided that i was just going to write this as a oneshot and if i decide to expand upon it later, good for me. if not, whatever. if you feel struck by motivation after reading this and want to continue it, go for it (if you do please credit it me because i would love to read it).

otherwise yeah i think that's it. enjoy.

WARNINGS: drinking (coffee), swearing, james has some dirty thoughts but none are explicit, just maybe imply explicit stuff, mentions of the control walburga and orion have over regulus, implied depressive feelings

if theres anything i missed let me know and i'll add it :)

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The cafe around James was not at all what he had expected when he had agreed to meet with Regulus.

Granted, James had only spoken with Regulus once, so what did he really know? Quaint, pastel coffee shops could be right up the other man’s alley, though somehow James doubted that. With his pale skin, glossy black curls, sharp cheekbones and lithe figure, Regulus looked more likely to be found at a Victorian ball than a cafe in downtown London.

And yet, there he was, walking briskly through the door, just as striking as the first time James had seen him. He was in a soft-looking gray sweater, and black trousers that hugged his thighs. James lifted a hand from his table and smiled at him, only receiving a quick nod in return before Regulus was stepping up to the counter to order.

The conversation that had led to that point had been a short one, starting with a ping on James’ phone and a ‘James Potter? This is Dorcas’ friend, Regulus.’ and ended in a ‘see you there!!!! 😁’ Honestly, James had assumed it had been a waste of time to give Regulus his number at all, seeing as he had appeared very uninterested in James’ original advances when Dorcas had first introduced them. Which she had warned him about, of course, but James couldn’t help it; watching Regulus and Dorcas dance the way they had was nothing short of a transcendent experience.

When Marlene had first invited James along to pick up her new girlfriend from her dance studio, he had been slightly curious but mostly more interested in the nachos they were going to get afterwards. But one thing had led to another, and then he was watching Marlene’s girlfriend dance something called a jive with the most gorgeous man he had ever seen, moving so quickly and fluidly that James had, for the first time in his life, had to seriously consider needing to leave a room for fear of embarrassing himself.

So, James being James, he had immediately needed to speak to the man, who had introduced himself as Regulus. And, because James really had no self-control, he had then proceeded to call the man beautiful, asking him on a date, and then giving him his number despite his repeated refusals. Not his finest moment, and James had genuinely contented himself to never stepping foot back in Marlene’s girlfriend’s place of work ever again and possibly also moving to China, but then the unthinkable had happened. Regulus had texted him.

“Thank you for coming,” Regulus said in his posh, perfect accent. Every move he made was graceful and precise, from the way he sat in the chair to the way he lifted his coffee to his lips to sip it slowly. James was obsessed.

“Happy to,” he replied, smiling widely. He was going for ‘a friendly guy’ and not ‘in love with a stranger’, and hoped he succeeded. After a moment of silence, when Regulus continued to sip his coffee and James continued to stare at him, James cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses. “I was surprised you texted me. Not that I didn’t want you to, of course, but you had just seemed, well…”

“Uninterested,” Regulus filled in for him after the word had stretched on for a few seconds. James nodded. “I was.”

“What changed?” James asked curiously, his fingers tightening around his own cup of coffee. He had drained it a few minutes before Regulus had walked in, which was, in hindsight, a bad idea.

Regulus sighed.

“I appreciated your honesty at the studio, James,” he said seriously. “And I am sorry, but I cannot be for you what you want me to be.”

“I don’t want you to be anything,” James refuted immediately. “I am happy for this to be whatever you want it to be.”

“That’s nice of you.” Regulus’ lips twisted, and he took another sip of his coffee. James watched his Adam’s Apple move as he swallowed. “I was hoping to repay you with some honesty of my own, really. That’s why I asked you to meet.”

“I’m all ears.” James leaned forward. This man was very interesting, and trust that James was very interested. It also seemed to him that Regulus wasn’t particularly honest often, and that he should make sure he paid attention to whatever he was about to say.

“I don’t have time for friends,” Regulus told him, “much less a significant other. I spend twelve hours a day, six days a week in that dance studio. When I’m not there, I am preparing to take over my family’s investments when I inherit them. When I am not doing that, I am studying for the online classes I take at Oxford. The only friends I can truly afford to have are the ones that are at the studio with me. As you can imagine, their friendships are very dear to me.”

James nodded, and Regulus blew out a long breath.

“My family puts a lot of importance on my dance career, specifically my mother. Her expectation is that I am perfect.”

“That’s impossible,” James interrupted with furrowed brows. “Sorry, but- she must know that no one is perfect.”

“No one is perfect except for me,” Regulus corrected calmly. “She, nor I, will settle for less. For a very long time, my mother has been arguing to send me to a dance studio in Paris, one that is much more prestigious than the one I am at currently. I come from a different class than Dorcas, or Barty and Pandora, who I believe Dorcas introduced you to.”

“She did,” James confirmed, crossing his arms on the table. He didn’t like any of what Regulus was saying, and felt extremely protective of him, and angry on his behalf. He forced himself to remember that he had only met this man a week ago, and that they still did not know each other.

“The only one of our friends who matches me in social standing is Evan and he has recently made some… controversial decisions. That is what had resulted in my mother seriously pushing for my movement to France.” Regulus paused, pursing his lips. 

“Have you told Evan this?” James asked cautiously. “I don’t know you or him very well, but if he’s your friend I’m sure he would stop if he knew it was hurting you.”

“No,” Regulus answered fiercely. “Evan is taking a stand against his family for what he believes in, and I will always support him. To ask him to stop would be to trap him in his situation, and I would never do that to him. And he would certainly stop if I were to let him know of my situation.”

“Alright, well, there has to be something you can do,” James argued, feeling rising up in his chest. “Your parents can’t just ship you off to France, you’re a grown adult.”

“For complicated reasons I cannot explain to you, yes, they can,” Regulus sighed. “My age has no bearing in the matter. For all intents and purposes, they have complete control over me. But you’re right, there was something I could do. I got my mother to agree to a contract.”

“A contract?” James asked, eyes wide. Regulus simply hummed.

“Indeed. She would not force me to leave London if I could prove that I was not wasted at my current studio, and that my skills were improving. She agreed that I could do this by performing a specific way at the upcoming world ballroom dance competition.”

“Ignoring the horrifying fact that your mother made you sign a contract for your freedom,” James started slowly, “how are you supposed to perform? Please tell me she doesn’t expect you to win the whole thing.”

“No, not quite.” Regulus gave him a humorless smile, which briefly stopped James’ heart. “I must win every single category that I compete in except for one, as well as receive two perfect scores and break one record.”

“What the fuck?” James asked, appalled. “How is that possible? I mean, I’m sure you’re amazing, but that has to be impossible, or at least extremely difficult. How could she expect you to do that?”

“She doesn’t,” Regulus answered primly, swirling his coffee in his hand as if it were an exquisite red wine. “And you’re right, it is, while not impossible, extremely difficult. But I work very hard. And you were right again. I am amazing. I’ve planned out every category that I am competing in and every dance or event I will participate in and have it down to a perfect plan in which the terms are met.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but,’” James sighed, biting his lip.

“But, a majority of the categories that I have to win are paired dances. Which means that even if I perform perfectly, I cannot guarantee a win.”

“Because it relies on Dorcas to perform perfectly as well,” James finished, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “That’s horrible.”

“It is what it is.” Regulus copied his movement, reclining in his chair much more graceful than James. “Dorcas is completely capable of performing the way she needs to, but not if she is worried. She needs to have a clear head.”

“She would be worried if she knew your future rested on her performance,” James couldn’t help but say. Dorcas was lovely, from the few times he had hung out with her and Marlene, but she did seem like somewhat of an anxious person, and he also knew that Regulus was her best friend. James could only imagine what it would be like to know that Sirius’ future happiness rested on his shoulders.

“Exactly,” Regulus agreed, “which is why I’m not telling her, or any of my friends. If it happens, it happens, and there’s nothing they can do about it. If it doesn’t, there’s nothing to worry about. But either way, she doesn’t need that kind of pressure.”

“Alright, that all makes some kind of twisted sense.” James pushed his glasses up his nose again. “Where do I fit into it?”

“Dorcas is already worried about me.” Regulus sighed heavily and rubbed a hand across his face. Despite the heaviness of the conversation, James couldn’t help but swoon a bit. “She believes that I am unhappy, and worries about my lifestyle.”

“Well… are you unhappy?” James asked slowly. Regulus waved his hand, as if physically batting the words out of the way.

“Whether I am or not is neither here nor there. What’s important is whether Dorcas thinks I am. Which is, as you said, where you come in.” Regulus pointed at James with a long, thin, perfectly manicured finger. James dug his nails into the meat of his thigh to stop himself from thinking about sucking on it. “Dorcas has, for some reason, decided that you are the key to my happiness, either as a friend or boyfriend. I don’t have time for either.”

“You want me to pretend to be your friend or boyfriend?” James squinted at him, his heart experiencing an interesting squeezing feeling. “Am I understanding that right?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Regulus clenched his teeth, the muscles in his jaw flexing with the movement. James reminded himself to focus. 

“Sorry, can we back up to the part where you never answered if you were unhappy or not? I feel like that’s a little important,” he said, concern buzzing under his skin. They had only been talking for a small while, but James had given up on pretending that he shouldn’t feel so strongly about Regulus and had decided to just dive right in. He was concerned and angry and protective and he wanted to wrap Regulus in a hug. He settled for waiting for a response.

“I don’t…” The man across from him seemed to struggle with his answer for a moment before letting out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you want to be?” James asked.

“I don’t know,” Regulus repeated, sounding more and more unsure of himself. He squirmed a bit in his seat, for the first time looking something other than calm and collected. Two spots of color rose on the height of his cheekbones, and he bit his lip. Fuck, James wanted to eat him.

He shook his head sharply. Not the time.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” James offered. “I’ll pretend to be your friend or boyfriend or whatever you want for as long as you want.”

“And in return?” Regulus asked, face suspicious but intrigued. He leaned forward in his seat and folded his hands on the table.

“You try and be happy, and don’t stop until you are,” James answered firmly. “And then you say to me, “James, I’m happy,” and really mean it. When that happens, you’ve done your part.”

Regulus stared at him for a long time. James stared back. He hadn’t felt this strongly about anything or anyone in… forever. He’d never felt this strongly about anyone, and James made a silent deal with himself then that he wouldn’t let Regulus go. That whatever his answer was, this would not be that last time they saw each other.

“Okay,” Regulus agreed finally, face blank and eyes inscrutable. “I agree to your terms.”

James reached a hand over the table, and Regulus took it without hesitation. They shook hands, and James really wished he wasn’t thinking about how mouthwatering their skin tones looked against each other in such an important moment.

“You’re a very strange man, James Potter,” Regulus told him as he let go. James smiled.

“Thank you, Regulus- er…”

“Black,” Regulus supplied, with a slight smile of his own. James’ breath stuttered at the sight. “Regulus Black.”

“Regulus Black,” James repeated, tasting the name on his tongue. “You have the same last name as my best friend.”

Regulus hummed in response and finished his coffee, standing. James stood as well.

“I have to get back,” Regulus said, “but I’ll text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” James replied, cringing a second later. Definitely missed ‘a friendly guy’ and fully crossed into ‘in love with a stranger’ on that one. Although, Regulus wasn’t really a stranger anymore.

James was rewarded for his awkwardness by another smile, larger than any he had seen before.

“Goodbye.” Regulus nodded at him, turned, and left.

James fell back into his chair and buried his head in his hands. When he closed his eyes, he still saw that last smile.

-----------

hope you liked it. im thepenguinclub on ao3 if you wanna read more stuff. comments and kudos are my life force so please leave them, especially comments they always make my day. ive posted some other stuff for harry potter, as well as merlin and sanders sides so if any of that's your jam feel free to read that too, otherwise have a fantastic rest of your day and i'll see you next time.

[thepenguinclub]

it's raining, it's pouring

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

drarry, soft, fluff, rain, just harry and draco and the rain and them in love, no dialogue, short

Wordcount: 1,548

Summary:

Harry and Draco at night. It's raining. They are in love.

im sick and sad and wrote this within the last hour. enjoy.

no warnings.

-----------

Raindrops slid down the window of the train, reflecting the light from the cabin against the black of night. They split and merged calmly and methodically, stopping and starting and dripping as if they had no care in the world. They didn’t, Harry supposed. They were raindrops.

He wondered what it would be like, being a raindrop. One in a billion, racing and running down a train window with no thoughts, and no dark lords, and no Slytherins curled up in their lap, cold nose pressed into their neck.

Well, Harry thought as he gazed down at Draco’s calm face, lax in sleep. Well, he wouldn’t be very jealous of that last one. He quite liked the warm weight of Draco in his lap, and the sound of his soft breathing, and the hand that was loosely curled into his jumper. He shifted slightly, just enough to keep his legs from falling asleep where they were stretched across the seats. He let his head fall back against the window and instead stared at the ceiling.

What would his life be like, if he was a raindrop? If he and Draco were raindrops together? He thought that they might be the kind of raindrops that race down windows. The kind that merge together, and then split, and then merge again, always inevitably coming back to each other. That wouldn’t be so bad. Being two in a billion and always together.

Draco moved in his sleep, burying closer into Harry’s chest as if trying to climb into it. Harry wouldn’t mind if he did, really. He combed his fingers through Draco’s thin blonde hair, watching the way it flowed through his fingers. Liquid gold. Draco hummed in his sleep, and Harry pulled him impossibly closer, wrapping his arms around Draco as if he was something precious. He was. Harry nosed into gold and closed his eyes, breathing out a deep sigh. 

He might as well get some rest. He promised Draco he would, and there would be no time later to do so. He hoped he dreamed of raindrops, but knew that he was never that lucky.

Draco woke up to the feeling of the train slowing down. He didn’t want to wake up. He was warm, and there was a comfortable body under him that smelled like wool and rosemary and Harry, so why should he? There was nothing to wake up for, in their train cabin. It was just them.

Harry’s hold on Draco’s back loosened, and then there was a hand gently lifting his chin off of Harry’s shoulder. Draco kept his eyes closed, because he didn’t want to wake up. The hand cupped jaw and brought his head up higher until there was a nose pressed into his cheek and the hint of cool metal glasses on his temple. Harry breathed deeply and pressed his lips forward into a dry peck. The train came to a halt.

Sighing, Draco climbed off of Harry’s lap. Everywhere his body had touched Harry flushed with cold, and he shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. It felt like he had forgotten a limb, right up until Harry stood up and reached out to intertwine their fingers, giving his hand a little squeeze. Draco squeezed back and led the way off the train and out of their quiet cabin into the bright chaos of the station.

Harry took over from there, much more used to the muggle world than Draco. He threaded through the crowd quietly, pulling Draco along behind him, up the stairs and out of the station until they were standing under the awning hand in hand, staring out into the night. The rain beat down against the concrete, drowning out the noise of the city.

Harry pulled a crumbled map out of his pocket, and Draco pulled out their small umbrella from the folds of his jacket. It popped open easily, black as the night, and he held it over them while Harry put the map away and started into the street. The rain hit the umbrella hard, and it became cooler all around them as the rain fell in sheets. Headlights and lit stores were distorted from the water, and Draco took the time to observe them. The muggles.

Some ran in the rain, holding coats over their heads. Some looked out of windows, shaking their heads. One man had an umbrella like them, and walked calmly, face blank and direction unknown. Another woman walked the same, but with no umbrella. Her hair dripped with the rest of the world, and plastered itself against her head, stringing along her forehead and clothes. Draco breathed in the smell of the rain; it was musty and dirty. Nothing like the sweet petrichor that came with the summer storms back when he was a child. A different life.

Harry squeezed his hand and walked them both to a storefront like the rest of them. He opened the door and a bell rang above them; he held it open while Draco closed and shook the umbrella, raindrops flying through the entryway. When the door closed behind them, the rain was muffled. It became a smooth white noise, a soundtrack.

Harry did the talking. He asked for a room, just one bed, thank you very much, they weren’t sure how long it would be, but they could start with one week? Perfect. He took the key from the clerk with a small smile, the kind that suggests there’s a fantastic secret just around the corner. Draco took pleasure in knowing the secret, knowing Harry, knowing things that the muggle clerk wouldn’t even dream of.

The room was small but clean, plain but comfortable. Harry went around turning on lights while Draco stripped off his jacket, shaking the stray drops off of it and draping across a chair. He walked to the bed, toeing off his shoes on the way, and collapsing on it. It wasn’t exactly novel, but it would do. He felt the bed dip and looked over at where Harry had laid down on it, one hand behind his head and the other resting on his stomach.

Draco stretched, feeling the pull in the muscles of his back. He sat up only to pull off his jumper, leaving just his undershirt. He did the same to his trousers, kicking them off until he was left in his underclothes and socks. He scooted up the bed and slid under the duvet, shivering and pulling his limbs into himself. The cool sheets slid across his skin, the thin hotel pillow flattened under his head. He closed his eyes.

A warm body pressed up against his back, naked except for his pants. Harry slid his leg through Draco’s and circled an arm around his waist, pulling him back until they were snug together and it became difficult to tell where one started and the other began.

Draco smiled to himself. He made himself comfortable on the pillow. To him, it didn’t matter that the bed was no where near the quality he was used to. It didn’t matter that his clothes were the same ones he had worn for weeks. It didn’t matter that the rain was sour instead of sweet, or that they were in a city, or that it was muggle. There was a warm body around him and the white noise of rain in the background. He fell asleep quickly.

Draco’s breathing evened out quickly. Harry used to envy it, his ability to fall asleep so easily. He learned to cherish it, the time after Draco fell asleep but before he did, when it was just him in a bed with only the rain and Draco’s soft breathing for company.

His mind wandered. It slid down the window, joining with thoughts of his friends, Hogwarts, Dumbeldore, Voldemort, before separating and moving to the next subject. It raced with the idea of the pressure on their shoulders, never quite beating it. It paused on the subject of the plan ahead, what they had to do and accomplish, but then Draco made a soft sound in his sleep, and then it was only him. He merged with Draco and they traveled together, slipping and sliding as one. 

How did it come to this, Harry sometimes wondered. Life moved so fast, and then so slow, that he wasn’t sure how to match its pace. He always felt ahead, behind, out of sync with the rest of the world. 

No matter how much he wished it were different, he never wished them away. Draco and Harry, Harry and Draco, they were the best thing that had ever happened. He wished they were together somewhere else, somewhere where they walked in tandem, hand in hand in hand with both each other and life, but when it came down to it, Harry would live too fast or too slow forever if it meant he could have moments after Draco fell asleep but before he did.

Harry pressed a kiss to the top of Draco’s head. The consistent pound of the rain soothed him, gave him something to focus on and think about. Draco, warm and soft and just the right speed in his arms. 

He breathed Draco in, closed his eyes, and listened to the rain.

-----------

comments and kudos always appreciated. check out my other harry potter stuff if you want. have a good day. ily.

my ao3

[thepenguinclub]

just a normal boy, with a normal life

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

miraculous ladybug au, harry as ladybug, draco as chat noir, developing relationship, fluff, short and sweet, warning for brief misgendering (draco uses female nicknames for harry when he's in costume because of the ladybug thing)

Wordcount: 3,377

Summary:

When Harry arrived at the top of Big Ben, there was already a figure waiting for him.

“Took you long enough.” Chat Noir grinned at him, white teeth flashing. “I missed you, dame rouge.”

“The feeling was not mutual, kitty,” Harry replied, lips pursing. “What is it today?”

“Straight to business, how boring,” Chat pouted, his tail swishing behind him. He leaned on his baton, all lean muscle and black leather. His blonde hair ruffled itself in the wind. “Don’t you want to spend a few meow-ments with moi?”

Harry gave him a flat look.

---

The Drarry Miraculous Ladybug AU that no one asked for but everyone needed.

i created this document weeks ago with only the title and the sentence "Hp miraculous au idk". now my baby is all grown up and it took me sitting down and typing for two hours and thirty seven minutes. sometimes it happens so fast. it's a little fast-paced but honestly i dont think expanding on it would help so we're all just going to get through it together.

this is something that i feel like fits so well i dont know. i just. them yknow. also YES i know i keep saying i wont write more hp fics STOP HOLDING ME TO MY WORD i have no control over my actions i guess.

i have not finished s5 of miraculous so no spoilers in the comments please and thank you. this is jsut a little thing. just a little guy.

gifted to the fabulous fabledfrog because they're a good friend. i don't need more of a reason i just felt like writing something i thought they would like than thar she blows. go check out their stuff, the merlin oneshots are near and dear to me. love, hope you have a great day <3.

WARNINGS: vague descriptions of fantasy violence (talking vague vague, just a lot of falling and a little hitting nothing bad), swearing, eating, google translate french (if the french doesn't make sense let me know and i will fix it!!!), misgendering (mentioned in the tags but draco calls harry (a cis boy) female nicknames like chat calls ladybug in the show, it isn’t meant maliciously or in a negative way but i know it can make some people uncomfortable so be aware of that!!)

enjoy. :)

--------

Harry sighed for the fourth time in the last ten minutes. Ron shot him a look, and Harry gave him an embarrassed smile, cheeks pinking. Ron rolled his eyes, used to his antics.

He couldn’t help it though, really. He tried to pay attention in class, but he had made the mistake of sitting behind Theodore Nott, which meant he was sitting diagonally to the most beautiful boy in England. Possibly the world. Definitely in the UK. 

Draco Malfoy was just perfect. His hair was blonde and spun like weaved gold. His skin was smooth and clear. His eyes were gray and sharp and his mouth was just-

“Mate, really,” Ron whispered, nudging him. Harry must have sighed again. “We both know I’m not getting any of this, I’m really counting on you.”

“Just get the notes from Hermione later,” Harry whispered back, pointedly not looking at Draco Malfoy. He sat in the perfect position to ogle Draco, far enough behind him not to get caught but close enough to get a fraction of his fantastic side profile, his perfectly shaped nose- 

“She told me she wouldn’t help me anymore,” Ron told him sullenly, smiling politely at Professor McGonagall when she glared down her nose at him. He waited until she continued her lecture before continuing. “Said I need to ‘learn to do things on my own’ or something like that. Like I didn’t live fifteen years of my life just fine before meeting her.”

Harry could talk about Draco Malfoy for hours without interruption, sure, but at least he recognized the fact that he had a (massive) crush. Ron, on the other hand, could rant about all the things Hermione Granger had done for just as long, yet was still very unaware of his own crush.

Hermione was no better, Harry reflected. Everytime she had any emotion other than ‘smart’ she tended to just snark and smirk until it went away. They made a dreadful pair, the two of them.

Then again, Harry was equally as dreadfully gone on Draco Malfoy, a boy who only knew he existed because of the various sweets he brought into class. It was an awful existence he lead, truly.

Thankfully, McGonagall saved him from having to navigate Ron’s crush by assigning them an essay, to be started immediately. Harry bit his lip as he got his laptop out. He needed to focus. Pads and Moony were so proud of his good score on the last essay, and McGonagall was a harsh grader. He wasn’t very good at focusing on the right things at the right time, but he needed to try. Which meant no distractions.

Even if they were gorgeous, blonde models. With perfect ears and sharp cheekbones. And slender, sensual fingers.

Ron slapped his shoulder.

“Harry!” Sirius greeted loudly. The bell tingled above Harry as he walked into the bakery, the smell of fresh bread welcoming him home. “Come on, lad, Remus needs your help in the kitchen!”

“Oi, Black, lay off the poor boy,” a regular admonished teasingly from her seat at a table, her laptop in front of her. 

“Yeah, Pads, listen to Madame Vance,” Harry agreed, smiling at his godfather, who reached over the counter to ruffle his hair aggressively. 

“Being betrayed in my own business,” he ‘tsked’. “Go on, pup, get.”

Harry raised his hands in surrender as he made his way into the back of the bakery, the temperature immediately rising as he entered the kitchen. Remus was bent over a roll of dough, kneading it methodically. He looked up when Harry tapped his shoulder.

“Good afternoon, Harry.” Remus smiled at him, warm as the kitchen. Harry threw his bag up the stairs quickly before washing his hands and joining Remus with his own dough.

“Hey, Moony.” Harry rolled the dough under his hands, falling into the familiar action easily. “How’s your day been?”

Remus opened his mouth to answer, but was caught off guard by the shrill ringing of an alarm, blaring through the building. Harry jumped, looking around.

“Another akuma,” Remus sighed. “Suppose Hawk Moth doesn’t work a nine to five like the rest of us.”

“Haha, right,” Harry agreed through his smile. “Uh, Moony, I actually have some homework I need to do before I forget, can I-?”

“Go, go.” Remus mimed shooing him with flour-covered hands. “Have fun.”

“Not likely,” Harry yelled back, already sprinting up the stairs, grabbing his bag on the way. As soon as he got into his room and closed the hatch behind him, a little red figure was zooming out of his bag. 

“It’s sad you couldn’t finish those croissants,” Tikki said, little hands wringing together. “They smelled so good.”

“I’ll give you some later,” Harry promised, jumping up and down and shaking his hands out. “For now, we’ve got an akuma to take care of. Tikki, spots on!”

When Harry arrived at the top of Big Ben, there was already a figure waiting for him. 

“Took you long enough.” Chat Noir grinned at him, white teeth flashing. “I missed you, dame rouge.”

“The feeling was not mutual, kitty,” Harry replied, lips pursing. “What is it today?”

“Straight to business, how boring,” Chat pouted, his tail swishing behind him. He leaned on his baton, all lean muscle and black leather. His blonde hair ruffled itself in the wind. “Don’t you want to spend a few meow -ments with moi?”  

Harry gave him a flat look, and his partner groaned. 

“Yes, yes, fine. It’s a giant troll-thing today, because of course it is.”

“That’s more like it.” Harry looked out at London, and at the smoke rising across the Thames.  A roar shook the air, and Harry took a deep breath. “Make sure you keep up,” he said over his shoulder with a grin, before running and leaping off the tower. He heard Chat sputter over the air rushing in his ears.

Harry swung off Westminster Bridge and onto the roofs of various buildings, running and jumping his way towards the akuma of the week. Chat caught up quickly, keeping pace next to him. 

“I’m just saying,” he commented, and Harry groaned, “we should get together outside of akuma-fighting.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, kitty?” Harry asked, exasperated. “I’m not going on a date with you.”

“Why not?” Chat whinged. “I’m pretty, you’re fucking phenomenol, truly, just de toute beauté-”

Chat was, thankfully, interrupted by a car being flung their way by, yes, a troll-thing. It’s head peaked out over the buildings, beady eyes fixed on Harry and his partner. 

“We’re continuing this later!” Chat yelled at him. Harry ignored him in favor of swinging horizontally, coming at the troll's head from the side and landing a solid kick to its cheek. The force sent it stumbling, and it tripped over Chat’s waiting baton, stretched across the street, falling in a heap.

“Where’s its akuma?” Harry asked himself, looking over the troll. It roared and staggered to its feet, showing off its shirtless, un-accessorized body. There was nothing that stood out as something for the akuma to hide in. 

“Where is it?” Chat yelled at him, obviously thinking the same thing. 

“Just keep it contained until we can figure it out!” Harry yelled in response, already taking steps to wrap his yo-yo around the troll’s legs. He pulled, and it once again went down.

“Doesn’t seem very coordinated,” Harry noted. Chat came to stand next to him, hands on his hips. 

“Doesn’t seem able to do much of anything,” he corrected. “And there’s nowhere for the akuma to be hiding, it’s not wearing anything but a diaper. And there’s no way I’m destroying that.”

Harry scrutinized the troll for another second before a light went off in his head. He threw his yo-yo in the air and yelled out a quick ‘lucky charm!’

A giant, ladybug-spotted teddy bear falling out of the sky and almost crushing Chat Noir confirmed his theory. Tuning out Chat Noir’s spluttering and profanity, he looked around until he formed a plan.

“Chat, do you see the billboard right there?” he asked, pointing. Chat Noir grumbled something under his breath in French.

“You couldn’t have helped me out with the teddy, ma dame?” he asked snidely, arms crossed. Harry spared him a raised eyebrow, and smiled slightly at the flush that rose on the other boy’s pale cheeks. “Yes, I see it.”

“Wait for my signal,” Harry told him. Chat nodded and took off, just in time for the troll to let out a particularly loud roar and push itself up with its arms. Harry called his yo-yo back and allowed the troll to get up fully, then started shouting.

“Over here!” he yelled, waving his arms. “Look at me, Troll-y!” 

