celine. infp. she/her. southeast asian. ravenclaw. horned serpent. funko pop enjoyer. annotator. thought daughter. edmund pevensie day 1 stan. playlist enthusiast. letterboxd warrior. angel of music lover. org girly.
masterlist letterboxd spotify book recommendations thought!daughter tumblr recommendations miscellaneous
fandoms i'm willing to write for. . .
the chronicles of narnia. harry potter. phantom of the opera. twilight. marvel. dc comics. house of the dragon. the vampire diaries. star wars. slasher flicks. disney. ghibli studios. pokemon. lord of the rings. the mighty ducks.
“white nights” by foyodor dostoevsky, a review by me :)
Date Last Read: June 10, 2026
Number of times Read: 2
Rating: 5/5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Synopsis: White Nights is a solitary novel(ette) that depicts the innerworkings of the Dreamer's mind throughout the nights he spends in the company of the beloved Nastenka. It's a tale of love—unrequited, romantic, platonic, yearning, and unconditional. If you've ever loved someone who, in their own way, loved you as well, just—not in the same way you had them, then, maybe this book is for you.
TLDR: Must-read if you're a yearner, in a back-burner mood, or if you enjoy basking in a dream-like state of literature.
“My God! A whole minute of bliss! Is that really so little for the whole of a man’s life?”
White Nights was always that novel(ette) that I’ve heard must be read at least once in your life. Now, I understand why.
It’s a yearner’s go-to. A love story, but not a romance. It’s a story told by the Dreamer, who meets a woman, Nastenka, and within four white nights, falls deep and hard, in love with her. But, that’s something I can’t help but think about. Does he truly love her?
According to his memoir, he fell in love within moments upon their meeting. I certainly don’t doubt one’s ability to fall in love within a shared moment with someone. But, to fall in love with a stranger, and as hard and fast as he had? That’s something else.
Nastenka’s name had been mentioned 138 times within those few nights they shared together, highlighting just how constant she is in his heart, as is she in his mind. But with the nature of their shared moments, I can’t exactly blame him. He’s a meek man, unfamiliar and almost completely alien to interactions with others, much less young women such as herself.
However, the blame isn’t Nastenka’s either, for even from the very beginning, she had already warned him of one thing: do not fall in love with her. She didn’t explain, she didn’t need to. But, I also can’t blame the Dreamer’s heart for falling in love with her. I can’t blame him for expressing it with her, nor can I blame her for reacting the way she had.
Overall, I find that the Dreamer did love her— but, most of all, he needed somebody to love, to brighten his days, and remind him that there is warmth to the sun’s rays. Meanwhile, Nastenka wanted to be loved. Maybe she did love the Dreamer, just not in the way he had her. Maybe she was at fault for giving him that hope, that one night of bliss, on the account of a love she was reminded belonged to another.
But, despite this, despite it all, I applaud the Dreamer for truly loving her, and wishing her nothing but happiness as she promises her heart to whom she truly loves.
He is not selfish as to wish her ill, nor to hold anything against her. Instead, he is grateful for the four nights she had given him, and for the lifetime’s worth of moments he can look back upon to replenish his mind.
White Nights is as compelling as it is so full of love, emotion, and thought. It’s something that must be read more than once, and appreciated over and over.
THE PREVIOUS WEEK HAD BEEN EXHAUSTING, what with Lockhart’s Cornish Pixies, Mrs Weasley’s aggressive Howler (though that did give you some comedic relief), and now, Oliver Wood and his early, Saturday morning Quidditch practice.
It was the weekend, for Merlin’s sake. You would bloody well believe a strapping young lad such as himself would have anything better to do on a fine Saturday morning, but no. His life, love, and days revolved around Quidditch, and as his teammates, that sentiment extended upon the lot of you as well.
Even on an early, bloody, Saturday morning.
And, placing heavy emphasis, was it made loud and clear that it was a Saturday?
You could understand his dedication to an extent. Gryffindor had been so close to winning the Inter-House Quidditch Tournament the previous year, but, it was regrettable that with both yourself and Harry incapable of playing — due to injuries sustained from your encounter with the Dark Lord — Gryffindor was forced to forfeit, withdrawing on the account of an incomplete team.
It was the crack of dawn when your team captain, Oliver Wood, shook you and Bowie — who was almost forced off your head — awake. A groggy Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell lingering, dazed, by the door.
“How’dyougetinhere?” you’d all but groaned, attempting a chance at sleep when he ignored your query, casually opening your curtains and casting pink-and-gold daylight into your sight.
Skimming over your (and your Bowtruckle’s) dramatics, you were eventually led — broom in hand — outside, and into the changing room.
Harry entered soon after, with Colin Creevey at his tail. Wood was the only person who looked truly awake. Fred and George Weasley were sitting, puffy-eyed and tousle-haired, next to you, who happened to be nodding off against a wall and dreaming of a talking lion. The sight of you awakened the team Seeker by the slightest bit, as he chuckled amusedly to himself. Meanwhile, your fellow Chasers, Katie Bell and Angelina Johnson were yawning side by side on the bench parallel to you.
You hadn’t known then just what awaited you later that day, but for now, you were content with conversing with this strange lion on the topic of ice and the fearsome beauty it beholds.
In another location entirely, was a red train leaving four children along Coombe Halt station, a small stop in the middle of the countryside, surrounded only by grassy terrain, green trees that swayed lightly, and dirt paths untouched by concrete. The air was damp and smelling of soot. They were rather put-off by the environment. Whilst they had their expectations set, they hadn't exactly pictured a complete lack of civilization — the lone hint of it manifesting through the small station at which they were dropped off.
Where was their guardian? Someone was meant to welcome them upon their arrival, “a family friend of your father's!” their mother had said. But where was this mystery friend? In fact, where was this mystery friend staying? Inquiries began filling the siblings’ minds as they silently attempted to quiet their worries.
At the familiar sound of an approaching engine, the siblings perked up, rushing toward its source — only for a motorcar to flash past them in a dusty blur, spraying gravel and leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and the smell of exhaust.
“Where's dad's friend?” Lucy Pevensie expressed her worry, clutching her stuffed puppy close to her chest. She hadn't wished to be separated from her parents in the first place. She simply wasn't used to the thought. Well, not being separated from her mother, at least. She and her siblings were quite used to their father's constant disappearances — always some business to take care of at work, or something of the like. Nonetheless, Susan attempted to reassure the young girl, voice sure, yet laced with disappointment, “The Professor knew we were coming.”
“Perhaps we got off at the wrong station?” Edmund suggested. He kicked a loose stone, watching it skitter across the deserted platform. He looked around the desolate, grass-fringed platform. The air here didn’t smell like London smoke; it smelled of wet earth and manure. Not necessarily a bad thing.
But just as he spoke, the distinct clatter of horse hooves echoed from the same direction the car had sped away. Rounding the bend was a modest carriage. Holding the reins was a woman who looked as though she had been carved out of granite — Mrs Macready. She sat ramrod straight, her knuckles white where she gripped a riding whip. Her expression was entirely unreadable.
“Mrs Macready?” Peter spoke hesitantly, sharing a bewildered glance with Susan.
“I'm afraid so,” the elder woman replied in a flat, motone voice devoid of welcome.
Edmund frowned at her tone. She sounded much like the irritable librarian from his school, always shushing and scolding him for something as stupid as stepping on a loose, creaky floorboard. In fact, she had always had it out for him, accusing him of endless faults he was never even guilty for (well, perhaps he did scribble his initials on the dedications page of his favorite novel, Treasure Island. . . But he'll never admit to actually going in there to read).
She even had the same, narrow glasses, he scowled, as she adjusted it by the rim, surveying the meager collection of trunks and canvas luggage they had set down. “Is this all? Haven't you brought anything else?
“No, ma'am. It's just us,” Peter confirmed, gripping the handle of his suitcase a little tighter.
“Small favors,” she nodded curtly toward the carriage, the gesture an undeniable command. Quickly, the children climbed aboard, the wooden bench surprisingly sturdy as it hardly groaned at their weight.
The children flinched as Mrs Macready suddenly gave the horse a sharp flick with the whip, lurching forward as the horse neighed and the carriage staggered into motion, rattling off down the winding lane. The ride to the house was silent. Eventually, the dirt paths stretched into a long driveway, and when the manor finally loomed into view, the siblings gaped. The manor was a huge, rambling affair of grey stone, looking like it had grown out of the earth itself. It had rows upon rows of windows staring down like unblinking eyes, suggesting miles of corridors and hundreds of spare bedrooms awaiting them inside. Vines climbed up its walls, wrapping it in dark green ivy and moss, dwarfing the entirety of the property.
Their father was friends with someone of this calibre? How had they not heard of this place, nor of this Professor Kirke until now?
They wordlessly followed the older woman up the grand, sweeping staircase, their footsteps echoing on the marble.
“Professor Kirke is not accustomed to having children in this house,” she said without turning, her voice echoing in the vast, still space of the stairwell.
“And, as such, there are a few rules that must be strictly observed,” she continued, finally turning to face them at the first landing, her shadow stretching long over the siblings.
“There will be no shouting! No running! And no improper use of the dumbwaiter! Her demands were sharp and unwavering as her gaze, flicking over each of the Pevensie siblings in warning.
Despite their caretaker's frightening monologue, Susan found herself distracted by the utter beauty of the manor's architecture. From the columns of pillars that stretched all the way up to the high ceiling, to the chipped marble bust that rested upon a dark pedestal. Her fingers tentatively reached out to examine its utter—
“NO touching of historical artifacts!” The shout cracked through the air like a whip. Susan flinched back violently. Behind her, Peter and Edmund pressed their lips together to suppress a snicker.
Mrs Macready leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper that was somehow louder and more pronounced than her shout. “And above all, there shall be no disturbing of the Professor.”
At that, the siblings shared a quick, meaningful glance. This was not some warm, vacation house where they could simply relax and let loose while their parents journeyed for a momentary business trip. In fact, it seemed to be that this was no place for kids at all. There was no room for their wonder, their yearn for adventure, and least of all, their curiosity.
Obediently, they fall into a straight line behind the woman.
Whilst the Pevensie siblings spent the next morning navigating the cold rules of the manor, the grounds of Hogwarts were waking up to a misty, humid morning.
The Gryffindor Quidditch team was marching across the dew-soaked grass of the Quidditch Pitch. As he had so consistently been the previous mornings, Oliver Wood was manic with energy. He led the team onto the pitch, clutching a large diagram in hand. “Now, I know I've expressed this before, but let me reiterate it for those of you who had dozed off.”
Fred and George rolled their eyes and huffed as they fought the urge to drop dead and give in to sleep then and there. You were no better, stumbling on your feet in an attempt to catch up with your energized captain.
Meanwhile, the bowtruckle hidden in one of your hidden pockets chittered, echoing your frustration as he too, had lost hours of sleep over Wood's incessant need to practice.
“I spent the summer devising a whole new Quidditch program. As we had been the past few days, we're going to make it a routine to train earlier, harder, and longer!”
You, Angelina, and Katie exchanged an exhausted groan when you suddenly bumped into Oliver's back, alarmed. He had stopped dead, squinting through the haze. Only then did you, too, take notice of the green robes that stood out against the grey sky. The Slytherin team was walking onto the pitch from the other side, where, despite the distance, you could make out their smug expressions; the irksome looks forced out a flash of red from your tied hair.
“I don't believe it!” Wood hissed in outrage. “Where do you think you're going, Flint?”
“Quidditch practice,” Marcus Flint replied, his voice a low, throaty sneer, showing off his jagged teeth.
“I booked the pitch for Gryffindor today!” Wood shouted, spit flying.
“Easy, Wood. I’ve got a note.”
On the bleachers, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look of dread. You saw Ron’s jaw tighten when he caught sight of your hair. “Uh oh,” he muttered, “I smell trouble.”
They scrambled down the stands, the wet grass slick beneath their boots. The tension radiating between the two teams was hot and prickly.
Wood read the note, his voice trembling with rage. "'I, Professor Severus Snape, do hereby give the Slytherin team permission to practice today, owing to the need to train their new Seeker.'"
"You've got a new Seeker?" Wood looked up. "Who?"
The hulking Slytherin beater stepped aside like curtains, revealing a smaller, smirking—
Oh, good Godric, no.
“Malfoy?” Harry stepped up, disbelief coloring his tone.
"That's right," Draco Malfoy said, stepping into the light. "And that's not all that's new this year."
As one, the Slytherin team pivoted their broomsticks. The morning sun caught the sleek, black polish of the handles, the gold lettering gleaming cruelly.
"Those are Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones," Ron breathed, his face slack with awe. "How did you get those?"
"A gift from Draco's father," Flint bragged, smoothing his robes.
You hate to admit it, but even you were astounded by the sight. Those Nimbus brooms had only just come out, and even then, only a select number of them were manufactured and released for purchase. For the whole Slytherin team to have one is dumbfounding — but then again, not all that surprising either.
After all, your cousin was among the most influential families in the British Wizarding community. Blasted little bugger.
Malfoy’s grey eyes snapped to the Weasleys, cold and hard as flint. "You see, Weasley? Unlike some, my father can afford the best."
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in," Hermione quickly cut in, leaving the twins and Ron no time to retort. Her voice was sharp, slicing through the male posturing. "They got in on pure talent."
Malfoy’s smirk vanished while yours sharpened in pride. That’s my girl, you thought, bumping your shoulder against hers. Suddenly, Draco stepped close to her, looming. The air seemed to freeze. He ignored the glare that pierced into the side of his face.
"No one asked your opinion," he spat, his face twisting into something ugly. "You filthy little Mudblood."
The word hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
A collective gasp rippled through the Gryffindors. You felt the blood rush to your ears, a hot, thumping roar of protective anger washing over your entirety.
"You'll pay for that one, Malfoy!" Ron roared. He impulsively plunged his hand into his robes, ripping out his taped-up wand. "Eat slugs!"
A loud, booming noise echoed through the pitch, a jet of green light flashing. But it didn’t hit Malfoy — it exploded backwards, rebounding from the broken wand and hitting Ron in the stomach with the force of a cannonball. He was lifted off his feet and thrown backward, landing on the wet grass with a sickening thud.
“Wait, Ron, No!” You remembered his malfunctioning wand a moment too late, reaching out to stop him whilst Bowie sniggered silently.
"Ron!" Hermione screamed.
You dropped to your knees beside him. Ron was pale, his skin taking on a clammy, greenish hue. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead, a deep, wet belch shook his frame.
A large, brown, glistening slug fell from his mouth and landed on his robes. The sight sent tremors of disgust through your entirety.
The Slytherins erupted into boisterous, cruel laughter. Malfoy was doubled over, slapping his thigh.
"Ew! Yuck!" Colin Creevey appeared, lowered his camera, face scrunching. "Can you turn him around, Harry?"
"No, Colin! Get out of the way!" Harry shoved past him, grabbing Ron's arm. "Let's take him to Hagrid's."
As they dragged the retching boy away, you lingered. The sound of Malfoy’s laughter grated on your nerves like sandpaper.
You turned. Flint caught your eye.
"What's the matter, Lupin?" he taunted. It was only ever them that disregarded your proper surname. Apparently, you weren’t worthy to hold such relations to the Blacks. "Want a jagged wand to match your friend's?"
You didn't speak. You just let the cold anger focus your magic. It was a swift movement when you raised your wand. They had no time to react when you recited an incantation.
"Rictusempra!"
A ribbon of silver light slammed into Flint. His mocking laugh instantly warped into a high-pitched, terrifying wheeze. He collapsed, clutching his ribs, tears streaming down his face as the Tickling Charm agonized him. Your cousin cast you a fearful glance before retreating behind his teammates, terrified of the look in your eyes.
You caught his gaze and gave him a sharp nod — a silent promise of more if they continued — and turned on your heel, sprinting toward the pumpkin patch.
You burst into Hagrid's hut. The air inside was thick and warm, smelling of woodsmoke, damp dog, and treacle toffee. The latter reminded you that you had yet to eat for the day, but you brushed the hunger off as your concern for your friends took over.
Ron sat in the oversized armchair, clutching a copper basin.
"Better out than in," Hagrid said cheerfully, handing Ron a rag. "Who was he tryin' to curse, anyway?"
"Malfoy," Harry said, his voice quiet. "He called Hermione a— Well, I don't know exactly what it means."
Hermione sat on the edge of the scrubbed wooden table. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were glassy, her posture rigid.
"He called me a Mudblood," she whispered into the window as she stared off at the large pumpkins.
Hagrid dropped the teapot he was holding. It shattered, ceramic shards skittering across the floor. "He did not!" he roared, his beard bristling with fury.
"What's a Mudblood?" Harry asked. His query was so casual and innocent, contrasting with the harsh flinches and recoils of his companions.
"It means 'dirty blood'," Hermione explained. Her voice trembled, cracking under the weight of the definition. "Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born. Someone with non-magic parents. Someone like me."
She looked down at her hands. "It’s not a term one usually hears in a civilized conversation."
You moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. You could feel her shaking as she melted in your hold.
"It's disgusting," Hagrid growled. "See, Harry, there's some wizards—like the Malfoys—who think they're better'n everyone else because they're Pure-bloods."
"That's horrible!" Harry exclaimed.
Ron gave a wet gurgle and spat another slug into the bucket. "It's mad," he croaked, wiping slime from his chin. "Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn't married Muggles, we'd've died out."
You felt a sudden, crushing weight in your chest. The talk of blood status, of superiority — it hit too close to the secret you carried about your father and the scorched tapestry at Grimmauld Place. Well, perhaps it wasn’t much of a secret. Nonetheless, the weight of your father’s tale, of the thick, pure blood that runs through you felt heavy, especially as your friend was discriminated over it just now.
“Hey,” Harry quietly approached you, eyes raking over your tense expression, “Are you okay?”
You forced a smile. It felt brittle. "Yeah. Just. . . the heat. I need some air."
You slipped out the door before they could stop you. The cool air hit your flushed cheeks, but it didn't wash away the memories. You began to walk, aimlessly, letting your feet carry you toward back to the castle.
The rain in the country was different from London rain. It was relentless. It hammered against the manor windows in thick, grey sheets, turning the world outside into a blurred watercolor painting.
The four Pevensies were trapped in the parlor, forced to seek out ways to keep themselves busy as their caretakers busied themselves over some thing or another. The ticking of the grandfather clock was the only sound competing with the rain.
Susan sat on the stiff sofa, a dictionary in her lap as she flipped through its pages, before stopping at the G’s. "Gastrovascular."
Peter, lying flat on his back on the rug, groaned. "Is it Latin?"
"Yes."
"Is it Latin for 'worst game ever invented'?"
Edmund was curled in a high-backed armchair, his nose buried in The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. He flipped a page aggressively. "It sounds like a disease," he sneered without looking up.
Susan slammed the book shut with a heavy thud. "We’re lucky to be here at all, you know."
She was grateful for their the Professor’s hospitality. And while she is perhaps missing a few days of school for this, it was such a rare opportunity to travel to the countryside — a manor much less, and simply take in the fresh, soot-free air.
Lucy, kneeling on the window seat, traced a raindrop down the glass. She turned, her eyes wide. "We could play hide-and-seek?"
"But we’re already having so much fun," Peter said, sarcasm dripping from his voice as he sat up.
"Come on, Peter! Please?" Lucy pleaded, bounding over to her brother’s side.
Edmund rolled his eyes. "But that’s a kids' game."
Let’s forget the fact they are kids.
Peter looked at Lucy’s hopeful face. He never could say no to her. He sighed, defeated. "One, two, three. . ."
Suddenly, the room exploded into motion. Lucy bounced off her seat and flew out the door, Edmund — despite groaning and muttering complaints — tossed his book aside and bolted, and Susan grinned, gathering her skirts and ran.
“Five. . . six. . . seven. . .”
Susan found the Green Room, slipping behind heavy emerald curtains that smelled of dust. Edmund found a suit of armor and hid in a large wooden chest nearby, leaving the lid cracked so he could breathe.
But Lucy ran further. She felt left behind. She scrambled through the Blue Room, past the library, and into an empty spare room.
It was silent. There was nothing there but a dead bluebottle fly on the windowsill, buzzing its last, and a massive wardrobe of dark wood standing against the wall.
She approached it. It loomed over her. She turned the key. Click. The door swung open.
You walked blindly, leaving the warmth of Hagrid's hut behind. The cold autumn air bit at your exposed skin, but it felt good — numbing the heat of anger that still flushed your cheeks.
Your feet led you down to the Black Lake. The water was a sheet of dark glass, reflecting the grey, cloudy sky. Your fingers drifted up to the hollow at your throat, finding the cool, smooth metal of the silver locket you always wore, and clicked it open.
There he was. A tiny, moving photograph of your family, once-whole. Your father was laughing at his own, corny joke, head thrown back as your Papa Moony shook his head fondly, gazing at his small family with adoration. Oh, and there you were — in the arms of the man who would eventually leave you to betray his friends, to murder your close friend’s family.
You snapped the locket shut. The sharp click echoed in the silence.
Your mind drifted back to last Christmas — to the hidden room and the towering, golden frame of the Mirror of Erised.
The memory washed over you, vivid and aching. You remembered standing beside Harry, the dust motes dancing in the moonlight.
Harry had seen his parents. But when you looked—
You saw Sirius and Remus. They stood tall and unburdened, their hands resting heavy and reassuring on your shoulders. It was the family you were owed. The family stolen by your father’s greed. You remember the silent tears that slid down your cheeks, the sight of your fathers brushing them away, only to feel nothing in reality. And that stung even more.
But then, the reflection had rippled like disturbed water.
Suddenly, you saw yourself age. Your face matured, losing its childish softness. And beside your older self, a figure stepped out of the mist.
A man. Tall, with dark hair that fell over his eyes. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours — a gesture so intimate it made your real heart stutter in your chest.
You tried to look at his face, but it was blurred, a shimmering smudge of white light. You could only see the curve of a smile — a beautiful, sad smile — and feel the phantom warmth of his presence.
"Erised sluosd natra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi."
I show not your face, but your heart and soul’s desire.
You kicked a pebble into the lake. It swallowed the stone with a plip.
Why did you miss a man you had never met? Why did the thought of that blurred stranger pull at your chest harder than any dalliance or infatuation at Hogwarts? It was a longing for a ghost, a nostalgia for a future that hadn't happened.
The wind picked up, howling across the grounds. It whispered through the trees, sounding like voices.
I need to get away, you thought, the desperation rising in your throat like bile. I need to go somewhere where I don't have to think about blood, or fathers, or wars.
You turned from the lake and ran back toward the castle, taking the stairs two at a time, letting your feet carry you to the seventh floor.
And that was when the wall began to rumble.
A deep rumbling shook the floor. Stone ground against stone. A magnificent pair of wooden doors appeared where there had been none.
You pushed them open.
The Room of Requirement had become a cathedral of forgotten things. Towers of broken furniture, thousands of books, and mountains of discarded artifacts stretched up to the shadowy ceiling.
You walked down an aisle of junk, your wand tip glowing. You felt a pull — a magnetic tug in your gut — leading you to a dark corner.
There, shrouded in a dusty sheet, was a tall, rectangular shape. It seemed to whisper at you, pleading with you to make a move, and so, you pulled the sheet away.
A wardrobe. Made of dark applewood, carved with trees and fruits.
You opened the door.
The smell hit you instantly. Not the smell of the castle, but the pungent, nostalgic scent of mothballs and heavy fur coats.
You don’t understand what it was that led you to this — but somehow, you felt the need for further shelter. Still weighed down by the day’s events and the plaguing thoughts of the mirror, you seeked the wardrobe’s comfort, stepping inside.
The coats brushed against your face, soft and heavy like animal pelts. You pushed deeper, wanting to sit in the dark at the back of the wardrobe.
You took another step. Then another.
This was one enormous wardrobe, you thought, blindly feeling around for the end of it.
Suddenly, something cold touched your cheek. Not soft fur, but something prickly and wet. You looked down. Your boots were no longer on wood. They were sinking into soft, powdery, freezing white snow—
Wait. . . Snow?
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YOU OFTEN KEPT AWAY from the busy areas of Villeneuve. Having spent years growing accustomed to life in the small town, you were graced with the time to explore, to set out and understand the village life. You had long ago learned to avoid the tavern—that pit where drunkards lingered until the sun broke the horizon, and rowdy toasts lasted until dawn—and you certainly knew to avoid the marketplace on Sunday mornings. You had no desire to waste your coin or spirit, exhausted by the shouting, the incessant trampling of boots, and the suffocating noise of a life you did not wish to lead—that defined this very town.