The large figure turned, eyes quickly fixating on the brightly-colored, massive teddy bear. Attention having been grabbed, it stumbled forward and roared. Harry wrapped the bear in his yo-yo a few times before running in the opposite direction, lugging the bear along with him. It bounced behind him as the troll fumbled its way towards it, roaring louder once it realized the bear was moving away from it. 

Harry ran until he came to an intersection in the street and stopped, panting. That bear had no business being that heavy. He turned around just in time to be covered by the troll’s shadow as it loomed above him, arms outreached for the bear.

“Now, Chat!” he yelled. 

“Cataclysm!” was his only response, and then a giant billboard with the Prime Minister’s face on it came crashing down onto the troll’s head. It crumbled, and something on its head must have broken, because a black butterfly fluttered out of the lump that was the troll and the broken billboard. Harry quickly captured it and de-evilized it.

“Bye bye, little butterfly.” He waved as the white butterfly made its way into the sky, and then stared at the giant teddy bear.

“How are you going to throw that?” Chat asked, and Harry jumped, looking over his shoulder at his partner, who grinned at him. “Don’t worry, coccinelle, I would never harm someone as purr- fect as you.”

“Ever get tired of saying that?” Harry asked in a sigh. Chat didn’t have a chance to answer before he was interrupted by the sound of a baby crying. Where the troll had been, a baby girl now sat, clad in only a diaper. Harry walked quickly over and picked her up carefully, rocking her and making comforting noises.

Chat picked up a broken tiara off the ground and raised his eyebrows. “Guess it didn’t grow with her.”

“It’s alright, love, you’re all right,” Harry said softly, wiggling a gloved finger in front of the baby’s face. “You’re going to be just fine, yes you are.”

“Carrie!” a woman’s voice yelled, and a moment later there was a frazzled mother in front of Harry. “Oh, thank God. Thank you so much, Ladybug, thank you, I saw her get akumatized but it was too late and I was afraid she would hurt my other children and I hoped you would come, but-”

“We’re happy to help, madam,” Chat assured her kindly, cheeks pink. Harry shot him a grateful look, unable to get a word in through the woman’s anxious rambling. Chat, uncharacteristically, ducked his head, cheeks reddening further. Harry held out Carrie, who looked happy to be back in her mom’s arms. 

“Thank you so much, Chat Noir, Ladybug,” she said once again, looking close to tears.

“It was our pleasure,” Harry replied with a smile. He and Chat walked away, letting her calm down with her daughter. They ended up at the teddy bear, bright red with black spots and twice their size. “How do we do this?”

“Don’t ask me,” Chat shrugged, hands back on his hips and his head cocked to the side. “So fur, you’re the one that comes up with the paw -some ideas, not me.”

“Please, stop.”

The sun was just beginning to set when Harry and his partner made it back to Big Ben, their meeting place. It cast London in a haze of purple and yellow, and Chat Noir’s eyes reflected white in the lighting.

“I do wish we could spend more time together, ma dame ,” he said, taking Harry’s hands and pressing a kiss to the back of it. He looked up at Harry through his lashes, lips warm through his glove.

Harry’s heart squeezed. Truly, Chat was a good friend. But he didn’t know Harry, didn’t know who he was underneath the mask. He seemed to have a habit of falling for boys who didn’t know Harry at all.

“I’ll see you next time, Kitten,” Harry said in reply, trying to put a small smile on his face. Chat’s face fell just slightly, but he nodded anyway and stepped back. 

“Next time,” he agreed. He turned and jumped off the clocktower, disappearing into the glow of the sunset. Harry sighed and made his own way home, slipping into his room and de-transforming. He collapsed on his bed and stared at his corkboard, full of pictures. 

His parents, just a few weeks before the car crash that killed them. Padfoot and Moony with a five year old Harry in front of the bakery, a few months after Sirius had been released from prison and they had decided to buy it in the first place. Ron, Harry, and all of Ron’s siblings, dressed in matching Christmas sweaters. Ron, Harry and Hermione, munching on cupcakes in the bakery while working on schoolwork. All kept with the theme Harry had clutched against his chest his whole life: family.

Only two pictures didn’t match. The first was Draco Malfoy, posing for a photoshoot. It was in Kensington Gardens, and he looked radiant in the lighting with the gardens in the background. The second was Chat Noir, a wild grin on his face with his tail whipping behind him as he fell through the air, right into Ladybug’s waiting arms.

“Why are you upset, Harry?” Tikki asked lightly. She was perched on the pillow next to his head, munching on a macron, and he turned to look at her.

“I suppose I wish I was noticed a bit more,” he confessed, oversimplifying significantly. Still, she seemed to understand, because she scooted towards him and pressed one of her small hands against his cheek.

“You’re noticed by the people that matter, Harry,” she told him firmly. “Anyone who doesn’t notice you isn’t worth your time.”

“I guess,” he acquiesced, aware that was exactly what Moony and Pads would tell him. He turned to look at the ceiling, only partially mollified. Tikki hummed and flew up to burrow in the space just above his collarbone and below his neck, and her warmth comforted him.

“I notice you,” she told him. He smiled and brought a hand up to lightly rest it against her.

“I know, Tikki,” he said. “I notice you, too.”

The next day it rained. Hard. 

Not very out of character for London, except they had been having a rare sunny patch, and Harry hadn’t brought an umbrella, and it was raining. Very hard.

Harry hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder, gritting his teeth and trying to mentally give himself enough motivation to start the walk home. He was failing.

“Harry? What are you doing here so late?” a smooth voice asked, and Harry just about died when he turned around to see Draco Malfoy looking at him with a neutrally curious face. A perfect neutrally curious face.

“I, um.” Harry swallowed and bit his lip aggressively. “Raining.”

“Do you not have an umbrella?” Draco asked, tilting his head. His blonde hair was styled perfectly in place. Harry was sure he was about to go into cardiovascular failure.

“No,” he said. “I mean, yes. I mean, no, no umbrella, yes, I do not have an umbrella. Um.”

Where was Ron when a mate needed help? Really? Harry held his breath, waiting for Draco to respond. Maybe, if he was lucky, Draco would take a while and Harry would pass out from lack of oxygen. 

“Oh,” Draco said, and Harry let his breath out all in one breath, just barely managing not to choke on it, only having to cough a bit. “Would you like to use mine?”

Only then did Harry notice the black umbrella Draco had in his hand (beautiful hand), just before he held it out in offering. Harry stared at it for longer than was probably socially acceptable.

“Sure! Uh, yeah. Wait, don’t you need it?” he rushed out. Draco’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile. Harry’s heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his skull.

“I get driven.” He nodded to a black car parked in front of the school. “It’s alright.”

“Oh, well, uh, I guess, yeah.” Harry smiled weakly. Draco handed him the umbrella, and he tried to open it, only to be unsuccessful. He tried again, pressing a button, but the umbrella stayed closed. 

“Do you need help?” Draco asked. His voice was clear and velvety and Harry really was going to die. He must have made some sort of assent, because Draco reached over and put his hand over Harry’s and oh fucking shit Harry was going to see the way their skin contrasted against each other in his dreams for the next twenty years. “Here, you have to push it down and then pull. Voila.”

The umbrella snapped open, and Harry jumped slightly. He laughed awkwardly.

“Thanks, er, thank you, Draco.” Harry tried his very best to give Draco a normal, totally-not-in-love-with-you smile. Draco gave him a perfect, amazing, gorgeous smile in return.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Draco said with a wave. Harry didn’t have enough time to formulate any sort of response before Draco was off, running to the car through the rain and sliding into the back seat. The car pulled away not even a second later, and Harry was left staring at where it disappeared in the rain. 

Tikki floated up to sit on Harry’s shoulder.

“That went well,” she told him brightly.

“I’m about to vomit,” Harry replied.

Tikki’s high, giggly laugh could just be heard over the sound of the rain.

“He’s perfect,” Draco whinged, flopping onto his bed. “He’s beautiful and perfect and je ne sais pas quoi faire, comment suis-je censé vivre comme ça.”

Plagg, the traitor, only laughed. 

“Ladybug isn’t interested in you, Draco,” he said, nested in a shoebox of soft fabrics and holding a slice of cheese. “It’s just sad at this point.”

“But he’s perfect!” Draco repeated, propping himself up on his elbows. “How do you not understand this?”

“Because I’m not as hopeless as you are,” Plagg replied easily, mid-chew. He swallowed. “Try and crush on someone more your league, maybe? What about that Harry kid? He’s cute.”

“He is cute,” Draco admitted. He sagged onto his mattress, resting his face on his hands. “He’s too nice for me, though. Too sweet. I’d ruin him.”

“You give yourself too much credit.” Plagg polished off his cheese and zipped over to sit on Draco’s head, pillowing into his hair. “Maybe sweet and nice would be good for you.”

“Maybe.” Draco stared at the pictures pinned above his bed, of Ladybug. Smiling, laughing, serious, mid-villain takedown. He was the most lovely human ever created.

“Forget about Ladybug,” Plagg instructed him. “Focus on Harry.”

Draco sighed, but did as he was told and got out his phone, scrolling to Harry’s Instagram where there were dozens of pictures of various baked goods and of his friends. Only when Draco went to what he was tagged in did he find pictures of Harry himself, of his pretty green eyes and dusky skin.

“He is cute,” Draco said again. Plagg made a triumphant noise and made himself comfortable on Draco’s head. Draco sighed and threw his phone onto his pillow, putting his head down carefully so as not to knock Plagg off.

Boys, Draco decided, needed to just stop being so pretty. It really wasn’t fair, especially when he had to choose between them.

Regardless, both Ladybug and Harry stayed on his mind for the rest of the night.

-----------

harry is something that can just be so personal you know. i love him. he is my baby boy (he is a grown man with ptsd but not in this version he isn't! either way he is my baby boy). hope you enjoyed. i tried to stay close to character but obviously circumstances would change things so i feel like i have a smidge of leeway.

i debated making up a new superhero name for harry but ultimately i didn't want to come up with a new one and also i thought it was fun to playa round with draco's female nicknames for harry! if i ever write something else in this universe (maybe i will maybe i wont who knows im a mystery (i will do anything for the commenters)) i might play around with how he feels about that in the beginning and hten how he grows to accept it and even like it, maybe even have some gender studies??? who knows. anyway.

draco is also my baby boy just fyi. they fit in my pockets.

i hope you liked this! fable i love you and i love having you as a friend.

all you readers, i love you too and i hope you have a fantastic rest of your week. bye!!

my ao3

[thepenguinclub]

the monter's gone, he's on the run (and your daddy's here)

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

harry/getting better, james sirius potter, teddy lupin, oc children, harry is a good dad fight me, he adopts the children, fluff

Wordcount: 4,239

Summary:

Harry Potter died on May 2, 1998 and he did not wake up again.

At least, that’s how it felt. Harry had been walking around in the land of the living for almost half a year after his death, but he felt left behind. Stagnant. His insides were frozen, his breath cloudy. He was cold. Everyone around him was warm and he was cold.

People moved on from the war. Hermione and Ron were in bliss, their relationship blossoming. Ginny was a leader of the restoration effort for Hogwarts. Luna and Neville were by her side. Molly and the rest of the Weasleys were slowly but surely rebuilding their family.

Cedric was dead. Sirius was dead. Dumbledore was dead. Remus was dead. Tonks was dead. Fred was dead. Professor Snape was dead.

Voldemort was dead.

Harry felt dead too.

---

Obviously the solution to Harry's depression is to become a father, so that's what he does. Children just keep showing up and he just keeps taking care of them. He's living his best life.

yall i am srtuggling. i cant write. i am incapable of doing so. this was written idk how long ago and i have decided to post it even though it's kind of crack.

i know i said i wouldnt write more harry potter but here we are. we all know im full of shit anyway is this really surprising. this is short and sweet with like no pacing but its cute.

anywho. betad by the one and only fabledfrog i love you.

enjoy.

WARNINGS: depression, implied use of alcohol and sex to cope with loss (vague and not depicted), unplanned pregnancy, implied child neglect, implied abuse of child based on religious reasons. (all of this is pretty vague i promise this is comfort) if i missed anything PLEASE LET ME KNOW

---------

1.

Harry Potter died on May 2, 1998 and he did not wake up again.

At least, that’s how it felt. Harry had been walking around in the land of the living for almost half a year after his death, but he felt left behind. Stagnant. His insides were frozen, his breath cloudy. He was cold. Everyone around him was warm and he was cold.

People moved on from the war. Hermione and Ron were in bliss, their relationship blossoming. Ginny was a leader of the restoration effort for Hogwarts. Luna and Neville were by her side. Molly and the rest of the Weasleys were slowly but surely rebuilding their family.

Cedric was dead. Sirius was dead. Dumbledore was dead. Remus was dead. Tonks was dead. Fred was dead. Professor Snape was dead.

Voldemort was dead.

Harry felt dead too.

He felt like a spector, watching the rest of his life warm up and move on while he was stuck. He hated being stuck, but he didn’t know what to do about it. His whole life had been the war, and before that the cupboard. He didn’t know how to exist without death holding itself over his head. 

He quit Auror training before it even started. He stopped responding to letters, stopped going to get-togethers and charity galas and ministry events. He started going out into muggle London, because muggles were full of life.

They were everywhere, doing everything, all at once. It was the only time he felt even moderately warm. He chased that feeling, became addicted to it. He found that alcohol warmed him. Dancing warmed him. Sex warmed him.

November brought with it a chilly wind, and Harry quit the wizarding world. He left no note, no letter, but he figured they would know it was his choice and that he hadn’t been kidnapped or something. With the amount of pitying looks he had been getting whenever Ron and Hermione forced their happiness on him, he had a good idea they would understand why he needed to leave.

He stayed warm with muggles. He bought a flat and had someone over every night. He got a job bartending so he never had to leave the pub. It was good.

“I’m pregnant.” Holly looked him dead in the eye, all blue steel and confidence. “You’re the father.”

Harry took the cigarette away from his lips and slowly blew the smoke out, watching it spiral up into the night.

“You’re sure it’s me?” he asked. He believed her. They had used protection, of course (Harry wasn’t that stupid), but with the amount of sex he was having it was bound to fail sooner or later. Harry had just hoped it was going to be later. But the people that warmed his bed were usually just like him, running from something and cold, so what he wasn’t sure he believed was that she knew it was his baby.

“I’ve been busy with work.” She shrugged. “You’re the only one in the last month.”

“Right,” he said. He took another drag from his cigarette and leaned against the wall. They were in the alley behind his workplace. It was 1:37 in the morning and he was on break.

“I’m planning on getting rid of it,” Holly continued, and Harry’s stomach did an interesting swooping thing that punched the breath from his lungs, “I just wanted to let you know because if it was me I would want to know.”

“Don’t get rid of it,” he pushed out in a rush. Holly arched an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms. “Sorry, that’s-”

He needed a minute. The sex and the drinks were great, but they were temporary. He knew that. 

His insides had unfrozen, just for a second, and it had been at the mention of a child.

Unbidden, thoughts of little Teddy Lupin came to mind. He had visited his godson, of course, but his frame of thought throughout the visits was that Teddy shouldn’t be visited by a corpse. Still, when he managed to focus on Teddy and not his overwhelming death, he was a little light in the darkness.

Suddenly and with acute clarity, Harry knew what would reanimate him. 

“It’s your body, of course,” he said slowly, picking through his words, “but I would be happy to raise it. You wouldn’t have to be involved at all if you didn’t want to be.”

“Really?” Holly squinted at him. “You? The famous Henry Black that never sleeps with an empty bed wants to be a father?”

“Yes, apparently he does.” Harry glanced down at Holly’s stomach. It was obviously very early in the pregnancy, so she wasn’t showing, but Harry still imagined he could see the shape and hear the heartbeat of his child. “I’ll pay for everything. You can stay with me until it’s born and then you can leave and never look back, if you’d like.”

“You’ll pay for everything?” Holly sounded suspicious. “How much is this pub paying you?”

“Enough.” Harry dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out with his boot. “I have money saved up too, and a big enough flat for the two of us.”

Holly stood there, quiet. She looked tired. Harry didn’t know a lot about pregnancy, but he knew it was hell on the body. As much as he could feel this spark of life slipping through his fingers the longer the silence stretched on, he knew it was up to Holly. He stayed quiet, listening to the traffic sounds of the city.

At last, she sighed, the fight leaving her. Yes, definitely tired.

“Alright,” she agreed. “If you’ll pay for it all and let me stay with you, it’s all yours. But I don’t want to be a mum,” she said, pointing a finger at him. “I want no part of this once I shit it out.”

“Completely fine.” Harry lifted his hands up in surrender. “I understand.”

“Good.” Holly crossed her arms again. “I’ll be at your place tomorrow with my stuff.”

Harry nodded once, then checked his watch. 1:45. His break was over.

“See you then.”

James Phoenix Black was born on July 23rd, 1999. Harry was not yet nineteen years old, but he could say with absolute certainty that he loved his son more than anything in the world. 

He had wild tufts of black hair and brown eyes. His nose was Holly’s, but his smile was Harry’s. He loved to laugh (and cry, but Harry hoped he’d grow out of that).

Like Holly promised, she moved out as soon as she recovered from labor with an amicable wave and a ‘good luck’ shouted out the cab window. Harry had read so many fathering books that he wasn’t sure there was anything he would need luck on, but he took it willingly all the same.

“Oh, Jamie,” he cooed into the crib, watching his son blink sleepily at him. “I love you so much.”

When Jamie laughed, Harry’s insides thawed, and his heart pumped, and he felt alive.

2.

After one month with Jamie, Harry knew two things. The first was that his son was perfect, and that Harry loved being alive again. The second was that he needed to leave London.

It was too crowded and too loud and too much. It was dirty and it wasn’t safe. Harry wanted to show Jamie the world, to give him as much freedom as he desired. He wanted to live everywhere.

So he did. He closed his Gringotts accounts, bought a tent double the size of the one he, Hermione and Ron had used on their hunt for the horcruxes, as well as all the essentials and some non-essentials. He took out all the money he thought he would need and then some. 

And he stopped to say goodbye to Andromeda and Teddy.

They were the only ones he had kept in contact with. After he learned of Jamie’s existence, he immediately reconnected with them, wanting to be as involved with Teddy as possible. Andromeda was a wealth of information on baby-raising, and he and Teddy grew very close. He couldn’t leave England without telling them.

“Take Teddy,” Andromeda said as soon as he finished explaining.

“Wh- no, Andy, I can’t do that.” Harry glanced at where Teddy was enraptured with some wooden blocks made to float and dance in the air. “I’m leaving for good. Jamie and I will just… live wherever. I’m not planning on coming back at all.”

“I know,” Andy nodded, closing her eyes. “Harry, I’m tired. I love Teddy, of course I do, but as much as he’s a reminder of those I lost, he’s more a reminder that I lost them in the first place. And I’m too old to raise another child. But you’re in your prime and obviously love doing it.” She looked down at Jamie pointedly, his head resting on Harry’s shoulder and drooling into the towel there. “Please. You would give him much more than I could.”

Harry sighed. He, of course, was already won over. He was beginning to learn that children were his weak point. 

“If you think it’s what’s best, I’d be more than happy to take him. But, Andromeda,” Harry paused, trying to figure out how to word the thoughts swirling around his head. “I’m going to be raising Jamie as my son. It wouldn’t feel right excluding Teddy by raising him as my god son.”

“Then don’t.” Andromeda brought a hand up to cup the side of Harry’s face, and he melted into it. “Harry, you’re going to be a fantastic father, I can see it. My daughter and her husband named you godfather because they knew you could raise Teddy best. They would understand. Just raise him like you both need you to, and it’ll be perfectly fine. In fact…”

She trailed off, thinking. Harry waited patiently. 

“Adopt him,” she said finally. “Officially. It would work best anyway. Besides,” she added before Harry could get a word in edgewise, “it would be good to give the Black line some better descendants, don’t you think?”

Helpless, Harry nodded.

“Good, that’s settled then.” Andromeda raised her voice. “Teddy, you’re going to be living with Harry from now on. He’s your father now.”

Teddy, all of two years old, giggled and clapped happily.

“Hawwy!” he shouted. Harry smiled over at him and his newly black hair, green eyes, and darkened skin tone. He had a habit of mirroring Harry whenever he was brought up in conversation. Harry was hopelessly fond of him.

Two days later, Harry had two sons and they set out into the world. 

 

Rio De Janeiro was full of life.

That was one of the reasons Harry liked staying there. In his travels, he had found he liked the places with rich cultures and lively communities the most, and Rio was one of the perfect examples of such a thing.

Harry and his boys didn’t stay in one place for more than two weeks. That was their life. They threw a dart at the map, packed up, and moved, and then two weeks later, they did it again. Of course, it wasn’t always a dart. Sometimes Teddy saw a cool picture in a store window and off they went to Madagascar. Sometimes Jamie heard someone talking about a new amusement park and they found themselves in Tokyo. Sometimes Harry craved life, and they went to Rio.

It was 14:24 on a Tuesday in June. While Teddy and Jamie were napping after an exciting morning exploring a rainforest, Harry was walking through the streets of Rio, taking in the life. There were colorful banners strung between the buildings, and the smell of food in the air. Locals and tourists alike chattered to themselves, and kids laughed loudly as they raced down the alleys.

It was down one of these alleys that Harry found a girl.

She was a small thing, skin and bones with matted hair and sad eyes. She sat huddled in a corner, clutching a small roll of bread. Harry smiled at her.

“Hello,” he said, in the soft voice he used to wake up his kids. “My name is Harry. What’s yours?”

The Portuguese rolled off his tongue. Harry spoke many languages, and planned to learn many more. Every new place he went, he bought a Language Stone that he slept with around his neck. In the morning, he woke up with words swimming in his head. They weren’t dangerous, but they weren’t legal either, so they weren’t as popular as Harry thought they should be. Every time he used one, he thought of Hermione, and what her opinion would be on them. 

“Carina,” the little girl said back, shrinking in on herself more. Harry crouched in front of her, then sat down, crossing his legs. 

“What are you doing out on the street, Carina?” he asked. “Do you know where your family is?”

“My family doesn’t want me,” she whispered, sniffling. She held the bread roll up to her mouth, nibbling on it. Harry’s heart squeezed.

“Why is that?” Harry tried to smile comfortingly. 

“They say I’m a demon.” She looked up at him through her fringe, tears tracks visible down her face.

“Why would they think that?’

“Because I make things happen,” she said. “Bad things.”

That sounded familiar. Harry thought back to his years of being a freak, and what he would have gotten out of just one conversation with someone like him.

“Like this?” Harry held out his hand, empty palm facing up. A moment later, a little fire burst to life in his hand, flickering merrily. He changed the colors, pink to blue to red. Carina stared, wide eyed and hardly breathing. She uncurled quickly and crawled over to him, looking at his hand. Harry clenched his fist, putting the fire out. “Do you like butterflies?”

Carina looked up at him, and pushed her hair out of her face. She nodded quickly. 

Harry focused on his hand. When he opened it, there was a perfect blue butterfly sitting in his palm. A trick he had learned for Teddy and Jamie a while ago that was a complicated bit of light magic.

Carina squealed, face transforming with her grin. She wiggled a bit, and the bread roll in her hand flashed a series of colors before settling on a bright orange.

The butterfly flapped its wings and took off, flying around Carina’s head before it went higher and fluttered over the edges of the alley.

“That was so cool!” Carina said, orange bread roll forgotten. “You can do things like me!”

“I can,” Harry agreed, smiling widely back. He already knew where this was going, and was in no way upset about it. “I have two kids that can do the same things.”

“Really? They’re like me?” Carina asked excitedly, standing. Harry remained seated. Standing up and no longer huddled into herself, she looked about five, the same age as Jamie.

“You can come live with us if you want,” he offered. “You don’t have to, but-”

“Can I really? Please?” Carina clasped her hands together. Harry nodded. “Thank you!” 

“Of course.” Harry stood, and Carina didn’t cower away from him. When he offered his hand, she latched onto it happily. They walked out of the alley and into the bustling street. “First we can buy you some clothes and things, though.”

“New clothes?” she asked, looking up at him. “Can I get a dress? A red one?”

“Of course,” Harry repeated. “Whatever you want. And then afterwards, you can meet my sons.”

“Can you make more butterflies?”

“I can do more than that,” Harry told her, spotting a store with bright children’s clothes in the window. “I can tell you all about magic.”

4.

Harry was reading a good book.

It was about the history of the New Zealand tribes and their magic. He made a mental note to go there soon. They were in Bangladesh now, visiting one of Carina’s friends, and planned on going to China next. New Zealand wasn’t far from China, Harry mused, glancing up at the map full of pins on the wall. Yes, they’d have to go to New Zealand after China.

That decided, he set down his book and went over to the whiteboard next to the map, adding New Zealand to their schedule. He studied that map, looking for any blank spots that weren’t marked by a pin yet. There was one in northern Canada, and a few empty areas in Africa too. He’d have to talk to the kids about it.

“Da!”

“Speak of the devil,” Harry muttered to himself, turning. “What is it, Jamie?”

Jamie ran into the room, nine-year-old limbs going every which way. He was clutching a letter in one hand, waving it around frantically. Immediately, Harry was on high alert. He crouched to his son’s level, catching him with ease.

“What is it?” he asked more seriously. Jamie’s lower lip wobbled.

“Amélie’s family is sending her away!” he said, breathing heavily. “She got bit by a werewolf and now they’re trying to get rid of her!”

Harry pressed his lips together. Amélie was one of his kids' many friends that they maintained contact with around the world. She was from a French pureblood family who lived in southern France.

“She was bitten by a werewolf?” Harry confirmed, rubbing soothing circles into Jamie’s shoulders. When his son nodded tearfully, Harry sighed. He stood up quickly and cast a patronus, until the large glowing bear loomed in front of him. “To Teddy Black. Sorry, bug, but I need you and Rina to come back now. Say goodbye to Aaloka, we’re off to France."

The bear nodded at him, turned, and bounded out of the tent. 

Harry knocked on the door of the Fournier estate with a clenched fist.

The door opened a minute later, the matron of the house scowling as soon as she laid eyes on him.

“Lady Fournier,” Harry greeted respectfully anyway. “I’ll skip the pleasantries. I was informed of your daughter’s condition and am offering to take her off of your hands, free of charge.”

Isabelle Fournier stared at him, white lipped and narrow eyed. After a long moment, she stepped aside. Harry walked into the lavish mansion without a second thought.

Really, it was quite simple. The Fournier’s had multiple children, and it was unseemly to have a creature one. They didn’t want her, Harry did, and he agreed to keep quiet about everything through gritted teeth. They signed away their daughter blank faced. Harry accepted her with fire in his eyes.

He knocked on the door of Amélie’s room softly. It opened a few seconds later.

Amélie was seven years old, one year younger than Jamie and Carina, two years younger than Teddy. She had brown eyes and black hair, and soft features. She also had a habit of biting her lip, apparently. Harry knelt down onto the plush carpet. 

“Hello.” French was one of his favorite languages. It was beautiful and soft. “I’m Jamie’s father, Harry.”

“Hello,” Amélie whispered. “Did Jamie tell you what happened?”

“He did.” Harry smiled. “I was wondering if you wanted to come and live with us.”

Amélie hid behind her door a little, biting her lip harder.

“But I’m a werewolf.” She was so quiet Harry had to strain to hear her.

“A good friend of mine was a werewolf,” he told her. “I’d be happy to help you. And you’d get to spend every day with Jamie, Carina and Teddy.”

“Will you be my new Papa?” she asked. Harry’s smile widened.

“If you want me to be, I would be more than delighted to be your new Papa.”

Amélie stared at him for only a moment before throwing the door open and running into his arms.

+1

Australia was hot.

It was January and there were no clouds in the sky. Harry could see the heat coming up off the pavement, and he was sweating through his shirt. 

“Dad, it’s hot,” Teddy said. Harry shot him a look.

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Papi, can we get ice cream?” Carina asked from his other side.

“Yeah, can we?” Jamie pushed his glasses up his nose for the fourth time that minute. 

“Please, Papa,” Amélie added, squeezing his hand where her much smaller one was wrapped in it. 

“Alright, I know when I’m outnumbered,” Harry acquiesced easily. He would kill for a strawberry ice cream. 

The magic scene in Sydney wasn’t huge, but it was big enough to take them a solid half an hour to find an ice cream shop. Finally, they stumbled into one.

“Air conditioning!” Carina groaned thankfully. Teddy sighed blissfully in agreement. 