Instead, you sought refuge in Mr. Garrick's library, where three shelves brimmed with books of yellowing pages and cracked spines. The old man lived a solitary life, without a wife or children, spending his days in quiet anticipation—awaiting the rare occasion of a villager seeking a tome, or the more frequent delight of your arrival, which you always met with such profound contentment and insatiable curiosity.
He found great pleasure in discussing the novels you had finished, though he often marveled at your habits. Even after you had browsed every page thrice—or more, if you particularly favored a book—you would return with the same breathless enthusiasm, as if to search for an uncovered secret written in invisible ink along the margins, or within the very print itself.
If not in the library, the meadow of gentle flowers just past the edge of the woods called to you. It was in that very meadow, where the stalks swayed like a sea of pale ghosts, that your father—a genius (or madman, depending on whom you ask) inventor and merchant—had stood before you, his gaze lingering on the forest's dark edge, just before his final departure. He had promised you a treasure—not gold, nor silks, but a single, crimson rose he had heard whispered in the legends of the deeper forest. You smiled disbelievingly then, brushing his cheek with a hand that smelled of dried parchment and beeswax.
“I need no gifts, Father,” you had told him in earnest, your heart heavy with a premonition you could not name. “Only your safe return.”
He had laughed then, a jovial sound that warmed the air between you, placing a lingering kiss upon your head. He then promised his swift return, vowing to bring you no less than a single rose as a token of his journey. But the winter was a beast that knew no mercy, and the silence following his departure soon grew teeth. As days bled into weeks, time stretched thin. Life in the village stretched into a monotonous ache, punctuated only by your visits to Mr. Garrick, the quiet hours spent reading to your sheep before nightfall, or the rare, lingering afternoons when Raoul de Chagny appeared.
He would speak of his adventures beyond the meadows, his voice resonant and polished as he painted pictures of distant towns and grand horizons. He cared for you, truly—you saw it in the way his gaze followed you with a fierce, protective intensity, and the way he constantly brought gifts, as if he were trying to build a cage of comfort around you. He wanted to be your anchor, your provider, the hero who would sweep you off your feet, and away from this “dull” life.
Yet, your prized sheep, Lily, never seemed fond of him. While the rest of the flock would stir and gather at the rhythmic trot of his horse, anticipating the treats he often carried, Lily remained stubbornly aloof. She would huff, ears pinned back, watching him with a distrust that made you wonder—perhaps she sensed the steel beneath his velvet tone, or the way he looked at you not as a person, but as a prize he had yet to claim. But, there was no doubt that he at least cared for you. And right now, that was enough. Your poor sheep knew you needed company now more than ever.
Raoul de Chagny stood at the edge of your garden, his boots pristine against the damp earth, while you knelt among the sprouting pumpkins. He was, as usual, a whirlwind of tales, recounting his recent travels and the sprawling new manor his family had purchased by a lake.
“It was a gift,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar, polished lilt. “From my parents. To me.” He featured vaguely toward the horizon, as if he were already hanging curtains in a house you hadn't agreed to live in. “A sanctuary. A haven for the life that awaits me—of days in the sun, with a wife and children waiting by the hearth for my return.”
His tone was devastatingly tender. You didn't need to meet his eyes to know exactly how he was gazing at you. In his mind, the house was already built, the gardens flourished with your harvest, the children were already named, and you were the fixed, essential centerpiece of his domestic portrait.
“That sounds. . . ideal, Raoul,” you muttered, carefully turning a heavy pumpkin. You kept your gaze fixed on the soil, tracing the ridges of the fruit to avoid the weight of his attention.
“Ideal?” He chuckled, moving a step closer. “It sounds like peace, [Name]. It sounds like us.”
You wiped your dirt-stained hands on your apron, a nervous tension coiling in your chest. You had known each other since you were infants in a crib. He had known you as you grieved the death of a mother you never knew, as your father constantly left for business, leaving you in his family's care. He knew of the whispers of both your families, and the future they (his parents, more than your own) foretold for you both. In turn, you knew the depth of his devotion—how he had turned away every other lady—both in the village and beyond—to keep his eyes on you, just as he had scared off any suitors who whispered their share of admiration for you. He loved you with a fervor that felt more like a claim, the older you both grew. And yet, the thought of that manor by the lake, of being a fixture in his quiet, sun-drenched life, felt less like a haven and more like a gilded cage.
“I am simply uncertain, if I am built for the life you've painted,” you said, your voice soft but steady, finally meeting his gaze.
It puzzled you, when he smiled. Always, every time you returned his ambitions with uncertainty, he would smile that same charming, unshakeable smile that never quite reached his eyes. He spoke your name softly, almost like a plea for your understanding. “You're just afraid, my dear [Name]. You think you need to be out in the storm, but you don't. Not when I'm here.”
He stepped into your space, his hand lingering near your shoulder, “Have you given it any more thought? My propo—”
That's when you heard the familiar trot of your father's stallion riding in the distance. You beamed at the sight of him, relieved he had returned safely, as promised. Yet, there was something restless in the way he moved, an oddity in his demeanor. He was visibly exhausted; you expected no less. But in his eyes were the horrors of a journey he had only just escaped—if he had even escaped, to begin with. His horse, Maxim, carried with him a trunk brimming with treasure on both sides, his hooves wrapped in soiled bandages.
Raoul, who had been lingering by the garden gate, stepped forward, his expression hardening. “He appears to have seen a specter,” he muttered, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his belt-knife.
As your father dismounted, he stumbled, his movements jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. You rushed forward, ignoring Raoul’s caution, and caught him by the shoulders. He felt brittle, cold—his coat smelled of stagnant water and something metallic, like blood and old stone.
“Papa?” you whispered, heart sinking. “You’re home. You're safe.”
He turned to you, his eyes wide and unfocused. He fumbled in his coat, his trembling fingers producing a single, crimson rose. It was impossibly perfect, from its lush stem, all the way to its petals that glowed with a faint, unnatural luminescence against the dimness of the impending nightfall.
“I stole it,” he rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone. “For you, my dear girl. I saw the castle, a tomb of marble and shadow, and I thought—she loves roses, she hasn't any in her dear garden, I will bring her a piece of this place—but I did not know. I did not know the price of its beauty.”
Raoul stepped closer, his voice tinged with skepticism. “What are you on about, sir? Who held you captive?”
Your father looked past him, his gaze on the dark line of the forest. “A man—or so he made me believe? In truth, he seemed more a beast, shackled by sin, dwelling in a palace that feeds on regret. Everything in that palace. . . It was all alive.”
He sounded breathless, recounting the wonders and the horrors that came with the palace. “This man—this beast of a man—he wore half a white, porcelain mask in an attempt to seal his deformities. But I could see it. I could see the parchment-like quality of his skin, the yellow slits he had for eyes, and the scars that littered, yet drew out from behind the mask.”
“He tore through the bushes. He demanded an explanation, for retribution. He demanded I pay for stealing what was most precious to him.”
Your father trembled like a leaf in your arms, stumbling as you guided him closer to the hearth of your fireplace. “He did not want gold, and he chastised me for not being content with the gifts he had already sent my way.”
“He did not want my life—not at first. He wanted a life for a life. A trade for a single, stolen blossom.” Your father released a quivering breath, “He demanded a life, for a rose.”
A shiver raced down your spine as you stared at the blood-red rose, which seemed to pulsate in your palm.
“He demands a life, my dear,” your father withheld a sob, clutching your arms so hard it bruised. “He knows where we live. He knows everything. He told me that if I did not return to pay the debt by the morrow, he would burn the whole village to the ground to reach me—to reach you.”
Raoul's face twisted into a sneer of indignation. “Let him come,” he barked, drawing his blade. “I shall carve the hide off this monster myself. You are safe here, sir; no beast of the woods shall touch a hair on her head while I draw a breath.”
But you weren't listening to his bravado. You glanced down at the rose, thriving and in full bloom, then at the dark, looming wall of trees that swallowed the sun. You felt a pull—a strange, magnetic hum in your chest that echoed the melody you dreamt of for nights. You knew, with a terrifying clarity, that steel could not kill this debt.
“Raoul, put that away,” you uttered, your voice sharper than intended. You turned to your father, your resolve hardening like winter ice. “You're being hunted because of me.”
“It is my burden, my fault that your life hangs by a thread.” Your words wavered with a haunting clarity, and with a ghost you could never seem to chase away, no matter your father's attempts at reassurance. “Mother died giving birth to me.”
“And I will not have this house painted in blood because of a flower. I will not be the reason you are to lose your life as she had.”
Swiftly, before either of them could move or even process your intent, you bounded out the door and onto the stallion—now bare of the treasure it had once carried. You leaned into Maxim's mane, your breath hitching as you whispered. “Take me back to this beast—to the palace. Please.”
Maxim did not wait for any further command; he was already pulling against the lead. He did not return because of a rider's hand, but because the castle had exhaled a low, dissonant chord—a minor key that shivered through the forest floor. It was a sound that pulled him toward the stone, a magnetic tether of melody that he could not ignore. He turned not by rein, but by the weight of the debt now etched into his very core. The moment the rose had been plucked from the cursed garden, the horse was no longer a creature of the meadows; he had become a courier, bound by the invisible ink of the Beast's ultimatum.
Behind you, muffled shouts of your father and the frantic, steel-edged cries of Raoul faded into the wind. Even your sheep, unsettled by the shift in the air, bleated in uneasy discord as you surged forward. You rode past the familiar meadows, past the line of trees you never dared to cross, and into the waiting shadows of the abyss.
AUTHOR SPEAKS !
hi everyone! i am genuinely so sorry that the chapter took me so long to publish. i've been severely preoccupied with school and other personal things. but! i hope this was worth the wait !!
if you haven't noticed yet, the story is mostly based on the 2014 retelling of beauty and the beast! it's a french production, and is genuinely my favorite version of the story <3 from the visuals, the costume design, the cinematography -- everything!
meanwhile, i'm hoping to better embody the 1990 limited series of phantom of the opera as my primary inspiration.
also, while i do agree with christine canonically ending up with raoul, in this au, raoul more so aligns with the character of gaston, although i'm trying to make this comparison a little subtler, and more true-to-raoul, rather than erasing his personality entirely in favor of gaston's.
if you have any further questions, or if you wish to be tagged for the next chapters, please do let me know in the replies :)
rest well, drink water, and i hope you all have a wonderful rest of your day!
TW: mentions of blood & death ( please feel free to message me if you believe i missed anything!! )
ONCE UPON A TIME, in a faraway land, lived a king who had it all—a kingdom that adored him, a loyal company that hunted alongside him, a wife he worshiped, as she did him, and in the most recent years, a beautiful little boy born of their love as man and wife. He had the whole world at his fingertips, until one day, he didn't.
His lust for the hunt had driven him to his downfall. For years, he had ridden on horseback, aching to pierce a worthy beast with his gold-tipped arrows. But, on the fateful day that he had, a curse was laid upon him—for in blindly, and mercilessly taking the life of an innocent doe, its shape soon transformed into the familiar silhouette of his beloved wife, struck to the heart and bleeding, clutching her chest as a pure, gold arrow pierced all the way through.
He had begged for her forgiveness, and as she deeply loved him, she unburdened him with it. However, her father was not as forgiving, as thunderstruck, and the god of the woods let out angry crackles of light as he looked down upon his daughter, a naïve and foolish nymph, who lay dying in the arms of a mortal man, to whom she had fully given her heart until it was no more.
She begged, spilling crystal tears as she gazed pleadingly above, that he take mercy upon her love. But her words fell silent to his ears as she took her final breath and the king lost himself in his unbridled guilt and agony.
He could feel himself halfway into transforming from man to beast, when suddenly, running towards them, was his son, Erik. The young prince had barely graced the age of four and ran as fast as little feet could take him. The king begged for him to run the other way— to save himself, but it was too late. For it was in his arrival, and in Gèrard's pure desperation, that the god above concluded the most perfect affliction.
The king's transformation halted, as though it never happened to begin with, and instead, transferred upon his only son, who was lifted off the ground by glowing wisps of magic. Innocently, the boy gazed on, awed by the display. Not far later, he was settled onto the ground, and he continued on his way, rushing to meet his parents— only, one was deathly still, and the other, was frozen in terror. The little prince was none-the-wiser, inching closer and growing more puzzled upon his father's mortification. Instead, he seeks comfort in his mother, searching for the warmth she so easily exudes. But even she was acting strange— for she didn't move, nor did she answer any of his calls. Instead, the ground beneath her was stained with a growing liquid in the color of her favorite flower. The puddle of crimson grew, and grew, until eventually, it became large enough to serve as a scarlet mirror to the whole sky.
But the sight that greeted him, instilled within his being a fear like nothing else— for in his reflection, a deformed monster stared back up at him, haunting every crevice of his mind.
His haunting screams were soon muffled by the embrace of his shattered father, when a voice above echoed from the skies above, promising an eternal punishment marring the castle staff, its king, and the faultless boy for the crimes of his father, and that it would only be lifted if the young Erik, in spite of his deformation, could learn to love another and earn her love in return before the midnight of his 21st year. There was no sense of justice in that decision, but in the god's logic, neither was there justice in the taking of his daughter's life. The king deserved this punishment, and he would be forever reminded of their time slipping away, as a pendulum clock. After all, despite the king's pleas, they would come to realize sooner rather than later that they had no other choice. For if not, Erik would be doomed to remain and perish a beast on this fateful day, decades from now.
As the seasons changed, the father and son fell into despair. What was once their family's home became a desolate wreckage, a mere phantom of what it once was— just as its inhabitants had come to be. Gèrard, who was once king, was demoted to a mere pendulum clock, the faultless castle staff were but now everyday items, and Erik— poor Erik, ashamed of his monstrous reflection, concealed himself inside his castle, taking upon a mask to hide his deformity, with but a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.
As he grew older, alongside it diminished all his hopes at escaping this curse. He was not blind, and although quite naïve, he was not entirely foolish—
SYNOPSIS: In which a small-town Cleopatra saves her father from a cruel fate, befriends haunted objects, and meets her match (or is he really?) in a cursed phantom who hides his face behind a mask.
( phantom of the opera && beauty and the beast crossover )
Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader
ENCHANTED MASTERLIST!
By no means do I support R*wling’s biased views! This profile is meant to be a safe space promoting escapism <3
TW: none ( although, please feel free to message me if you believe i missed some!! )
AUGUST SLIPPED AWAY into a moment in time, silently, and so unseemingly fast, that it made you question whether or not those precious moments had even been yours to begin with. Sooner than you had anticipated, you were back at King's Cross Station, making your way around the busy Muggles who boarded their respective trains.
You gazed mindlessly as lovers parted, as men and women rushed toward the steaming contraptions for work, and as families split. You briefly met the gaze of a pair of siblings who had been parting from their family, and while you offered the disheartened young girl a little smile, you couldn't help but squint at the strange familiarity of her brother's dark hues. Something about the way he feigned disinterest, yet exhibited an undeniable amount of disappointment seemed to tug at your heartstrings.
But quick as your eyes met, had you gone.
You weren't there long enough to see him craning his neck for any trace of you, nor see the way his younger sister visibly brightened upon your little gesture — clutching onto her stuffed puppy a little less tight. You were unable to hear his brother's teasing, his elder sister scolding the said brother, nor see the way the boy's parents had exchanged a silent gaze.
You had disappeared into Platform 9 ¾, where immediately, you were hit with the brimming nostalgia of returning to Hogwarts for the great remainder of the year. The sight of parents bidding their children goodbye, the squealing echoes of steam, and the distance between your trolley and the train entrance shortening — it made you all too aware of your father's arm wrapped around your shoulders. You felt how it tightened, then went loose, as though he were debating with himself whether to let you go, or pull you into an everlasting hug.
Instead, you decided for him, pulling out of his grip, wrapping your arms tight around his frame, and breathing him in for a final moment. You would miss him dearly. The smell of coffee at daybreak, the rustling of his morning copy of the Daily Prophet, the stern, yet affectionate looks he would send you (and Bowie). You would miss one another dearly; that was a firm fact for you both.
As the train let out another blow of steam, he sighed into your hair, planting a kiss along the crown of your head. He gave you a familiar smile, the same one he sent you the previous year, the same one he gave waving you goodbye nights ago, and the same one his husband had sent you both that final moment a decade back. It was genuine, reaching his teary eyes, but filled with promise. Silent utters of "see you later"s and "I love you"s swirling the crescents of his eyes. It wasn't much, but it was your family's way of parting — silent, meaningful, but with the promise of return.
The train ride to Hogwarts was unusually peaceful for the most part. Initially, you thought nothing of it, assuming that the boys might have changed their minds and preferred spending time with their dorm mates. However, your friends soon revealed that this was not the case, arriving — a few feet away from your window — with Harry dangling out of the Weasleys' flying car.
Harry, the boy who lived, was risking his life recklessly and foolishly ("and in the most anticlimactic of means!" you added to Hermione's furious muttering). You could only hope that the pair of them wouldn't find an even more half-witted way to endanger themselves. But knowing them, and Hogwarts, that was unlikely.
The incident caused a commotion among the students. Some were cheering them on, while others were not as pleased.
Exhibit A: your distant cousin, Draco Malfoy, who was particularly vocal about the pair's apparent expulsion from Hogwarts.
Even upon the train's arrival at Hogsmeade Station, the uproar remained — it was consistent throughout the Sorting ceremony, where Ginny Weasley joined you and her brothers at the Gryffindor table, all the way until the welcoming feast. It wasn't long before the students dispersed to their respective houses, utters of the boys' escapades bouncing the age-old halls. By then, it was a sure fact that everyone had caught the whispers of their idiocy, with the dungeon bat, Minnie, and Dumbledore's momentary disappearance only adding fuel to the fire.
As your housemates filed into the Gryffindor common room, you and Hermione kept to yourselves, lingering by the mouth of the entrance, hopelessly wishing to Godric your friends weren't actually expelled.
Hermione Granger was furious, of course, muttering obscenities (you had to translate her pristine rants into vulgarities, as always) and questions to their sanity as you fanned the flame, only encouraging her. Bowie chittered continuously as you spoke, giving just as much, if not more, comments as you had.
"Indeed, the daft fools, they are!"
"Couldn't bother sending an owl to warn us, could they?"
"You know, Sir Nicholas told me over supper that they crashed into the Whomping Willow! Imagine their luck!"
The latter, to which she responded, although sounding doubtful of herself, "We've yet to know [for sure] if they actually flew here! And by Rowena, if they did, I swear. . !"
It was unfortunate she cut herself off, and right as she was getting to the good part too. But it was then that you heard the click-clack of shoes along the pavement. By then, the pair of you were the lone occupants of the empty hall. But upon the approaching sound, you turned around to see the talk of the town — Harry and Ron, quickly approaching.
"There you are! Where have you been? The most ridiculous rumors — someone said you'd been expelled for crashing a flying car!" Hermione dashed to their side, still clinging to the hope of the rumors being false.
"Well, we haven't been expelled," Harry reassured, although that didn't seem to help.
"You're not telling me you did fly here?" said Hermione, sounding almost as severe as McGonagall had. You did nothing to help them, despite their pleading expressions, instead doing quite the opposite, tutting at them half-heartedly, "Sir Nicholas tells me you've crashed into the Whomping Willow too! Don't tell me you wrecked the poor thing?"
Bowie jumped up and down from his perch along your shoulder, earning an eye roll from the redhead.
"Skip the lecture," Ron sighed hastily, "and tell us the new password."
He wouldn't admit it, and neither would Harry, but the sight of your little bowtruckle sticking its tongue out and teasing them pushed them beyond their breaking points.
The Fat Lady had yet to swing open for you, and despite Harry and Ron's desperate gazes, the lady in pink remained firm, requesting the password.
"It's 'wattlebird'," said Hermione as impatiently as Ron, "but that's not the point—"
Her words were cut off by the portrait swinging open, the pair of boys dashing for their dormitory, knowing fully well they would be lectured 'til daybreak if given the chance. Harry bid you a quick goodnight (ignoring your waving green bean) before disappearing after Ron, ignoring his other friend's calls.
Left behind with a disgruntled Hermione, you watched as she huffed, beyond irked by their ignorance. But you knew this wasn't the last you would hear of her lectures, her determined expression silently ensuring she would bring it back up the next morning.
How exhausting it was, to be back at Hogwarts. But then again, this was the adventure you so missed over summer break. The unpredictability and surprises you craved.
If only you knew, how in the coming weeks, you would be eating your words.
003 - THE LIGHT OF FREEDOM ON MY FACE - “enchanted!”
Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader
ENCHANTED MASTERLIST!
By no means do I support R*wling’s biased views! This profile is meant to be a safe space promoting escapism <3
TW: none ( although, please feel free to message me if you believe i missed some!! )
THE FLYING CAR BEGAN ITS DESCENT, and soon enough, you were able to catch a glimpse of a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.
“We’re a little way outside the village,” says George. “Ottery St. Catchpole.”
The edge of the brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees, its radiance, Harry found, reflected your own as you grinned at the familiar sight of the Weasleys’ residence.
“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, you landed — a tumbledown garage in a small yard to your right, Harry looking out for the first time at Ron's house.
In all truthfulness, it was run-down, for lack of better term. The structure appeared unreliable at best, as though originally a large stone pigpen, but renovated to fit extra rooms and reach several stories high. It had been so crooked, staggering like the lightning-shaped scar on your friend’s forehead; however, like the mark etching his skin, magic had built and kept it ebbed stubbornly along the grassy surface.
Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign was stuck in the ground near the entrance reading, ‘THE BURROW’. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.
“It's not much,” said Ron, rubbing a self-conscious hand along his forearm. He looked around the wooden walls of his home in uncertainty, just as he had when you first came over — a subconscious sign of his insecurity.
“It’s brilliant,” Harry was quick to react happily, thinking of Number 4 Privet Drive and the horrors he associated with its pale, perfected walls.
“It’s nothing short of wonderful,” you followed, smiling at the three brothers, meeting their silent gazes. As you exited the vehicle, the sun’s warm rays cast upon you, moving silently as your shadows crept towards the door.
“Now, we'll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, throwing a cautious glance at his surroundings, “and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast.”
He turns to face you and his younger brother, “Then, you lot come bounding downstairs, Ron going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she'll be all pleased to see you and Harry, and no one needs ever know we flew the car.”
You raised an unimpressed brow at their careless grins. There were so many ways this could go wrong. . . for them. But you were never one for wiping off the twins’ smiles, no matter how stupidly aggravating their cheshire grins could be.
“Right,” agreed Ron, nodding his head in full agreement. He doesn’t give you a second glance as you go, guiding Bowie atop your shoulder. “You know your way to Ginny’s room, I’m sure. Now come on, Harry, I sleep at the top—”
Harry found it odd how his friend simply stopped, going a nasty green in complexion. Meanwhile, you exuded the opposite reaction, grinning goofily and waving madly, gaze set out the kitchen window. His eyes followed yours, blowing wide as he spotted Mrs. Wesley marching across the yard. Chickens scattered, Bowie took cover behind your hair, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, Harry found it remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.
“Ah,” muttered Fred.
“Oh, dear,” mumbled George.
“‘Ello, Molly!” you exclaimed shamelessly as Ron gulped. He appeared close to tears, you mused. How funny.
All of the above were telltale signs of the trouble you five were undoubtedly in, and if Harry had known any better, he would have taken off running and not looked back. But he didn’t, a stupid decision on his part, if Bowie were to say so himself. Mrs. Weasley came to a halt before the lot of you, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next (then there was you, a smile peeking through her tough exterior for a brief moment). She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand sticking out of her pocket.
“Morning, Mum,” said George, grinning in what he believed to be a jaunty, award-winning means while you and Fred withheld a snigger.
“Where have you been?”
“Have you any idea how worried I've been?” said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper.
“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to—”
All three of Mrs. Weasley’s children towered over her, yet simultaneously, they cowered as her rage befell them.
“Beds empty! No note! Car gone — could have crashed — out of my mind with worry — did you care? — never, as long as I’ve lived — you wait until your father gets home, we never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy —”
“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred bitterly.
“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest as her voice rose an octave higher. At that, even you flinched, taken aback. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you could have lost your father his job —”
“They were starving him, Mum!” You were unsure how you felt about your friend speaking up. But you were all for liberation, so, nonetheless of your conflict, you internally cheered him on. “They put bars on his window!”
“Well, you best hope I don’t put bars on your window, Ronald Weasley.”
You loved Molly, you really did. But she had the ill temper of a mad dragon, burning fierce and easily triggered. You consider yourself lucky to be receiving special treatment from the woman — saving you the need to fear being on the wrong end of her fury.
It seemed to go on for hours. You had attempted to ease the boys of her full attention a good few times, although Mrs. Weasley had no intention of cutting her lecture short, shouting herself hoarse before she turned on the pair of you.