“Alright, folks!” A kind man behind the counter greeted them, waving a hand. “Come on in and escape from the heat!”

“Thank you, sir!” Jamie speedwalked to the counter. “May I please have two scoops of chocolate in a cup?”

The man looked up at Harry, who only nodded once in reply.

“Sure thing.” He waved his wand, and two perfect scoops of chocolate ice cream floated into a clear cup, which then floated down to Jamie.

“Thank you,” Jamie said again, beaming. The man only smiled in return. 

Ten minutes later, Harry was sitting at a table with Amélie as the rest of his children talked amicably to the ice cream man, whose name was apparently Perry.

“You children are quite energetic!” Perry exclaimed. “What are your names?”

“Oh, here we go,” Harry muttered just as all of his children perked up considerably. They rushed to get in line, shoulder to shoulder, from oldest to youngest. Even Amélie put down her ice cream to join her siblings. Perry looked over at Harry questioningly, but all he did was sigh.

Teddy stepped forward.

“My name is Teddy Moon Black,” he started, standing straight and looking serious. “I’m eleven years old, my favorite color is white, my favorite subjects are Magical Creatures and Divination, my favorite animal is a cardinal, a fun fact about me is that I’m a metamorphmagus and a not-so-fun fact about me is that I have a collection of dead animals and bones.”

Teddy stepped back in line as Jamie stepped forward.

“My name is James Phoenix Black, don’t call me James, though, call me Jamie. I’m ten years old, my favorite color is green, my favorite subjects are Magic Theory and Runes, my favorite animal is a dog, a fun fact about me is that I have an iQ of 147 and a not-so-fun fact about me is that I have sent a grown man to the hospital.”

Carina was next. Perry was starting to look very concerned.

“My name is Carina Fern Black, I’m ten years old, my favorite color is red, my favorite subjects are Duelling and Spellcasting and Charms, my favorite animal is a squirrel monkey, a fun fact about me is that I can climb almost any tree and a not-so-fun fact about me is that I have a problem of accidentally lighting things on fire.”

Amélie stepped forward, small and youthful.

“My name is Amélie Soleil Black, I am nine years old, my favorite color is yellow, my favorite subjects are Medicals and Potions, my favorite animal is a unicorn, a fun fact about me is that I love to fly on brooms and a not-so-fun fact about me is that I have no rights.”

Amélie smiled, obviously very proud of herself. Carina patted her on the head. 

Perry looked over at Harry, who was just finishing his strawberry ice cream.

“Did you teach them that?” he asked, more than a little unnerved.

“Nope,” Harry replied, popping the ‘p’. “Came up with it all by themselves.”

“Papi, you have to do yours now,” Carina told him, backed up by her siblings nodding vigorously. Harry sighed, rolled his eyes, then waved over at Perry, who was looking wearily back.

“Hello, my name is Henry Black, I am twenty-eight years old, I don’t have a favorite color, my favorite subjects are Cultures and History of Magic, my favorite animal is a bear, a fun fact about me is that I can speak over fifteen languages and a not-so-fun fact about me is that I am both a war hero and exiled from three countries.”

Perry stared at him.

“Should I call someone?” he asked eventually. Harry snorted, got up, and threw his ice cream cup away.

“Wouldn’t be worth it,” he told him. “Come, children.”

“Bye, Mr. Perry!” Carina yelled before running out of the shop and back into the heat. Teddy and Jamie followed her at a more sedate pace, holding hands and talking between themselves. Amélie took up her position holding Harry’s hand. She waved back at Perry.

“Au revoir,” she said. Perry waved with a strained smile. The heat engulfed them as soon as they left the building, and Harry grimaced as Amélie scrunched her nose up. “Papa, we should go somewhere cold next.”

“I was thinking Canada,” he replied. “Would you like to see a polar bear?”

“Yes, please!” Teddy answered, not even bothering to turn around. Jamie laughed at him.

“I wanna ride one!” Carina added, twirling around so her dress flared up around her.

“Sounds like we’re heading to Canada.” Harry smiled down at Amélie, who smiled back.

It was January 13th, 2008, and Harry was living quite well. 

---------

hope you liked it. like i said kinda crackish but deep down we all know harry would be the best dad ever and i love him with kids so i just gave him some.

i have some other ideas for things in this universe so let me know if people would be interested and ill see what happens.

comments and kudos are my reason for living so please drop some. comments especially it always makes my day. my only other hp work is a drarry fic so if you like that go find it, otherwise thanks for stopping by and i hope you have a great day. drink water and go to bed at a reasonable time. <3

my ao3

[thepenguinclub]

Happily Ever After

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

romantic draco/harry, growing up together, birthday, birthday gifts, draco pov, they are in love, fluff (and angst but mostly fluff)

Wordcount: 7,830

Summary:

“Harry!” Draco exclaimed happily. He then made an effort to not be too happy. Malfoy’s didn’t get so happy to see scruffy Gryffindor’s who had obviously just come back from an off-season quidditch practice.

“Hi Draco,” Harry said softly, smile widening. His hair was even more out of place than usual, windswept and chaotic. His glasses were crooked, and he had a grass stain on his cheek.

He was exactly what Draco’s day needed.

“How was practice?” Draco asked politely.

“It was good.” Harry was still smiling, and still speaking in that soft way. It was really the only way he ever spoke, unless he needed to speak up for a teacher. Draco liked it. It made everything he said sound special. “How’s your day been?”

Draco sighed and leaned back against the wall.

“It’s been boring, Harry,” he despaired. “Nothing happened at all.”

Harry’s face attempted sympathy, but it was ruined by the fact that he was still smiling.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he replied. “Your birthday should be very special.”

---

Draco Malfoy's birthdays, ages 12-18.

happy birthday fable my love. a gift for you. check them out at fabledfrog.

once again stepping out of my comfort zone for this fic but the other one (for all you bbc merlin fans go and check it out after this) was received well so fingers are crossed, im very proud of this mostly because i crammed it and wrote it in like five days.

i love you i hope you like it. unbetad because they are my beta. i think it's okay but if something is wrong let me know (politely. im insecure and handle criticism kind of well).

HEY LISTEN UP: jk rowling is a disgusting human being and i do not support her, her material, or her views. she is a terf and i fully support trans people, as well as condemn her antisemitic views. there is a multitude of issues with the book series, including her treatment of fat people, people of color, and others. this is me writing her characters as gay and in love because i know she would hate it, not showing support for her or anything to do with her. if you do support that, fuck right off.

WARNINGS: lucius is mentioned to be horrible but we don't actually see him, the whole buckbeak situation, descriptions of anxiety, descriptions of depression (sixth year is rough), crying, eating food, swearing

i think that's it but if i missed anything let me know!!

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June 5, 1992 - First Year

Draco’s day had been boring.

Draco’s day had been boring, and, usually, that was simply unacceptable. Draco did not do boring, because Draco was an exciting person who liked excitement. 

But this was a special day. It was Draco’s special day, his birthday, and for Draco’s birthday to be boring was beyond unacceptable, it was- it was-

It was definitely something! There was a word for how above-unnacceptable it was and Draco definitely knew it. It started with an R. Or maybe an L. 

Draco’s perfectly polished shoes made little tap-tap sounds on the Hogwarts stone as he stewed on the word that he definitely knew, various paintings and portraits calling cheerful (and/or drunken) hellos to him as he passed. This was a hallway on the fourth floor that wasn’t often used, which suited Draco perfectly, as there were often times when Draco didn’t want to be found.

Not that Draco wasn’t a social person. He was a very social person, in fact. His father had been teaching him how to work a room since he could walk a room, and his mother had always impressed upon him the importance of manners and a good social standing. So, yes, Draco was a very social person because he understood how necessary it was for one to have a place in the world.

But, sometimes, Draco got a little tired working his Slytherin common room when it was so clear that everyone else was working the room as well. Conversation was boring when everyone had eight different layers below their words, and, as Draco had already mentioned, he did not like boring things. 

Besides. The unused hallway with unused classrooms was good for other things as well.

Draco sighed aloud.

He wasn’t doing any of those things, though. What Draco wouldn’t give to duck into the old Charms classroom and add some excitement to his day. He shot the classroom a wistful look, then admonished himself.

No, it wasn’t good for him to be upset about such things. Sometimes excitement didn’t have time for him. That was perfectly fine. The fact that he even entertained the thought that it wasn’t was re- re-

Draco groaned. Still didn’t have it. 

Draco absentmindedly turned a corner, stubbornly not thinking about the word that he definitely knew in hopes it might come to him (watched pots weren’t the only things that didn’t boil if they had an audience, right?), and then let out an undignified yelp when a skinny hand shot out from behind a curtained alcove and dragged him into it.

It took him a second to regain his balance, and, when he did, he was met with a nervous-excited smile.

“Harry!” Draco exclaimed happily. He then made an effort to not be too happy. Malfoy’s didn’t get so happy to see scruffy Gryffindor’s who had obviously just come back from an off-season quidditch practice. 

“Hi Draco,” Harry said softly, smile widening. His hair was even more out of place than usual, windswept and chaotic. His glasses were crooked, and he had a grass stain on his cheek.

He was exactly what Draco’s day needed.

“How was practice?” Draco asked politely, his mother’s voice in the back of his head. Harry shrugged, which Draco’s mother would not approve of, but, then again, Draco’s mother wouldn’t approve of Harry in general.

“It was good.” Harry was still smiling, and still speaking in that soft way. It was really the only way he ever spoke, unless he needed to speak up for a teacher. Draco liked it. It made everything he said sound special. “How’s your day been?”

Draco sighed and leaned back against the wall. 

“It’s been boring, Harry,” he despaired. “Nothing happened at all.”

Harry’s face attempted sympathy, but it was ruined by the fact that he was still smiling.

“I’m sorry, Draco,” he replied. “Your birthday should be very special.”

“I know!” Draco agreed. “And nothing special happened. If I was at home, I would have eaten a cake as tall as me, and opened fifty presents! Instead I had to go to Transfiguration.”

Harry nodded, trying and failing to school his face into something serious. 

“That’s really horrible, Draco,” he said, and it occurred to Draco that Harry might be making fun of him.

“You’re laughing at me,” he whined, crossing his arms. Harry smiled again, which Draco guessed was a good thing. He liked it when Harry smiled, even if it was at Draco’s expense (although he didn’t like it too much. Malfoy’s didn’t care about whether poor Gryffindor’s smiled or not).

“Maybe a little,” Harry admitted, unashamed. At Draco’s pout, he laughed quietly, just like he talked. “Will this make up for it? I have a present for you.”

“A present?” Draco asked, perking up. He uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall, which put him quite close to Harry, as they were still in the alcove and it wasn’t very big. This close to him, Draco could pick out the individual flecks of gold in Harry’s too-green eyes, and see the light flush that spread over the apples of his cheeks.

“Mhm,” Harry hummed and nodded, reaching into a bag that Draco hadn’t noticed was tucked in the corner. He pulled a relatively thin, small book sized, bright yellow box out and presented it to Draco, who grabbed it eagerly.

“Lemonheads?” Draco looked up from the box in surprise. Harry was still smiling, but it was all nerves, and his hands were twisting together in front of him.

“You said they were your favorite,” he said.

They were Draco’s favorite, and nobody knew that. They were muggle, and the only reason Draco had even tried it was because they were in Paris and a wizard had given him one before his father had figured out that they were muggle and therefore not worth their time.

But it had been so good , so sour and it had lasted ten minutes in Draco’s mouth, and even though he had been eight and had had much more fun wizarding candy since then, he still considered them his favorite.

Draco didn’t even remember telling Harry that story, but he must have, because no one else in the entire world knew that Draco’s favorite candy was Lemonheads.

“They are,” Draco assured him, even though his tongue suddenly felt somewhat too big for his mouth and he didn’t know what to do. If his father saw him now, he would say he was- “Reprehensible!”

Harry jumped a bit, and tilted his head.

“What?”

“Nothing, sorry.” Draco tore into the box of muggle candy, mind sated now that he remembered the word. “I just remembered something. Really, Harry, I can’t believe you got these for me.” He furrowed his eyebrows. “How did you get these for me?”

Harry shrugged again.

“I had Hermione’s parents pick them up for me,” he said. Draco nodded, not really listening as he pulled out one of the yellow hard candies from the box. He popped it in his mouth and smiled at his friend.

“Thank you, Harry,” he said, not even having to think of his mother for those manners. Really, he couldn’t think of any present that he had ever received that he liked more. (Except for the season tickets to every Puddlemere game, but he wasn’t sure anything could beat that.)

“Of course, Draco.” Harry shrugged again. “I know it’s not how your birthday would usually go back at the Manor, but I wanted to get something you liked.”

“Really,” Draco insisted. “It’s perfect. Do you want to try one?” He held out one of the candies, which Harry looked at for a second before taking. His face screwed up spectacularly when he put it in his mouth, and Draco laughed uproariously at it.

“Draco, those are so sour, how do you like that?” Harry asked, astonished. His words sounded weird as he struggled to talk around the candy.

“I don’t know, I like sour things.” If he was Harry he would have shrugged, but Malfoy’s did not shrug.

“Weirdo,” Harry said seriously, pressing on Draco’s shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a friendly push. Harry was too careful for that, though, so it was just a warm press of his hand through Draco’s uniform. 

“You’re the weirdo,” Draco replied haughtily, still giggling at the face Harry had made.

“Sure,” Harry agreed. He was smiling again. “Happy birthday, Draco.”

Draco beamed at him.

(His stomach dropped and heart squeezed painfully when the news of Harry’s hospitalization and adventure against the Dark Lord made their rounds, and it was the first time Draco felt real, true fear.)

June 5, 1993 - Second Year

Draco almost forgot it was his birthday. 

Actually, he did, right up until his mother sent the usual birthday chocolates at breakfast. Draco then had to spend a few minutes trying to figure out why he forgot his own birthday.

Okay, well, he knew why. Draco had been sick with worry for Harry since it got out that he had gone who-knows-where and saved the girl Weasley. The Hogwarts rumor mill was surprisingly bereft of details, but, knowing Harry, it was something ridiculously dangerous. Draco at least knew he got hurt doing whatever it was, because his arm was wrapped tightly in white bandages, and his normal warm brown skin was clammy and three shades paler, only just starting to regain its natural color, one week later.

As Harry’s best friend, Draco usually was well-informed on whatever recklessly Gryffindor thing Harry had gotten up to, and, while he still worried, was reassured enough by the reckless Gryffindor himself.

However, as Harry’s secret best friend, Draco also was left to the fates of how well Harry could get away from his adoring fans, and, ever since whatever happened, he hadn’t been able to find any time alone.

He could, of course, sneak out at night with his invisibility cloak, and he did offer in the one note he had managed to slip Draco, but Draco had immediately refuted that idea. A blind man could see how much Harry needed his sleep, and Draco would rather lose his own sleep worrying about him than take away Harry’s.

Long story short, Draco was a little strung out, which had made itself apparent when he had stared at his mother’s birthday wishes uncomprehendingly for a half a minute before actually realizing what she was saying.

But, really, his birthday didn’t change much. It was any other day. They had exams to study for, so, despite it being a clear, beautiful June Saturday, Draco and the other Slytherin’s trudged their way to the library and claimed as many tables as they could get their hands on.

Draco then spent three hours with his nose in a book. Many books, in fact. He scribbled notes half-heartedly on a parchment, but he had always been good at retaining information if he read it a few times, so he started a circuit of two books per subject. 

By just before lunch time, he had read through Transfiguration, Herbology and Potions and was starting Charms. Well, he would have been starting Charms, except when he emerged from the end of his Potions text and looked for a Charms book, it wasn’t on the table.

Draco groaned to himself, but stood up anyway. His unused limbs ached for a second, but the pain dulled as he started walking. Draco cracked his neck absentmindedly as he wandered the shelves towards the Charms section. The books he needed were just in sight when a hand clamped down on his robe sleeve and started pulling.

Draco, now accustomed to this, just followed where the hand pulled him, until he ended up in an aisle towards the back of the library that contained… something. Those titles weren’t in English, French or Latin. 

“Hi,” Harry greeted him softly. He didn’t smile, which stirred the pit of worry in Draco’s stomach.

“Hi,” he replied anyway. “Are you okay?”

That got a little smile.

“Yes,” Harry answered. “I think so. Just recovering.”

“From what?” Draco checked his friend over surreptitiously, eyes lingering on his bandaged arm. Harry reached out and took Draco’s hand with the uninjured one, which caused Draco’s gaze to immediately snap to where Harry was intertwining their fingers.

Draco’s pale white fingers looked stark against Harry’s golden-brown, but Draco liked it. He ignored the way his cheeks started to heat.

When he looked up, Harry’s cheeks were flushed faintly, but he was finally giving Draco a real, genuine smile.

“I’ll tell you later,” Harry told him. Draco opened his mouth to argue that they had plenty of time now, and, even if they didn’t, Harry could easily tell him a short version at least, but Harry continued before Draco could protest. “I wanted to make sure I talked to you today, though.”

Draco sighed through his nose. Really, his birthday was insubstantial when Harry had probably had a near-death experience just a week ago. Draco told him as much, but it only caused Harry to shake his head firmly.

“No, Draco, your birthday is very important,” he insisted. “Besides, I got you your present ages ago, so I have to give it to you.”

Draco tried not to, but the mention of a present caught his attention, and he peered at Harry curiously despite himself.

“Oh, alright,” Draco acquiesced. “I suppose that makes sense.”

Harry smirked at him, to which Draco scowled. Harry then let go of Draco’s hand, which was very sad indeed, and left Draco feeling cold and bereft where they had been touching. He tried not to show it, and instead tucked his hand into his robe pocket as he watched Harry pull out a long, thin box from his bag. 

“Here you go,” Harry said unnecessarily as he handed it to Draco, which Draco immediately knew meant he was nervous. Draco didn’t know why. Didn’t Harry know that Draco would like anything he got for him?

Draco opened the box without flourish, and immediately felt his eyes go wide and mouth drop open in an incredibly indelicate reaction, but couldn’t bring himself to care.

In the box was a long silver chain with a simple star pendant that was lined in small shining diamonds surrounding an emerald inlaid in the center. Draco stared at it, then looked back up at Harry slowly. 

Harry was biting his lip, watching Draco with uncertain eyes. Well, that wouldn’t do.

“Harry,” Draco started slowly. He licked his lips, trying to think of the words to express what he was feeling, “this is incredible.” Mmm, no, not the right ones.

“Yes, well,” Harry stuttered slightly. “It was very pretty, I thought, and you’re-” Harry’s face turned a very bright red. 

“I’m what?” Draco asked, staring back down at the necklace, and then back at Harry when he took a while to answer.

“You’re pretty, too,” he muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. Draco felt his face heat up, to the point that he was sure he was redder than Harry. “And, you know, Draco is a constellation and it’s a star,” he said, louder.

“Oh,” Draco replied, for lack of something better. “I mean, thank you.”

Harry somehow blushed brighter, but he nodded hesitantly. “So, you like it?”

Draco clutched the box to his chest and tried to sound as earnest as he felt.

“I love it.” Draco looked down at the necklace and carefully extracted it from the box, watching it as it dangled from his fingers. He focused back on Harry, who was watching him with a soft expression on his face. “Would you put it on me?”

Harry nodded again, more confidently and with a grin. He reached out and took the necklace from Draco, who turned around.

The necklace came over his head and rested on his chest, and Draco felt the feather light touch of Harry’s fingers on the back of his neck, which sent shivers down his spine.

“Done,” Harry said quietly, and Draco turned around slowly, coming face-to-face with his best friend.

“I love it, Harry,” Draco repeated, because Harry needed to know, needed to know how much it meant to him that Harry had seen something so beautiful (and expensive) and thought of him.  

Harry smiled, really smiled, and Draco couldn’t do anything but smile back.

“I’m glad,” he said, and he reached forward to entwine their fingers again. “Happy birthday, Draco.”

Draco squeezed his hand.

(It was all his father’s fault, and he hated his father and hated that he could be a part of something that had hurt the most important person in Draco’s life.)

June 5, 1994 - Third Year

Draco was miserable.

In less than a day, that poor hippogriff was going to be executed, and it was all his fault.

“It’s not your fault, love,” Harry whispered into his ear, cuddling him closer. Draco was curled up in his lap, head tucked into the crook of his neck and legs sprawled out in front of them, tangled together.

“I’m the reason it’s happening,” Draco muttered back, nuzzling Harry’s exposed neck. Harry heaved a sigh, and Draco briefly felt very guilty for being so despondent on him, but then remembered that Harry had told him he liked taking care of Draco and settled.

“Really, Draco,” Harry insisted. “It’s all your father. Not you.” He turned his head so he was speaking into Draco’s hair, pressing a kiss there.

That was one good thing that had come out of their awful year, a year when Harry was being actively hunted by a crazed madman and Draco was forced into acting like even bigger of a dick than he had been. He hated his father, hated him for putting Draco in this position. 

But it was nice, Draco readily admitted, not having to hide his feelings from Harry anymore, and their mutual confession wouldn’t have happened if Draco hadn’t felt the need to rile up the hippogriff or risk exposure.

Harry held Draco in silence for another few minutes before he finally spoke again.

“I have something for you,” he whispered, tilting Draco’s head up so he could see Draco’s face. “A present.”

The idea of a present sparked something warm in Draco’s chest like always, but it was subdued by the weight of crushing guilt. Harry frowned at Draco’s lack of reaction, but said nothing, instead reaching over to his bag and pulling out a small box.

He presented it to Draco silently, and Draco took it slowly, with slightly trembling fingers. He carefully lifted the lid.

A ring. Thick and silver, with a flat top and an engraving on it. Draco the box up carefully to the floating ball of light Harry had cast when they had first entered the abandoned classroom, and it floated closer to him obediently.

The engraving was the letter ‘B’ written in an old-fashioned script, and there was a bird with spread wings behind it, stark in a sharp black color that highlighted the letter.

“The Black family motto is ‘Toujours Pur,’ which means ‘always pure,’” Harry said quietly. Draco looked up at him, but couldn’t read the expression on his face. “Obviously not good. Their family crest is a terrifying ordeal, honestly, but I did like the crows on it. I wanted-” 

He paused, then sighed. 

“All I’ve ever wanted in life was a family.” Harry brought a hand up to toy with Draco’s hair seemingly absentmindedly. Draco knew he was trying to distract himself from what he was saying. “I hate the thought that you’re so amazing and you have to deal with such a horrible one. Your father is such an awful person, and you don’t deserve that, love. But your mum isn’t, really. I’ve never met her, obviously, but the way you talk about her makes her seem like the most wonderful, most loving mother in the whole world.” 

Harry’s eyes landed on Draco’s, and he carded his fingers through his hair. 

“That’s the kind of family you deserve. Not your dad, your mum. And I know you’ve got just about a billion things with the Malfoy crest on them, but I figured you might not have so much of your mum’s side of the family.” Harry nudged the hand that was holding the ring box, drawing Draco’s gaze to it. “So, I did some research when I was stuck in Diagon over the summer. The black family bird is the crow, which is a harbinger of death. Quite morbid, but it’s peaceful too, I think. To have an escort when your time comes.”

“You’re being quite philosophical, Harry,” Draco finally croaked out, voice sounding wrecked. Harry shrugged under Draco and offered up a half-grin.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about death,” he offered in explanation. “With this whole Sirius Black thing. How my parents died, how I might die. And about family, when it comes to my parents.” Harry smoothed a hand over Draco’s forehead, brushing away the stray strands of hair that hung there. “I told you. I want you to have something that you can think of as ‘family’ that also doesn’t immediately bring your dad to mind.”

“But-” Draco swallowed when his voice came out sounding even worse than a moment ago. He tried again after a second, and it was only marginally better. “But what about Sirius Black? He’s in the Black family too and he’s-”

“I know,” Harry interrupted. “But he doesn’t speak for you or your mom. You can make your own definition of the Black family. You can do whatever you want.”

And that was that. Draco was officially crying. It was messy, too, how embarrassing. 

Harry was lovely about it, though, just cradled his face softly and kissed his forehead, murmuring comforting words that Draco didn’t comprehend but helped regardless.

“Merlin, how are you so perfect,” Draco sobbed noisily, startling an aggressive snort out of his boyfriend.

“I practiced that speech in my head for hours,” Harry whispered loudly, causing Draco to laugh wetly. Draco stared down at the ring in the box, winking innocently in the floating white light. He very carefully pulled it out of the velvet, dropping the box, before sliding it almost reverently onto his left index finger, the ring magically resizing to fit perfectly. It was cold and heavy and Draco loved it and he loved what it meant and he loved Harry so, so much (they had only been together for a little while, though, so he kept that last one to himself).

Instead, Draco threaded his fingers through Harry’s, who squeezed their joined hands comfortingly. Draco admired the clean silver wrapped around his own long, piano player finger as it was surrounded by Harry’s dark and calloused hand. 

“You’re perfect,” Draco repeated, needing Harry to understand. He wasn’t sure if he really got the message across (he wasn’t sure he could communicate the all-consuming love and adoration he felt), but Harry pressed a dry kiss to Draco’s wet cheek.

“Happy birthday, Draco,” he whispered, lips moving against Draco’s skin.

Draco turned his head and kissed him. 

(Two days later, Harry regaled Draco with the tale of Buckbeak’s freedom and Sirius’ innocence and Draco twisted the Black family ring on his finger and felt proud, proud of who he was and who he could be.)

June 5, 1995 - Fourth Year

Draco didn’t know what to expect.

Harry had pulled him to the side earlier, gave him a quick kiss and birthday wish, and then informed him to go to their usual classroom after curfew. So far, Draco’s presents had been everywhere from innocent to complimentary to emotional, so, yes, Draco was a bit wary of whatever Harry had gotten him this year, if only to avoid the embarrassing reaction that he had had last year.

When he walked into the classroom Harry was already there, sitting on the professor’s desk at the front of the room next to a cake with white frosting and fruit decorations, big enough for two. Draco’s chest expanded with warmth, and he was smiling as he made his way to stand between Harry’s legs.

“Hello, love,” Harry greeted, still speaking softly like he always had despite the leagues of confidence he had gained. 

“Hello,” Draco replied, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. “This all for me?”

“‘Course.” Harry set one hand on Draco’s hip and nudged the cake with the other one. “Vanilla with honey buttercream and candied fruit.”

“My favorite,” Draco added unnecessarily. They both knew it was his favorite. He just loved the idea that Harry had remembered his favorite cake and gotten it for him, and he wanted to say it out loud.

“‘Course,” Harry repeated, pressing a quick peck to Draco’s cheek before pushing him lightly away. Draco crossed his arms and pouted, drawing a snort. “Cake first, kisses later,” Harry admonished.

“What about kisses now, cake now, and kisses later?” Draco asked innocently as Harry set two forks on the plate. He narrowed his eyes at Draco.

“Don’t push it, birthday boy,” he warned. Draco laughed lightly and went to sit on the desk on the other side of the cake. 

They ate in companionable silence, broken by quiet words and hushed giggles. Eventually, when there was only the last of the candied fruit left on the plate and Harry was watching Draco systematically spear each one with his fork, he brought out a box.

He handed it to Draco with an innocent smile.

“This isn’t going to make me cry again, is it?” Draco asked suspiciously after finishing his fruit, taking the box. Harry’s eyes twinkled with mirth.

“No,” he assured. “No emotional speeches or breakdowns this year.”

Draco, mollified, opened the box curiously.

A cloak pin. It was silver, and in the design of a dragon that was extraordinarily detailed in its carving. Draco looked up at Harry happily.

“It’s gorgeous,” he said, lifting the pin to watch it shine against the floating lights. He looked back at Harry to see something that could only be described as a shit-eating grin. Draco squinted at him, then held the pin out further away from himself. “What?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Harry answered honestly, eyes shining. “Look closer at it.”

Draco made sure his suspicion was made clear as he reluctantly brought the pin closer to him. It took him a second. Then he realized. He sighed heavily, and Harry burst into delighted laughter.

“A Hungarian Horntail,” Draco groaned. “As if I haven’t seen enough of those for three lifetimes.”

Harry wiped the side of his eyes as he giggled, and Draco valiantly tamped down on the smile that was trying to emerge.

“You’ll think of me every time you see it,” Harry informed him. Draco rolled his eyes.

“I’ll think about you racing around on a broom trying to get yourself blasted to smithereens as my poor heart tried to jump out of its chest, you mean,” he corrected drily. Harry collapsed in another fit of laughter. 

“You’re so dramatic,” Harry managed to say through his gasping breaths. Draco squawked ( not dramatically) and Harry fell off the desk. 

Draco looked down at his boyfriend with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. He set the cloak pin back in its box carefully (it really was beautiful) and gracefully slid off the desk, kneeled down next to Harry, and then flopped directly on top of him. Harry wheezed.

“Oi!” Harry exclaimed, poking his side. Draco wriggled on top of him until he was face-to-face with his boyfriend. He raised an eyebrow.

“Are you complaining?” he asked, shifting to get more comfortable. Harry bit his lip in an attempt to stop smiling.

“Only a little,” Harry told him, which earned him a pinch to his shoulder. He yelped, and Draco laughed at him.

“I was promised kisses,” Draco informed him seriously. Harry nodded, mimicking his seriousness. He was still smiling, though, so he didn’t do it very well.

“Who am I to deny you such a thing?” Harry pulled Draco down so their lips met, and Draco sighed into the kiss. Harry didn’t let it get very far, though, before he was pulling away, eyes bright.

“Happy birthday, Draco.”

Draco kissed him.

(Nineteen days later and Harry stopped laughing. Stopped smiling. Draco didn’t get to kiss him before they were forced to go their separate ways.)

June 5, 1996 - Fifth Year

Draco was on Inquisitor duty.

His birthday had been horrid, just like every day that year had been horrid. Umbridge had only gotten worse, and with her Draco was forced to get worse, until the things he was forced to say and do to innocent students left him losing his meals and staying up at night.

Harry tried to assure him that Draco was only doing what he had to. That anyone in his position would do what he was doing just to stay alive, to stay on the good side of both his father and the Dark Lord. Draco agreed, which was why he was still going along with it, but it was horrid.

On Draco’s sixteenth birthday he made a first year Hufflepuff cry, called a third year a slur she was undeserving of, and volunteered to stay out past curfew on Inquisitor duty because he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.

So it was after curfew and Draco was wandering the silent, dark halls of Hogwarts aimlessly, hating himself.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Draco tensed, turning to look at where it was coming from. There was no one there.

“What is wrong with you?” Draco hissed, looking back and forth desperately, trying to remember if anyone was supposed to be coming in this direction. The hand squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, then slid down his arm to grab his hand, pulling him the few steps it took to get him into an empty classroom. The hand let go, the door closed, and then Harry was appearing, invisibility cloak pooling around his feet.

He turned and warded the door before Draco could remind him. They had both gotten quite good at the alarm and silencing wards that they learned in order to be able to meet with each other.Still, between their OWL work, Draco’s extra duties and Harry’s extra detentions, they hadn’t been able to meet much at all. Draco missed Harry like he would miss a limb, and found it immediately easier to breathe when Harry turned to look at him with a small smile, as if a weight he wasn’t aware of had lifted off his chest.

“You’re insane,” Draco told him, crossing his arms. “This isn’t safe, Harry.”

“I was careful,” Harry assured him, striding across the room to stand in front of Draco. “And there was no way I was missing your birthday.”

Draco sighed, letting his arms drop.

“Harry-”

“No,” Harry interrupted, face resolute. He had grown, this past year. He was older, more handsome than cute, and he was stronger, both physically and emotionally. When Harry was serious about something, you listened. So Draco listened. “I have to be fast, but I wasn’t going to miss it, Draco.”

Harry took a deep breath, as if he was preparing himself for something. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box. He held it out so Draco could see it, then flipped the lid up. Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

Rings. Two rings. One was a polished gold, one a polished silver, with no other designs.

“You’re the most important thing in my world, Draco,” Harry said quietly, “and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I don’t know if both of us will make it out of this war, but I want to have something that- that represents that for us, until we can get the real thing. So.” He lifted the box a little. “Promise rings.”

“Harry,” Draco breathed, sounding a little like he’d been punched in the stomach. He felt a little like he’d been punched in the stomach.

“You don’t have to take them if you don’t want to,” Harry continued, looking nervous. “But you’re, um. You’re it for me, Draco.”

“You’re it for me too,” he managed to reply. Harry smiled, big and full, and plucked the silver ring out of the box, handing it to Draco, who cast a Lumos to see it better.

On the inside there was an engraving. Until after. ♡

Draco looked up questioningly. 

“The rings are just until after the war,” Harry explained easily, pulling a gold chain out of his pocket and threading the gold ring onto it. “Until we can get married for real.”

He closed the chain and put it over his head, tucking the ring into his jumper when it fell onto his chest. He didn’t have to explain that one. Draco wore a multitude of rings, including the Black one Harry had gotten him when they were thirteen, and a plain silver one wouldn’t draw any attention. Harry, however, wore no jewelry and wouldn’t get away with a gold ring without questions.

Draco stared at him. Marriage had always been held over his head as this inevitable thing, this thing that would happen with a woman and something that he had dreaded.

But when Harry said marriage, it was a light at the end of a tunnel. It was something for after, something to live for.

Merlin, Draco loved Harry more than he could handle.

“I love you,” Draco said, choked up, and Harry softened, stepping closer to Draco until his hands were warm on Draco’s arms and he was pressing a kiss to Draco’s nose. He carefully took the ring from Draco and slid it on to Draco’s left middle finger, only one finger away from where another ring would be someday.

“I love you, too,” Harry whispered to him, breath fanning his face. He kissed Draco, sweet and slow, and Draco loved him so much.

He pulled away too early (then again, Draco would have been happy to stay in Harry’s arms, kissing him, forever) and stepped back, going for his invisibility cloak.

“I told you I would be fast,” Harry smirked. Draco huffed and rolled his eyes. 

“Goodbye, Harry,” he replied with a mocking wave in an attempt to reign in his rampant emotions. 

“Bye, Draco.” Harry smiled at him one more time, swinging the cloak over his shoulders, disappearing except for his floating head. “Happy birthday.”

Draco watched him leave, heart full and ring already warm on his finger.

(Sirius died and Draco held him through it, loved him through it, and until after became a motto between them that got them through the worst of times.)

June 5, 1997 - Sixth Year

Draco was tired.

Draco was so tired. All the time. He walked in an exhaustion-fueled daze. He spaced out more than he focused. He ate when he remembered to, which was rare. His grades dove, mostly because he couldn’t stop being tired long enough to actually do the assignments. 

He was pale and shaking and gaunt, he knew. He avoided mirrors, but he still knew. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

The only thing that mattered was black and twisted and evil, and it was branded on him. Forever. Draco would be tired forever.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to sob and rage that it wasn’t fair, that he didn’t deserve any of it, but Draco was too tired. He didn’t have the energy to do anything but lay down and accept it.

Harry cried. He cried for Draco, he said. He felt for Draco. He was constantly angry, the aggressive burn to Draco’s placid numb. Draco watched him push away his friends, push away his teachers and his mentors, all because he was feeling for Draco. Draco wanted to be upset about it, but he was too tired.

Draco had given up on his mission before he had even gotten it. His mother had assured him that she had an escape plan, that they couldn’t use her as leverage, but the thought of her life on the line still sent bile up Draco’s throat. Still, he couldn’t kill Dumbledore. Even ignoring the fact that he didn’t want to, Draco couldn’t. There was no way to.

June came. Draco wanted time to stop, so he wouldn’t have to face the horror of going home knowing that he had failed in something he didn’t want to succeed in and suffer the punishment for it.

He didn’t do anything about it. He was too tired to.

“It’s your birthday,” Harry murmured in his ear. They were in their position, with Draco curled on Harry’s lap, head tucked into his neck. It was night time, and they were meeting in their classroom. 

Draco didn’t reply. He hadn’t known, but it wouldn’t have changed anything.

“I got you something,” Harry continued. He didn’t move. Draco didn’t either. He stared at a small crack running through one of the stones in the wall.

After a moment, a flat box the size of a book levitated out of Harry’s bag. Wordless, wandless magic was a feat a lot of grown wizards didn’t achieve, but, of course, his Harry could do it. Draco was so proud of him. He wished he could say it, but he didn’t have the energy to do more than shift his gaze to the box as it floated towards them.

Harry grabbed it out of the air with the hand that wasn’t resting on Draco’s hip. He opened the box and dropped it to the side, taking out whatever was inside and flipping it over, presenting it to Draco without a word.

A solid silver picture frame. The picture in it was familiar. A seven year old Draco was sitting on his mother’s lap, posing for a picture in the luscious Manor gardens. Draco was squirming a little, and Narcissa had a small, amused smile that she was directing at him. The picture looped after a few seconds.

Draco’s hands were shaking as he reached for it, but that wasn’t new. He took it carefully, tracing his mother’s beautiful face lovingly.

“Narcissa sent it to me,” Harry told him softly. Draco experienced a flicker of confusion. “We’ve been writing to each other since third year, actually.”

That was surprising enough to get him to tilt his head up to look at Harry. Harry was looking down at him, face unreadable but gaze warm.

“I wrote her after you told her about us,” he explained without prompting. “Introducing myself. She was lovely, just like you had always told me she was. We’ve been writing ever since. I told her I needed her help with a gift for you and she was more than happy to help.”

Draco loved Harry. Of course he wrote to Draco’s mother, because he knew how important she was to him and of course he wanted to make a good impression. Harry was perfect.

Draco looked down at the frame. Harry lifted his wand and rested it on the top of it.

“Revelare picturam unus,” he said, and the picture of Draco and Narcissa faded into white. It was quickly replaced with a new picture, which was of a slightly younger Harry, facing the camera with a wide grin and holding a sign that said ‘I LOVE YOU DRACO ❤’. The Harry in the picture waved over the sign, then brought his hand to his lips to blow a kiss. The picture looped.

“What-” Draco croaked in a whisper. He didn’t need to finish. Harry squeezed his hip comfortingly.

“There are thirty pictures.” After three more loops of Harry blowing Draco a kiss the picture faded back to the one of Narcissa and Draco. “This is the default, to avoid suspicion. But, when you’re alone, all you have to do is put your wand on the frame and say ‘Revelare picturam’ and then a number between one and thirty in Latin and it’ll show that picture.”

Draco stared at the frame for another few seconds, drinking in his mother’s face, before actually moving, sitting up in Harry’s lap and staring at him. He gave Draco a small smile, hand steady on his hip. Draco wet his lips a bit and cleared his throat, attempting to rid it of the lump that had formed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, trying to pour all of his feelings into the words. Harry widened his smile, showing a flash of teeth.

“You’re welcome, my love,” he replied. “I don’t know what’s going to happen next year, where we’ll be or what we’ll be doing, but I always want you to have a reminder that there are good things.” Harry brought his free hand to poke Draco lightly in the chest. “You’re a good thing. We’re a good thing.”

“You’re perfect,” Draco said back, because it wasn’t hard to say something so true. Harry’s cheeks pinked, and he continued smiling.

“I love you,” he replied, cupping Draco’s cheek in his palm. “Happy birthday.”

“I love you,” Draco told him, and it was the easiest thing he ever said.

(Those thirty pictures and the thought of the person who gifted them to him were the only things that got Draco through the worst year of his life.)

June 5, 1998 - Seventh Year

Draco woke up warm and comfortable.

Sunlight streamed onto his face, and he had to blink a few times to adjust to it. He stretched out under the heavy duvet, enjoying the feeling until he hit the cold spot on the other side of the bed. Draco frowned over at it, but his confusion didn’t last long. 

A knock on the door, and then Harry was coming in, clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a faded red shirt. He grinned when he caught sight of Draco, no doubt rumpled and sleepy-looking.

“Good morning, love,” he greeted, wasting no time in climbing into the bed and collapsing on top of Draco, who groaned.

“Good morning, Fat Friar,” he wheezed, prompting a bark of laughter from Harry. He did roll off of Draco, landing on his side and tucking his arm under his head so he could look at Draco.

“Do you know what day it is?” Harry asked curiously. Draco furrowed his eyebrows in thought, trying to go over what they had done that week. Just meeting with friends, working on charities, doing interviews. 

“Thursday?” Draco guessed, reasonably confident he was close.

“Friday,” Harry corrected with a grin. “Friday, June 5th.”

Draco let out a breath.

“Oh,” he sighed. “I forgot.”

“I can tell,” Harry said, amused. Draco whacked his arm softly. Harry just kept on grinning at him. “I got you something.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Draco deadpanned, even though a spark of warmth raced through his body. He loved getting gifts, loved getting them from Harry. 

Staring at Harry’s limp body had turned Draco’s world on its head and then shot it just as dead. Harry was Draco’s life, he was Draco’s reason, he was everything. Learning he was alive was euphoric, it was the biggest shock and relief that he would ever experience, and Draco swore that he would appreciate everything about Harry, remember everything, that he would never let a second go by when he wasn’t aware of and loving Harry.

“Shush,” Harry laughed. He didn’t do anything, though, didn’t pull out any box or grab Draco’s hand to pull him somewhere. Just settled and stared at him, so adoring it made Draco flush slightly. He smiled at it, then breathed deeply. “This one has a little speech to go with it, if that’s okay.”

“Don’t they all have a speech?” Draco teased, ignoring the ball of emotion in his chest.

“The cloak pin didn’t,” Harry pointed out. “Or the Lemonheads.”

“Ah, the Lemonheads,” Draco reminisced, thinking back to their eleven year old selves. “That was the best one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry told him seriously, ruining it a moment later by snickering. Draco reached over and grabbed his hand. 

“Well, get on with it,” he prompted. “I’m waiting for a speech.”

Harry smiled, and said nothing for a moment.

“I knew I was going to die,” he finally said. Draco stopped breathing. “I thought it during our fifth year and knew it during our sixth, and I accepted it in our seventh. I knew I would have to sacrifice myself for the world and I- I couldn’t say goodbye to you, Draco, because if I did I wouldn’t have gone through with it.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hand, his smile distinctly more watery than before. “I would have given up it all for you, Draco. But I did it, and then I came back to you. For you. I live for you, I do everything for you, because you are everything, Draco, you’re everything to me. You’re it for me.”

Harry breathed in shakily, but he was grinning so wide and Draco knew what was happening because he remembered those words, and that knowledge was a Lumos in his chest. 

“I know we’ve technically been engaged since we were fifteen, but I figured we could make it a bit more official,” he continued, and then he was reaching into his pocket and pulling out a little black box that he flipped open to reveal a beautiful ring with twisting silver lines and a smooth black onyx in the center. Draco recognized it immediately as a Black heirloom.

“So, Draco Malfoy, would you do me the unbelievable honor of becoming your husband?” Harry asked. A tear slipped down the bridge of Draco’s nose, and another one down his temple, because he was still laying down sideways in his fucking bed and it was his birthday and Harry was proposing with a Black heirloom and Draco loved him, loved him so much.

“Yes,” he sobbed, then cleared his throat immediately with a little laugh, which Harry mirrored. “Yeah, yes, of course, Harry.”

Harry grinned so wide it looked like it hurt. He lifted Draco’s hand up to slide on the ring, which fit perfectly, of course. Draco couldn’t stop looking between it and Harry, couldn’t stop thinking about how happy he was. He felt like he could burst with it. 

He lunged forward, tackling Harry onto his back and laughing with him. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together and breathing in, staring into his fiancé’s gorgeous green eyes.

“I love you so much,” Harry whispered, warm air ghosting across Draco’s lips. 

“I love you, too, Harry.” Draco pressed forward into a kiss that warmed him from his hair to his toes. Harry broke away after a moment to give him a blinding smile.

“Happy birthday, Draco,” he said, kissing him again.

Draco had never been happier in his life.

(‘Happily ever after’ had never been in the cards for Draco, but he managed to achieve it anyway.)

----------

long authors note incoming because this is most likely the only hp fic i will ever write and i need to get some thoughts out. skip to the end for my goodbye.

i characterize draco in one word: cat.

they both: hiss when threatened or angry but know when to run away, are protective of those in their fold but are also fiercely independent, always feel like they're the best one in the room, long suffering, sleepy in the sun (manor? cold. slytherin? cold. bed? warm. warm=sleep), love languages are gift receiving and physical touch, love giving languages are gift giving and quality time, vain and pretty, picky eater, whine and complain, THE LIST GOES ON

harry is a flustered bumbling mess in front of people but in private he is the biggest, smoothest romantic because he has spent his whole life thinking of what he wants in a relationship and my god he is going to make his perfect.

narcissa adopts harry immediately he is thirteen and cannot spell to save his life but he is nice and respectful and draco waxes poetic about him while still managing to spin it like he hates him, they are perfect together.

everyone is shocked when they learn of the relationship but they are even more shocked when they witness their interactions because they are so clearly in love how the fuck did they manage to hide it all these years.

i have more but i will spare yall. anyway.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY FABLE I LOVE YOU AND I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY AND ENJOYED THIS I FINISHED IT THREE MINUTES AGO :DD

check me out on ao3 (@thepenguinclub) have a good rest of your week and i love you. bye.

[thepenguinclub]

Teacher Virgil Masterpost

The series on ao3!

These are in the order they were posted, not chronologically! Chronological order isn't important, though, none of the parts reference each other and all can be read as standalones.

The tag for this series is #penguin writes teacher verse.

The Junior Lit. and Lang. Class of Mr. Sanders and What Happens in It

Fluff with a sprinkling of angst. Establishing Virgil's character, introducing his relationship to the class and starting his relationship with his soulmates! Romantic LMP, platonic Virgil and everyone (including a butt-ton of ocs).

AO3 ~ Tumblr

a cautionary tale

Follows Kane, a trouble maker, through his redemption arc. Virgil helps it along a bit (read: a lot).

AO3 ~ Tumblr

not like in the movies

Danni is bullied. Which is fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Virgil disagrees, and does his best to help. Danni also has a really, really great boyfriend.

AO3 ~ Tumblr

[thepenguinclub]

floriography

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

virgil/mental health, brotherly virgil & remy, background remile, virgil & emile, virgil & janus, platonic dlamp, soulmates, lots of flowers, mental health struggles, self harm, PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS

word count: 11,104

Summary:

It was the next day when he felt the familiar itch, and instead of looking for something sharp, he looked at the box. He pulled out a few brushes and a few colors and sat, staring at them.

He stared for five minutes before the itch became unbearable and he sighed, reaching out.

He painted a vine of pink and white flowers curling around his left forearm, and when he was done, the itch was gone.

He started doing it more and more, until he found himself painting on his skin even without the itch that had first motivated him to do so. Remy was elated, and complemented every piece of artwork he could see.

Virgil’s soulmates were confused, at first. He had told himself he wasn’t going to read their reactions, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t think he could bring himself to keep doing it if they hated it.

They didn’t.

---

Virgil, on starting at rock bottom and working his way up. Flowers are also important.

————

hello, all. just gotta start off by saying that i am extremely proud of this. it's the longest individual work i've written and i think i did a pretty good job, if i do say so myself. i hope y'all like it.

next, thank you to @sunbrightshadows for helping me through this process and being the best beta i could ever ask for, and to thein273 for providing some insight on the characters.

a few notes:

1. heed the warnings. please. if i missed anything, let me know.

2. anything that doesn’t seem explained is most likely explained later. The flower meanings should be explained by the word or few words directly before/after the flower name, but anything that was unclear was added in italics next to the parentheses.

3. also, homophobia does exist in this universe. soulmates are generally expected by society to get married if they’re the opposite sex and be best friends if they’re the same sex. (obviously sibling bonds are not included in this, society does not encourage incest).

enjoy!

WARNINGS: purposeful self harm (cutting), scars, depression, anxiety, abandonment, child neglect, eating and drinking (no alcohol), feelings of self-loathing, cruel words said in anger (situationally cruel, nothing inappropriate or offensive), passing mention of murder and rape (nothing actually happens, just virgil being a little mean and sarcastically paranoid)

stay safe.

————

The bond is formed on everyone’s fifth birthday.

Whether the other person has had their fifth birthday already or not is up to chance and the powers of the universe, so it isn’t uncommon for a five year old to sit with empty skin for a while. 

Virgil wasn’t so lucky.

On his fifth birthday he woke up early and excited, eagerly checking his arms for signs of writing that he hadn’t put there. Sure enough, light blue doodles and yellow scribbles greeted him. He ran down the stairs to show his parents.

That was a mistake.

More than one soulmate was unheard of. Documented as rare cases and generally shunned by the world, and, freshly five years old, Virgil learned that lesson harshly. His parents brought him to a doctor, showed him the two different colored writings, and were told the verdict. After that, things changed. Quickly.

His mom and dad were called away on more and more business trips, especially once the indigo, green and red writing showed up too. When the clock struck midnight on December 19th, the night of Virgil’s tenth birthday, he hadn’t seen his parents in a year, always gone on some business or another.

Virgil wasn’t a dumb child. He knew what that meant, and he knew that he was the reason his parents left, and he knew that what he had was bad.

Remy was Virgil’s older brother by almost ten years. He was fifteen when Virgil turned five, and he didn’t like his parents very much to begin with. Remy liked to do what he wanted to do, and his parents were very caught up in their own image. Even before they left, they were neglectful.

Remy was the one who raised Virgil. The kindest thing their parents did was continuously send them money, because it couldn’t get out that they disowned their own children, so Remy had all the assets he needed to give Virgil a relatively lavish childhood.

Still. Virgil was greatly affected by his parents' abandonment. He was riddled with chronic anxiety, with the constant thrum of depression in his veins. He didn’t make friends, didn’t do well in school, and spent his time locked in his room. The only thing Virgil did that meant anything to him was draw.

He had a sketchbook, one Remy had bought him ages ago. He filled it with sketches, doodles, figures and landscapes. Anything that came to mind, he drew. 

When Virgil was thirteen he looked at a razor one day and thought ‘fuck it’. 

It was almost addictive, to him. It gave him something to focus on, something to take his misery out on, and it only seemed to work in his favor that what he happened to be taking such feelings out on was himself. Lines, neat and even, grew into the skin of his thighs, hidden by the long pants he was never without. He knew it was wrong, and that it wasn’t good for him, but he wasn’t doing anything he didn’t deserve, and no one had to know. Not even his soulmates.

See, his soulmates were a whole can of worms he preferred to keep locked up in a box at the bottom of the ocean. There were five of them, which was five too many, in his opinion. They talked to each other constantly, and Virgil was a silent observer, trying his hardest not to read their conversations but having no choice. It was one of the things he hated about himself (one of the many, many things).

He had never written them. Not even when he was a kid. His parents forbid it, and once they left he was too deep into the throes of his anxiety to even try. It had been too long, he thought. It would be creepy, learning there was someone else basically eavesdropping on all the conversations you had in private. Then added on insecurity. What if they didn’t like him? He was a miserable, jagged person with so many problems it filled his too big, empty house. They would hate him.

Remy knew, of course, and tried to help, but he was woefully unequipped to handle such an issue, and when it became clear that every attempted conversation about the topic was going to end in an argument, he eventually stopped trying.

However, all of that, everything, came to a head a few weeks before Virgil’s seventeenth birthday. It was completely an accident, what Virgil had been referring to as ‘The Incident’, the one that had happened a month beforehand. The one when Remy had accidentally walked in on Virgil and seen the freshly weeping wounds, along with countless old scars.

They had talked, and Virgil had felt so defeated, so at his worst, he agreed to try and stop cutting himself. Just for Remy, who, despite being twenty-seven, was still living with Virgil, at least until he went to college.

It hadn’t been going very well, to say the least. Virgil would get an itch under his skin that needed to be let out, one that had him reaching for the first sharp object he could find, and then he’d be right back where he started.

So, it was a few weeks before Virgil’s seventeenth birthday, and things were looking down. 

“I got you something,” Remy said apropos of nothing, walking into the living room with a box in his hands. Virgil had been making his food run of the day and was trying to stealthily creep back to his room, but, seeing that he had been caught, sank down onto the couch reluctantly. 

“Why?” he asked, suspicious. Remy dropped the box onto the coffee table in front of Virgil, and sat on the couch beside him. 

“It’s almost your birthday,” he explained casually. “And I saw them and thought you might like them.”

Virgil reached over to the box and pulled it onto his lap. It was fairly light. He poked it experimentally.

“It’s not gonna blow up.” Remy rolled his eyes. Virgil glanced at him out of the corner of his eye before cautiously lifting the lid off and setting it to the side.

“It’s… paint,” he said blankly. Inside the box were at least two dozen medium-sized tubes of paint in a variety of colors and paintbrushes of various shapes and sizes.

“It’s skin-safe paint,” Remy corrected carefully. Virgil narrowed his eyes, still looking into the box. Remy continued. “I know you’ve been… struggling, and I thought that, maybe, instead of doing what you had been doing, you could do this.”

“What exactly is ‘this’?” Virgil asked, looking up. Remy gestured to the paint.

“You’re an amazing artist, Virge.” He shrugged. “You could do art. Paint on yourself whenever you get that urge. It might not help,” he added, “but it couldn’t hurt.”

Virgil was silent.

“You realize this would transfer to my soulmates, right?” he finally asked. Remy cringed.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“I don’t want to talk to them,” Virgil interrupted definitively. He went to put the lid back on the box.

“You don’t have to talk to them,” Remy said, stopping his movements. “You don’t have to even acknowledge them. They don’t have a reign over your body, Virgil, you’re allowed to paint on it without their approval. Just… do it in places they could cover up, I guess,” he finished.

Virgil slowly put the lid back down. He thought about it. He thought about Remy, and how much he had sacrificed for Virgil, and how hard he was trying to be helpful without being overbearing. About how much he cared.

“Okay,” Virgil finally said quietly. “I’ll try it out.”

Remy’s smile looked relieved, and Virgil tried to ignore the guilt churning in his stomach.

It was the next day when he felt the familiar itch, and instead of looking for something sharp, he looked at the box. He pulled out a few brushes and a few colors and sat, staring at them.

He stared for five minutes before the itch became unbearable and he sighed, reaching out.

He painted a vine of pink and white flowers curling around his left forearm, and when he was done, the itch was gone.

He started doing it more and more, until he found himself painting on his skin even without the itch that had first motivated him to do so. Remy was elated, and complemented every piece of artwork he could see. 

Virgil’s soulmates were confused, at first. He had told himself he wasn’t going to read their reactions, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t think he could bring himself to keep doing it if they hated it.

They didn’t, though. Once they got past the initial confusion over who was actually painting, conferring with each other below the vines until Logic had suggested the idea that there was an entirely different, previously unknown member of their bond, they had loved the painting. 

As Virgil painted more and more, they seemed to get more and more used to the idea of a sixth person, often attempting to prompt him into responding. He never did, sticking to painting whatever he felt whenever he felt like it and essentially ignoring all of their messages.

He read them all, though, and every time one or more of them left a kind review next to one of his paintings he smiled for the next fifteen minutes. Remy noticed, and all of a sudden there was a lot more smiling in their house.

Virgil went to a small school for art and art history. He ran up the money that their parents had stopped sending as soon as he had turned eighteen with tuition, so when he graduated he moved into a small two bedroom apartment in New York City with Remy, who was working as both a barista and at a small startup business that provided tailored help to those with disabilities in the workforce, and Remy’s boyfriend Emile, his soulmate, who was working as a therapist. 

Emile made a lot of money, actually, but the majority of it went to the hospital bills for both his ailing mother and his little sister, who was born with a chronic illness that kept her in a bed for the majority of her life, so they were scraping by as a group as best as they could, keeping one eye to the future and one eye on their bank accounts.

Virgil found work at an art museum, acting as a tour guide, and selling his paintings online. It wasn’t until he had been working there for a few years that one of his coworkers had been promoted to the manager and offered to give him a section of the gift shop to sell some of his work as long as the museum got a cut of the profit. Virgil, obviously, agreed, and his bedroom was slowly but surely absorbed by painter's tarp and half-finished canvases until the only way it resembled a bedroom was the small twin bed stuffed in a corner and a dresser that looked like a paint palette threw up over it.

There were good days and bad days. 

Sometimes Virgil sold three paintings and made more money than he previously would have made in a month, and sometimes on those days he would paint a field of green clovers and simple yellow wood sorrel flowers on his shoulder to signify his joy, or maybe a little yellow and white pod of coronella for his success, and whenever he did his soulmates would always comment on how beautiful and nice it was. 

Sometimes painting wasn’t enough, and Virgil had to lock himself in the bathroom and breathe through the itch under his skin, and sometimes he would cover himself from neck to waist in aggressively messy purple hyacinths, aconite and black roses, because he hated himself and didn’t see a light in the murky throws of his depression. His soulmates learned not to comment on those.