While Harry backed away on impulse, Bowie returned to the comforts of your pocket. Godric knows how greatly he fears the woman.
“Oh, darlings!” she beams, her deep frown fixing into a welcoming grin, “How wonderful it is to see you both! Come in and have some breakfast!”
You needn’t hear any further invitation before joining the family for a meal.
Long story short, life at The Burrow had been all but ordinary. Every day, you woke to the sound of small explosions from Fred and George’s room — having to comfort Bowie each waking moment —, and every night, you were kept up by the incessant racket of the ghoul in the attic. The howling creature was a pitiful thing. But your patience could only take so much, wearing thinner every time it had interrupted you and Bowie’s beauty sleep.
With summer coming to an end, it wasn’t long before you heard from Hogwarts again. It had been a sunny morning about a week after you had been welcomed into the Weasley residence. You were at the kitchen table, seated by Ginny Weasley (she always looked forward to your company, eagerly offering to trade all her brothers to gain you as a sister) when you heard the boys thundering down for breakfast.
You feigned ignorance as the younger girl stiffened up beside you, taken by amusement with how she fawned over Harry and the oh-so-holy grounds he walked on. You saw her pupils dilate into cartoon hearts, you swore. And as one would in a cartoon, her admiration blinded her from all else — including her bowl of porridge, until she knocked it to the ground with a loud clatter.
You sent Bowie a silencing look as he chittered merrily, poking fun at the mortified Ginny whose face glowed like the setting sun. Meanwhile, Harry, pretending he hadn’t noticed such interactions, sat down and took the toast Mrs Weasley had offered him.
“Letters from school,” uttered Mr Wesley, passing you identical envelopes of yellow parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore already knows you’re here, [Y/N], Harry — doesn’t miss a trick, that man. You’ve got them too,” he added as the twins ambled in, their hair askew, still in their pajamas.
For a few minutes, there was silence as you all read your letters. It was the usual, come to King’s Cross on September the first, the need for school supplies, and finally, there was a list of the new books you would need for the coming year.
‘Second-year students will require:
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk
Break with a Banshee by Gilderoy Lockhart
Gadding with Ghouls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Holidays with Hags by Gilderoy Lockhart
Travels with Trolls by Gilderoy Lockhart
Voyages with Vampires by Gilderoy Lockhart
Wanderings with Werewolves by Gilderoy Lockhart
Year with the Yeti by Gilderoy Lockhart’
It was ghastly.
The man was one your father had spoken endlessly about, and not in the best sense. Upon every glimpse of his books the pair of you had encountered, his jaw would tick and he would give a subtle eye roll — one only you were trained well enough to see. He would go on about how Lockhart had gone to school with him, and how the Ravenclaw was most undeserving of his affiliations with the good house and his recent fame.
He was a freeloader, a credit-grabber. He would ask Remus to tutor him, and idiotically enough, he was able to provide the younger boy with the answers to his assignments, and all he would do was rephrase and reconstruct the wording. It was quite brilliant, yes, but it irked Remus to this day.
With that in mind, you couldn’t contain the grimace at the sight of that list. There was no way you would support his career by purchasing his books. No way in the seven bloody rings of hell.
Bowie, sensing your displeasure, was quick to attack the ink along the parchment, crossing every trace of Gilderoy’s name until it was but messy scrawls along ruined parchment. He made sure to keep the rest of it intact, however, that thoughtful beanpole.
Meanwhile, Fred, who took quite longer to finish reading his list, went to peer over at yours, eyes widening as he caught sight of the shredded patches. He instead turns to Harry’s. “You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan – bet it’s a witch.”
At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and quickly busied himself with the marmalade.
“Or perhaps a fool. . .” you lowly muttered to yourself, wincing as you caught sight of Mrs Weasley’s tattered book displayed on one of the countertops. You’d momentarily forgotten you were in the company of a die-hard fan. And a fierce one, at that.
“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really expensive. . .”
“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs Weasley, but she looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny’s things secondhand.”
Just then, Percy walked back in. He was already dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his knitted top.
“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.”
It was a wonder how he got up and ready for the day so early in the morning. You may have awoken earlier than him, but you were by no means ready to start the day. Your hair was quite a mess, and you were still in your knitted sweater and comfy pajamas. Most often, you would be able to start your day early. But today was not one of those days. Rather, any day at The Burrow was not one of those days.
He sat down in the only remaining chair but lept up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, grey feather duster – at least, that was what the pair of you (Bowie and yourself. . . plus Harry) thought it was until you saw that it was breathing.
“Errol!” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally – he’s got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”
He carried Errol to a perch by the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so you cringed as the thud echoed loudly in the silence, and despite Bowie’s defiance, you went to pick the poor creature up and balance it on its two left feet. The bloody creature had no sense of balance left — well, if it had any to begin with. Laying him on the draining board, you overheard Ron muttering, “Pathetic,” in much dismay.
Meanwhile, from over by the dining area, Harry admired your care for the rugged creature. He couldn’t contain the small smile that erupted his expression, admiring the gentleness of your gaze despite telling the poor creature off.
Whilst he paid attention to you, Ron made haste, ripping open Hermione’s letter, its contents spilling out, and read her long-awaited message aloud:
Dear Ron, [Y/N], and Harry if you’re there,
I hope everything went all right and that Harry is OK and that you both didn’t do anything illegal to get him out, [Y/N], Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, too. You both know how often [Y/N] gets injured, especially on the ventures that lack my assistance.
The majority, if not all your days as a first-year (that was an exaggeration, but it certainly felt like it) were spent wallowing (healing) on the second bed of the dull, cramped, sullen hospital wing. (Okay, that was yet again an exaggeration. It was clean and spacious enough, and well-kept, and Madam Pomfrey ensured it to remain as such. But by Godric’s beard, did it get tiring — its four walls became your home at some point or another. But at least, the madam was a good gossip, keeping you entertained during your stays.)
There was that one time a troll had knocked you against the bathroom wall, that “so-so” injury you sustained during that one quidditch match (“A broken arm is by no means mediocre, Ms. Black-Lupin!” you could hear Minnie’s yells echoing from a distant memory), those boils you’d gained from that one Potions class, that one encounter with Lord Volde— You cringed at the growing list.
Nonetheless, I’ve been really worried, and if Harry is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl, might I suggest Hermes, or perhaps Hedwig, because I think another delivery might finish this one off.
I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course – “How can she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on holiday!” – and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley?
Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can, love from Hermione.
“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mrs Weasley, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?”
Mrs Weasley woke the lot of you bright and early the following Wednesday. After a quick half-a-dozen eggs and bacon sandwich, you pulled on your coats and Molly took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.
“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more today. . . ah, well, guests first! After you, [Y/N], dear! Your father must be expecting you.”
And indeed he was. The pair of you had been exchanging letters almost daily throughout your stay at the Weasleys and agreed to meet at the Leaky Cauldron before heading off to buy your supplies. While some notes exchanged your plans for today’s awaited reunion, others contained sweet nothings and greetings, and others bore more pressing matters, such as your father’s well-being after the previous full moon.
Poor Moony had to deal with its aftermaths on his own this time around. . . You could only hope that your friends (the little critters that resided in the forest and those that took permanent residence in your room) were enough company to bring him some semblance of comfort while you and Bowie were away.
“I’ll meet you lot at Flourish and Blotts, yeah?” you turned to your friends for a moment, ignoring the puzzled gaze of Harry as Mrs Weasley offered you the flowerpot. You only smiled as he blinked in confusion, taking a pinch of glittering powder from the clay pot, stepping up to the fire, and casting the powder into the flames. You only faintly heard him ask about the wonders of the Floo network when a large emerald flame swallowed you whole upon exclaiming, “Diagon Alley!” and vanishing.
Remus had been looking forward to this day from the moment he waved you goodbye. It had been a quiet two weeks without your company, and he knew that it would be an even lengthier rest of the year with you off at Hogwarts.
There was something in his gut telling him that this year would be much unlike the last. Not in the sense that he would never see you again, but that. . . his yearning for you, his only daughter, would be strengthened twice fold. That something peculiar, even beyond Lord Voldemort’s reappearance the previous year, would occur.
Thus, he wished to make the most of the little time you had left before the school year began and planned to make it as memorable — if not more — than the last.
If only your (other) father were here to help him with that. After all, despite everything that went wrong, it was undeniable that Sirius Black loved his daughter endlessly. Once, the man compared it (his love) to the galaxy. Infinite and unmistakably immense. Neverending.
Your father always said he “loved you all the way from the moon, and to Saturn.” Always, he would say he loved you even more than that, but, like Saturn’s rings, his love for you orbited his entire world. It was his entire world.
But then again, if that truly was the case, why did he leave? Why did he betray their friends? Although, Remus always made sure to leave that bit out of your bedtime tales.
Every night, as you grew up, unlike most parents who read their kids fairy tales and books, he would recount the stories that consumed his youth. He would recall his days at Hogwarts, the escapades that filled the four marauders’ nights, and the laughter that filled their halls by day.
As much as he despised the love of his life for betraying you both as he did, for depriving your childhood of any sense of normalcy, he couldn’t bear to tell you such a thing. That your father, who claimed to love you so, had left you behind to serve the dark lord. That in his madness, he got himself sentenced to life in Azkaban, never to be seen again. Or so he could only hope.
His secrecy did little to shield you from the rest of the world, however. It was inevitable that you learn of what happened (or what was said to have happened), just as it was inevitable to recognize the fear, pity, and distaste in some passerby’s eyes. But you were strong. You did not let that deter you, if not for your own sake, then for your father’s, who worked tirelessly to provide for you both.
Remus, righteous as he was, was always too ashamed to take anything from the Black family vault, nor from Sirius’s own savings (which contained more than enough, mind you). Although, he did allow himself to use some of the latter to send you to school. He at least owed you that.
The rest, however, and all that you both spent as you walked the cobblestone path of Diagon Alley, he took from his own pocket. He enjoyed spending — so long as it meant seeing those light blue streaks highlight your head of hair.
He grinned as you shared a cup of butterbeer brittles from Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, (though, thanks to his familiarity with the owner, received it with a discount), sniggered as you nearly tripped, having stepped on a cracked stone, and hid a scowl as you joyously greeted one of the subjects of a pile of your letters home from the previous year.
Cedric Diggory knew not what he did to receive a strained handshake from your father, but he shook it off with a nervous smile as you waved him goodbye.
Striding down the rest of Diagonal Alley with an occasional smile, wink, and wave (you were quite popular amongst your peers, you learned the previous year), you caught a glimpse of a shop or two that caught your fancy. There was Ollivander’s Wand Shop, where you’d received your wand (the old man noted it a peculiarity, albeit you hadn’t a clue why), then there was Quality Quidditch Supplies, where you made your rounds, though exited with nothing.
Finally, you reached Flourish and Blotts, where you were immediately tackled into a hug.
Hermione Granger, hair bushy as ever, had weaved through the crowd to greet you after a summer away from one another. You missed each other greatly, yes, but you seem to have underestimated just how much.
“Oh, [Y/N], how I missed you!” Exhibit A.
“‘Mione, oh, love of my life! You haven’t a clue how I missed you! In fact, the parchments of my notebook are drowning in inked sonnets of just how much!” Exhibit B.
“You’re exaggerating,” she hid a grin behind a shake of her head.
“Oh, but I’m really not,” you blinked innocently in reply. Indeed, you really weren’t.
In your trunk was a notebook filled with little things you had noticed about your best friend — how her eyes set alight when she reached certain parts of her books, how she straightened in her seat and furrowed her brows upon a particularly page-turning plot twist. You noticed it all, and being the poet daughter of a Black and Remus Lupin, you turned these simple moments into words, etching them along the pages of your notebook, and on occasion, annotating them by particularly relevant lines of your books.
Truth be told, there was once a time you mistook your affections for her to be beyond platonic. You thought, at some point or another, that Hermione Granger would be the person you would love silently for the rest of your life. But of course, you were only twelve. What could you have known about love?
Not far later, you traded those faux butterflies with the realization and contentment of a sister. That was what you were to Hermione Granger, and what you learned, she truly was to you.
That didn’t stop you from admiring the beauty in her simplicity, however. Rather, you carried on, albeit, now also noticing the others that composed her background. You would smile wider upon Blaise and Theo’s bickering, giggle (though you despised the word) more heartily at the tickle of Bowie’s movements, and drown in grief, albeit momentarily, as professors spoke of your likeness to your fathers, once believing you to be out of earshot.