It was on one such day that he came home from work in a mood of insecurity (foxglove) and anxiety (hellebore), dropping his bag on the ground and immediately falling face-first onto the couch. Emile didn’t look up from where he was sitting on the end of the couch, going through some papers. He patted Virgil’s head, which had landed next to his thigh.

“Bad day?” he asked casually, shuffling the papers slightly. Virgil grunted into the couch cushions. He spoke, but it was muffled. Emile put the papers on the coffee table and turned to face him better.

“Sorry, honey, I don’t speak couch-cushion.”

Virgil groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows with a huff, blowing his purple bangs out of his eyes. Emile had matching pink tips, with Remy sporting a rainbow undercut.

“I don’t know how you put up with me,” he said. “You’re living with your boyfriend and his little brother, that has to be annoying.”

Emile furrowed his eyebrows and patted his lap. Virgil flopped down again, but scooted forward so his head was resting on Emile’s thighs, turning onto his back so he was looking up at him. Emile started running his fingers through Virgil’s hair.

“I don’t “put up with you,”” he replied, doing air quotes around the words. “Virgil, I love living with you. I love you just as much as I love Remy, you’re just as much my family as he is.”

Virgil frowned.

“Why?” he asked quietly. “I’m not very easy to love.”

“If I did everything in my life just because it was easy, I would be at a job I don’t like in a city I didn’t want to live in with no family and no loved ones,” Emile stated bluntly. “You have to work for what you want, and what’s good for you. And your love is good for me, Virgil, despite what your brain is telling you.” He ruffled Virgil’s hair and smiled down at him. “I am more than happy to work for it.”

That was a lot of positive emotion (pink hyacinth), something Virgil wasn’t overly used to, so he grunted and turned his head into Emile’s stomach, wrapping his arms around his torso in a loose hug. Emile let out a breathy laugh and rubbed his back. Virgil pulled away a little bit.

“I love you, too,” he mumbled, so quiet he wasn’t even sure if Emile heard it. It didn’t take a second for Emile to squeeze him closer, though, so he was pretty confident the message (yellow rose) (platonic love) was received.

A few days later, when Virgil was in a much better mood and sporting a curiosity (sycamore) leaf next to one of Logic’s excited lectures and carefully painted pride (hundred leaved rose) under Prince and Duke’s newest news of performances, he walked up to Emile confidently (hepatica). Well, semi-confidently, but that was as much as Virgil ever got.

“What’s your favorite thing?” he asked, causing Emile to look up from where he was typing on his laptop. He tilted his head slightly, pushing up his glasses.

“I don’t know if I have one,” he answered slowly, “I like a lot of things.”

“Yeah, but if you had to choose something.” Virgil pulled out one of the other chairs at the table and sat down heavily. “The first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word ‘favorite.’”

Emile considered the question for a second, then, oddly, started to look embarrassed (downturned pink lilium).

“Well, I- I’ve never actually told anyone this before,” he started, and Virgil leaned forward attentively, “but my favorite animal is actually a unicorn.”

“Really?” Virgil asked. He had always heard Emile say his favorite animal was a cat, and told Emile so. He laughed self-consciously.

“That’s what I told people,” he explained. “Unicorns have been my favorite animal since I was a little kid, but I knew my dad wouldn’t be very happy with that answer, and he was already concerned I was ‘turning gay,’” he stopped to roll his eyes, and Virgil snorted in amusement (hybrid delphinium), “so I never told anyone.”

“So when you needed to choose a fake favorite animal,” Virgil replied slowly, smiling “you chose the one animal you were allergic to?”

Emile hit his arm lightly and laughed.

“I was six and it was the first one I thought of!” he defended. “And I wasn’t lying, I do like cats!”

“Alright, alright,” Virgil put his hands up in surrender (peace lilies). 

“Any reason for the question?” Emile asked after a second. Virgil shook his head.

“No reason at all,” he lied (red dahlia).

Two weeks later, Emile found a 17 by 24 inch painting of a white unicorn with a pink mane and tail running through a field of yellow agrimonia (gratitude), yellow roses (platonic love), chinese chrysanthemum (cheerfulness in adversity) and dots of purple bluebells (kindness).

At work, Virgil had a routine. He took the first two tours, and then he worked in the gift shop until his lunch break. He repeated the process until he was off for the day at seven, and he liked it that way. Too many tours and he got burned out from all the talking, too little tours and he got stir crazy in the gift shop.

It was an hour before his lunch break on an otherwise uneventful Thursday that a woman came up to the counter with nothing in her basket. Virgil slapped his customer service face on.

“Excuse me,” the woman started, “I was wondering about the paintings on display over there?”

She pointed across the store to the small gallery of Virgil’s paintings. There was a sign in the middle, saying that they were for sale and to ask the cashier for more information.

“They’re by a local artist,” Virgil said kindly, having learned that stating he was the artist right out of the gate was not the best marketing strategy, “and all are for sale, I’d be happy to help you with anything you’d like. Is there one you had in mind?”

“Well, they’re all amazing,” she gushed, and Virgil’s smile became a lot less fake, a warm feeling blooming in his chest (lathyrus) (pleasure), “but I absolutely love the orange one in the middle on the right.”

The painting she was referring to was one depicting a dark forest clearing with figures of orange and yellow fire dancing around a small fountain. It had been a spur-of-the-moment (the moment being 2:46am) work after a weird dream, and Virgil wasn’t actually the biggest fan of it, but he was glad someone else was.

He told the woman as much, and she smiled brightly. Virgil came out from behind the cashier desk and gestured for her to follow him, talking as he walked. t

“That is an eighteen by twenty-four inch canvas, so frames should be relatively easy to get,” he said. Coming up to the painting, he glanced at the small tag hanging off of one of the corners. He turned to the lady. “It’s nine hundred dollars not including shipping, but if you would like we can ship it at a seventy percent discount with free packaging.” Virgil finished his spiel with a little flourish at the painting, and the woman laughed.

“That sounds perfect,” she replied. “I would love the shipping option, please.”

Virgil nodded, and directed her to the other cashier on duty while he took the painting down and started to package it. The woman came back after a few minutes and answered the questions he had about the shipping, then asked one of her own.

“Who’s the artist that does these?” She swept an arm along the wall. “I’d love to get in contact with them for other pieces!”

Virgil glanced up from where he was carefully wrapping the painting in bubble wrap, before he looked back down. 

“That would be me,” he answered. “Virgil Storm, at your service.”

“Oh, wow!” She placed her purse down on a table. “You’re very skilled, do you take commissions?”

“I do.” He finished taping the bubble wrap, taped the paper he had written the information on to the front, and set the painting aside. “I’d be happy to work with you on anything you’d like. Here,” he pulled a white card with dark purple text on it, “is my business card. Either email, text, or give me a call and we can figure out what I can do for you.”

The woman took the card carefully, putting it in her purse.

“Thank you!” she said kindly (yellow lilies). They exchanged goodbyes, and, soon, Virgil was left alone. He wandered back to the cashier desk, but the gift shop was practically deserted, it being around lunchtime, so, to entertain himself, Virgil reached into his bag.

He pulled out a little travel-sized paint palette and brush, popping open the lid for the pink, yellow, and green paints as well as grabbing a tissue to wipe excess paint on. He rolled up his left sleeve and started to paint a simple pink flower with a yellow center and green stem, a cosmos flower (peacefulness). Prince drew a little red heart with exclamation points next to some of the finished flowers as Virgil continued to paint, and Snake left a simple ‘cute,’ which Virgil had learned was a genuine compliment and not him being sarcastic.

Virgil didn’t know much about his soulmates. Most identifiable information like names, addresses and phone numbers didn’t transfer over the bond, so they had all chosen fake names to make everything easier. Logic because he was smart, Heart because he was sweet, Prince because he was dramatic, Duke because he was even more dramatic, and Snake because he was sarcastic and liked snakes. Virgil hadn’t chosen one, seeing as he had never actually written to his soulmates, but they had taken to calling him by the names of flowers. 

They each had colors, too. With so many people in one bond, it became confusing quickly when it came to who wrote what, so they had all chosen colors early in life to be more identifiable. Red for Prince, yellow for Snake, green for Duke, light blue for Heart, dark blue for Logic. Virgil sometimes found himself contemplating what color he would use if he ever wrote to them. He always ended up leaning towards purple.

He knew that Prince and Duke were twins, Snake and Logic were roommates, and Heart lived with his mom but made frequent trips to the other’s apartments. He knew that Prince was an actor and Duke was a dancer. He knew Snake was a lawyer, and Logic was a professor at a college, and Heart was a preschool teacher and volunteered at an animal shelter. He knew they were extremely close.

Virgil floated on the edges.

He knew they cared for him, they had told him so enough times, but he knew that they knew next to nothing about him. They knew he painted. They knew he liked flowers. That was it. They didn’t even know his pronouns, always using neutral ones. 

Which, that should have been easy, right? It should have been easy to just tell them that. He was a cis man, it should have been easy to write a quick ‘he/him’ somewhere, but no. He couldn’t bring himself to do so. Despite being in a league's better mental state than he had ever been, he still hovered a pen over his skin, never touching, until he sighed and placed it down. Sometimes he threw it.

But Emile had been telling him he needed to be nicer to himself, to talk about all the facts, which Remy had wholeheartedly supported, so it beared mentioning that he tried.

He painted masculinity (sweet William) next to gender neutral pronouns. He painted gratitude (eustoma) next to their compliments. He tried, and they didn’t understand, but that was okay. He was perfectly content to paint flowers for them, as long as it made them happy (dandelions). He was fine (fungus) (resilience, loneliness, solitude).

“Excuse me,” a voice said, causing Virgil to jump and snap his head up. There was a young woman, probably a little younger than him, with a man around the same age slightly behind her.

Virgil straightened up, setting his paintbrush on the tissue.

“How can I help you?” he asked in his customer service voice, slipping back into the persona swiftly.

“Those flowers are beautiful,” the woman replied, gesturing to the fresh painting on his forearm. Virgil felt the intense urge to pull his sleeve down to cover it, but he had gotten wet paint on the inside of clothes before, and it was Not Pleasant, so he restrained himself.

“Thank you,” he said politely. He never knew how to react to compliments. Usually he either ended up being really awkward about it or turning so red he resembled a blush colored flower more than a blushing person.

“Would you do one on me?” the woman continued excitedly. Virgil paused.

“Sorry,” he spoke after a moment, “what?”

“Would you paint a flower on me?” she repeated in the same excited tone. The man behind her rolled his eyes fondly. “Like facepaint, although I was thinking on my arm. It’s gorgeous, and it would transfer over to Lenny,” she gestured to the man behind her, and he waved, “which would just be perfect because we’re on our honeymoon and the pictures would be amazing!”

Virgil blinked blankly after the woman stopped talking, processing.

“I would pay you,” she added after a moment of him standing there, and it was probably not a good thing that he immediately spurred into action with those words, but also money was a great motivator and he would die on that hill.

“I mean- sure?” he tried, sounding less like he was agreeing to something and more like he was five and asking a stranger to help find his parents who he lost in Target while trying not to cry.

That didn’t seem to phase the woman, though, who clapped her hands excitedly. 

“Great! My name’s Penelope, by the way.” She handed her purse to Lenny, who took it automatically. Penelope turned back to Virgil, a megawatt smile on display. Virgil’s face hurt just looking at it. 

“Uh, I guess I’ll get some chairs,” Virgil stammered, mentally trying to figure out what the hell he was doing. “Meet me over by those paintings?” he asked, pointing over to his gallery, which had the most floor space available. Penelope nodded, brunette curls bouncing, before turning on her heel and heading the way he pointed, Lenny following obediently.

Five minutes later, Virgil was sitting on a chair with Penelope perched on the other one, facing him. He had his paint palette resting on a stool next to him, brush in hand. He thanked any gods he could think of that it was a really slow day today.

“So, what flower would you like?” he asked as Penelope showed him the spot on her upper arm that she wanted it on.

“Which do you recommend?” she asked in return.

“Well, it depends if you’re going for a specific look or a meaning,” he answered. Penelope looked up at Lenny, who was standing behind her. Virgil had offered him a chair, but he had insisted he didn’t need one, planning on looking around the gift shop.

“What do you think, babe?” She smiled up at him, and he smiled back, pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Maybe one that shows we’re newlyweds?” he offered shyly, and Virgil took a second to admire their completely opposing personalities that somehow fit together perfectly. They seemed to have a good relationship.

“Oh, that’s a great idea!” Penelope exclaimed, looking back at Virgil. “Are there flowers that mean that?”

“Of course,” Virgil replies instantly. “There are flowers for almost anything. Here.” He set his paintbrush down and pulled out his phone, typing in a few words before turning it to show the couple. 

“These are peonies,” he explained as Penelope gently took his phone and started scrolling through the pictures, Lenny leaning over to watch over her shoulder. “Generally they symbolize love, happiness, wealth, and romance, but the different colors mean specific things. White is used in wedding bouquets, but it isn’t actually related to weddings symbolically. Light pink, however, symbolizes romance, luck and prosperity. Hot pink and red are more intense feelings of love, but yellow is for new beginnings and fresh starts.” He paused to take a breath, flushing slightly when he realized he’d been rambling. He cleared his throat uncertainly (daffodil). “Anyway, yeah,” he finished lamely.

Penelope looked up at him brightly.

“That’s amazing that you know that off the top of your head!” she said enthusiastically, handing him his phone back. He tucked it into his pocket. “I think we’d like the light pink, right honey?”

Lenny nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

Penelope settled into her seat, and, with an assurance she would be fine if he left, Lenny disappeared to wander around the store. Virgil adjusted his chair so he was on Penelope’s side, her arm a blank canvas in front of him. He didn’t paint peonies very often, never really identifying with the meanings, but he did paint some flowers just for fun, and their petals were a nice challenge, so he wasn’t going in completely blind.

With a quiet warning that the paint would be cold, he started, losing himself in the familiar process. He didn’t notice when his lunch break came and went, until he was brought back to the world by the finished painting in front of him. Three light pink peonies took up Penelope’s upper arm, white baby’s breath (everlasting love) interspersed with the leaves and blush colored petals.

Virgil straightened and arched his back with a slight groan, spine popping loudly. He was getting too old to sit hunched over for so long. He glanced around quickly, noticing that the other cashier had switched out, but they were reading a new book than they were yesterday, which meant there had hardly been anyone in. 

Penelope put her phone down, turning to him in anticipation. 

“Are you done?” she asked politely, and, when Virgil replied in the positive, she quickly called Lenny over. Penelope stood up to meet him, and they both admired the flowers on each other with matching expressions of awe.

“These are amazing,” Lenny murmured quietly, tracing his fingers lightly over the flowers on Penelope’s arm. It was the type of statement that didn’t require an answer, so Virgil just left them to each other, cleaning up his paint. His poor little travel palette wasn’t built for such detailed pieces and was on its last legs, and Virgil made a note to grab a new one when he got home. 

For now, he clicked the lids shut and wiped his brush off, walking to throw the tissues he had used away. When he got back, it was to Penelope accosting him cheerily, shoving money into his hands.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She backed away from him slightly, leaving him flustered and clutching the bills so tightly he heard them crinkle. “You’ve made our honeymoon that much better, and that’s saying something!”

She laughed brightly, and Lenny chuckled quietly, grabbing her hand and intertwining their fingers. (light pink rose) (joy of life, youth, romance)

“Happy to be of service,” Virgil said, smiling slightly, and it was the most genuine one he had had all day. Penelope was a bit much, but he was glad he did something to make them so happy.

“We have lunch reservations,” Lenny muttered to Penelope quietly.

“Oh!” she spun around, grabbing her purse. “You’re right!” She turned back around again, hair settling around her shoulders in a way that looked almost unnatural. “Thank you so much…” she trailed off expectantly, and Virgil stared at her for a moment before he realized what she was asking.

“Oh, uh, Virgil,” he stuttered. “My name’s Virgil, sorry.”

“Thank you so much, Virgil,” Penelope said without missing a beat, her smile softening.

“It’s no problem,” he replied, giving another small smile. 

She and Lenny walked out the door hand in hand, and it was only then that Virgil dared to look at the cash in his hand.

“Oh my god…” he whispered to himself, feeling like his eyes were bugging out of his head.

The door to their apartment cracked against the wall with a bang, and Virgil heard someone (Remy) swear loudly. He slammed the door behind him and sped into the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch while Emile and Remy took a second to hastily back away from the heart attacks that had just been triggered.

“What is wrong with you?” Remy whisper-shouted, hand on his chest.

“I sold a painting today,” Virgil answered, practically vibrating (rhododendron) (energy). He set his bag heavily on the floor in front of him, pulling eight-hundred and ten bucks out of his backpack and setting it on the table. The museum took ten percent of his earnings from selling the paintings, so that was what he made out of nine hundred. He preferred to get the money in cash, so at the end of any day he sold a painting he took the money from the museum’s store of money. His manager was well aware of this, and had no problem with it.

“That’s great, Virge,” Emile encouraged with a smile (goldenrod). Remy narrowed his eyes suspiciously (mint).

“And?” he asked. Virgil vibrated more. (rhododendron!)

“This lady saw me painting on myself and asked for me to paint on her,” he said quickly. “And she was really nice so I painted some peonies for her and her soulmate.”

“Did she pay you?” Emile asked, seeing where the story was going. Virgil nodded jerkily, and pulled another few bills out of his backpack. Three Benjamin Franklins stared up at them.

“Three hundred dollars?” Remy screeched, diving for the money as if to inspect if it was real.

“She paid me three hundred dollars to spend two hours painting on her arm!” Virgil shouted back, sounding panicked. “By the time I realized how much she paid me they were gone!”

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Emile soothed, holding his hands out. “Deep breaths.”

Simultaneously, both Remy and Virgil sucked in breaths loudly. Emile huffed a laugh out.

“Virgil,” he addressed calmly (lavender), “did she ever indicate that she felt like she had paid too much?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Did she seem generous when you talked with her?”

After a second, he nodded.

“Then I don’t think there’s a problem here,” Emile finished confidently (fern). “She probably thought you were sweet, thought your art was worth a lot, which it is, and felt comfortable spending that much money.”

Virgil clenched his hands into fists.

“That’s a lot of money,” he whispered, staring at the cash on the table.

“Which,” Emile put an arm around Virgil’s shoulders, tugging him in for a hug, “is a good thing. Right, Remy?”

“Right, yeah,” Remy replied absentmindedly, holding the money up to the light and squinting. He suddenly turned to look at them quickly, possibly sustaining whiplash in the process. He grinned (clematis) (mischief). “How much coffee do you think I could buy with eleven hundred dollars?”

Virgil was still worried (christmas rose) and a little shaken up about the money, but he walked into work the next day armed with a new palette and positive reinforcement from Emile and Remy, so he wasn’t too upset.

Which was good, because if he was any more anxious (foxglove) he probably would have fainted when people started asking for him.

Apparently, Penelope and Lenny had gone out the previous night and recommended a bus full of people to hit Virgil up for some flower paintings, providing eager instructions to where they could find him. 

And his boss, the jerk, had only found this predicament amusing, as well as seen a golden opportunity for more money.

So there Virgil was, a full sized palette on his lap, a sign reading “Skin-safe paintings! Seniors and Children  - $15  Adults - $20” propped up next to him, and a line seventeen people long, wrapping around the store.

Still, by the end of the day Virgil had made more money than he usually did in a week, and sold three paintings. Three! In one day!

So the trend continued. Every day, Virgil gave one tour, set everything up, and painted on people for the rest of the day. He still did mostly flowers, regaling people with as many symbolisms as they were willing to listen to, but he moved on to simple requests as well, a dinosaur here, a sunset there. 

When he really thought about it, the only downside was that he didn’t get to paint on himself much anymore. He spent all day painting on other people, and then spent his free time painting on canvases, because more work meant more exposure meant that Virgil had a backlog of five different commissions he needed to complete before he could even think about painting anything for fun.

But he still loved art, and he loved seeing the happy faces that his art created, and he was making enough money for Remy to be able to move from a full-time barista to only part-time, so he could focus on his business. He was making enough money for the worry lines on Emile’s forehead to ease, not having to balance hospital bills and utilities and food on his paycheck. He was making enough money to seriously consider buying the worn-down greenhouse on the roof from the owner of the apartment building and turning it into an actual studio, instead of working in his cramped bedroom. 

Which meant that painting on himself was at the back of his thoughts. He still kept up with his soulmates, of course, painting little amaryllis flowers (pride) next to announcements, drawing bells of Ireland (luck) on days when there was a big event happening. And, on a particularly good day, he even painted ambrosia (love is reciprocated) next to Heart’s nightly “I love you!”

They still didn’t understand. Virgil didn’t think they ever would. He had never wanted to talk to his soulmates, never wanted to be more than little doodles in the corners of the pages of their lives, but-

But now he did, a little. He wanted them to know him, to talk with him like they talked to each other, like he tried to talk to them. He wanted them to be happy for him, for how his life was finally getting really really good. He wanted them to laugh about how Remy was so scared to buy Emile a ring that Virgil had to do it for him. He wanted them to hold him when things got too overwhelming. He wanted them to be there, be in his life, and it scared him. (aspen)

Because when it came down to it, it was Virgil who was keeping them at arm's length. He was the one that had never taken those first steps, and he was the one that felt like he never would. Despite the fact that he tried to talk to them, he wasn’t doing it in a way they could understand him, and that was his fault, not theirs. 

So what did he do, now that he finally thought that maybe he could take those first steps? It was up to him and him alone to make that move, and it was something he didn’t know how to handle. 

Lucky for him, he didn’t end up having to.

“Thank you!” the little boy said cheerily, waving. He had a manatee on his forearm, something he had, according to his father, been excited (red and yellow roses) about getting all week.

“Of course,” Virgil replied with a smile, waving back. “Come back any time.”

He plopped his brush into his paint glass, replacing it with another one that had been soaking for a while. He wiped it off on the rag draped across his leg, cracked a few of his joints, and glanced up at the next person in line.

“You can take a seat here.” He waved a hand at the seat, seeing them sit down delicately in his peripheral. He was focused on getting the leftover paint out of his brush, and he talked as he worked. “Do you have an idea of what you would like?”

“I was hoping for a flower,” the person responded after a moment. Their voice was masculine and even, sounding elegant.

“Do you know which one?” Virgil asked, finishing up with his brush and finally meeting the person’s gaze, adjusting himself in his chair.

They were attractive, definitely. Brown hair with blonde highlights, skin just a shade darker than a natural tan, piercing heterochromatic eyes, one a deep brown and the other a lighter version, shot with something that looked like gold in the sunlight shining through the windows.

“I was hoping you would choose.” They held out their hand. “Would you do it on the back, please.”

“Sure,” Virgil managed to get out through his teeth. The stranger’s stare was assessing, almost judgemental, or suspicious (mint).

Virgil took the stranger's hand in his, breaking eye contact and dipping his brush in the yellow.

Pansies symbolized thinking of someone, so he figured they sort of fit. Mostly he chose them because they were black and yellow, a dramatic enough color combination to fit this person, as well as match their outfit, which was an all black suit with no color but the yellow stripes on their black tie.

When Virgil was done, he let the stranger’s hand drop, turning to put his brush in the water as they inspected the artwork.

“What’s your name?” the stranger asked. Virgil looked back at them. 

“Virgil, he/him,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Janus,” the stranger said, his lips twitching up into a miniscule smile, “he/him as well.”

Virgil nodded, setting his palette to the side so he could stretch. Janus watched him.

“Virgil,” he started after a moment. Virgil stopped stretching to meet his eyes. “What’s that on your hand?”

“Uh, probably paint,” Virgil laughed self-consciously, looking down at his hands only to freeze in place.

Yellow and black pansies, on the back of his hand. He stared at them. He stared up at Janus. His hands started shaking, so he busied himself with his paints. He swallowed.

“You should go,” he got out, amazed at the fact that his voice was working at all. “I have more customers.”

“Okay,” Janus replied easily. “When should I come back?”

“Never” was on the tip of his tongue, years of darkness conditioning his response, but he managed to wrangle himself before he could say it. His hands stilled. 

“My lunch break is at 12:30 tomorrow,” he said quietly. Janus nodded, reached into his wallet that he had pulled out at some point, and gave Virgil a fifty dollar bill. Virgil stared at the money, and, by the time he could bring himself to say something, Janus was already out the door.

As it turned out, Virgil had chosen very well when he decided to paint pansies, because “on my mind” was exactly what Janus was. Throughout the rest of the day, and night, Janus and their prospective meeting was all he could think about. His thoughts manifested themselves in a painting half the size of his wall, depicting a lone, shadowy figure staring at an incoming storm.

Janus was waiting for him outside the exit of the gift shop, dressed the same as the day before, a black suit with small yellow accents. Virgil briefly contemplated just turning around and acting like he forgot, but that was when Janus spotted him, waving him over with a small half-smile. Virgil tried to smile back as he made his way over, but it probably just looked like a miserable grimace.

“You look nice,” Janus complimented (purple iris), once Virgil had stopped in front of him. Virgil blushed up to his ears (broom). He had dressed a little better than normal, replacing his typically paint-stained black clothes with clean black clothes and his customary hoodie, and he even let Emile do some of his makeup, which was a terrifying experience. His worn black messenger bag didn’t exactly fit, but no way was Virgil leaving it behind.

“Thanks,” Virgil muttered, ducking his head. “You do too.”

Janus nodded at him, and started walking. Virgil walked alongside him. They didn’t talk much beyond the customary ‘how has your day been,’ both giving bullshit answers. At least it wasn’t only Virgil who was feeling awkward.

They stopped at a cafe not far from the museum. Janus walked in confidently (pink tulip) while Virgil shuffled in behind him.

The cafe was completely and totally average looking. Brown and beige with green furniture, a chalkboard menu with reasonable prices, topped off with two bored looking employees leaning with their elbows on the counter, chins resting in hand. They looked up when Janus and Virgil approached the counter.

Janus ordered “his usual”, which Virgil blinked at. The employees seemed to know, though, because one just started pressing buttons on the screen while the other moved to start making the drink. Virgil stuttered through ordering a plain coffee and a croissant, pulling his wallet out of his bag only to freeze when Janus started leading them away, apparently having used Flash powers to speed pay before Virgil could. 

Virgil didn’t know how to react to that.

They sat at a two person table next to the window, and the light from the overcast day outside gave the left side of Janus’ face a silver glow that directly contrasted with the warmer brown in his left eye. Virgil twisted his fingers together under the table.

A moment later, the barista was calling Janus’ name and he was out of his seat, leaving Virgil alone as he went to get the drinks. Virgil stared at the table. He was starting to itch for his paints.

Janus sat down again and set Virgil’s coffee and croissant in front of him without a word. Virgil immediately dug into the croissant just to have something to do, and Janus observed him with a blank face. Virgil didn’t meet his eyes as he finished his croissant and washed it down with some of the coffee.

Janus still didn’t say anything even when Virgil was clearly done eating and drinking for the moment, leaving him to squirm in his seat and get more and more uncomfortable (balsamine). Virgil was heavily resisting the urge just excuse himself to the bathroom to paint on his fucking pinky finger if he had to, both because he wanted to make a good impression and also because Janus would know that was what he was doing. 

It was another full minute before Virgil’s hand started gravitating to his forearm, and as soon as he started subconsciously scratching at his hoodie he knew he was done. He gripped his arm so hard his knuckles were white.

“Are you going to fucking say anything?” he hissed out through his teeth, gaze fixed firmly on the table in front of him. He was not relapsing in any form because of this asshole who apparently just liked to watch him squirm.

“I was waiting for you to start,” Janus replied coolly. Virgil scoffed, hackles rising. (petunia) (anger)

“Right, because I so obviously look like I’m about to jump into twenty questions,” he spat, readjusting his position on the seat to face more towards the room with his back to the window. Janus put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“You’re right,” he agreed. “I should have known by now that you’re not one for starting conversations.”

It hit Virgil like a slap to the face.

Of course. Of course Janus was mad and frustrated ith Virgil. He’d- He’d been waiting his whole life to actually learn anything about Virgil, been waiting his whole life to meet him, and when he finally did, it was fucking… Virgil. Virgil would be mad too. 

What was he even doing here? (love lies bleeding) (homelessness)

Janus had quickly blanched after he spoke, eyes widening and mouth snapping closed, but the damage had already been done. Virgil stood up sharply, swung his bag over his shoulder and pushed his chair in behind him. Janus followed him up.

“Wait, Virgil, I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, you did,” Virgil interrupted quietly. “It’s okay.”

He turned on his heel and walked out the door and onto the street, turning in the direction of the museum. Janus followed him out and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him around. 

“I’m sorry,” Janus rushed out. “You’re right, I did mean it, but I-” He stopped, looking angry at himself. “Don’t leave.”

“You look like a black tulip,” Virgil replied, voice barely a whisper above the hustle and bustle of the city around them. “I think you’re a bit more like a thorn apple, though.”

Janus looked dreadfully confused.

“That’s okay, I think,” Virgil assured him with a smile he forced onto his face. “It’s used for medicines.” He paused. “Thank you for the coffee, Janus. You don’t have to see me again.”

And with that, he ducked his head, spun around, and got lost in the crowd, leaving Janus standing in the flow of people with a furrowed brow and a frown adorning his face.

Virgil was quiet after that. He spent the next few days in a haze of self-loathing (lily) and the worst bit of it was that his one escape, one alternative, had been taken away from him. He couldn’t paint on himself anymore, because Janus and the others would see it loud and clear when they so obviously didn’t want him to be a part of their life.

Obviously, because they hadn’t said anything either. The soul-link had stayed completely and utterly silent, until the last of the ink and paint had washed away and, for the first time since Virgil was four, his skin was completely blank. 

“I ruined it,” he said miserably (rue) into Remy’s thigh, where he was smushing his face as he laid face down across the couch. Emile rubbed his ankles soothingly. 

“You did not,” Remy replied hotly (tiger lily). “That dickhead was the one who ruined it, you did nothing wrong.”

“Uh, yes I did?” Virgil looked up at him, flabbergasted. “What do you call twenty years of radio silence?”

“You working through life without catering to your soulmates?” Emile piped up from the end of the couch. “Virgil, you weren’t allowed to talk to them, and then when you were, you weren’t in the right headspace to. There’s nothing wrong with that, and if they can’t respect that then you don’t want to know them anyway.” (alchemilla mollis (lady’s mantle)) (comfort, I'm here for you)

Virgil dropped his head into Remy’s thigh with a groan.

“But that doesn’t actually stop you from wanting to?” Remy guessed. Virgil nodded. Remy ran his fingers through Virgil’s hair. “We’ll work on that,” he promised. “But for now, just take it one day at a time, paint on whatever the fuck you want, and know that you haven’t done anything wrong. Okay?”

“Okay,” Virgil agreed, although it was muffled by Remy’s sweatpants. Remy ruffled his hair. 

Virgil tried really, really hard to believe what Remy said. He threw himself into work and got through a record amount of commissions, enough that he did actually buy the greenhouse on the roof from the apartment owner and started hiring people to help him renovate it by adding insulation, drywall, and all the other important things that Virgil had spent hours hyperfocusing on at three in the morning that were needed for creating a place paintings could be in safely. 

That was what was on his mind as he cleaned up his paints for the day two weeks later, having closed his little station in the shop ten minutes ago. What was on his to-do list for when he got home. He was meeting with his neighbor, also conveniently a builder of houses, to go over the stuff they had to still acquire before they could start installing stuff, and he had to call the electrician to get him to come out and see how to hopefully hook up the greenhouse to either a generator or the building’s main powerline.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t realize someone was standing next to him, waiting to be noticed, until they cleared their throat.

Virgil jumped, head snapping up, only to fall back down again with a sigh. Janus crossed his arms. 

“Well, I feel welcomed,” he deadpanned. Virgil set all his paints into their tray and picked it up, carrying it over to the storage closet. Janus followed him, leaving an imaginary trail of pink begonia flowers behind him (beware).

“Are you here to follow me home? Murder me in my apartment? Rape me in an alley?” Virgil asked tiredly, sliding the tray onto its shelf as Janus hovered at the doorway. He sputtered at Virgil’s words.

“Wh- no! What is wrong with you? Why would you think that?” Janus stared at him as if he’d grown a second head. Virgil ignored him as he locked the storage closet behind him and went back to fold the table and chairs up.

“I thought I told you that you didn’t need to see me again,” Virgil pointed out, just in case Janus had forgotten and a guilty conscience had driven him to seek Virgil out.

“I know,” Janus said, looking painfully out of place in his suit surrounded by overpriced gift shop merchandise. “I wanted to see you.”

“Didn’t get a chance to say everything you wanted to?” Virgil asked, placing one of the chairs against the wall and moving to fold up the other one. 

“No,” Janus said again, and, when Virgil risked a glance over at him, he even looked a little sheepish. A little ashamed (white peony). “I’m here to apologize for what I said, actually. I shouldn’t have said it.”

“It’s okay,” Virgil shrugged. He moved on to the table, lifting two of the legs and laying it flat on its top, then crouching to push the legs in.

“It’s not,” Janus insisted. “I didn’t want to make you feel bad, that’s not why I invited you for coffee.”

“Why else would you have invited me?” Virgil’s tone was absent-minded as he focused wholly on the task in front of him and not at all on the man watching him. He picked up the table and leaned it against the wall, then went to go collect his things.

“Because I wanted to get to know you,” Janus answered seriously. “But I made you uncomfortable and then was exceedingly rude, so I apologize. That wasn’t my intention when I asked to meet with you, but it’s what I did.”

Virgil’s steps halted just barely, but he managed to save it in time to look like he had just tripped a little. He hurried over to his bag. Janus continued to follow him.

“Are you going to say anything?” he asked, a little desperate. Virgil felt bad, he did, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say. Emotion was swirling in his chest and he wasn’t used to it. He was a little concerned he was going to start crying, which would be incredibly stupid and embarrassing. He swung his bag onto his shoulder.

Janus had been perfectly clear at the cafe. He was probably only apologizing because the other’s wanted their chance too. Or because he wanted Virgil to get his hopes up.

Yes, Virgil was self-aware to know those thoughts were paranoid. No, Virgil was not going to do anything about them until he was alone in his room.

He was pushing open the door, one step away from freedom.

“You stopped painting,” Janus called, obviously a last-ditch attempt. Unfortunately for Virgil, it worked. He paused. “Why’d you stop painting to us?”

“Why’d you stop writing?” Virgil asked without permission from his brain, turning around and letting the door close behind him. Janus’ shoulders relaxed when he got a response.

“We were trying to give you your space.”

“I was trying to give you yours.”

They stared at each other. Virgil, again, had no idea what to say. He contemplated turning around and leaving.

Janus must have been able to tell, because all of a sudden words were rushing out.

“We liked your paintings,” he said. “They’re very good. You’re very good. But we didn’t really get them, right?” Janus was desperate again. It wasn’t a good look on him. “Didn’t get what you were trying to say.” He stopped, then scrambled for the phone in his pocket so abruptly it made Virgil flinch. He swiped it open with fervor and navigated to something quickly, before turning it towards Virgil.

On it was a painting of a sycamore leaf with a little maroon puff of a flower, next to a paragraph of pen. The skin tone it was on wasn’t Janus’.

“Curiosity, right?” Janus asked. He swiped the picture. It was a hundred-leaved rose. “Pride.” Bells of Ireland. “Luck.” Sweet William. “Masculinity.” Eustoma. “Gratitude.” Cosmos flower. “Peacefulness.” Amaryllis. “Pride again.” Ambrosia. “Love is reciprocated.”

Throughout Janus’ apparent slideshow of flowers Virgil had painted on himself, Virgil had had mixed reactions. The blood had drained steadily out of his face and his hands had started shaking, but he thought he might be smiling a bit, and he knew the warmth in his chest was a good thing. 

They understood. They got it. They hadn’t before, but something had changed. They understood (snowdrop, caduceus) (hope, growth and healing).

Janus swiped to a picture of someone’s shirtless torso. It was covered in so many purple hyacinths Virgil couldn’t tell which skin tone was under them.

“Depression,” Janus said slowly, before lowering his phone. He pointed to himself. “Power, elegance and strength, but also disguise and deceitful charms.”

Virgil closed his eyes, the blood in his face that had left quickly making its way back into a light blush.

“Sorry,” he apologized. He didn’t know why Janus seemed to take away his voice, but here it was again, barely a whistle in the stale air of the empty gift shop. He opened his eyes. “I didn’t think you would understand.”

“I didn’t,” Janus assured him. “Until I went home. We, uh, we compiled all the pictures we had into an album and spent days getting the meanings for them.”

Well. Now they were both blushing.

“I, uh,” Janus stopped, turning his phone back towards himself for a second, pulling something up, before handing it to Virgil. He took it gingerly, looking down at the picture. “Blue hyacinths are really hard to come by in a city,” Janus said. “But they were the ones that the internet told me meant-”

“I’m sorry,” Virgil finished, staring down at the picture of the blue hyacinth flowers. “Making peace.”

“Right,” Janus confirmed lamely. They stood there. Virgil stared at the phone.

“Do you want to get coffee?” Virgil blurted out after one second too long of awkward silence, looking up suddenly. He cringed. “We can… play twenty questions?”

To his infinite relief, Janus started laughing. He walked towards Virgil.

“Yes.” He smiled. “I would very much like to get to know you.”

It was four months later, and it was hot outside.

The dead of summer was not kind, and Virgil wiped sweat away from his forehead. He had just hauled three new canvases up to his studio, and he was steadily dripping with exertion. Thank all the Gods that the studio was insulated, because the fans had been running for a while, and stepping into the room was a breath of fresh, blessedly cool air.

Virgil struggled with the canvases (all the size of building murals… why was this his life) to the wall, plopping them down gracelessly. He breathed out aggressively, cracking his back.

“Okay,” he said out loud, talking to himself. “Now just gotta finish this bad boy.” (anemone) (anticipation) He turned to the wall opposite the door. Stretched across the entire wall (which was over ten feet, both upwards and side-to-side) was a sheet of canvas, pulled taught with a frame that Virgil had to make himself. It depicted an ocean scene, with a reef shark as the focal point among colorful corral and vibrant fish. 

He’d been commissioned by a museum in California, who was paying him a truly ridiculous amount of money to create this portable mural for them. He was rather enjoying the big size. (laurel) (ambition, success)

Of course, it was a little bit of a challenge to get the higher up and harder to reach parts. 

Which is how, thirty minutes later, Virgil found himself swaying to the beat of My Chemical Romance as he hung upside down off of a pipe he had temporarily installed to run parallel to both the painting and the ceiling, at the perfect height for Virgil to either perch on or hang from, as he needed to.

(Yes, he knew there were things made for this type of thing. He had ordered one, but it wasn’t there yet. Plus, this was more fun.)

His knees were hooked over the pipe, his pallet held securely right-side up next to his head as he focused to paint some of the finishing details on the school of fish he was working on.

It was only when the blood had well and truly rushed to his head that he transferred his brush to  between his teeth, crunching sideways and grabbing the pipe with his hand to hang a little less upside down and a bit more sideways, to give some of his internal juices time to return to their proper spots before he swung back down to continue.

This was also when he conveniently noticed the other presences in his studio. He turned his head with a raised eyebrow.

Remy raised his right back.

“I swear, I don’t know where he gets this from,” he told the others. Patton giggled slightly, Remus following his example but doubling every aspect of it. Roman and Janus appeared to be fascinated. Logan just looked absolutely gobsmacked. 

“How are you doing that comfortably?” he asked, dumbfounded. Virgil shrugged. He set the paint palette on his stomach and grabbed the brush out of his mouth.

“I’m creative,” he answered simply.

“Obviously,” Roman cut in with obvious awe. “That’s absolutely incredible, Virgil.”

Virgil blushed, and Remy snickered at him. He managed to glare at his brother through the heat in his face.

“Out,” he ordered, half joking and half not (hydrangea) (brotherly love). Remy seemed to understand, because he put his hands up in surrender. 

“I’ll leave you to your monkeying around,” he replied, cackling at the groans he received and amusedly returning Patton’s high five on his way out. (larkspur)

“How do you get down from there?” Janus asked after the door closed, coming closer, until he was almost under Virgil. 

“It’s not very hard,” Virgil answered. He put the brush back in his mouth and grabbed the palette, unhooking his legs so he was just hanging from his hand. From there, it was only a few foot drop, and he bent his knees in a practiced motion as he landed. When he stood back up, Janus was less than a foot away.

“You,” he said, something in his voice Virgil couldn’t decipher, “are a very interesting person, Virgil.”

“Thank you,” Virgil replied, deciding to take the comment in stride. He walked over to his workbench and set his palette in the sink and put his brush in the cup full of paint water, making a note to clean them later. He also grabbed a damp towel, ringing it out and then turning around to face the room as he cleaned paint off his hands. 

His soulmates wandered around the studio curiously. It occurred to Virgil that they’d never been in there before. He leaned against the counter and watched them.

Remus was going through the pile of scrapped canvases, oohing and aahing at some. He appeared to be sorting them. Patton had gravitated towards his little gallery of half-finished paintings, the ones he had hung as a reminder to complete them soon. He seemed to have made a game of guessing what they would turn into. Virgil made a note to have him do that when he was in the mood to make something new, some of the ideas sounded really good.

Roman was tracing the flowers Virgil had painted on the walls when he first was finishing up the studio a few weeks ago, running his fingers against the raised paints of a field of brilliant marigold (creativity). Logan had stopped in front of the mural, inspecting the dozens of different sea creatures that were depicted. Virgil had done his research to make sure that they were all accurate, as well as realistic to that kind of coral reef. Logan seemed pleased with the product, hands flapping lightly at his sides as he muttered under his breath at the painting.

Janus settled next to him, dressed in casual black sweats and a yellow t-shirt. Apparently, even he wasn’t immune to the heat.

“What do you think?” Virgil asked him as they surveyed the studio. It had come a long way, and was something Virgil was extremely proud of. Next to finally, finally, meeting his soulmates and having not done anything to himself since he was sixteen, it was probably his greatest accomplishment.

“I think it’s amazing,” Janus answered him softly. Virgil let out a breath, a weight he didn’t know he was holding lifting off his shoulders. Janus turned to him fully, his gaze pinning Virgil in place. “You’re amazing, Virgil. I’m sorry we didn’t see it sooner.” (white orchid)

Virgil swallowed, and looked back out to the studio. At his progress, and his life, and the people that he had known for all of it but only met a few months ago.

“White tulips,” Virgil said, equally as soft. He looked back at Janus with a smile. “Forgiveness.”

Janus smiled back, shuffling closer until their sides were pressed together and his arm could lay across Virgil’s shoulders.

Daffodils

White roses

Yellow peonies

Plumerias

Yellow orchids

Calatheas

(new beginnings)

————

hopefully you enjoyed reading just as much as i enjoyed writing it!

let me know what you thought in a reblog/notes, they make my day every time. likes are also appreciated.

check me out on ao3 if that's your thing at thepenguinclub.

have a good rest of your day, and know that you are loved! <3

[thepenguinclub]

not like the movies

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

part of my teacher virgil series, this operates as a stand alone but the other parts are here (1) and here (2) if you want to read them, this is installment 3. series masterpost here.

virgil and ocs, oc/oc, bullying and good support systems

Summary:

In movies, when someone is bullied, they overcome it. They get better, they forgive their bully, and then they move on. They’re confident. One good prom and their whole personality has changed; no longer the smart, nerdy loner, but a social, charming popular kid.

It’s unrealistic. It gives false hope.

When Danni was little, they liked those movies. The ones where the bullied kid grows up to be the most popular person at the party. They liked to imagine what it would be like if that happened to them. If they became the most beloved person in their school.

Then Danni’s glasses were broken for the nth time, and they let that fantasy die a sad, lonely death.

Now they don’t like those movies. They think they’re stupid, and careless.

---

Danni's got a system worked out. Chris won't bother them if they give him five bucks every morning, which is a win in their book. It's not a big deal.

Until it kind of is. Mr. Sanders to the rescue!

Also, their boyfriend is the best. Not totally related, just had to put that out there.

————

i have things i should be writing. and instead i write hurt/comfort for ocs. i definitely have my priorities straight. (ha)

danni's pronouns are they/them!!! use them right!!

big thanks to @sunbrightshadows for betaing, they're the best and the comments were so helpful. go check their stuff out.

quick note: this happens in september, which is BEFORE The Junior Lit. and Lang. Class of Mr. Sanders and What Happens in It. they've been in school for about a month and a half.

enjoy!

guide to the american school system: first year - freshman - ninth grade - ages 14-15 second year - sophomore - tenth grade - ages 15-16 third year - junior - eleventh grade - ages 16-17 (this is the grade that virgil teaches!) fourth year - senior - twelfth grade - ages 17-18

WARNINGS: bullying, purposeful deadnaming, mentions of past physical bullying, descriptions of past physical bullying, mentions of broken bones, crying, there's a watergun emoji that's pointed at a tired face as a joke (if that's insensitive/or offensive let me know and i'll immediately take it down)

let me know if i missed anything.

(for those reading as a standalone, virgil is a genius and is 19 when he starts teaching, having graduated college very early.)

————

There are a lot of things that the media romanticizes. Tragedy. Death. Trauma. Things that add interest to a tv show, but, in actuality, are some of the worst things that can happen to a person.

In movies, when someone is bullied, they overcome it. They get better, they forgive their bully, and then they move on. They’re confident. One good prom and their whole personality has changed; no longer the smart, nerdy loner, but a social, charming popular kid.

It’s unrealistic. It gives false hope. 

When Danni was little, they liked those movies. The ones where the bullied kid grows up to be the most popular person at the party. They liked to imagine what it would be like if that happened to them. If they became the most beloved person in their school.

Then Danni’s glasses were broken for the nth time, and they let that fantasy die a sad, lonely death.

Now they don’t like those movies. They think they’re stupid, and careless.

The pod of lockers was loud, but not as loud as it could be. It was still early, a whole thirty minutes before classes would start, so people were still arriving. Danni’s bus was just one of the ones that had another route to run before class started, so they ended up being early. That was fine. They liked getting an early start to their day.

dan ❤️

Have i mentioned recently how much mornings SUCK

Danni huffed a light laugh to themself as they wove their way through groups of kids to their locker, dropping their bag next to it once they got there.

DANNI BABY 💕❤️🔥💝💖🥰😘😘😘😍

once or twice

dan ❤️

😮💨🔫

Danni slipped their phone into their overall pocket, bending down to open their locker. They got it on the second try, which was an improvement, so they were in a pretty good mood as they hung their jacket on the hook and took out the binder they would need for the day.

They slammed the door with a satisfying clang, unzipping their backpack and fitting the binder in cleanly. When they stood up and swung the bag onto their back, someone was waiting for them.

Not the right someone, unfortunately. Danni bit back a sigh.

“Hey, Chris,” they greeted. Chris nodded at them.

“Got the money?” he asked rudely. Danni just nodded, pulling out a few bucks from their pocket and handing them over. Chris inspected them, then frowned. 

“This is only three dollars,” he stated, as if Danni was incapable of basic math.

“I haven’t gotten paid yet,” they explained patiently, quietly. “That's all I have.”

“Well, that doesn’t work.” Chris put the money in his pocket anyway, then leaned back on the lockers and crossed his arms. “I need three for lunch and two for refills.”

“Sorry,” Danni replied, despite not being very sorry. “That’s all I have. You’ll just have to go without your vape for a few days. Or ask one of your friends for some cash.”

Chris raised his eyebrow.

“I don’t think you understand what’s happening right now,” Chris said. “You don’t get to talk back. Our deal was that if you gave me five dollars a day, me and my friends wouldn’t push you around anymore. You aren’t doing your end of the deal.”

“I’m trying,” Danni protested, voice still stubbornly quiet. They fixed their eyes somewhere around Chris’ sweatshirt hood. “But I don’t have anything else with me. Today and the next few days it’ll just be three, and then on Friday I’ll get paid, and we can go back to five.”

Chris was quiet for a second, and Danni hoped that he would drop it.

“Okay, Will.” Chris pushed himself off the lockers. Danni didn’t flinch at their deadname, but they did cringe internally. They weren’t used to it anymore, and hearing it always had the same effect that squeezing yourself into a shirt you’d had for too long did. It was old, made their chest feel tight, didn’t fit right, and didn’t feel like it belonged to them anymore. “Then I guess we’ll be seeing you later.”

Chris walked away and out of sight, leaving Danni wrongfooted. They knew Chris and his buddies wouldn’t try anything bad, nothing to leave anything lasting, but they weren’t exactly looking forward to getting roughed up. They had just gotten these overalls. They even had little sunflowers embroidered on them.

“Hey, baby,” a voice said from behind them, causing Danni to turn around. They smiled at their boyfriend, pushing Chris from their mind.

“Hi,” they greeted, walking forward into Danny’s arms and relishing in the hug. Dan kissed the side of Danni’s head. 

When Danny pulled away, he appraised Danni’s outfit. Danni did a little twirl for him.

“I like those overalls,” he complimented with a grin. “They new?”

“Mhm,” Danni hummed in response, beaming. Dan always noticed this stuff, despite his wardrobe containing sweatshirts (in a variety of colors including black, gray, brown, dark red, and black again. Maybe another gray), sweatpants (in less colors, being restrained to black and gray), sneakers, work boots, and socks (none of them had a matching pair. They were all solid colors, in the same scale as his sweatshirts, and yet none of them had pairs.). He said he noticed it because Danni liked this sort of thing.

Danni linked their hand with their boyfriend’s, pulling him along until they were walking in stride next to each other, the thunk thunk thunk of Danny’s Timberland boots in time with the soft fall (and the occasional squeak) of Danni’s yellow converse.

They climbed up the flights of stairs, talking briefly about their classes for the day and any plans they had after school. They both had work, Danni at the local italian restaurant and Danny at the gas station, but after that they were free and planned on doing homework together.

They walked hand-in-hand into Mr. Sanders’ room just as the warning bell was ringing, Danni sliding into their seat gracefully while their boyfriend plopped into his indelicately. 

Dan started up a conversation with Mr. Sanders, something about unicorns (Danni didn’t question his boyfriend and his teacher’s relationship), while Danni browsed the bookshelf next to their seat, finally deciding to pull out a Percy Jackson book that they had read upwards of seven times already, flipping to their favorite part and settling in to read.

The class filled up slowly but surely, until the last people, Kane and Dylan, were slipping through the door as the bell rang. Danni closed their book, placing it back onto the shelf and focusing up on the front of the classroom, where Mr. Sanders had drawn a little cartoon version of Oscar Wilde holding an oversized copy of ‘The Importance of Being Earnest’.

“One guess on what our next book is going to be,” Mr. Sanders started, drawing scattered laughter. He smiled at everyone, pulling out the attendance clipboard.

“Favorite season,” he said, before moving his way down the list. Danni said fall, which was the correct answer. Dan said summer, which was a gross answer because summer is hot and sweaty and boredom, but Danni forgave him because they knew Dan didn’t like school and appreciated any break from it he could take.

Class moved normally, after that. Mr. Sanders gave some background on the book, and previewed what the unit was going to look like. All-in-all, nothing exciting. Danni finished filling out the important dates in their color-coded planner that Dan teased them about just as the bell was ringing, and they quickly slipped it into their bag and followed after Danny.

They both waved goodbye to Mr. Sanders, and that was normal, too. Except- 

Except outside of Mr. Sanders’ classroom, a small gaggle of boys were a little ways down the hall, glancing over to the classroom every once in a while. They weren’t odd enough to draw attention, but they were odd enough to draw Danni’s attention. They stopped in the middle of the classroom doorway, tugging on Danny’s arm from where their hands were interlocked, and someone bumped into them from behind because of the quick stop, and-

“Actually, Dan, I have to stay back for a second,” they squeaked, clearing their throat and darting to the side to open the doorway up again. Dan followed them, confused and concerned.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked, ducking his head down so it was at eye-level with them. He was four inches taller than Danni, so tall enough for their eyes to be at his chin, but Dan always made sure to duck a bit so Danni didn’t feel that much shorter.

“Nothing,” Danni answered quickly. “I just remembered I have to talk to Mr. Sanders about an assignment really quick.”

Danny’s face smoothed, and he smiled.

“There you go, my little nerd.” He leaned over and pecked Danni’s cheek. “Have fun nerding. See you at lunch?”

“Yep,” they confirmed, smiling back.

Dan squeezed his shoulder, turned around, and walked out of the classroom. 

Danni’s smile dropped as they watched him leave, and they stood there until the last people had filed out of the room. They sighed, turning back to walk over to Mr. Sanders’ desk. He looked up from his computer at their approach.

“Something I can help you with, Mx. Bail?” he asked, giving them his full attention. They shook their head and plopped into the desks right in front of Mr. Sanders’ desk instead of their usual seat three rows back. They squirmed at the change.

“Just wanted to stay here for a second,” they answered quietly, setting their backpack on the floor. Mr. Sanders raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything else. Just went back to typing on his computer.

Danni pulled out their phone and scrolled through Tumblr for a bit, just until the warning bell sounded. That meant they had a minute left to get to class. Nobody had come into Mr. Sanders’ classroom, which meant the next period was probably his planning period. Danni grabbed their bag, nodded to Mr. Sanders, and walked to the door, only to stop. 

They were still there. Of course they were. They didn’t care about going to class on time. Danni sighed heavily. They turned around and made their way back to the seat in front. They avoided Mr. Sanders’ eyes as they sat down again.

It was long enough that Danni was beginning to hope he wouldn’t mention it. Long enough for the bell to ring again, signifying the start of class. Danni wasn’t worried. They liked ceramics class, but it wasn’t something they were worried about missing. 

It was only after the bell was done that Mr. Sanders spoke, crushing Danni’s hope underfoot like a dry, autumn leaf.

“What’s wrong, Danni?” he asked kindly.

“Nothing.” Danni still wouldn’t meet his eyes. Mr. Sanders paused for a second, then typed more on his computer. A few minutes later, he shut it with a soft tap of the lid. He leaned forward and laced his fingers together. He didn’t say anything, but he was obviously waiting for Danni to start talking. When a full minute had passed and the silence was starting to get uncomfortable, they finally did.

“There’s just… some guys,” they said lamely. They picked at their overalls. “Outside. Of the classroom.”

Mr. Sanders didn’t say anything.

“They’ve… known me, for a while,” they found themself continuing, even though they weren’t sure they’d actually given their mouth permission to. “And they’re waiting for me, and I don’t want to talk to them. So. Yeah.”

Mr. Sanders just stared at them. Danni fidgeted with their frog ring.

“They’ve been- picking. On me. For a while. And, uh, push me around. But they don’t do that anymore!” Danni rushed to add, despite the fact that Mr. Sanders hadn’t reacted to the information. “I just give them a little money now that I have a job, and they leave me alone.”

Mr. Sanders nodded slowly.

“So, let me see if I have this right,” he started, and Danni cringed. “There’s a group of boys who physically and verbally abuse you, and in order for them to stop, you give them a portion of your paycheck.”

“They didn’t physically abuse me,” Danni corrected weakly. “They just knocked me around a bit.”

“Right,” Mr. Sanders agreed with a dry voice. “My bad.”

Danni let out a defeated breath, and Mr. Sanders softened.

“Danni, why haven’t you told anyone about this?” he asked, tone gentle. Danni stared at their shoes.

“It’s not like I didn’t expect it,” they answered quietly. “It kind of comes as a package deal.”’

“With what?” Mr. Sanders sounded earnest, and Danni couldn’t figure out what he wasn’t getting. They glanced up quickly before looking back down.

“With being like I am,” Danni explained, voice somehow getting even quieter. “Non-binary.”

Mr. Sanders didn’t say anything. Danni chanced a peek at him. His face was normal, no hint of surprise on it. In fact, he hadn’t reacted at all. Danni suddenly felt like they had just walked into a trap.

“Have you ever broken a bone, Danni?” Mr. Sanders asked. Danni furrowed their eyebrows.

“Uh, no?” They shifted in their seat. “What does that have to do with-”

“I have,” Mr. Sanders interrupted softly. Danni shut their mouth with an audible click. “When I was in tenth grade, I tripped and fell on my way home from school and landed on my wrist so that it broke. My mom took me to Urgent Care and I got it splinted, and they told me I needed to go to another doctor to get it casted, but that would have been too expensive so I just walked around in the splint for six weeks until it was better.”

Mr. Sanders paused, still looking at Danni. Danni had the feeling that they were missing something.