But that was nothing. You would shrug it off after a moment or two.
Like then, you went on with the remainder of the day. After a short reunion with your friends, Blaise and Theo, as well as a mini meet-and-greet with your father’s favorite schoolmate (he wished to strangle the man in his place), you ran into a bit of trouble with your not-so-distant relatives, the Malfoys.
Lucius was pretentious as ever, taunting Arthur Weasley and your father for their blood and financial status, while his spawn, Draco, was unbearable as the previous year. He, like his father, simply had to taunt Harry with every waking moment, and in doing so, only managed to piss off the rest of his company, and in particular, a temperamental metamorphmagus.
In later retellings and biographies of your life, some would state that it was accidental magic on your part that dropped a particularly heavy book atop Malfoy Senior’s head. Meanwhile, others would say you knew exactly what you were doing, and performed some degree of wandless magic or that you had simply thrown it with your fantastic, Quidditch Chaser aim.
You couldn’t be bothered to correct any of them.
It wasn’t long before dusk made its return, the sun slowly setting to signify the day’s end. Exchanging brief promises of “see you later”s and meetings at the train, you eventually parted ways, gripping your father’s hand as you headed in the direction you first came.
It wasn’t long before you disappeared into the crowd, leaving behind a proud set of twins, a starstruck Ginny, a content Ron and Hermione, and a wistful Harry.
The boy was smiling to himself again, staring at the grounds you once stood. It was a strange, dopey-looking smile that left Hermione amusedly rolling her eyes at her friend.
“A sickle for your thoughts?” she asked him, breaking him out of his [Y/N]-induced daze.
“What?” he could only stammer in response, blinking up at Hermione in confusion.
“I see the way you look at her, Harry,” Her tone was almost teasing as she smiled at him. “Don’t worry though. You have plenty of time to win her over.”
“I’m sure of it.”
He couldn’t be bothered to deny her insinuations. After all, it was useless to argue against Hermione — she wasn’t even wrong to begin with. She never was.
Harry took comfort in her words. She was right. He had more than enough time to win over your affections. It couldn’t be that difficult — if Cedric Diggory and Oliver Wood could do it within a year, why couldn’t he? And he had seven!
What could possibly prevent two best friends from becoming more than that?
Meanwhile, as night came upon London, a young boy of the name Edmund Pevensie, gazed out his windowsill in contemplation.
Earlier that day, he had overheard his parents speaking of sending him, alongside his four siblings to a family friend — some professor, if he remembers correctly. He recalls his mother fretting, expressing her worries about the four of them, when they heard a distant creek along the wood of the floor.
They retreated into their room, and somehow, Edmund couldn’t make out a sound.
The rest of the night, he was left to worry, silently and to himself, of whatever was to await them in the coming days.
002 - THE GREAT ESCAPE, THE PRISON BREAK - “enchanted!”
Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader
ENCHANTED MASTERLIST!
By no means do I support R*wling’s biased views! This profile is meant to be a safe space promoting escapism <3
TW: none ( although, please feel free to message me if you believe i missed some!! )
YOURS, RON’S, AND THE TWINS’ NAMES escaped Harry’s lips breathlessly. Reaching for his glasses, he crept to the window and pushed it up so you could talk through the bars. He called out to you, “How did you — What the —?”
You couldn’t contain your chuckle as your friend was hit at full impact by the astonishment of the scene before him. There truly was something humorous to it from this perspective, you supposed, leaning out of the back window and exchanging the same grins Ron and his brothers had earlier that night.
“All right, Harry?” asked George, though you could tell he wasn’t if the bars on his window weren’t enough of a dead giveaway.
“What’s been going on?” Ron was quick to follow. “Why haven’t you been answering our letters? I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad came home and said you’d got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles—”
“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”
“He works for the Ministry,” says Ron. “You know we’re not supposed to do spells outside school—”
“You should talk,” mutters Harry in a deadpan manner, staring at the floating car.
“Ronald is quite the hypocrite isn’t he—”
“Shove off,” the redhead grumbled, a pink tint spreading his freckled cheeks. “First off, stop calling me that.”
He ignored the way your cheeky smile grew.
“Second, this doesn’t count.” Ron returned his gaze to Harry, “We’re only borrowing this. It’s Dad’s, we didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with—”
“I told you, I didn’t—” the bespectacled boy turned from Ron to you, silently pleading you believe him, which you did. After all the unusual roots of trouble the previous year, you came to trust your friends no matter how ridiculous their stories appeared. (Although, you did have to remain cautious with Fred and George’s whispers and tales. The pair of them, more often than not, told truths that bent slightly away from their original courses—if not to make them seem more humorous, then to riddle you with pranks.) With a small shrug, you turned to the stubborn Weasley, “I dunno about you, but this isn’t the most ridiculous thing that’s happened to him so far. Best we just get on with it and bust his arse out.”
“What—? But you can’t magic me out—”
“We don’t need to,” grinned Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forget who we’ve got with us.”
“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Harry.
“If the Dursleys wake up, I’m dead,” Harry, although weary, tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up the car.
“Don’t you worry ‘bout that. We’ve got Bowie here to deal ‘em some damage, don’t we, Bowie?” you grinned down at the creature perched on your shoulder, who chittered and bounced in vehement agreement.
Harry wasn’t one to misplace his trust in you, but he certainly had his doubts with that little bowtruckle of yours.
“Don’t worry,” an amused Fred called out, “And stand back!”
You watched, oblivious to your friend’s dubious gaze on the restless Bowie as Harry backed into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to have realized how important this was and kept still and silent.
A sky blue hue spread from the roots of your locks as the car revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up in the air. Back pressed against your seat and air knocked clean out of your lungs, you found within yourself the urge to look back, eyes catching the bars dangling a good few feet above the ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car. Harry listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Dursleys' bedroom.
When the bars were safely in the back seat between you and Ron, Fred reversed as close as possible to Harry's window.
“Get in,” Ron said as you gestured him inside.
“But all my Hogwarts stuff — my wand — my broomstick —”
“Well, where are they?”
“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and I can't get out of this room—”
Your friends hadn’t taken into account that Harry’s relatives may have been antagonistic enough (perhaps even fearful, you thought) against magic to have confiscated his belongings. Nevertheless, it wasn’t too big of an issue as you and the twins exchanged a short, gleaming glance.
“No problem,” said George from the front passenger seat. “Out of the way, Harry.”
Fred, George, and yourself climbed catlike through the window into Harry's room.
“Watch and learn,” you couldn't contain your pride as your little bean sprout hopped from your extended hand onto the door, picking the lock with his long, sharp fingers. “Before Bowie, I had to settle for picking locks the old-fashioned way. But now. . .”
There was a small click and the door swung open.
“I have my own personal felon,” you grinned as Bowie climbed back onto your palm, chittering with glee as you rewarded him with a few woodlice in exchange for his willing assistance.
“Meanwhile, we have to make do with the old-fashioned way,” George sighed in faux despair, fishing out the ordinary hairpin from his pocket. “The trees by our place aren’t good enough to house bowtruckles, and it doesn’t help that Mum’s not overly fond of the idea of us having our own — as if she even stopped to consider all the bright sides to having one, or better yet, two!”
“More like she doesn’t trust you lot to care for one,” Ron interjected.
“So — we'll get your trunk — you grab anything you need from your room and hand it out to Ron,” whispered George, who paid his younger brother’s words no mind.
“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Harry muttered back as you stayed back and watched the twins disappear into the dark landing.
Quickly, you and Harry dashed around his room, collecting his things and passing them out of the window to Ron. As if the thought of you in his room wasn’t enough, once or twice, your hands brushed against one another’s, eliciting a fierce blush to spread the ravenette’s cheeks, ever thankful for the dark that hid away his reaction.
“Anything else you’ve forgotten?” you asked, glancing around and toward your empty spot in the backseat.
“No, you go on ahead,” he replied before going to help Fred and George heave his trunk up the stairs.
Making your way over, and lightly shoving Ron to the side, you momentarily stilled hearing a rough cough from one of the neighboring rooms. It was that Vernon tosser, you thought, glancing over your shoulder to see your three friends had made it to the landing, panting.
Situating yourself properly, you readied yourself as they carried the trunk through Harry’s room to the open window. You pulled with Ron, and Harry and the twins pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, the trunk slid through the window.
The Vernon bloke coughed again.
“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pushing from the bedroom side. “One good push—”
The three of them threw their shoulders against the trunk and it slid out of the window into the back seat of the car; you and Ron maneuvered it to fit into the trunk.
“Okay, let's go,” George whispered as he and Fred climbed into their seats up front.
But as you and Ron made space for your friend, as Harry climbed onto the windowsill, there came a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon's voice.
“THAT RUDDY OWL!” your eyes widen as your panicked expression meets his, “I've forgotten Hedwig!”
Harry tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on — he snatched up Hedwig's cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to the pair of you who sat there. He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door and it crashed open.
For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.
You, Ron, Fred, and George seized Harry's arms and pulled as hard as you could; you couldn’t help but worry that he’d snap like a twig. The boy was undeniably scrawny, and over the summer, it appeared he’d become slightly malnourished (more than he already was, that is).
But the Weasleys (plus yourself) gave a gigantic tug and Harry's leg slid out of Uncle Vernon's grasp — Harry fell into the car — he'd slammed the door shut.
“Put your bloody foot down, Fred!” you found yourself yelling, and the car shot suddenly toward the moon.
Harry couldn't believe it — he was free. He rolled down the window at your command, the night air whipping his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of Harry's window.
“See you next summer!” Harry yelled.
The car was filled with laughter and Harry settled back in his seat, gazing at your joyous expression, grinning from ear to ear.
“Can you let Hedwig out?” he asked you after a moment of silent admiration, glancing back at his owl. “She can fly behind us. She hasn't had a chance to stretch her wings for ages.”
Wordlessly nodding, you extend your arm toward her cage. Although slightly hesitant, Bowie creeps toward it, tinkering with the lock and, a moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside the car like a ghost.
“So — what's the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently. “What's been happening?”
Harry told you all about Dobby, the warning he'd given Harry, and the fiasco of the violet pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when he had finished.
“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.
“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn't even tell you who's supposed to be plotting all this stuff?”
“I don't think he could,” said Harry. “I told you, every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.”
He finally took notice of how quiet you had been, a pensive expression across your features. “What, d’you think he was lying to me?”
To this, you blinked away your stupor, gnawing on your bottom lip in contemplation.
“Well,” you replied, looking at Fred and George who had exchanged a glance, “see it like this — house-elves have got very powerful magic of their own, but they can’t use it without their master’s permission. A drawback, or a condition, per se, for being powerful as they are.”
“I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you from coming back to Hogwarts. Someone's idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against you?” Fred continued
“Yes,” said you, Harry, and Ron together, instantly.
“Draco Malfoy,” Harry explained. “He hates me.”
“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around. “Not Lucius Malfoy's son?”
“The one and only,” You hummed in amusement.
“I've heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.”
“And when You-Know-Who disappeared," said Fred, craning around to look at Harry, "Lucius Malfoy came back saying he'd never meant any of it. Load of dung — Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who's inner circle.”
Everyone, even a newcomer such as Harry had heard these rumors about the Malfoys, and they didn’t surprise the lot of them at all. Draco Malfoy made Dudley Dursley, Harry’s cousin and childhood bully, look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy.
“I don't know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf,” said Harry thoughtfully.
“Oh, they definitely do,” you chimed in distractedly; Bowie’s supply of woodlice had run low for the trip, and he was getting quite antsy. “The Malfoys, whether they deserve it or not, are one of the most influential families in all of the British Wizarding World.”
“They’re a dynasty of politicians and upper-class prats who clearly in-breed to keep their bloodlines pure as they come.”
“You can’t really talk—” Your sharp glare shut Fred up, but not swiftly enough, as Harry’s curiosity had already been piqued. He wished to ask you what Fred meant, to gain more answers than questions — but upon catching your tense expression, he instead turned to Ron, who gave him a convincing shrug.
Unlike Harry, Ron was well aware of the webs of complexity behind your surname. He, much like the majority of your school’s population, had known all too well the prominence that came with the Black family name — there was pride, and wealth, and it was reputable, for both right and wrong reasons.
Truth be told, that alone had made him hesitant with the mere thought of acquainting himself with you. But when push came to shove, you charmed your way into becoming one of his closest friends — another sister of sorts. No matter how annoying or exhausting, he was to protect you as you did all three of them during the previous year’s escapades.