“At least, that’s what I told my mom,” Mr. Sanders continued. He pushed himself off of his desk and leaned back in his chair. “What actually happened was that I was walking in the hallway and this Junior pushed me into the lockers, and my wrist hit them and broke. I got a few more bruises that I attributed to a fall, and the rest of the story is true.” He smiled a little and lifted up his right hand. “And now, when I shake my hand, my wrist makes a rattling sound.” He demonstrated, and Danni didn’t hear anything, but that might have been because of how far away they were. Or maybe it was because of the ringing in their ears.

“So, Danni,” Mr. Sanders met their eyes and cocked an eyebrow. “Did I deserve what happened to me? Is that fair?”

“No,” Danni answered quickly. “Of course not. But… that’s different.”

“Okay.” Mr. Sanders nodded to himself. “Then let me remind you of something; when I was in tenth grade, I was twelve years old. The guy that pushed me was five years older and in the same math class as me, and I was smarter than him.” Mr. Sanders shrugged. “Some would say I should have seen that coming. That I was asking for it. It came as a package deal.” He looked at Danni meaningfully, and they swallowed. “And I did expect it, of course I did. So, let me ask you again,” he leaned forward again, raising his eyebrows, “did I deserve what happened to me? Was it fair?”

Danni didn’t answer, just played with their rings. They knew Mr. Sanders knew what their answer would be anyway. He didn’t say anything, waiting.

“What should I do about it, then?” Danni asked finally. 

“Give me names,” Mr. Sanders replied immediately. “That’s all you have to do.”

He hadn’t even finished speaking before Danni was already shaking their head. They sat up straighter, not having realized they had been sliding down their chair.

“You can’t do that,” they protested. “You can’t just solve my problems for me.”

Mr. Sanders rolled his eyes.

“Ye ol’ ‘I need to learn how to deal with my own problems’ argument,” he mocked, “how I hate thee. Danni, it’s okay to ask for help. Will you have to deal with problems yourself in the future? Yes. Will you have a support system to help you with those problems? Also yes.” He spread his hands out. “That’s all this is, is your support system.”

“But what if I don’t have a support system later in life?” they asked, desperate. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t just swoop in and save Danni, because what if they needed him again and he wasn’t there? What then?

“You will,” Mr. Sanders answered flippantly, waving a hand. “Unless something horribly tragic happens, Danni Bail, you will have a support system with you until the day you shed this mortal coil.”

“How do you know that?” They were becoming increasingly more frazzled, and it was obvious, the desperation in their voice bordering on embarrassing. Mr. Sanders softened considerably. He pulled his legs up to sit criss-cross-applesauce on his chair and rested his elbows on his knees.

“I know that,” he started gently, “because he sits next to you every class. He hugs you hello and hugs you goodbye. He compliments your outfits even though he doesn’t understand fashion, he makes a fool of himself just to see you smile, and he texts you all the time because he loves to talk to you.” Mr. Sanders rested his chin on his hand with a smile. “If the way that Daniel Marcus looks at you when you aren’t looking at him is any indication of how long he’ll be with you, which I think it is, then you aren’t going to be alone for the rest of your life.”

Danni sniffed, which was around the time they realized they were crying. They wiped at their tears quickly, and grabbed a tissue when Mr. Sanders offered the box to them.

“And,” Mr. Sanders continued, “if, for some reason, you don’t want Dan to help you with something, I’d be happy to be your Plan B. You’re a special kid, Danni. I’ve only been teaching you for a month and a half and I already know that. I would love to continue to be a part of your life if you want me to be, even after the end of the school year.”

“You’re a really good teacher, Mr. Sanders,” Danni said instead of answering, but by the size of Mr. Sanders’ grin, they were sure he understood perfectly fine. 

“Thank you, my good individual.” He bowed dramatically, made even more entertaining by the fact that he was still sitting cross-legged on his spinny chair.

Danni opened their mouth to reply, but was cut off.

“Hello?” a familiar voice called, before a head of fluffy brown hair was sticking through the doorway. “Ms. Benedict said- Danni?” 

Dan’s face contorted into concern, and he was across the room in a second, kneeling in front of Danni with his hands on their knees, fervently looking them over.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He didn’t give Danni any time to even open his mouth before he was whipping to look at Mr. Sanders. “What happened?”

Mr. Sanders shot a look at Danni, one that said ‘see? What did I tell you?’. Danni felt their cheeks heat up.

“Mx. Bail can tell you that, I think,” Mr. Sanders answered. He took his laptop and put it in his lap, then used the desk to push himself so he was spinning in circles on his chair, ending so he was facing away from them. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be here, not eavesdropping on your conversation.”

Dan snorted, then smiled at Danni’s wet giggles, even though his eyebrows were still furrowed with concern.

“What happened, DB?” he asked quietly, lifting his hand to brush tears off of Danni’s cheeks. 

“Some guys have been picking on me for a while,” Danni answered, their second time saying it coming much easier than the first, “that’s all.”

Danny blinked at them.

“Baby, what do you mean ‘picking on you’?” he asked slowly. Danni shrugged.

“Just… using my deadname,” Danny’s hand spasmed on their knee, and it curled it into a fist, “giving me a hard time. Nothing big.”

Dan laughed incredulously.

“D, that is big. How long has this been happening?”

Danni stared at Dan's hands. One rested on their thigh, thumb rubbing absentmindedly at one of the embroidered sunflowers. The other one was still in a fist on their knee, but it was relaxing. Danni reached out and took it in their hand, entwining their fingers.

“Since middle school,” Danni answered quietly after another moment. Dan sighed, then thunked their forehead down on Danni’s thigh, startling a little laugh out of them.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, voice muffled by the denim of Danni’s overalls.

“Didn’t wanna bother you,” they muttered, carding their free hand through their boyfriend’s hair.

“You can’t bother me, babe,” Dan answered. He looked up at them, Danni’s fingers still stuck in his hair. “I love you,” he said with conviction.

“I love you, too,” Danni said back, smiling a little. “I’ll be more honest, I promise.”

Dan nodded. 

“Good.” He stood up, leaned forward and pecked Danni on the lips, then backed up, cracking his back. “Alright, teach, you’re good.”

Mr. Sanders spun back around. He was smiling very widely.

“That was fucking adorable,” he said. Danni hid their face in their hands while Dan did finger guns.

“You know it,” he replied. “I assume you’re dealing with the jackasses?”

“I’ll call you if I need you,” Mr. Sanders assured him. He stood up and placed his laptop back on his desk. Danni joined them a moment later, rising and swinging their backpack over their shoulder.

“Thanks, Mr. Sanders,” they said, trying to convey how much all of this meant to them. Mr. Sanders just smiled at them gently, coming around his desk to give them a quick hug.

“Of course, kid.” He pulled away, suddenly looking serious. “I wasn’t kidding about what I said. Anything you need, just let me know, okay?”

Danni nodded, confirming that they understood. All it took was a little ‘okay’ and Mr. Sanders was back to grinning widely.

“Just shoot me an email with the names of the little dicks that’ve been causing trouble,” he instructed. Danni nodded again. “I’ve already emailed your counselors, they both have passes ready for you so you can just head to class.”

“Thank you,” Danni said again as they walked towards the door, Dan’s hand slipping into theirs. “Have a good day, Mr. Sanders.”

“You too,” he called back. 

Then they were walking down an empty hallway.

“How’d you even know to come to Mr. Sanders’ classroom?” Danni asked suddenly, looking up at Dan.

“Mr. Sanders emailed my counselor,” he answered casually. “She pulled me from class and told me that he was ‘requesting my presence.’”

Danni thought back to their conversation. He must have done that at the very beginning, when he didn’t even know what the problem was.

Danni went up on their tiptoes to kiss Danny’s cheek.

“I love you.” They kept walking, tugging on Dan’s hand from where he had stopped. He skipped a bit to catch up with them.

He grinned, squeezing their hand. They squeezed back.

“Love you too, DB.”

————

alright, hope you enjoyed. i already have more ideas for stuff for this series so let me know if you'd be interested in that type of thing!

notes and reblogs are my life blood so please leave them. i'm thepenguinclub on ao3 if you want to read my other stuff over there.

have a good rest of your day!

teacher virgil masterpost

[thepenguinclub]

a cautionary tale

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

read the first installment of the teacher virgil series here, and the next one here. masterpost here.

virgil and oc, part of a series, read the first one for more sanders sides content but this is a stand alone, the oc is my baby boy respect him

Summary:

“What I don’t think you know, or what you don’t understand, is that there are consequences to your actions. This stuff you’ve been getting away with for who knows how long? You’re going to stop getting away with it, and when that happens, it isn’t going to end well. This shit you’re messing around with, it has real world consequences.”

“I don’t care,” Kane bit out sharply, meeting Mr. Sanders’ gaze. His teacher raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t care?” he repeated.

“I don’t care.” Kane shifted in his seat, tightening his still crossed arms. Mr. Sanders nodded slowly, and leaned back again, spinning slightly in his fancier chair.

“Alright,” he said after a second. “You don’t care.” He gestured to the door. “You’re free to leave, then.”

---

Kane is what people call a delinquent. A mischief maker. A bad kid and a worse influence.

Kane is, at heart, a kid who needs a helping hand.

————

hello! yeah so this is something i turned in for my creative writing assignment to write a cautionary tale. and of course my brain immediately went 'hmmm.... how can i sneak fanfiction into this' so here we are.

i know this is not the sequel people were expecting but give it a chance! i think you'll like it.

thanks to @sunbrightshadows for betaing, and for the very nice person in my cw class who gave me a wonderful peer review, as well as wrote a very nice story.

the junior lit. and lang. class of mr. sanders and what happens in it takes place in november. this takes place in april of the same school year, so after tjllcmswhit. why is that name so long honestly who named it that. oh right.

(virgil is a genius and graduates college early, which means he's 19 when he starts teaching (also 19 in this fic) for those reading as a standalone.)

enjoy!!

WARNINGS: swearing (lots), smoking, police, police stations/holding cells, descriptions of school fights (not very graphic), allusions to child abuse, mentions of parental deaths and unhealthy coping mechanisms for grief (i.e. overworking and fighting)

if i missed anything let me know!!

————

Kane ducked as Jackson’s fist sailed over his head, right where his nose had been. He reached up and grabbed Jackson’s forearm, twisting it to his left as he stood back up to his full height. Jackson grimaced, grunting as he used his other hand to try and get his arm free. Kane just smirked, using the opening to knee Jackson in the gut, causing him to double over with a pained wheeze.

“Finish him off, dude!” Dylan yelled from a few feet to his right, snacking on a bag of potato chips noisily. Kane spared him a roll of his eyes before following his advice, clasping his hands together and raising them above his head. Before he could bring them down on Jackson, though, the telltale clicking of heels reached his ears. He and Dylan locked eyes.

“Teacher,” Kane mouthed, and then they were off, leaving Jackson to catch his breath just as the teacher rounded the corner. They ran around the building, through the underpass, and all the way until the bleachers of the stadium field, where the junior army kids were practicing. 

“Shit, that was close,” Dylan panted next to him, pushing his hair off his forehead. Kane just nodded, taking deep breaths as he fluffed his own hair. “What was she even doing out there anyway?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Kane replied, shaking the leftover adrenaline out of his limbs. “All that matters is that Jackson is gonna snitch because he’s a little bitch, and we’re gonna take the fallout.”

Dylan swore under his breath. 

“We could spin it that you were just defending yourself,” he suggested half-heartedly, both of them knowing that there was no way out of it.

“Eh,” Kane shrugged. “What’s one more black mark, right?”

Dylan let out a little “amen,” before nodding in the direction of one of the school’s back doors.

“First period starts soon,” he said, and Kane grunted in response. They both walked through the doors and blended into the crowd of other students, following the flow to the fourth floor until they reached their destination, slipping through the doorway as the bell was ringing. 

“So close,” Mr. Sanders sighed. “One day you two’ll be late and I’ll finally feel vindicated.”

“I feel like you’re conforming to a stereotype because of our appearances,” Dylan replied breezily, sliding into the desk closest to the bookshelf against the wall as Kane flopped into the one next to it, both of them dropping their bags heavily next to them.

“Those were some big words for you, Dylan,” Danny quipped from behind Kane, who turned around in his seat to scowl at him. Danny just flashed an overly wide smile, batting his eyelashes. Danni, his partner, looked at him unimpressed from behind Dylan.

“Do you need me to dumb it down for you?” Dylan replied, smiling innocently back. 

“Boys,” Mr. Sanders called from the front of the classroom, tone sounding bored. “We do this testosterone competition every class and it never gets more entertaining, so, unless one of you has magically come up with some new material, shut up.”

Kane huffed, but turned back to look towards the front, Dylan following suit.

“Wonderful,” Mr. Sanders deadpanned, before pulling out the attendance clipboard. “Alright class, today we are going to do your favorite hot drink.”

Kane zoned out, only answering with a flat “coffee” when Mr. Sanders called his name. He liked Mr. Sanders, really. He was the youngest teacher in the school, having graduated much earlier than average people, and wasn’t much older than Kane himself. He and Dylan purposefully tried not to skip first period because of how much they liked him, actually. When there was a class you liked, it was smarter to go, that way you could get away with skipping others. That’s what they had learned freshman year, and they’d both been operating fine under that rule since.

Still, it was Lit. and Lang. Not exactly the most interesting class in the world. So, when Mr. Sanders opened with, “Alright, kiddies, today we are continuing with Dante’s Inferno,” Kane felt completely justified letting his head fall to the desk with a thud in disappointment.

“Mr. Barns is exceedingly excited about this news,” Mr. Sanders continued, amused, and Kane flipped him off without lifting his head up. “Oh, look, a bird. I wonder how that got in here.”

The class erupted into giggles, and Kane lifted his head up only to glare at his teacher, who just smiled cheekily back. Dylan patted him consolingly on the shoulder, and Kane glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

“It was pretty funny, dude,” Dylan explained unabashedly, shrugging. Kane grumbled nonsense to himself.

Mr. Sanders continued the lesson, discussing the latest chapter of Dante’s Inferno that Kane had spent three minutes skimming on SparkNotes. It was a pretty average English class, which meant Kane was staring aggressively at the clock the whole time, willing it to move faster. The only thing he really paid attention to was when, about halfway through, Mr. Sanders got a call on the school landline, which wasn’t very common. All he said, though, was “yes… okay… okay, thank you,” so it was only a little more interesting than the material.

Finally, after an eternity, the bell rang, and Kane swung his bag onto his shoulder as he stood up. Freedom was in sight.

“Kane, Dylan, stay back for a second, please.”

Freedom was lost, never to be attained.

The rest of the class filed out of the door, Kane watching wistfully, before he slowly slumped up to Mr. Sanders’ desk, Dylan a few steps behind him.

“Yeah?” he asked rudely. Mr. Sanders leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. Kane swore internally.

“Dylan, what’s your next period?” he asked. Dylan didn’t reply for a second, probably trying to remember. He usually skipped the next period.

“Latin,” he answered slowly. “Shit, I have a test, I think.” 

Mr. Sanders just stared at him.

“Go to class and do me the favor of, at the very least, cramming before the test instead of just trying to bullshit the whole thing,” he finally said. Dylan smiled a bit as he nodded, and Kane had the lingering thought of ‘take me with you’ as he walked out the door.

Mr. Sanders turned to look at him, and he cringed.

“I know for a fact you have art next period, which you skip, even though you’re a good artist, so you aren’t getting out of this, Kane.” He gestured to the desk in front of his own desk, where the deaf girl usually sat. “Sit down.”

Kane sat, letting his bag drop again. He rested his head on his hand morosely.

“I got a call from Mrs. Meyer,” Mr. Sanders stated. “She said she caught you beating up another student while Dylan observed.”

“She’s so wrong, I would never-” Kane went to protest, but Mr. Sanders held up a hand and he stopped talking.

“Now, I don’t particularly like Mrs. Meyer,” he continued. “And I don’t believe you were kicking around a kid without any reason. So,” he leaned forward, “what was your reason?”

Kane contemplated sticking with the lie that he didn’t do anything, but the look Mr. Sanders was giving him was screaming ‘don’t fucking try me,’ so Kane just scoffed.

“He was being a dick.” He crossed his arms to match Mr. Sanders, hunching in on himself. “He was starting something he couldn’t finish, and I told him that, but he didn’t listen. So I finished it. Simple.”

“Right,” Mr. Sanders agreed amicably. “Simple.”

Kane nodded stiffly, and Mr. Sanders sighed. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward.

“Look, Kane.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re a smart kid. When you apply yourself, you do well in this class. You’re a great artist, and if you actually attended those classes, you would be even better. I want to help you be a better student, and with anything you need help with.”

Kane had been shrinking into himself during Mr. Sanders' whole speech. In his entire life, he had never had someone reply to one of his fuck ups with compliments. ‘I want to help you’ was pretty common, but never with the sincerity that Mr. Sanders was giving him now. It all had a quality that made Kane feel worse, like he had a wad of chewing gum lodged in his stomach.

“What you’re doing right now,” Mr. Sanders continued, shaking his head, “isn’t working. You aren’t doing well in your other classes, are getting marks on your records, and beating kids up? That’s assault, if they want it to be.”

“I know all that,” Kane replied quietly. 

“I know you do,” Mr. Sanders replied even faster, speaking calmly. “What I don’t think you know, or what you don’t understand, is that there are consequences to your actions. This stuff you’ve been getting away with for who knows how long? You’re going to stop getting away with it, and when that happens, it isn’t going to end well. This shit you’re messing around with, it has real world consequences.”

“I don’t care,” Kane bit out sharply, meeting Mr. Sanders’ gaze. His teacher raised an eyebrow.

“You don’t care?” he repeated.

“I don’t care.” Kane shifted in his seat, tightening his still crossed arms. Mr. Sanders nodded slowly, and leaned back again, spinning slightly in his fancier chair.

“Alright,” he said after a second. “You don’t care.” He gestured to the door. “You’re free to leave, then.”

Kane narrowed his eyes suspiciously, glancing between Mr. Sanders and the door. After a full minute, he decided it wasn’t a trick, and he slowly stood up, swinging his backpack onto his back. When Mr. Sanders just watched him, he gained more confidence, striding over to the door. He was halfway through the doorway before he was stopped.

“Mr. Barns,” Mr. Sanders' voice called from behind him, mention tone here. Kane didn’t turn around. “Think about what I said. Even though you don’t care.”

Kane paused for a second, but that was the end of it, so he walked out the door and into the empty hallway. 

He ignored the gum in his stomach when he turned in the opposite direction of his art class.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brian Xander was the biggest kid at Westburrow High School.

He was a senior, so the grade above Kane. He’d been held back three years running, and the rumor was he was shooting for a fourth, which also made him the oldest kid in the school, by a long shot. He was muscled, with tattoos stretching over his skin and studs on his clothes. He smoked outside instead of attending class, he and his revolving door of friends claiming the best spot to smoke, under the bleachers. This meant Kane, Dylan and the rest of their friends were banished to the cut-out in the back of the school, where the dumpsters were.

But Xander (not Brian. Some people said that not even his parents called him by his first name) and his gang were suspended a few days ago, which meant that, considering Kane and his friends were the next in line, they had taken the luxury of the bleachers during the last period of the day.

Which was good, because it was an uncharacteristically hot April day, the kind that teased the summer that was approaching, and the dumpsters would have smelled horrible in the thick, warm air. 

Instead of suffering, though, they were in the blessed shade of the bleachers, a paradise in comparison.

“This is nice,” Dylan said next to him where they were both leaning against the wall. Smoke filtered out of his mouth when he talked, wafting upwards gracefully. Kane nodded his agreement, removing the cigarette from his lips and breathing out through his nose, tendrils of his own smoke floating to join Dylan’s. Mr. Sander’s warning was long pushed into the back of his mind, something he had committed to ignoring. All in all, it was pretty nice.

Of course, that was when things went wrong.

“Yo, freaks,” a voice called out, and Kane furrowed his eyebrows, turning towards the voice curiously. There weren’t a lot of people who would be confident enough to antagonize their little group.

Unfortunately, one of the only people that was exempt to that statement was indeed standing at the mouth of the bleachers, looking pissed.

Kane tried not to obviously scramble to his feet in front of Brian Xander, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded. Next to him, Dylan stayed sitting, watching with a hesitant expression.

Kane should have said something like, “Do you want to join us?” Or maybe, “What’s up?” Or a simple, “Yo.”

Instead what came out was, “I thought you were suspended.”

Kane cringed, because that was definitely not the right thing to say. Xander seemed to agree, because he sneered.

“So, what, I’m gone and you fuckers think you can just waltz in and take our spot?” He glared at Kane, who looked at Dylan for help. He just parroted Kane’s own wide-eyed stare back at him.

“We weren’t trying to-”

“You know what?” Xander asked mockingly, stepping forward. “I really don’t care.”

Kane ducked as Xander’s fist sailed over his head, breathing in so quickly he choked on the air, causing him to stumble away from Xander, coughing and sputtering. The bigger man didn’t care, and it didn’t take long for him to go after Kane.

His other friends, the absolute dicks, ran as soon as it was clear this was going to be a real fight. Dylan, the only one that Kane actually trusted, caught his eye, turned around, and started running. Kane didn’t have time to think about that before he was being pushed back against a wall, his head hitting it painfully, causing sparks to dance around his vision. It cleared just in time for him to dive out of the way of a punch that would have broken his nose, instead causing Xander to slam his knuckles into the brick and swear loudly. 

“I’m gonna kill you for that,” he growled, shaking his hand out and wincing. Kane just stood up. 

He knew how to fight. He knew how to fight, he’d been doing it since he was thirteen. This was just another jerk, one who couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. There was nothing different.

At least, that’s what he told himself. He wasn’t sure if he believed his own lies, but they tasted sweet in his mouth, so when Xander came at him again, he faked a hit to the other boy’s face and instead punched his gut, kicking the side of his knee when he paused to grunt and regain his breath.

Kane backed up quickly, clenching his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. Xander stood up straight, and caught Kane off guard by just charging him instead of making some comment. 

That was what decided the tone of what was about to happen. Kane got some good hits in, enough to know Xander would be feeling like shit for the next few weeks, but for every hit Kane landed, Xander landed three. Kane was wiping blood from his nose and wheezing when he breathed, scrambling away from the looming figure that was backing him against a wall, when Dylan showed up, three security guards, a teacher, and the principal in tow.

“Mister Xander!” the principal yelled, causing Xander to pause, looking at their new audience and sighing aggressively at what he saw.

He looked back at Kane consideringly, trying to figure out if he could land a few more in, but two of the security guards came up behind him, one clapping him on the shoulder.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, kid,” he said. “Police are on their way, and it wouldn’t do much.”

“Besides,” the other one added, looking down at Kane, “he’s getting the same wrap as you. I mean, you are trespassing on school property, technically, but he’s not coming off clean, if that makes you feel any better.”

Xander smirked down at him, as if Kane’s stomach hadn’t just dropped straight out of him, then turned in the guards hold to walk back over to the group, letting the third guard handcuff him.

The first guard came up to him and offered a hand up, which he took, grunting when the action of standing up caused his ribs to scream in protest.

“Come on, kid,” the guard said, leading him out to everyone else. Police cars were pulling into the parking lot. Dylan gave him an apologetic look, which he nodded at in acknowledgement. It was the best thing he could have done, and Kane recognized that. The guard pressed something metal against his wrist, which Kane realized were handcuffs. He swallowed.

“Here to pick up some delinquents?” a police officer called from the front seat of his car. The guard led Kane over, opening the door and sliding him in. Kane watched numbly as the guard leant down to peer at him from outside the car.

“Have a fun ride,” he said. Kane just breathed in heavily.

The car door slamming startled him enough that he hit his head on the roof of the car. The officer in the front seat just chuckled lightly and started to drive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kane was in a holding cell.

He was sitting on the bench, hunched over, with his elbows resting on his legs and his head in his hands. The position was hell on his ribs, but he was tired, and that was the way he felt most comfortable, so that was the way he sat.

They had given him a few bandages and bruise cream, as well as checked him over for a concussion (he didn’t have one, just a lump on the back of his head), so nothing was as bad as it was when he first got to the station. That didn’t mean he didn’t feel a bit like a giant bruise, though.

The officers had told him that they were keeping him until someone came to get him and had paid what needed to be paid. Which, normally, meant for a few hours.

Unfortunately, Kane was not normal, which meant that his mom was out of state for work and he had no other family. And also, even if his mom was fifteen minutes away, he wasn’t totally sure they could afford bail anyway. For all he knew, this cell would only be the first. Kane blinked back tears, not for the first time since he had arrived at the station. What had he been thinking?

This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. He was supposed to mess around a little, pass his classes with Cs and Ds and work right out of high school.

Instead, he was sitting hunched over in a holding cell for the foreseeable future. He dimly wondered if they’d give him a pillow for the next few nights.

He sighed, and immediately regretted the action when his body berated him for it.

A door opened, a few heavy footsteps entering the room around the cell. Kane didn’t look up. Just officers passing through.

At least, that’s what he thought until a familiar voice was telling someone to “let me inside.”

Kane’s head snapped up to watch Mr. Sanders raise a patronizingly calm eyebrow at the sputtering police officer.

“We can’t do that, sir,” the officer said, crossing his arms almost self-consciously.

“He’s a seventeen year old child,” Mr. Sanders replied drily. “I think I’ll be safe. I promise I’ll scream if he’s about to murder me, though,” he tacked on, sarcasm thick in his tone. The officer sputtered again, but unlocked the holding cell door like he said, allowing Mr. Sanders to stride into the cell confidently. The door closed behind him.

He came over to sit next to Kane, who had been watching him with a look he was sure was entirely surprise and shock.

“What are you doing here?” he finally asked when it became clear Mr. Sanders wasn’t going to start the conversation, having just leaned against the wall behind them casually. 

It was then that Kane noticed his attire. He choked on his own spit.

Mr. Sanders (his teacher!) was dressed like a drugstore emo, complete with ripped black skinny jeans and platform Docs that must have been an inch thick at least, and a purple band shirt that was almost completely obscured by the leather bomber jacket that hung loose of his frame. His hair was still the same, a purple-black ombre that fell into his eyes, but not enough to obscure the fact that he was wearing eyeliner.

Mr. Sanders watched in amusement as Kane tried to recover his breathing, only frowning when Kane winced at the spasm of his chest that caused his ribs to twinge painfully.

“Are your ribs injured?” he asked.

“What are you wearing?” Kane asked in reply, not even purposefully sidestepping the question, just overwhelmed by the level of flabbergasted-ness he was experiencing. Mr. Sanders’ lips twitched upwards.

“I do have a life outside of being a teacher, Kane,” he reminded him, crossing his legs with an indifferent air.

“Yeah, but I didn’t realize that involved… whatever this is!” he exclaimed, gesturing broadly.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was being insulted,” Mr. Sanders said, and Kane backtracked.

“No, no, I mean- I didn’t-”

“Relax, Kane,” Mr. Sanders put his hands up in a calming gesture. “I was joking. I know you aren’t insulting me.”

Kane nodded, then furrowed his eyebrows.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again.

“I’m here for you,” Mr. Sanders answered easily, as if it was the most simple thing in the world. “Dylan emailed me about what happened, and I called your mom, who won’t be back in town for a few days. She gave me full permission to pick you up and drop you off at your house, or my apartment if you want to stay with me.”

Kane stared at him as if he was speaking another language. 

“What?”

Mr. Sanders smiled slightly.

“I’m here to pick you up, and either bring you back to your house or mine, whichever you prefer,” he simplified. Kane still didn’t understand.

“I don’t understand.” 

Mr. Sanders sighed through his nose, and Kane immediately felt like he had done something wrong.

“Kane,” Mr. Sanders started softly, “you very obviously didn’t listen to my warning. Why was that?”

Kane shrunk in on himself a bit, ignoring the way it made his ribs throb. He didn’t say anything.

“Okay, you don’t have to answer.” Mr. Sanders was quiet for a moment. Kane glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was leaning against the wall with his legs crossed still, his eyes closed, looking like he could be taking a quick rest in the park, or maybe napping in a café. The dreary interior of the holding cell didn’t match the picture.

“My dad died when I was eleven,” Mr. Sanders finally said. Kane startled, hissing a breath out through his teeth in pain, but Mr. Sanders didn’t react. He just kept talking. “He was my best friend, and then one day he was just gone. It was really hard for us, especially since my mom was pregnant with my little brother. I worked as hard as I could to take care of them, and the way I did that was by going as fast as possible. I graduated as soon as I could, sped through college, and took the first job I could.” He paused. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, but being a teacher was never my grand plan. My dad had those.” A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “I was going to cure cancer, or feed millions of hungry kids, or be the first person on Mars. He liked to believe that because I was smarter than anyone my age, I could do anything. Despite the fact that I haven’t done any of that stuff, I think he’d be proud of me. I hope he is,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Mr. Sanders opened his eyes, and turned his head slightly to look at Kane, making eye contact. Kane didn’t know if he could look away. He didn’t know if he wanted to.

“Your dad wasn’t like that, was he.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and suddenly Kane, despite being bigger than almost any other person in the Junior class, despite being seventeen and roughed up after a fight, suddenly felt very small.

Still, he managed to shake his head.

“I’m sorry he was the way he was,” Mr. Sanders said. “I know that hurt you. I understand what it’s like, to have so many feelings and not know what to do with them. I put them into work, to the point that it was unhealthy. You put them into…” he trailed off, not breaking eye contact. Kane was filling in the blanks without even realizing he had started talking.

“Anything,” he whispered. “Anything that he would hate. Anything that made me seem cool, that made sure people wouldn’t pick on me.”

“Pick on you like he did,” Mr. Sanders elaborated, and Kane felt himself nodding. Mr. Sander’s eyes were green. He’d never noticed that before. “Your mom’s worried about you.”

That was what finally let Kane break away from the eye contact, the statement causing his head to duck ashamedly, almost involuntarily.

“I know,” he muttered. He didn’t mean to worry her, but he just couldn’t help it. He almost didn’t know how to do anything other than smoke and skip and fight, even though he knew she hated it.

“I told her you didn’t mean to,” Mr. Sanders said, and Kane was starting to wonder if he was psychic or something. He told him as much, which made Mr. Sanders laugh loudly. Kane felt himself smiling too, despite the fact that it pulled on the bruises on his cheek uncomfortably.

“It’s my special teacher powers.” Mr. Sanders winked, and Kane huffed out a laugh. Mr. Sanders smiled at him, then started to get up. Kane followed his lead. 

Mr. Sanders called for an officer to let them out, and soon Kane was being led by his Lit. and Lang. teacher to the front desk at the police station. On the way there, an officer handed him a bag of all his belongings, and he gratefully slipped his phone into his pocket, strapping his watch on as he walked.

“I’m picking up Kane Barns, “ he said smoothly, professionally. “His legal guardian, Bella Barns, should have called earlier giving permission.”

The receptionist nodded amicably, typing away on her computer.

“Yes, Ms. Barns called. Are you paying the bail or is she?” 

“I am,” Mr. Sanders answered, pulling his wallet out and handing over his credit card, as well as his license. The receptionist took both with another nod, both of them acting as if Kane wasn’t having a heart attack right next to them.

“Um, what,” Kane croaked out, feeling as if he was dreaming. Mr. Sanders just spared him a careful glance.

“I’ve already discussed it with your mother,” he said. “She was very thankful, and gave me full permission.”

“I can’t- you shouldn’t- but-” Kane stuttered, trying to find the right words to say ‘what the fuck is happening, I can’t let you do that, you’re so nice what’s wrong with you???’

“Kane,” Mr. Sanders interrupted, giving him a smile as the receptionist handed him back his card and license. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t be doing this if I couldn’t afford it, or if I didn’t want to.”

Kane opened his mouth with a rebuttal on his tongue, but Mr. Sanders just gave him a look, and before he knew it he was closing his mouth and following Mr. Sanders quietly out of the station and up to a plain black car parked close to the doors. Mr. Sanders unlocked it, then slid into the driver's side as Kane awkwardly dropped into the passenger seat.

Kane stared at the little black bat plushie hanging from the rearview mirror as Mr. Sanders pulled out of the parking lot, watching it swing back and forth.

“I’m assuming you know how to get to your house,” Mr. Sanders said after a moment, breaking the silence. Kane jumped a little before he comprehended the words, then nodded. 

“Turn left in two streets,” he replied quietly. That was how they passed the fifteen minute drive, in silence that was only broken by Kane’s muttered directions. Kane let his mind wander throughout the ride, keeping his gaze on the world outside. It was dark, the clock on the radio reading ‘8:45pm’ already. Kane sighed. He wasn’t looking forward to his empty house.

Eventually, Kane was telling Mr. Sanders to stop in front of a plain looking townhouse. It was on the smaller side, even for a townhouse, and it wasn’t as nice looking as the others around it, but not so much that it stood out as an outlier. 

“Thank you for the ride, Mr. Sanders,” Kane said truthfully, hoping Mr. Sanders would understand the hidden meaning behind the words. ‘Thank you for everything, thank you for not being disappointed in me, thank you for paying the bail, thank you for still caring.’

“You’re welcome,” Mr. Sanders replied with a smile. He glanced back at the townhouse. “Do you want to stay here tonight or stay at mine?”

Kane paused on his way to opening the door, turning back to his teacher in surprise. 

“What?”

“Your mom was worried about you staying home alone,” Mr. Sanders explained. “She gave permission for you to stay with me until she gets back in a few days. You can call her, if you’d like,” he added. 

Kane nodded slowly, pulling out his phone. He dialed her number.

She was worried about him, which he wasn’t surprised about. She seemed understanding, though, and confirmed everything that Mr. Sanders had told him. She encouraged him to stay with him while she was gone. 

“I don’t want you alone right now,” she said, concern evident in her voice. “I want you to stay with someone, and Virgil seems like he’s a very sweet man. I trust him with you.”

Kane glanced over at Mr. Sanders, who was on his phone, turned away from him. Obviously trying to give him the semblance of privacy.

“Okay,” Kane finally conceded quietly. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

“It will,” his mom replied quickly. “I’ll let you get settled there, but call me before you go to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” Kane said again. 

“I love you, honey,” his mom finished softly, and Kane muttered a quick ‘love you too’ in return. He hung up, and turned to Mr. Sanders.

“Guess I’m staying with you.” He tried to put as much levity into his voice as possible, and could here himself fail. Mr. Sanders didn’t comment, just gave him another smile. He pocketed his phone and gestured to Kane’s house.

“You can run in and pack a bag with clothes and toiletries, I’ll sit out here.”

Kane nodded, opening his door and stumbling out of the car. Before he was able to close it, though, Mr. Sanders called his name. Kane bent down so he could make eye contact.

“You do realize that this means you aren’t going to be allowed to do any of that shit anymore, right?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Kane nodded.

“I know,” he replied, because he did.

“Are you okay with that?” Mr. Sanders pressed. Kane paused, then dipped his chin in a slow nod.

“I am,” he said, realizing only after the words left his mouth that they were true. He really was fine with changing everything around.

“Good.” Mr. Sanders leaned back in his seat. “Don’t take too long, we’ve got a rave waiting for us back at my apartment.”

Kane let out a surprised laugh, barely even noticing the ache in his ribs. Mr. Sanders smiled at the sound. 

“Sounds exciting,” Kane quipped, smiling back happily. He slammed the door shut, and started up towards his house, grinning the whole way.

————

hopefully you liked it! honestly expect a lot more sneaky fanfictions that i wrote for creative writing in the future.

reblogs and notes are my life blood so i appreciate them all. i also have an ao3 (thepenguinclub) if that's your thing, i'd love to hang over there.

remember that you are loved, and appreciated, and if you've been online for a while maybe take a little break, yeah? i hope you have an amazing rest of your day!!! <33

previous part, next part, masterpost

[thepenguinclub]

this is nice! something's probably wrong.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

romantic lamp, fluffy fluffness, that's it

Summary:

Virgil wakes up to sunlight on his face. This is weird, because Virgil has never in his life awoken after the sun.

At least his partners are there to help start his day off right.

————

this is something small i wrote AGES ago that i genuinely just didn't know how to finish. it's been siting in my incomplete folder for a while now and i have been struggling with writing recently so i figured hey! why not tag three sentences on to the end of this old unfinished oneshot, pretend it's a good ending, post it, and hopefully gain motivation from doing so! why not!

so here we are. beta read by @sunbrightshadows because we were bored one day. still, i love them and you should check out their stuff. or check out my stuff! it's better quality than this!

but you clicked for a reason and i appreciate that so without further ado, here's this.

WARNINGS: virgie says a no no word, but that's it.

————

Virgil woke up to warmth on his face.

The warmth was different from the warmth of one of his partner's arms around his waist, and different from the warmth of the heavy blankets he was snuggled under, and different from the warm puff of breath against his forehead. No, the warmth on his face was the warmth of sunlight.

Which was nice, of course, if not a little odd. Or a lot odd.

Because as much as he wished it otherwise, Virgil woke up early every morning to an alarm, at 5:30am exactly. His morning routine was simple after that. Gently wrestle himself out of his partner’s warm embraces, drink a protein shake, go for a run around the neighborhood, get home, do a brief workout, shower, help Patton make breakfast and talk with Logan about the plan for the day over coffee, drag Roman out of bed, and go to work. 

That happened every weekday, Monday through Friday, every week. The only difference on Saturdays and Sundays was that he didn’t go to work and he let his partners sleep in.

And no, for the record, Virgil did not enjoy the feeling of waking up early. It was just that after growing up under a former Navy SEAL, he knew how routine worked, and he had yet to break said routine even after he moved out for college and, eventually, into his own house with his partners. While Virgil did enjoy the quiet calm that came with early mornings, he knew that sleeping in was a paradise that he would never know, and he had accepted that a while ago.

Waking up at 5:30am every day meant one thing was common; Virgil did not rise after the sun. He often watched it do so, and took pride in the countless number of sunrise pictures on his phone.

So. Warmth on his face, the sun’s warmth on his face, when he woke up was wrong. 

Virgil’s eyes shot open when he felt his heart drop into the mattress under him. His heart was then left stranded in the mattress when his body rocketed up the other way, so he was sitting ramrod straight. Roman grunted, as he was the source of the warmth around Virgil’s waist, but Virgil ignored him as he lunged across Logan, the source of the warmth on his forehead, and to the nightstand.

Logan let out a very undignified squeak of surprise that he wouldn’t ever admit to making and that Virgil would have teased him for if he couldn’t feel his breathing in his brain. The fact that he had lunged over his partner and into the thin air, which, unfortunately, meant Virgil ended up hitting the floor in a somewhat uncomfortable way didn’t affect his mission to grab his phone from where it was charging and frantically check the time at all. 

7:12am.

“Shit!” Virgil shouted. He realized that his partners were still sleeping. 

“Shit!” Virgil whispered. Problem solved.

“There is no point trying to be quiet,” a still groggy Logan said, sitting up. “I can assure you that we are all awake after that display.”

“Sorry,” Virgil apologized, around 1% sheepish and 99% worried. “My alarm didn’t go off and it’s 7:15.”

“Wha?” Roman asked, pushing himself up on his elbows. Patton’s head popped up behind him, squinting in Virgil’s direction, as he was practically blind without his glasses. Virgil dimly registered them, but was more concerned with opening his phone quickly and going to check his notifications. 

One email from his boss. Virgil scanned it quickly, then let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. He slumped against the wall.

“Employees,

Thanks to the blizzard that blew in last night, all roads are closed. I can’t get into the museum to open it and neither can you, unless someone has a helicopter that I’m not aware of (in which case, 1. Rude of you not to inform me and 2. Can I have a test drive), so everyone has the day off. Enjoy the snow day, don’t contact me, I won’t answer. Not that I don’t like you, just that I see you every day and it gets old. Also I might just not like you, we’ll never know.

See ya.

-Remy Picani”

Virgil rubbed a hand over his face. That was a lot of anxiety for having just woken up.

“What’s wrong, V?” Patton asked, and he was actually looking at Virgil instead of to his left because he had put his glasses on.

“Nothing,” Virgil sighed, then shut his phone. He unplugged it and slipped it in the pockets of his pajama pants, then stood up and walked over to the edge of the bed. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Roman furrowed his eyebrows, still blinking sleep from his eyes. 

“Didn’t look like-” He cut himself off with a yawn, then tried again. “Didn’t look like nothing, baby.”

Virgil smiled softly at him as he perched on the edge of the bed. 

“My alarm didn’t go off,” he explained quietly. “Freaked me out, is all.”

Logan tilted his head, his bare face looking strangely empty without his glasses. Unlike Patton, Logan wasn’t totally blind without them and could get by fairly well, but he got headaches if he didn’t wear them for long periods of time. 

“Why wouldn’t your alarm have gone off?” Logan asked. Virgil shrugged, then looked over at Roman when he laughed sheepishly. He was more awake now, and was rubbing the back of his neck in the way he did when he was embarrassed. 

“That might’ve been me, actually,” he said. Virgil went to ask what he was talking about, but Roman explained before he could. “I was the last one to go to bed last night and as I was getting into my pjs my boss texted me to say work was closed for today because of the snow. I told Alexa to turn off my alarm, but she must have turned off all of them.” Roman twisted his mouth in apology. “Sorry, baby.”

Virgil huffed a little, but he gave Roman a small smile.

“It’s fine, I get it,” he said, and Roman smiled at him. “I still don’t get why I didn’t wake up, though. Even if something’s wrong with my alarm I always wake up on time ‘cause it’s habit.”

Logan waved his hand a little.

“That was me,” he admitted, and his hand went up to push his glass up his nose, only to meet air. He crossed his eyes briefly to look at his fingers before realizing what was wrong and reaching over to put his glasses on. He cleared his throat when he was settled again. “I was quite, er, close, to you last night-”

“Together for seven years and he still can’t admit he’s a cuddler,” Roman teased, and Patton whacked his arm playfully.

“Be nice,” he chided, and Roman stuck his tongue out. Logan rolled his eyes and continued.

“As I was saying, when you started to wake up it woke me up and in my state of half-consciousness I didn’t realize it was time for you to get up,” he explained. “I got you back to sleep before you were ever awake.”

Virgil nodded slowly, fuzzy memories of shushing and a quiet ‘go back to sleep’ coming to mind now that Logan had mentioned it.

“That’s fine, Lo,” he said finally, “but my backup alarm on my phone should have gone off.”

It was Patton’s turn to look sheepish.

“Sorry, honey, that was probably me.” Virgil raised an eyebrow, and he elaborated. “We all know I’m a light sleeper-” He was, Patton tended to wake up at every little sound, but he never had a problem going right back to sleep. “-and at some point I woke up and there was this buzzing sound. I got up and followed it to your phone, V, but I was super tired and didn’t realize why the alarm was going off, so I just turned it off and went back to sleep. Sorry,” he added, and Virgil shook his head.

“No, that makes sense,” he admitted. “I must have forgotten to turn my ringer back on after work yesterday.”

Roman laughed a little. “Sorry we ruined your routine, Virge,” he said, amusement coloring his words. “Can’t believe we all took part, though, that’s kinda funny.”

Patton shrugged. “We are a snooze-worthy team!” he exclaimed brightly, and Virgil groaned. Roman barked out another laugh, and Logan sighed.

“That was barely applicable, Patton,” he said tiredly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Patton giggled.

“Don’t you mean bear-ly?” he asked, pointing to the worn teddy bear resting on one of the shelves on the wall. It was Patton’s from when he was little, and Bubbles sat contentedly to live out his days among their keepsakes.

“No,” Logan deadpanned. “No I did not.”

Virgil snorted, then stood up from the edge of the bed. He stretched and cracked his back, shaking his limbs out a little to start the wake up process. His partners started to do the same, stretching and picking up phones to check notifications, although they all stayed in the bed.

“Work’s closed today,” Logan said, and Patton nodded.

“For me too,” he agreed, and Virgil let out a tense “same” as he bent as far backwards as he was comfortable going. Roman wolf whistled teasingly, and Virgil glared at him as he straightened back up, before doing the same stretch forward, leaning onto his hands and walking them forward until he was in a pushup position. He did one quick push up, then walked his feet to meet his hands and stood back up again. His partners were all staring at him in fascination, and he felt himself flush up his neck and into his cheeks.

“What?” he asked self consciously, and Patton giggled.

“Nothing, honey,” he said, smiling fondly. “We’ve just never seen your morning stretches, ‘s all.”

“You are very flexible,” Logan added, and Roman choked on air. Virgil smacked a hand over his face to cover his steadily increasing blush, walking over to the bed and picking up a pillow to continuously hit Roman over the head with.

“It is too early to be horny on main,” Virgil laughed, punctuating each word with a whack from the pillow.

Logan seemed to finally realize what Roman had meant, because he closed his eyes and sighed even as his face flamed. Patton just giggled, making a noise of sympathy when Roman called out to him desperately.

Really, Virgil reflected as he brutally destroyed his boyfriend, sleeping in was pretty nice. Waking up with his partners was even better. 

Maybe he’d try and do it more often.

————

hope you enjoyed, sorry about the ending i know it was weird.

if you like this, check out my other works because personally i think they're better! also, you can read my stuff on my ao3 here (thepenguinclub) if you would like to.

reblogs and likes are loved with every fiber of my being, and i wasn't joking about the writing struggle so if anyone has any requests for no reason i would love to hear them, just pop them in a comment, the tags of a reblog on my tumblr, or a dm.

have a good rest of your day and go to bed at a decent hour. <3

[thepenguinclub]

the diner

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

platonic dlampr, janus pov, description focus

wordcount: 2387

Summary:

Janus hadn’t been to the diner in years. He’d moved away from Darrelville, from Mulberry Lane, from Dot’s Diner almost as soon as he could, fresh out of high school and only an adult by a few months. Off to college, then law school, then the bar exam, until he finally stopped moving when he reached New York City and the nice apartment with his name on it.

Now Janus was older, and he had settled. He found a coffee place he liked.

It wasn’t the diner, though. It would never come close.

---

It's past midnight and the diner lights are just as bright as they always are.

I wonder who's in there.

————

Hi, this is something small that I did because I had been lacking motivation and I wanted to write something. So, I hit shuffle a bunch of times and pressed repeat on the song it landed on and just wrote based on vibes.

The song was Until I Found You by Stephan Sanchez and honestly this was not what people probably picture when they hear this song but I gotta be honest, I had literally no idea what I was writing until it was already written down.

Also, the descriptions are a lot. I actually originally intended to not have dialogue at all but at the end I felt it was better with dialogue. Still, lots of descriptions. I also was writing this to help a friend fall asleep, so I wanted it to be chill.

Speaking of, thank you to @rozhanelle for betaing. I love you.

WARNINGS: swearing

————

The diner was ugly, if Janus was being honest. 

Fluorescent lighting that strained the eyes even when daylight was there to fight it, which meant that in the black of night it was downright painful. Everything was colorful, but in a faded way. The booths all a once vibrant red, the countertops a stained blue, the walls a murky mix of the two, creating a purple that would make any interior designer cry.

But there was a certain nostalgia to the place. The jukebox in the corner, as dirty and old as the rest of the diner, crooned old music. The menus were full of classic dishes. The paintings and pictures on the walls were either gray or peeling or both, but they all showed scenic views or smiling faces.

The diner also had a personal sense of nostalgia, but that was just for Janus. If those walls could talk, they would speak of late nights of mischief and barely-abided laws. Of raucous laughter during the devils hour and waffles ordered so high they brushed the lights. Of adventure after adventure and doing whatever the fuck.

Janus hadn’t been to the diner in years. He’d moved away from Darrelville, from Mulberry Lane, from Dot’s Diner almost as soon as he could, fresh out of high school and only an adult by a few months. Off to college, then law school, then the bar exam, until he finally stopped moving when he reached New York City and the nice apartment with his name on it.

Now Janus was older, and he had settled. He found a coffee place he liked. 

It wasn’t the diner, though. It would never come close.

The door slammed shut behind him, ringing the bell a second time and making Janus jump with the abrupt sound. There was a high school girl behind the counter, who raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar customer. That made sense. Darrelville was not a big town, new people were generally treated with raised eyebrows and confused looks.

Janus nodded at her and walked to their a booth towards the back, nestled against one of the windows. He took off his leather jacket as he slid into the seat, but he didn’t go all the way. His seat was in the middle. 

He hung his jacket on the corner of the booth seat and settled in against the cracked and faded red leather, letting the old song on the jukebox wash over him. A part of him wondered if the girl at the counter would come over and take his order, but she seemed to understand that he was waiting for someone, so all she did was glance over every now and again.

It was fifteen minutes before the bell above the door dinged. The man whose entry it signaled walked in slowly, taking in his surroundings with a soft smile. Janus was not the only one who held nostalgic memories.

The man waved at the girl at the counter, offering a wider smile, and she waved back, confused. A stranger was uncommon. More than one? Someone should call the papers.

The man used a baby-blue painted nail to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he glanced around the diner again, this time with a purpose. His gaze landed on Janus in the booth, and his white converse shoes squeaked on the tile as he made his way over. The little doodles on the fabric in sharpie warped with his steps, but Janus was able to make out flowers, puppies and rainbows, the leftover empty space filled with little stars.

The man took off his own jacket, a pink, fluffy affair, with patches sewn into the material. He hung his on the other booth seat and slid in across from Janus, the other middle seat. His hands rested on the table between them, colorful braided bracelets and rings with little stones in them catching Janus’ eye. 

After a moment, Janus leaned forward and placed his own hands on the table, any distinctive features covered by yellow, silk gloves. Another moment went by, before the man moved his hands to rest on top of Janus’. 

They both said nothing.

Around ten minutes later, the bell rang again. 

It was close to one in the morning, now, and the twilight obscured the view, both out the window next to him and out of the open door. 

Apparently, though, it had started to rain, because the man that came in shut the door quickly behind him, jacket shoulders damp with the beginnings of a storm. His cleanly coiffed hair was unmoved and as black as the night outside, and when he turned away from the window it was obvious that this was a theme. Black, thick rimmed glasses over eyes whose pupil seemed to cover his iris. Dark skin under dark, professional clothing. Almost the complete opposite of the previous patron of the diner.

The man paid no mind to the girl at the diner, who made no attempt to hide her staring. Instead, he barely looked around the diner before he was striding towards their booth, taking his jacket off as he went. He placed it over the pink jacket, and sat next to the man across from Janus, movements precise and measured. He was taller than the other man, and sat with perfect posture while the other man slouched comfortably, which made for an interesting visual on Janus’ part.

The new man placed his own hands on the table, wasting no time in settling them over Janus’ and the other man’s. His fingers were long and delicate, and his watch shone in the harsh lighting. 

They said nothing.

The next man came only a few minutes later. He seemed nervous, nervous enough to take no mind to the rain dampening his hair and clothes. Said hair hung past his jaw, a deep purple that matched the many shining accessories in his ears, nose, lips and on his fingers and wrists. His jacket kept with the theme too, a dark leather with the same purple appearing in homemade sewn patches.

The man was overly mindful of the door behind him, closing it quietly, so quietly the bell barely made a sound. He nodded once at the girl at the counter, who’s staring had turned from curious to appraising in seconds, and made his way towards the booth.

His heavy boots thunked on the diner floor, and the chains attached to his belt-loops jingled as he walked. When he reached the table Janus went to pull his hands away, but was stopped by a look from the new man. He stepped up onto the booth with one boot, then up onto the table with the other, making his way to the spot on the booth in between Janus and the window. He turned and sat on the table, his feet next to Janus’ hip, and leaned back on his hands. His head tipped back and he closed his eyes.

They said nothing.

There was a peace, in the diner.

The jukebox’s music was a steady, calm wash of sound in the background, the effects of old microphones on the singer’s voices giving everything an almost muffled quality. The lights were adjusted to by now, and rain tapped on the window politely. Not a ‘let me in’, just an ‘I’m here.’ The girl at the counter had given up on trying to figure their group out and had returned to her phone, and Janus and the other men were entertained enough by just sitting. Taking in their surroundings. The colorful man’s head dipped to rest on the tall man’s shoulder, and Janus pressed his elbow into the man next to him’s thigh. There was no reaction except for a subtle press back into his arm.

Finally, the diner door opened for the final time. The ding of the bell was the peaceful scene’s only warning.

Two men, identical in almost every feature, rushed in, away from the rain. The first man was wearing a jean jacket with pins on the front and a beautiful design painted on the back, a ruby red rose in a golden crown, with the second in a matching jean jacket, only this one was ripped in several places, neon fishnets having been sewed to cover the holes. The design on the back of this one was much more cartoonish, depicting a giant octopus destroying a pirate ship.

There was only one moment when there was quiet as both men attempted to catch their breath.

Then the bell rang as the door slammed shut, and they were off. Both men started arguing, yelling at each other as they pushed at their brother’s shoulders (because there was no way these men were anything less than identical twins).

They each spared a loud greeting to the shocked girl at the counter before they started racing to the booth, both still managing to argue all the way there.

They stopped in front of the booth, still bickering, although the matching, broad grins on both of their faces gave away the true tone behind their words. 

The one with the octopus flopped down next to Janus, not bothering to take off his wet jacket and instead leaning on Janus in order to get him wet too. The other man waited patiently for the tall man and the colorful one to slip their hands away from Janus’ and slide out of the booth, giving both men winning smiles for their efforts, before he crawled to the window seat and the other two filled back in the empty space.

Finally, finally , everyone was in their correct spot, the whole booth full, a little too full now that they were all grown up and not in high school anymore, and Janus could feel a smile curve his lips almost against his will.

The man who had flopped on him had situated his head in Janus’ lap comfortably, grinning up at him as Janus’ hands naturally found his unruly curls and started to card through them. 

“Good to see you, Janny,” the man said.

“You as well, Remus,” Janus replied quietly, because any louder and the stubborn lump in his throat would be audible, and they couldn’t have that.

Across the table, similar sentiments were being shared. 

“You look so good, Lo-lo!” 

“It’s wonderful to see you, Roman.”

“Oh, Patty, how I missed you!”

Patton turned his blinding smile and Janus, and Remus sat up, if only to not miss out on it. 

“I missed you guys so much,” Patton gushed, reaching across the table to once again take Janus’ hand.

Logan gave a rare grin when Remus practically lunged across the table to give what had to be an incredibly uncomfortable hug, what with the table digging into their stomachs, but neither of them seemed to care. 

Roman’s hand flicked Janus’ hat, knocking it off in order to give him enough room to ruffle Janus’ hair kindly, only smiling wider when Janus squawked, offended.

After everyone had gotten their greetings in, Janus’ lump in his throat was down to a manageable level, so he felt confident enough to turn to his right, the rest of the table’s occupants following suit.

The man that was still perched on the table was in the same position he had taken when he had first arrived, his hands behind him, leaning back, head falling backward, hair hanging limply behind it.

His eyes were still closed, but Janus didn’t think for a second that he was asleep. 

No, this man just liked to take a moment to listen, sometimes. 

Once he heard the noise die down, he opened his eyes and lifted his head, slowly. He turned to look at everyone, taking in their faces. Probably taking in what was different about their faces

“Ten years,” he said. His voice was rough and low, a more extreme version of what it had been. He let his head fall back again, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “‘S been a while.”

Janus nodded, and he pulled his hand out of Patton’s grip to rest it on the man’s thigh.

“It has,” he agreed, and he looked at the rest of the group. He was met with gazes that matched his own. Curious, confused, but happy nonetheless. 

“Virgil,” Logan started, leaning forwards slightly, “why did you call us here?”

Virgil continued to look at the ceiling of the diner, but Janus saw a grin slowly stretch itself across his face.

Suddenly, he sat up, turning to face the middle of the table, and Janus felt like he’d been punched in the stomach with the way Virgil’s expression was such a familiar one of mischief and excitement.

“I know it’s been ten years,” Virgil said, quietly. He pulled his legs up to cross in front of him.

And he placed his hand, covered in rings and small tattoos, in the middle of the table, where Janus’ and Patton’s had rested only moments earlier.

“But whaddya say?” he asked, tilting his head, and with that voice and that head tilt and that face , Janus could almost believe they were all ten years younger and about to go have the time of their lives. 

“Who’s down for one more adventure?” Virgil asked, and he hadn’t even gotten all the words out before a dirty hand with chipped green nail polish was slamming down on top of his own.

A second later, a cleaner one, with red nail polish and little marker doodles on the back was joining it.

A few more seconds, and there was a bare hand with piano-player fingers added.

Then colorful bracelets and rings with little stones in them, baby-blue nail polish on display.

And then-

And then a yellow, silk glove, delicately placed on top.

The truth is, even though Janus had wanted out of Darrelville so bad, because it was small and conservative and he wanted to be something big, these had been the best times of his life. With five other kids who were different, kids who were down for anything. 

The times that Janus didn’t have to worry about mortgage, about the bar exam, about school. The times that he could just fuck around with his friends.

The times that were in this ugly, ugly diner.

————

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