Fred cleared his throat, regaining composition. “Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they'll be rich,”
“Yeah, Mum's always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,” said George. “But all we've got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that; you wouldn't catch one in our house . . .”
At the sudden silence, you looked up. Harry seemed deep in thought, reflecting on Draco Malfoy and his family’s apparent wealth. If he knew of your own family lines, what would he think of you, you wondered. But based on your friend’s expression, you found yourself unprepared to receive an answer just yet.
“I'm glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron, thankfully shifting the topic away. “I was getting really worried when you didn't answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol's fault at first—”
“Who's Errol?”
“Our owl. He's ancient. It wouldn't be the first time he'd collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes—”
“Your owl?” Harry turned to you, wondering why his friend would need to borrow yours in particular.
“No, the owl Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made prefect,” said Fred from the front. Harry released a small breath of relief.
“But Percy wouldn't lend him to me,” continued Ron. “Said he needed him.”
Now, that raises your curiosity.
“Percy's been acting very oddly this summer,” said George, frowning. “And he has been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room. . . I mean, there's only so many times you can polish a prefect badge. . . You're driving too far west, Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Your curiosity peaked. Fred twiddled the steering wheel.
“Maybe he’s been exchanging letters with someone?” you proposed with a suggestive, teasing tone. “A lover of sorts maybe?”
“Do not say lover,” the twins immediately shut you down. “Never, ever use that word in the same sentence, or even existence as Perce again.”
“Percy and a girl?” Ron followed, scoffing and rolling his eyes at you in amusement, “Don’t make me laugh.”
“The bloke wouldn’t know a thing about romancing a lady, and I doubt any lady would be romanced by the likes of him!”
“Perhaps she’s a sadist?” — “Only right answer, Fred, if there is a woman at all.”
“I just mean to say,” You shrugged half-heartedly, “it wouldn’t be impossible. It just so happens that there’s a. . . certain appeal to the likes of your brother.”
They all grew silent.
The Weasleys were repulsed at the mere thought, meanwhile, Harry blinked at the side of your head. Did you fancy Percy, he thought, frowning slightly.
“Have you lost your bloody mind?” Ron was the first to recover (though not fully). “Wood and Diggory, maybe I could try to understand your past fixations, but bloody Percy?”
Only then did you understand their extreme concern. They believed you were sweet on their uptight older brother? Seven rings of bloody hell not.
“I don’t like Percy!” you were incredulous; Bowie grew restless, your hand being the lone force holding him back from scratching the four idiots’ eyes out. “I’m just saying that some people actually find him rather attractive!”
“Walls talk, you know! And it just so happens that the girls’ lavatory has rather echoey ones.”
The twins and Ron were only left to shake their heads and mutter their disagreements. But you know the truth. And that truth was a relatively more. . . delicate topic. Certainly not something to bring up when your lives would be on the line given Fred was driving.
Harry, uncomfortable with the topic, speaks up. "So, does your dad know you've got the car?"
“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully, we'll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.”
Bloody right idiots, they were. Bowie shared your sentiments, burrowing himself into your pocket.
“What does your dad do at the Ministry of Magic, anyway?”
“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron. “The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.”
"The what?"
"It's all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare — Dad was working overtime for weeks."
“What happened?”
“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was going frantic — it's only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the office — and they had to do Memory Charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up—"
"But your dad — this car —”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” you muttered as Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad's crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed's full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided our house he'd
have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad."
“That's the main road," said George, peering down through the windshield. "We'll be there in ten minutes. . . Just as well, it's getting light . . ."
A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. The rise of the sun was a simple, yet wonderful pleasure. It was the sort of moment you often wished would last forever — a moment of stillness and quiet, of tranquillity and ease. It was a moment when two worlds aligned, the day rising and the night falling back. It was in moments like this that they coexist and shimmer in the flickering presence of the other. It was a moment you would often think back to, the image tattooed on the back of your mind. This was a moment you, at the time, could only dream of one day gazing upon with someone of the utmost significance in your life — unaware that this person, your future person, too, was looking up at the very sight from his windowsill back in Finchley, albeit with more melancholy.
synopsis | a minor slip-up of expressions led to a storytime on that one time you had a small crush on a certain redhead dragonologist.
➵ pairing | platonic!(?) charlie weasley x reader.
➵ fandom | harry potter.
➵ warning | profanities. non-canon compilant. slytherin!tonks!reader. (let's pretend that the weasleys and the blacks aren't related) your nickname is stargirl (since i don't use y/n) flashbacks are in italics.
➵ author's note | hi!! welcome to my blog! this is my first ever work to ever get posted and i really hope you like my completely self-indulgent story. happy reading:) - jj
ps. this post is dedicated to my good friend @xxmarcxline @edmundstxrch - thank you for being my ispiration and just being an amazing person<33 (plese go check out her blog!! her works are literally incredible!!)
12 Grimmauld Place was crowded with humans, cats and owls.
You were sitting cross-legged on the sofa by the fireplace in the drawing room, knitting two pairs of matching gloves for you and your sister; one in her favourite colour, and one in your, whilst quietly humming along to some muggle Christmas carol that’s playing on the radio.
Ever since Remus taught you how to knit, you’ve been doing it non-stop, knitting hats, scarves, gloves—which is what you’re making at the moment— you even started practising on knitting a sweater. it became a sort of hobby of yours
You were so preoccupied with your knitting that you jumped when your sister plopped herself on the sofa next to you, “Dora!” you chastise, “You scared me.” She gave you an apologetic look. “Sorry, sis.”
She looked toward the bundles of yarn on your lap and asked curiously. “What are you making?” Without taking your eyes off your project, you answered. “Gloves.” Her head tilted in confusion, her hair briefly turning into a shade of orange, “Gloves?” she repeated. You hummed in response. “Whatever for?” your sister asked again, you absentmindedly replied, “For when it’s cold. I have one pair for you and one for me,” you gestured towards the bundle of yarn in your lap, “that’s why one of them is in your favourite colour and the other one is mine, see?” you lifted up the half-done gloves to prove your point.
“Aww,” Dora pouted. Giving you a side hug; purple streaks started to show on her bright pink hair. “have I ever told you that you’re my favourite sister?” Your brows furrowed, briefly stopping your knitting, you looked towards your sister, “I’m your only sister, Nymphie.” you pointed out. She grinned. “Exactly.” You rolled your eyes fondly.
After a few moments later, Fred, George, Ron, Ginny, Harry and Hermoine entered the drawing room; the youngest Weasley sat down next to your sister, Hermoine and Harry sat down on the floor and the twins loomed behind you, Fred sat on the arm of the sofa you were sitting on, while George leaned on the back of it, leaning towards you.
“Hello, little one.” crooned Fred from where he was sitting. You replied without missing a beat, “Hello, my favourite carrot.” which earned a perfectly synchronised ‘Oi!’ from the other three redheads in the room. “Hear that, Georgie? I’m her favourite carrot?” Fred said smugly. The four Weasleys, Harry and Hermoine shared a laugh.
You felt a smirk tugging at the corner of your lip at his words, the same time Dora let out snicker. The two of you shared a not-so-subtle knowing look, something the young Weaselette didn’t miss, both suspicious and intrigued, she asked, “I saw that, tell me.” her eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
You and Dora let out an incredulous laugh, “What?” you asked at the same time. “I know that look! You have tea or whatever the muggles called it.” Ginny huffed. You, Dora and Hermoine burst out laughing at her last statement. Even Harry let out a snort while the redheads looked extremely confused. “Gin, who told you about that?” you asked in between your laughs.
“Dean did,” she answered. “But whatever, tell me.” she dragged out that last part. “Sorry, Ginevra.” you hissed. “That’s classified information.” She groaned, “Please?” she pouted, looking towards Dora for help, however, her attempt at puppy eyes remained to be fruitless as your sister said “Sorry, Ginny.” she glanced towards you. “But that’s not my story to tell.”
By now, the others are looking at you as well; thoroughly interested.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, fine,” you caved in. The others cheered theatrically, you rolled your eyes, unamused. “Okay, so, Fred, George,” you looked towards the twins who had moved to sit on the floor—and had conjured some snacks, you quirked a brow as if to say 'Really?' “What? It’s storytime” George shrugged; popping a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean in his mouth, grimacing at the foul taste. “Sorry, please continue, love.” grinned Fred. “Anyway, Fred, George, do you remember what I said when we first met and you introduced yourselves?”
“Hello, Miss Tonks. I’m Fred-” one of the twins said.
“-and I’m George-” said the other twin.
“-Weasley.” they chorused.
You looked at them in amazement before saying, “So you’re Fred,” you pointed towards ‘George’ “and you’re George?” you pointed towards ‘Fred’ you smirked, having caught on the mischief glinting in their eyes.
Their eyes widened, “How did you-” Fred (the real Fred) asked, bewildered.
“I just know.” you shrugged. “Although- did you say ‘Weasley’?” They nodded. “I knew I recognised that hair colour anywhere.” you muttered under your breath. “Sorry? Didn’t catch that.” said George. You shook your head “Oh, nothing,” Though, just to be sure, you asked them, “Are you related to Charlie Weasley by any chance?” They nodded again. “Oh, yeah, he’s our brother.” Fred answered. “He’s in seventh year though.” added George. “My sister is in her seventh year as well.” you smiled. “Who is your sister, by the way?” they asked. “Oh! My sister is Nymphadora Tonks- you probably know her.” you told them…
“Yeah, you asked us if we were related to Charlie.” said Fred, recalling the first day of his second year. Dora laughed, “That's the first thing you noticed when they said 'Weasley'?”
You felt heat rushing to your cheeks, “Well, I had to make sure.” you defended. “Is there any other wizarding family called 'Weasley' except for us?” asked Ron incredulously. “Shut it, I was eleven at the time.” you frowned. “Anyway,” you emphasised, meeting their eyes. “I asked you that because Dora was best friends with Charlie and he often visited us in the summer. So when you said that you were a Weasley, my mind automatically goes to Charlie.” you explained. Dora raised her hand slightly, “Objection, we still are best friends,” You gave her a look, “Yeah, but you don’t see each other as often anymore,” you told her.
“So, like I said, Charlie was at our house often since their fourth year,” you nodded at your sister. “And- oh dear-” you laughed slightly, avoiding the redheads’ gaze “keep in mind that this was like years ago-” you remind them. “I may or may not have had an itty-bitty, tiny, small, little crush on him when I was seven” you confessed; taking both of the half-made gloves and pressing it to your face in a poor attempt to cover your blushing face.
The room went deadly quiet, sans your sister’s sniggers—which are not exactly quiet, she looked like she was on the verge of cackling—whilst the siblings of your said crush had their jaws on the floor, you wouldn’t be surprised if they’d accidentally swallow a fly.
Surprisingly; Hermoine was the one to break the silence, “Well, I’m not surprised.” she shrugged nonchalantly. Her statement seems to break the siblings out of their trance. “WHAT?” Four voices boomed all at once. Ron gaped at her in disbelief while Hermoine looked unbothered. “What? I see it.” You hastily uncovered your face, clapping, you exclaimed, “Right?!” realising what you’ve just done, you clapped your hand on your mouth.
For a moment, the room went quiet once more. Dora, who was trying very hard to conceal her laugh, lost the battle and cackled–actually cackled, she almost sounded like your deranged aunt Bellatrix. Hermoine had wheezed upon your reaction and Harry—who had been listening quietly from the sidelines, deeply amused—chortled, his glasses nearly fell off his face. You, on the other hand, stared at them with a deadpan expression. “Well, I’m glad that you find this very amusing.” you said, your tone laced with sarcasm. “But, as I said: It was a long time ago.” Ron, Ginny and the twins gave you an ‘I’m not convinced’ look. You sighed, “Seriously- heh, siriusly- it wasn’t even that big of a crush, I don’t think you could even call it crush- it’s barely a crush at all actually.”
Your sister snorted at your last statement. “Hah, ‘barely a crush’ she says.” she muttered under her breath, though you had caught what she said. You knew exactly what she was thinking and you widen your eyes at her as if to say ‘Don’t’ however, she only flashed you a cheeky grin, “Wanna tell them the other thing, or should I?” She nudged your shoulder. And you swore you heard Fred mutter “Merlin, what else?” and you almost laughed if you weren’t so nervous. Sighing defeatedly, you slumped on your seat before lazily muttering “You tell them.” to your sister.
The pink haired witch chuckled at the memory before resuming the story “Charlie used to read her books about dragons, but instead of paying attention to what he was saying, she simply gawked at him.” The whole room echoed with laughter. “And whenever he glanced at me, I just pretended like I paid attention.” you continued with a chortle.
“... and the Antipodean Opaleye is a dragon breed native to New Zealand and they’re quite beautiful, See?” he pointed at the picture in the book. “their scales has a pearly shimmer to them. They’re very beautiful.” You gazed at him, captivated. “You’re beautiful.” you whispered. Fortunately for you; he barely heard what you said, “Hm? What did you say?” he asked, looking you in the eye. Your eyes widened, you cleared your throat, “Uh- What? I said ‘yeah’ uh-” you spluttered, clearing your throat once more, “I mean, yeah, they’re beautiful.” your voice sounds steady this time. At your agreement he grinned at you and you thought ‘Merlin, he’s so pretty.”
“There was also a time when I would get so excited when Dora said that he’d be coming over…”
It was dinnertime,you and your family were enjoying your dinner when in the middle of a conversation, your sister informed, “Charlie’s gonna be here tomorrow.” You paused mid-bite, “Charlie?” you asked through a mouthful of food. Your mother shot you a disapproving look, she said your name, “Don’t talk with your mouth full.” she scolded. You smiled at her sheepishly. Slowly swallowing your food, you repeated, “Charlie’s gonna be tomorrow?” Dora smiled at you knowingly, “Yeah” she answered simply, wiggling her brows teasingly. You went back to eating your food, a giddy smile was plastered on your face.
“There was also that one time where he gave me a present for my birthday…”
“Hey, stargirl.” he greeted you—with that damn smile. He was holding a box in his hand. “Hey, Cha.” you smiled at him, “What’ve you got there?” you asked, nodding towards the purple box in his hands. He grinned in response, extending the box towards you, “Happy Birthday!” You stared at him with a confused smile, “How did you know today’s my birthday?” you asked, though you had a pretty good guess. “Tonks told me.” ‘Why do you make it so easy?’ you thought. “I never told you,” you smirked. “The other Tonks.” he corrected. “I truly doubt that my father told you.”
“Your sister ‘Tonks’.” he corrected again. “Oh, Dora!” you gasped dramatically. “Why didn’t you just say?” shaking your head in feigned surprise. “Yes, Yes, I’m funny, I know.” he rolled his eyes. “Open it.” he urged. You did as he said; pulling on the white ribbon and removing the lid of the box—
You gasped, your head snapping towards him. “You didn’t.” you gaped. “Oh, yes, dear stargirl. I did.” he nodded dramatically, seemingly very proud of himself.
Unable to contain yourself, you tackled him in a bear-hug. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” you whispered in his ear over and over. He chuckled, hugging you equally as tight. “You're welcome.”
He had gotten you a dragon stuffed animal in your favourite colour.
“How did you know this was my favourite colour?” you asked after you pulled away. “Tonks told me.” He realised his mistake when you grinned at him mischievously, “Which one?
He groaned.
You cackled.
“I still have it actually.” you said, referring to the little stuffed dragon that you loved dearly.
When you finished the story, Ginny questioned. “Why Charlie?”
You blinked, wondering if you’d heard her correctly. “‘Why Charlie?’” you repeated, “He’s a fine-arse looking specimen. He’s really tall. He plays Quidditch-” you were cut off by the twins, “Um, we play Quidditch.” they pointed at themselves, mildly offended. You waved them off, “He was a fucking Quidditch Captain for Salazar’s sake!” you exclaimed. “And he’s just so kind, and pretty, and handsome, and tall, and has an amazing smile, and he’s so cool and now he’s a Dragonologist? Are you bloody joking?” you rambled on breathlessly.
“Yeah, I don’t think she’s over it.” Fred whispered to George; the latter nodding in agreement. “Not one bit.”
“...and you’re sure you don’t have a crush- barely-crush on him anymore?” Ginny asked, correcting herself at the glare you gave her.
You shook your head. “No, not anymore.”
“Not even a little?”
“Nope.”
“You’re absolutely sure?” Harry interjected.
“Yes, a thousand- no, one million percent, actually.” you stated stubbornly.
Truthfully, you didn’t know if you were trying to convince them or yourself. Because if you were being completely honest, you hadn’t stopped thinking about him once since he left for Romania.
You were snapped out of your train of thoughts when there was a knock on the door. It was Remus. “Dinner’s ready,” he smiled, and as he was about to leave, he paused, “And there’s someone downstairs who wants to see you.” you could have sworn that his eyes were fixed on you when he said that, though he hadn’t specifically addressed you.
Ron’s stomach grumbled, “Oh, thank Merlin, I’m starving.” he said. You shared a laugh at his antics as you all exited the drawing room and went downstairs. Dora threw an arm over your shoulders, “Are you absolutely sure?” she asked once more with a teasing tone. “Salazar, yes.” you groaned exasperatedly. She nodded. “Okay.”
When you entered the dining room, your eyes met a pair of gorgeous brown ones.
Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader
ENCHANTED MASTERLIST!
By no means do I support R*wling’s biased views! This profile is meant to be a safe space promoting escapism <3
TW: none ( although, please feel free to message me if you believe i missed some!! )
THE WEASLEYS’ FLYING CAR LET OUT A distant honk that broke the quiet of the woodland night. It drew your gaze off the several critters that chittered in annoyance as you set your sights on the sudden brightness from the other side of your window.
For two months—two months too long, Harry Potter had given you and everyone else no sign of life. He had yet to reply to any of the mountains of letters you, Ron, and Hermione had sent over the eight weeks that had passed.
That day at King’s Cross Station, he had asked everyone to keep in touch over the summer, that everyone (he not-so-subtly turned specifically to you, Hermione and Ron affirmed upon exchanging a silent gaze) remember to send their owls and exchange letters about everything and nothing at all. And that had been exactly what you did—that was the case for three of you, at least.
At first, golden boy’s silence had been, what you believed, was but a delay of Hedwig’s travel. Godric knows that poor owl would lack nutrition in a madhouse like the Dursleys. But as weeks, and eventually, months went by, all three of you had grown all the more concerned, eventually evoking this ingenious escapade.
“You have got to be joking!” you breathed, jaw slack in awe as you tugged your window open. “Please tell me at least one of you has a clue about what you’re doing. . .”
The redheads simply grinned, exchanging a humorous look between them, as though a joke had been told and you were the only one who lacked its context. Ron was leaning out of the back window of the old turquoise blue car, which was parked in midair.
“Stupid question,” he scoffed in amusement. “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t, now would we?” His tone was almost incredulous as you stared at the three brothers, eyes blown wide and locks going a shade of bright blue and lilac.
The near-silent squeaks from the top of your head drew everyone’s attention to the little bowtruckle that had climbed from its original place on your shoulder. “Oh, ‘ello Bowie!”
The said creature only chittered angrily. Unlike your puffskein and that troublesome owl, Hermes, Bowie hadn’t been as pleased with the thought of sharing you. Having been present from when you were but a babe wrapped in blankets and to this day, stood in a sweater and trousers before the open windowsill, he has grown in your company and become an extension of you; leaving your side for Hogwarts had not been a choice, as he snuck into your pockets, just as he had every time you left the cottage.
“I was under the impression that we’d be flying there—”
“Exactly what we’re doing—” The twin sat in the driver’s seat (you believed it to be Fred) interjected dumbly.
“I meant on our brooms, you idiots!”
To that, they exchanged a baffled glance. To think they wondered how you’d known about their illegal flying contraption.
“Never you mind,” Ron shook his head, “Now come on! We’re burning moonlight!”
You only gazed at them for a moment more. It was an astonishing, and admittedly impressive sight. Without a thought of self-preservation, you climbed aboard the flying contraption, not a care in the world for the ground that promised great risk fifteen feet below you.
As the car took off and you glanced to where your father stood, waving you goodbye, you couldn’t help but fear that this would be the last you would see such a sight. While you trusted your friends deeply, you hadn’t a clue if your life was truly all that safe in their fumbling hands.
“You wouldn’t happen to have some form of insurance, would you?” you gazed at Ron’s elder twin brothers, who grinned at you from over their shoulders. “And what the bloody hell is that supposed to be, little Miss Mood Ring?”
To that, you could only sigh, gazing down with pursed lips as Bowie moved to hide within your sweater’s pocket.
This was going to be a particularly long night.
Time passed rather quickly for the four Gryffindors, blanketed from Muggle eyes by the car’s invisibility feature.
Meanwhile, at number four, Privet Drive, Harry Potter dreamed he was on show, in a zoo, with a card reading ‘UNDERAGE WIZARD’ attached to his cage. People goggled through the bars at him as he lay, starving and weak, on a bed of straw. He saw Dobby, the house elf from earlier in the crowd, and shouted out, asking for help, but Dobby called, “Harry Potter is safer there, sir!” and vanished. Then, he saw you, effortlessly pretty with your bowtruckle atop your head as always, gliding through the crowd unbothered, clueless of his struggle. He wanted to call out to you, beg for you to save him, when the Dursleys appeared and Dudley rattled the bars of the cage, mocking his pleas.
“Stop it,” Harry muttered as the rattling pounded in his sore head. “Leave me alone. . . cut it out. . . Please. . .” your name spilled his lips as he muttered in his sleep.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on his window. And someone—rather, a pair of familiar faces were giggling through the bars at him: a freckle-faced, red-haired, long-nosed someone alongside the very face he had subconsciously conjured and yearned to see again.
Ron Weasley and [Y/N] Black-Lupin were outside Harry’s window.
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Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader
By no means do I support R*wling’s biased views! This profile is meant to be a safe space promoting escapism <3
TW: brief mentions of blood, loss, and war. ( besides that there seems to be nothing more extreme, although, please feel free to message me if you believe i missed some!! )
Every inch of Hogwarts had been tainted with blood and war.
Death knew no bias. Cast aside and strung around were the corpses of the many who partook in the battle of Hogwarts. To history, it would forever be known as the victorious end to the Second Wizarding War; the battle to top all battles. But to every soul that had been there, to the young who fought for their homes, the individuals who fought for greed and gain—to the warriors who bravely fought at the frontlines, it was the Battle of Worlds Intwined.
Years before, you never would have believed yourself to be a catalyst for something so large and terrifying.
However, living in blissful ignorance, you hadn’t known better.
You hadn’t known that your arrival to a world behind a wardrobe would trigger so many deaths, your rise, nor your fall. You hadn’t known then that it would pull you toward four siblings that would shift your life for whatever remnant of time you had left. You hadn’t known that in befriending the young Lucy Pevensie, you had sealed your destiny—twisting its lock and tossing away the key.
Back then, when times had been ever simpler, you hadn’t a clue how easy you had the world—not that time failed to remind you of all else.
You had loved, lost, given life, and taken it away—time, although not always the gentlest, had taught you the duality of the world’s uncontrollable forces. It had given you both sunshine and rain, as well as fair seas and turbulent waves. It had gifted you with the truth of being human.
However, as you stood before the final force contesting your mortality, you couldn’t help but still with the cold, staggering waters of fear. On your shoulders weighed the burden of avenging those who fought valiantly, yet fell. On your shoulders weighed the fates of all the rest who battle courageously to see the next day. On your shoulders weighed the turning page that determines the epilogue that awaits the entirety of the wizarding world.
“Avada Kedavra!”
As Lord Voldemort's cruel encantation echoed, your eyes, for what may have been the final time, met the familiar hues of deep, warm chocolate.
You hadn’t known before then just how crucial to every being’s story your meeting with the Pevensie siblings had truly been.
You never fully understood until that moment how wonderstruck you were to have met and been so, very deeply, entwined with the other half of your soul.
You never understood until then, how enchanted you were to have been loved and given your love to Edmund Pevensie.
SYNOPSIS: In which a prophecy looms her like a silhouette, creeping silently like a shadow she cannot escape. From one land to another, trouble follows, evil lurks, and darkness shadows.
Side-by-side, accompanied by four seemingly ordinary siblings, they will reign and conquer the ever-changing tides.
From a Lion, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, to the Battle of Worlds intwined, only Aslan may know just what their journeys truly hold.
STATUS: on-going
Pairing: Edmund Pevensie x Wolfstar!Daughter!Reader
000 - PROLOGUE
# ( ACT ONE - CHAMBER OF SECRETS &&& THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE )
