Principles And Laws Of Magic For Fantasy Writers

Principles and Laws of Magic for Fantasy Writers

Fundamental Laws

1. Law of Conservation of Magic- Magic cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

3. Law of Equivalent Exchange- To gain something, an equal value must be given.

5. Law of Magical Exhaustion- Using magic drains the user’s energy or life force.

Interaction and Interference

4. Law of Magical Interference- Magic can interfere with other magical effects.

6. Law of Magical Contamination- Magic can have unintended side effects.

8. Law of Magical Inertia- Magical effects continue until stopped by an equal or greater force.

Resonance and Conditions

7. Law of Magical Resonance- Magic resonates with certain materials, places, or times.

9. Law of Magical Secrecy- Magic must be kept secret from the non-magical world.

11. Law of Magical Hierarchy- Different types of magic have different levels of power and difficulty.

Balance and Consequences

10. Law of Magical Balance- Every positive magical effect has a negative consequence.

12. Law of Magical Limitation- Magic has limits and cannot solve every problem.

14. Law of Magical Rebound- Misused magic can backfire on the user.

Special Conditions

13. Law of Magical Conduits- Certain objects or beings can channel magic more effectively.

15. Law of Magical Cycles- Magic may be stronger or weaker depending on cycles (e.g., lunar phases).

17. Law of Magical Awareness- Some beings are more attuned to magic and can sense its presence.

Ethical and Moral Laws

16. Law of Magical Ethics- Magic should be used responsibly and ethically.

18. Law of Magical Consent- Magic should not be used on others without their consent.

20. Law of Magical Oaths- Magical promises or oaths are binding and have severe consequences if broken.

Advanced and Rare Laws

19. Law of Magical Evolution- Magic can evolve and change over time.

20. Law of Magical Singularities- Unique, one-of-a-kind magical phenomena exist and are unpredictable.

Unique and Imaginative Magical Laws

- Law of Temporal Magic- Magic can manipulate time, but with severe consequences. Altering the past can create paradoxes, and using time magic ages the caster rapidly.

- Law of Emotional Resonance- Magic is amplified or diminished by the caster’s emotions. Strong emotions like love or anger can make spells more powerful but harder to control.

- Law of Elemental Harmony- Magic is tied to natural elements (fire, water, earth, air). Using one element excessively can disrupt the balance and cause natural disasters.

- Law of Dream Magic- Magic can be accessed through dreams. Dreamwalkers can enter others’ dreams, but they risk getting trapped in the dream world.

- Law of Ancestral Magic- Magic is inherited through bloodlines. The strength and type of magic depend on the caster’s ancestry, and ancient family feuds can influence magical abilities.

- Law of Symbiotic Magic- Magic requires a symbiotic relationship with magical creatures. The caster and creature share power, but harming one affects the other.

- Law of Forgotten Magic- Ancient spells and rituals are lost to time. Discovering and using forgotten magic can yield great power but also unknown dangers.

- Law of Magical Echoes- Spells leave behind echoes that can be sensed or traced. Powerful spells create stronger echoes that linger longer.

- Law of Arcane Geometry- Magic follows geometric patterns. Spells must be cast within specific shapes or alignments to work correctly.

- Law of Celestial Magic- Magic is influenced by celestial bodies. Spells are stronger during certain astronomical events like eclipses or planetary alignments.

- Law of Sentient Magic- Magic has a will of its own. It can choose to aid or hinder the caster based on its own mysterious motives.

- Law of Shadow Magic- Magic can manipulate shadows and darkness. Shadowcasters can travel through shadows but are vulnerable to light.

- Law of Sympathetic Magic- Magic works through connections. A spell cast on a representation of a person (like a doll or portrait) affects the actual person.

- Law of Magical Artifacts- Certain objects hold immense magical power. These artifacts can only be used by those deemed worthy or who possess specific traits.

- Law of Arcane Paradoxes- Some spells create paradoxes that defy logic. These paradoxes can have unpredictable and often dangerous outcomes.

- Law of Elemental Fusion- Combining different elemental magics creates new, hybrid spells with unique properties and effects.

- Law of Ethereal Magic- Magic can interact with the spirit world. Ethereal mages can communicate with spirits, but prolonged contact can blur the line between life and death.

- Law of Arcane Symbiosis- Magic can bond with technology, creating magical machines or enchanted devices with extraordinary capabilities.

- Law of Dimensional Magic- Magic can open portals to other dimensions. Dimensional travelers can explore alternate realities but risk getting lost or encountering hostile beings.

- Law of Arcane Sacrifice- Powerful spells require a sacrifice, such as a cherished memory, a personal item, or even a part of the caster’s soul.

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The Door Knocker Considers Retirement.

Since Aurélie's birthday didn't get a mention in Villain (because of er, reasons pertaining to angst), I wanted to honour the occasion with a oneshot. This was supposed to be super duper fluffy, but for reasons pertaining to my chaos brain not knowing how to be normal, uh… this happened instead.

Content warnings: none, just some good old fashioned sfw chaos in which a birthday gift goes horribly awry and the door knocker cops a fist to the beak. Sebastian x Garreth rivalry. Sebastian Sallow x F!OC Aurélie Collins.

Word count: 2.3k

Preview: The girls’ screamed like banshee's, pushing and shoving each other in their desperation to flee. One of them fell over, dragging two of her friends down with her. The door knocker let out an almighty screech as another girl somehow punched it square in the beak. Somebody was crying for their mother.

When January twenty-sixth finally rolled around, frozen over with snow and misery, Aurélie woke early in her dorm (as was usual) with cold fingers and toes (also usual) determined that she would have the most usual, non-eventful, non-birthdayish day that it was possible for anyone to have.

Unfortunately, life at Hogwarts was neither usual nor non-eventful, for the second her feet touched the cold floor, she was assaulted with a rousing 'Happy birthday!' from the bunk above her. A moment later, a potted Dittany popped through Samantha's bed curtains, followed shortly by her smiling face.

'I've been lying awake for ages waiting for you to wake up!' she grinned, hopping lightly from her bunk and bequeathing the potted plant like a crown. 'I grew this one especially for you! I'm not sure why, but ever since you arrived, my Dittany's have been growing exceptionally well.'

Months earlier, Aurélie had found a thriving Dittany to replace the half-dead specimen of Samantha's she'd accidentally poofed into the ether, and Samantha, as expected, had attributed the miraculous recovery of her sick plant to an equally miraculous recovery of her questionable Herbology skills. Now, considering herself something of an expert, she'd taken to gifting her friends so many Dittany plants that the common room, according to Everett Clopton, was beginning to resemble that of the Hufflepuff's. Little did anyone realise that Aurélie, feeling a sense of misplaced responsibility, had been secretly keeping them all alive with little offshoots of her Ancient Magic whenever she could.

'Oh, um, thank you,' said Aurélie, accepting her gift, and ultimately her fate to endure unwanted birthday wishes with as much grace as she could muster. 'But how did you know it was my birthday?'

Though she asked the question, she hardly needed an answer: the funny feeling in her tummy, something halfway between fluttering butterflies and angry ants, told her that one tenacious, freckled Slytherin boy was behind this most egregious betrayal of highly personal information. After all, Aurélie had made it a point — a point! – not to disclose her birthday to anyone, not even to Sebastian, who, despite his studious need to learn her like she was the most interesting book he'd ever read, had never actually asked when it was. — Which, now that she thought about it, should've been the first clue that he already knew.

She didn't have to wait long to find out.

Expecting the worst, she was unsurprised to find her trio of unlikely companions waiting for her outside the Ravenclaw common room: Mouse, small and, well, mousey; Poppy, who squealed with delight while brandishing what was clearly a birthday gift; and Sebastian, who knew he was in trouble by the look Aurélie sent him.

‘Happy birthday!’ Poppy sang, throwing her arms around Aurélie's middle with a force that almost sent them toppling over.

‘Thank you,’ she returned flatly, leveling Sebastian a glare over Poppy's shoulder. ‘How ever did you know?’

While Poppy flat-out ignored the question, Sebastian returned her glare with one of his slow-spreading smiles that made her chest tighten and her stomach flip.

Stupid handsome smile.

‘Happy birthday,’ he said once she was freed from Poppy's tight embrace. He made no move to touch her, but his fingers flexed and his eyes had that gleam in them that said I want to kiss you ‘til you can't remember your own name.

She promptly averted her attention, trying to ignore the way her heart was beating all over her body by politely refusing the gift Poppy was pressing into her hands.

‘This is from all of us,’ Poppy said breathlessly. ‘The Hufflepuff's, I mean. We all put in for it. It's a book!’ She bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet. ‘Because, well, you are a Ravenclaw, but it's a pretty book, because you're French and —’

‘Why don't you let her open it first, Poppy,’ Sebastian cut in, while at the same time, Mouse scurried forward to present her with a half-empty box of chocolate frogs, and Samantha Dale popped her head out from the common room to tell her, ‘I've just set your Dittany by the windowsill, Aurélie. They always used to die whenever I left them there, but now they absolutely thrive! It's the strangest thing. — Oh, hello Poppy, Sebastian! What's that you've got there? Another birthday gift? Well, go on, then, open it!’

Suddenly surrounded by a small, eager audience, Aurélie had no choice but to unwrap the gift while Poppy shuffled impatiently from foot to foot, and Mouse stole another chocolate frog from the box under her arm, and Sebastian watched with far, far too much amusement for someone who was minutes away from dealing with a very unhappy girlfriend.

Prepared to discover the aforementioned book as she peeled back the plain brown wrapping paper, she was instead met with something brown and hairy that growled at her. She froze, clutching the book-shaped thing in her hands while Samantha shrieked and Poppy spluttered in confusion.

Immediately, Sebastian elbowed his way closer.

‘What is that?’ he demanded, snatching the half-wrapped thing from her hands. ‘Poppy, what the fu—’

But he was cut short when the thing tore through the wrapping paper, leapt to the ground and began scuttling around on spindly little legs: not a book, but some sort of narrow, semi-sentient wooden chest.

Poppy was beside herself. ‘That's not the gift I wrapped yesterday!’ she wailed as Sebastian made a lunge for it. ‘I don't understand! What happened to the book?’

‘Don't worry about that now!’ Sebastian cried, leaping out of the way as the thing came for his ankles. ‘Just help me catch it!’

Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Samantha Dale disappeared and Mouse made off with Aurélie's box of chocolates, leaving the three of them to deal with the rogue gift on their own.

‘Quick, usher it towards me!’ Sebastian, brandishing his wand, wore the same unadulterated expression of glee he often wore in Crossed Wands sessions. Given his propensity for fire spells, Aurélie thought it unlikely the Ravenclaw tower would go unscorched for much longer.

As if sensing its impending death-by-Slytherin, the thing made a wide circle around them, but when it turned abruptly and came for Aurélie, she shrieked in panic, hopping absurdly on the spot as it nipped at her shoes.

Sebastian launched into action. Diving toward her, he caught her by the waist and scooped her off the ground.

‘OI!’ he shouted, aiming a kick that connected with empty air. 'That's my girlfriend, you numpty!’

The thing took off again, growling chaotically as it went. Poppy, quicker on her feet than she looked, diverted it away from the stairs, but no sooner had she cornered it by the common room door did a group of fourth-year Ravenclaw's decide that now was the best time to make their way down to breakfast. Seeking an out, the thing made a bolt for the open door behind them, inspiring a chorus of horrified squeals and shouts as it scampered clumsily around the girls’ feet.

‘What is that?’ one of them shrieked.

‘It's a giant rat!’ another screamed, completely losing her head.

Pandemonium ensued.

The girls’ screamed like banshee's, pushing and shoving each other in their desperation to flee. One of them fell over, dragging two of her friends down with her. The door knocker let out an almighty screech as another girl somehow punched it square in the beak. Somebody was crying for their mother.

‘Shut the door!’ Sebastian roared over the screaming, but nobody listened. Swearing under his breath, he cast a well-aimed Accio that slammed the door closed before the thing could disappear into Ravenclaw tower. Running full tilt, it had no time to correct its course — it smacked bang into the closed door, bounced onto its back and flailed its little legs about like a hapless turtle caught on its shell. Aurélie seized the opportunity and hit it with a rather forceful Levioso, launching it upwards like a spring. Spinning wildly through the air, it smashed against the ceiling only to come barrelling back toward them at full speed.

‘Duck!’ Sebastian yelled, yanking her down.

The thing whizzed by, missing their heads by an inch. Unperturbed, Sebastian leapt up and cast another Accio as the last of the screaming Ravenclaw's fled to safety down the winding staircase, catching it before it could sail off after them to terrorise the school proper.

‘Gotcha!’ he said triumphantly. The thing, trembling in his grip, gave a pitiful little whine.

‘Don't hurt it!’ Aurélie fretted.

Sebastian threw her quite possibly the most incredulous side eye he'd ever cast and was ever likely to cast again. ‘It's not an animal, Aura!’

‘It's got legs though, doesn't it?’ Poppy panted, rushing over with her robes askew.

‘Yeah, so do tables and chairs but you don't go around worrying for their well being, do you?’ Holding it at arm's length, Sebastian studied the thing with a funny mix of curiosity, admiration, and mild disgust as it shook timidly in his hands, whimpering like some sort of cursed jewellery box for werewolves. ‘What is this thing, anyway?’

Poppy wrung her hands in distress. ‘I have no idea,’ she wailed, ‘but I swear to you, Aurélie, this is not the book I wrapped last — wait —’

Suddenly, her face went slack and her mouth fell open in horror, and as if on cue, Garreth Weasley came bolting up the marble stairs, red faced and so out of breath he could only flap his hands and grunt for several moments. Sebastian pointed his wand at him. Aurélie pushed it away.

‘Poppy —!’ Garreth gasped, gripping her shoulder while he fought valiantly not to asphyxiate. ‘Poppy — thank Godric I found you — the packages —’ He bent over double, resting his hands on his knees. ‘How — the bloody hell — do Ravenclaw's — live like this —’

Tucked under his arm was a book-shaped package, wrapped in brown paper much like the one Aurélie had just been gifted. Sebastian snatched it up with his free hand.

‘You,’ he growled. ‘I should have known this was your doing.’

Garreth looked up, his eyes falling first onto Sebastian's seething expression and then onto the package clutched in his hands. ‘Ah,’ he gulped. ‘I see you've found my Weasley's Wonders Potion Safe.’

‘Your what?’ demanded Sebastian as Aurélie caught his wand hand by the wrist again.

‘No, Sebastian,’ she hissed. Sebastian pouted.

‘Seems there was a mix up with our conveniently identical-looking packages when we spoke in the Great Hall yesterday, Poppy,’ Garreth explained with a sheepish grin.

Sebastian's expression was livid. ‘This monstrosity is yours?’

‘Hey, now!’ Garreth made a grab for it, but Sebastian held it out of reach. ‘It's a work in progress, alright?’

‘It almost ate my girlfriend!’

‘Look, it's not dangerous, it's just a new product I've been working on. Not a potion — obviously, you can see that, but a potion safe. Weasley's Wonders Potion Safe,’ he said with a flourish. When three pairs of eyes stared blankly back at him, he hurried on to explain, ‘It's a portable lockbox to store all your rare ingredients and keep your concoctions safe from the prying eyes of your competitors. It's supposed to, uh, be a bit aggressive about protecting its contents, you see,’ he added, grimacing as the thing snarled at him. ‘As I said, it's a work in progress.’

‘Why's it got legs if you're trying to keep your potions safe?’ Sebastian scowled.

‘And why is it hairy?’ Poppy put it.

‘That — uh, well, those were all accidental. I'm trying to figure out how to get rid of them, actually — the legs and, uh, the hair. I was going for something with a bit of bite, you know, but I don't think it's very, uh, marketable in its current state. Anyway!’ He extended his hand. ‘I'm happy to take it off your hands and get out of your hair.’

Sebastian squinted at him, and Aurélie could practically hear the Slytherin cogs whirring around in his brain; her hand tightened around his wrist lest he decide hexing a Gryffindor was more desirable than blackmailing one.

‘Maybe I should return this to your aunt,’ he said, evidently deciding on the latter.

Garreth rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody Slytherin's,’ he muttered darkly. ‘What do you want, Sallow? If it's gold, I have none.’

‘Pffsh, I don't want gold. I want a duel.’

‘What?’ Aurélie turned to him. ‘Oh, please no duelling, Sebastian,’ she implored while Poppy practically vibrated with excitement beside her. ‘Not today.’

‘No, not today,’ he replied, softening a little. ‘I have special plans for today.’

This time, it was her heart that summersaulted over itself. Stupid charming Slytherin with his eyes and his face.

‘Won't be much of a victory for you, Sallow,’ Garreth said. ‘I'm rubbish at duelling. Unless —’ his expression brightened considerably, ‘— we forgo the norm and employ the use of some fun additions.’

Sebastian quirked a brow. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as my Weasley's Wonder's Combat Potions!’

‘You want us to… throw potions at each other?’

‘Trust me, once you see these babies in action, you'll be begging me for an order form.’

‘I doubt that, but fine,’ Sebastian conceded, handing the so-called potion safe back to its master. ‘I'll owl you the time and place.’

‘Brilliant!’ Garreth nodded triumphantly as if he'd just completed a lucrative business deal. ‘Oh, and by the way…’ he adding, turning to Aurélie with a wink, and before Sebastian could say absolutely fucking not, he withdrew (with much difficulty) a sparkling lilac potion from within the growling box. ‘Happy birthday!’

Aurélie felt her ears grow warm with fresh indignation. Even Garreth bloody Weasley knew it was her birthday?

‘Have you got a fucking death wish, Weasley?’ Sebastian snarled, raising his wand again. ‘I told you to keep your experiments away from her!’

Garreth gave a dramatic start. ‘Welp, best be off!’ he said, taking the stairs two at a time. ‘Sorry again about the mishap! Won't happen again. Oh, do let me know how you get on with that potion, Aurélie. It's designed to help the drinker face a truth they've been avoiding — like having an overbearing, arrogant Slytherin twat as a boyfriend.’

Sebastian took off after him. ‘Weasley, you prat, I've changed my mind! Duel me right now, you coward!’

*hits reblog in aggressive levels of love*

✨Stuck

Uncle!Ominis shenanigans with minor Ominis/Reader

“You owe me for this.” He spits onto the grass. “Next time we play poker, I promise to let you win.” “Oh please. Your poker face is so appalling even I can see when you’re lying."

In the middle of the night, Ominis wakes to his panicked Muggle brother-in-law Connor, whose son James is mysteriously stuck to the ceiling…

Or, Uncle!Ominis attempts to help his Muggle-born nephew.

G-rated || no content warnings || 1.9k words || Feat. Gibby in minor Reader role

[read on AO3]

❈❈❈

The rock at the window wakes Ominis with a start.

It can’t be later than three o’clock in the morning, and he feels the darkness surround him – you, snoring softly to his left, the utter silence of the world outside, the chill of nightfall along his skin. He rolls over to face you and buries his nose into your hair, thinking he must’ve imagined the noise.

Clack. His eyes wrench open again. There is definitely something wrong.

Cursing softly, he slips out of bed and retrieves his wand. With a quick Revealing charm, he senses the body on the street outside, their hand wound back to toss another rock. It hits the window again before clattering into the gutter. A foolish child, maybe? Only they would think it wise to disturb his sleep.

He throws on a dressing gown and slippers and tiptoes downstairs. Hopefully his own children don’t rouse with the noise; it takes you several hours to get them to calm down and sleep. Another pebble hits the house’s wall just as Ominis clenches his wand and opens the side door.

“Ominis! Thank the Lord. Thought I’d have to break into the house.”

Confusion colours his annoyance. That’s not some kid – it’s his Muggle brother-in-law, Connor.

“Are you aware it’s the middle of the bloody night?”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Connor sounds… panicked? “Is my sister—?”

“Fast asleep. Something I would also like to be.”

He swears softly. “All right, you’ll have to do.” He claps his hand. “I need your help.”

“I gathered.”

“It’s my son, James, he…” He swallows. “He’s stuck to the ceiling.”

“So? Get him down.”

“No, Om, he… he’s stuck. As in, I try to pull him down and he just... floats back up…”

Oh.

Ah.

Connor audibly winces. “I’m trying not to panic, but since you and my sister are the resident, erm, supernatural experts I figured I should come to you before calling the fire brigade.”

Ominis massages his head. “How did you even discover this?”

“He knocked on my wall. I thought it was something clattering through the pipes – went to investigate, there he was, suspended mid-air.” He bounces between his heels. “So can you do your vanishing thingamabob and take us there? Please. He’s utterly terrified right now, and I had to leave him alone to come here.”

What are the chances that Connor’s son, Ominis’ nephew-in-law, has developed magic? It does run in your family – you’re a witch, after all – but for the gene to reappear in the next generation on your brother’s side? The likelihood is incredibly low. His own children have been raised in a magical household, but he has no experience with Muggle children developing magic. Certainly you would be the wiser choice to navigate this situation delicately, but he doesn’t want to disturb you, not when you get so little sleep anyway.

Resigning to losing the night, Ominis sighs. “Fine.”

He decides it best not to give Connor any Apparition warning – he’s probably in too much of a state to take anything in – so he snatches his arms and Apparates them to the back garden of Connor’s house. Connor stumbles out of his grip and nearly wretches.

“Good God, some warning, man…”

“You owe me for this.”

He spits onto the grass. “Next time we play poker, I promise to let you win.”

“Oh please. Your poker face is so appalling even I can see when you’re lying.”

“… Touché.”

Ominis gestures for him to lead the way, and Connor pads up to the terrace house. In this area of London the air is muskier, sweetened by the industrial fumes of nearby factories, and Ominis hopes none of his neighbours happened to be peeking outside their windows when they both magically appeared in the garden.

“Keep quiet,” Connor warns as he unlocks the back door. “Matilda doesn’t know.”

Ominis baulks. “You haven’t told your wife?”

“Of course not, she doesn’t know diddly-squat about magic! Would lose her marbles if she caught James on the ceiling.” He swallows. “I hope she’s still asleep. Maybe James has woken her with all his wailing.”

They creep through the house to the highest floor, and when Connor softly announces that he’s coming in, Ominis braces himself for screaming and crying.

“Hi, Uncle Om!” chirrups nine-year-old James. “What’re you doing here?”

The room is small, befitting the eaves of the house. James has somehow managed to nestle himself where the two slants meet above. The skylight is ajar, letting in a gush of a night breeze.

Connor shuts the door behind. “How are you feeling, James? I know, I know, you’re absolutely terrified—”

“I’m fine.”

“— but I’ve brought your uncle to help get you down.”

James makes a confused noise. “How’re you gonna’ help, Uncle Om?”

Ominis purses his lips. He’s not actually sure yet. “How long have you been floating?”

“About an hour now.”

“Are you upside-down?”

“Nope, horizontal.”

That’s good. At least there won’t be poor blood flow. “What were you doing when you realised you were floating?”

“Erm, asleep?”

“Did you dream?”

“I dreamt about flying.”

Ah, that explains it.

“So?” says Connor desperately. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad,” says Ominis. “Just last week, my daughter set her bed on fire, and she’s only two. It’s rather common for… children like us, to develop it this way.”

“Flossie did what?” asks James.

“I suppose I should feel grateful that this is considered normal,” says Connor with a moan. “Please get him down. Quietly.”

“A simple spell should fix this.” Ominis finally reveals his wand from his pocket – it’s a strange sensation when he’s been vigilant about hiding it for so long. “Now, don’t panic, James—”

“Not panicking.”

“— but I’m going to do something that will help get you down. Brace yourself to land.” He nocks his wand. “Finite Incantatum.”

Silence.

“… Was that supposed to do something?” asks James, still floating.

“Hmm,” says Ominis, “that usually works.”

“Well, it didn’t,” hisses Connor. “Come on. You’re a wizard, Ominis—”

“Wicked,” says James.

“— so you’re supposed to be able to fix these things instantly!”

Ominis scowls. “Possessing magic is not the be all end all to every problem.” He flicks his wand down. “Descendo.”

Silence.

“Magic is real?” asks James, awed.

“Just brilliant,” Connor mutters. “I got the only wizard who can’t do this one simple task.”

“If you’d like to try,” Ominis remarks, “please, be my guest.”

“No, no,” Connor whimpers, “keep trying.”

So Ominis does. “Reverte.”

Nothing.

“Finite. Surgito. Offero.”

None of them work.

“This is it.” Connor slumps to the ground, clutching his head. “He’s stuck there forever and Matilda will skin me alive—”

“Brilliant,” says James.

“— and we’ll have to move to the country to hide, only we can’t because my son is stuck to the bloody ceiling!”

“Pull yourself together,” Ominis snaps. “Your panicking is not helping matters!”

“Yeah, Papa!”

“James needs you to stay calm.”

“Damn right, Papa!”

“Mind your language, son.” Connor gets up. “Fine, fine, I will resist the urge to panic. But if none of your magic spells work, what do we do?”

“I suspect I know the issue.” Ominis faces James. “None of my spells are working because you’re keeping yourself afloat.”

James sounds confused. “How?”

“Well, you enjoy being up there, don’t you?”

“Yeah, the view is great! Papa, you have a bald spot on the top of your head.”

“I have a what?”

Ominis sighs. “It’s up to you, then. Close your eyes. Imagine you are floating back down. Imagine your feet on the ground.”

For the first time all night James sounds unsure. “Okay…” Ominis senses him clenching his fists, deep in thought. “Float back down… float back down…”

The air shifts; his body begins to slowly descend.

“It— it’s working!”

“Good. Keep doing it.”

James lets out a soft grunt, trying to reach down as he goes.

“Yes, that’s it, son,” says Connor. “Keep it up—”

But then James hesitates, two feet from the floor. “Aw… but I liked flying.”

“No!” Connor bellows. “No, please, don’t go back up!”

“Focus,” Ominis commands. “Feet on the ground!”

“But what if I don’t ever fly again?”

“You will. On a broom, where it’s safe.”

“On a broom? But I can fly without one!”

He starts going higher and higher, and Connor’s panic hits peak.

“No, no—! Son, please.”

“I’m all right, Papa!” he says cheerfully, back up on the ceiling again. “I’m like a bird! Wheeeee!”

Connor suddenly grabs Ominis’ shoulders. “It’s no use. He’s too excited!”

Ominis winces. “Then I’m afraid we’re going to have to employ my last resort.”

“And that is?”

“Grab a leg each and yank him down.”

“God Almighty,” Connor curses. “Fine. I’ll take the left, you take the right.”

They grab a leg each, and though James initially jerks, his body simply floats back up, this time trying to take them with him. Ominis jabs his heel into the foot of the bed, but he might as well be trying to move Buckingham Palace.

“James,” Connor begs, clearly having the same problem. “For the love of God, please come down!”

“Look, Papa!” James cries. “I can take you with me!”

Ominis’ feet leave the floor, and he can’t help the embarrassed yelp that leaves his mouth.

“James!” Connor shrieks. “P-Put us down!”

“Now you’re both flying! Hurrah! Isn’t this fun?”

“No!” shrills Ominis. “For Merlin’s sake, James—”

The door suddenly opens. Matilda lets out a quiet yawn.

“What’s going on in—?”

She stops. Notices James stuck to the ceiling, with Ominis and Connor holding one leg each.

“Oh, Mama!” says James. “Want to see what else I can do?”

The bed promptly sets on fire.

Matilda screams.

❈❈❈

“So James has magic now?”

That next morning, Ominis woke feeling like he was run over by the Hogwarts Express, owing to the menial two hours sleep he managed to snatch after returning back home during sunrise. Bracing his head over the steam of his teacup, he flicks idly at his buttered toast, desperate to keep his eyes peeled open.

“Yes, James has magic,” he responds, monotonous.

“A Muggle-born like me! That’s so wonderful,” you say, and you place the bowl in front of Flossie. She gurgles, spooning herself the food but letting half of it drip down her chin. “How did Matilda take it?”

“After I doused half of James’ room, she threatened to call the police and tried to exorcise us with holy water? Rather well, considering.”

“Well, it’s nice that everyone in the family knows now. No more secrets! Oh, that means he’s going to get his Hogwarts letter soon! How amazing! We’ll have to groom him for Hufflepuff. I don’t think he has the temperament for Slytherin.”

After last night, Ominis isn’t so sure. Massaging his forehead, he sips his tea, begging his brain to unfog.

The doorbell rings.

“No, darling, food goes in your mouth—” But his daughter giggles again, and you mumble, “Sorry, Ominis, Flossie’s being funny, can you get it?”

He gets to his feet, even though he feels like collapsing, and heads downstairs, irritated that the postman has the audacity to visit so early. When he opens the door, however, he’s surprised to come face-to-face with his Muggle brother-in-law… and his not-so-Muggle nephew.

Connor sounds ragged. “‘Mornin’, Ominis.”

“Hi, Uncle Om!” James grabs Ominis’ sleeve and bounces on his feet. “I got a letter this morning to go to magic school! Papa says you and Auntie went there, so can you teach me more magic? Please? Pretty please?”

Ominis groans.

❈❈❈

Fin.

❈❈❈

Please like and reblog if you enjoyed <3

Breakdown is one way to put it (based on this gbbo meme)

Sunan meanwhile:

*them*, everybody truly go read it's fantastic!!!

Shout out to @lyworth and her fic A Song of Saints and Sinners. A unique and captivating story. 10x10 recommend. The sass and banter are brilliant.

Shout out to @lyworth and their fic! ✨

enjoy the banter of Song of Saints and Sinners on AO3 👇

Please go read her beautiful works.

Prepare your hearts to be torn asunder with the beautiful writing and gorgeous prose.

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut [3.6k words]

"It's hot." "No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service." "I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

The freckled stranger has been visiting your pub for three months now, drinking to forget the worst times.

You might be the person he needs to remember the best.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: swearing, alcoholism, grief, discussions of death.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The freckled stranger has been in your pub every day for the last three months.

It never matters whether it's windy, raining, or overbearingly sunny. It never matters whether it's busy, tables crammed, the counter sticky with spills, or if the tax on drink has gone up. It never matters if he's in a good or bad mood. Every day, right as expected, he shoulders inside Ye Olde Hen House, ignores the chorus of greetings from the tipsy regulars, lumbers to the bar and orders a drink. His choice is always the same: cold stout, brought over in as many glasses he can take before he's one whit away from passing out.

You're used to hauling out drunkards. In this part of the old city they trundle in after labour shifts, seeking to forget the day's worries, and wind up on the floor by hour's end. You pity them their weak constitutions and poor decision-making, and the wives who will have to suffer their company upon their brazen return in the middle of the night.

To his credit, the freckled stranger has never been that drunk.

Yet you pity him most of all.

The first time he steps foot inside the pub he immediately draws your eye. Most of the regulars are in their forties, pot-bellied and cheerful like Christmas adverts of St Nick – but the freckled stranger is around your age, five-and-twenty, with youthful skin, a smooth gait and broad, firm shoulders. His hair is a bed of chestnut curls, and the ends shadow his eyes, also a dark brown, like coffee. Stubble grows in patches over his sharp jaw. In the heat of summer he wears only a linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves, and you can see muscle there, and tattoos, though you force yourself to look away before you can determine what they are, burying your curiosity behind professionalism.

When he makes it to the counter, he slaps down a handful of change and sinks onto the barstool, looking at you, gaze burning expectantly but not with disdain.

"Pint of beer, please."

"Two pence."

He pushes all his coins over. You extract two pennies, then fill a glass to the brim. He drinks quietly but greedily, siphoning the beer like it's his first liquid in days, and when he finishes, every drop consumed, the glass clatters to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip, pronouncing the veins in his hands like cobalt forks of lightning.

"Another, please."

You raise an eyebrow. "Knock that back any faster you might see Heaven before you mean to."

"What makes you think I'm going to heaven?" He throws out a few coins – pennies and halfpennies this time. "Pint of beer, please."

He drinks slower and slower each time as the alcohol alleviates his worries. You feel pity, strong and true. Same age or abouts, and people would look down on you for having a peasant's job, but at least you're not wasting your life away like the freckled stranger.

At least of yourself you make a name, whilst the freckled stranger makes a fool.

By his fourth, sometimes fifth drink, he's spread-eagle on the countertop, playing with the pocket change between his fingertips, wide-eyed with fascination.

"Don't fall asleep," you tell him, squeezing a cloth over a soiled plate. "Or I'll kick you out."

"Not sleepy," he slurs, flicking a half-penny into a tailspin. "Am pensive."

"Pensive... right."

"Pensive about pennies." He chuckles to himself. "Your coins are so funny. What's the point of half-pennies and farthings?"

The use of your is unusual, but he's drunk, so what's new. "Why don't you ask King Edward?" you say humorously.

"You say it like he's only next door. Know him, do you?"

"'Course. We're best mates."

"Put me in contact. I'll change— more make sense."

You purse your lips. He's too drunk to respond coherently, though there's still about three fingers left in the glass, which he eventually works up the means to finish, leaving his lips sticky with cream. By this point it's almost closing time and he struggles to get to his feet. You don't help him. Why should you?

"Ta," he hiccoughs roughly in your direction, and staggers out the door, out of view. You wonder where he goes, what he does in the daytime, whether he has family, or friends, or a pretty girl who pities him too.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

He's in a mood on a particularly hot June evening, when he walks into the pub with his shirt unbuttoned.

Do not look. Despite being a complete wastrel, the freckled stranger, you hate to admit, is extremely well-built, with a finely-toned chest and brawny arms that could easily win many wrestling matches, and many hearts too. Maybe he already has. The long stripe of flesh between the two front panels tease a wide chest tattoo, inked over his pectorals like fine canvas – what appears to be two runic symbols and the number 706.

You quickly glance away. That's already too much. Just because a man is attractive doesn't mean you should be staring. You compose yourself and make your way over before he reaches the bar.

"Shirt," you say. "Button it up."

He halts, drinking in the sight of you. Up close, all you can smell is his musk, salty like the sea, and just as powerful. His hair is soaked with it too – there are dirt marks there, like he's been in a scrap, but he appears uninjured.

"It's hot."

"No, and here I thought it was the Arctic." When he makes no move to do anything, you raise your chin, glaring up at him. "No shirt, no service."

"I am wearing a shirt." A glint of mischief pierces briefly through his mood. "You know, most women usually ask me to take off my clothes—"

"Do up your shirt," you grind out, "or get out."

The mischief dissipates as his eyes narrow, but he reluctantly buttons up the front. The shirt is ratty and torn at the elbows, but still smells enticingly like him, and he doesn't bother going up all the way, leaving an annoying glimpse of that unusual scrawl of symbols.

"Happy now?"

You go around the counter, ignoring him. "What do you want?"

"What do you think?"

Your eyes narrow. "You know the cost."

A hand slips into his pocket and produces a handful of coins, which he dumps out flippantly. They clatter to a stop in a wide arc.

Impertinent. Your lips flatten. Two can play that game.

"You've been here enough times to know the correct change by now."

He snorts. "Every bloody coin looks the same."

"It has Britannia wielding the trident on one side."

"Who the hell is Britannia?"

You roll your eyes. "Edward is on the other. Know who he is or have you really been living in the Arctic?"

"I remember your best mate." Finally he takes two pennies from the pile. "You could've just said it was the biggest bronze coin and saved yourself the hassle."

You could've also told him it literally says penny on the rim, but who knows if he's able to read – or whether he can right now. "You don't learn if you don't figure it out for yourself." You take them from his proffered hand. "Pint or half-pint?"

"Another stupid question."

"In that case, I won't serve you—"

"Wait." He grunts in annoyance and holds out the pennies again. "One pint of beer, please."

"That's better."

He takes the drink, and your gaze dips to the hand clenching the glass – you've never seen a drunk with such... muscle definition before. His frame is broad, his chest like full barrels of whiskey. He looks like he knows how to handle his body – how to use it to full advantage.

Shame. If only he didn't have the personality of a wet rag.

You serve another few people before he motions for you again, and this time you pour him the drink without saying a word. He exchanges the right money for the glass.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, before you go away again. "I've been rude."

You hesitate, suspicious. "Yes, you have."

"You're just doing your job."

"Yes, I am."

"Can you forgive me?"

That same glint of mischief there, except this one is charming – this one prods a little more insistently at your mental walls. You snort.

"This time."

He takes a sip, leaving a trail of foam on his mouth – he thumbs it away and licks the tip.

Hastily you look away.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

"How long have you been working here?" the freckled stranger asks one Tuesday night, when the pub is dead.

You slap your cloth to the countertop, soaked with wood polish. You've talked to him a few times now, but this is the first that's been more than polite greetings, menial chatter, and get out, you're completely sozzled.

"Why?"

"What d'you mean, why?"

"Why d'you want to know?"

He leans back, lips tugging upwards. "I know you but I don't know you, if that makes sense."

"And it should stay that way."

"I just think it would be nice to properly appreciate the woman who serves me drinks every day."

You roll your lips. He's a good talker when he wants to be – when he's sober. "Been working here longer than you've been drinking here, that's for sure."

"A year? Five years? How old are you?"

"Careful."

"I'm twenty-seven."

"Didn't ask."

His gaze on you is lowered but penetrating when he braces his chin in a hand. You can't help but feel a little flushed.

"Do you own this fine establishment?"

"I do."

"Not your husband?"

"Not married."

"But you're so old."

"Do you want to get kicked out?"

His smile curls. "Put-off marrying because it will mean handing all your assets to your undeserving husband?"

You pause to glare at him. "So you know the lack of women's rights but you can't figure out which coin is a penny?"

"Women's rights makes sense. The coins don't. Why do all the bronze ones look the same? I'm still waiting on a meeting with Ed about that, by the way."

"Oh, the lack of women's rights makes sense, does it?"

"I said women's rights makes sense. I'm on your side."He shrugs. "Personally, though, I'm more of a supporter of women's wrongs."

A laugh gutters out of you, and with a self-satisfied, feline grin, he drinks.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Something is very wrong when he comes in on his four-month anniversary.

If rain could embody a person, the freckled stranger would be a barely-contained hurricane. He looks the worst you've ever seen – dark crescents beneath red eyes, skin frighteningly wan, burst blood vessels webbing across his cheeks like crinkles on a flattened wad of newspaper. He glowers at anyone who looks at him askance, a clear signal to stay the fuck away.

He slumps bodily onto his normal barstool – and there comes the pity, an avalanche crashing through your body.

"Beer."

You don't move.

He lets out an annoyed sigh. "Pint of beer, please."

You pour it. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing."

"Fine. All the same to me." It's not all the same – he looks like the truth might kill him from the inside. "Stout's out. I've got porter."

His eyes flash. "Porter's weak shit."

"That or ale. Take your pick."

"Porter then."

You pour it. It's infamously dark in colour, like his eyes right now, black and molten and unforgiving of a world that has cut him up and left him to die. When he takes the glass he doesn't thank you, just jams the rim between his teeth and gulps ravenously. The slam on the countertop reverberates.

"Another."

"Seem to be missing a thank you and please—"

"Can you just—" He catches himself. "Not today. Just not today."

"Today is a regular ol' Thursday for me," you point out coldly. "If you want some leeway for your absent manners you're going to have to give me a reason."

He mumbles something inaudible.

You lean forwards. "Didn't catch that."

Finally his gaze settles on you, and it's guarded, striking, like steel.

"My twin sister died four months ago today."

When people turn to drink, it's mostly because of one of two things: grief, or loneliness. Now you know the freckled stranger is both. You can see it in the shadows that cling to him, in the trembling of his cracked knuckles, grasping the glass like it's the only thread between him and sweet oblivion.

It doesn't surprise you to hear it, nor see it with your own eyes – but a death of a twin... now that's something you've never heard before. Especially not from someone so young.

"Sorry to hear that." The condolence softens your disdain, just a little. "I can't imagine—"

"No, you can't imagine what it must be like, yes, it's awful, is there anything you can do? Sorrows and prayers, sorrows and prayers!" The laugh is hysterical. "I don't want that. I didn't come here to listen to your pity."

Strange... until this conversation, pity was all you felt.

Now you're just angry.

"Why'd you tell me then?" you shoot back, as your temper builds in your belly. "You blurt your sob story and, what, expect me not to say anything?"

"I came to drink, so that's what I'll damn well do."

"Then shut your cakehole, drink your damn porter and stop fishing for sympathy."

Something cracks along his expression. He splutters. "Like hell I'm fishing—"

"Four months, you said? Yet here you are, sulking. You look like she passed only yesterday. Is this what she would've wanted, for you to drink yourself into stupor every bloody day?"

Genuine anger clouds his face. "You don't know what she would've wanted."

"I know you care for her deeply, so I can guess she cared deeply for you too, and I don't know a single loved one of mine who'd want me to live in this hell you've created for yourself."

He stands to his feet – nearly stumbles. "You can't talk to me— like— you don't—"

"Look at you, too drunk to even stand. You drank before you came here, didn't you? You've been drinking all day, feeling sorry for yourself. If you won't accept my condolences, fine, but you better heed this warning instead: if you ever talk to me like that again, I will have you chucked out and barred not just here, but every damn pub this side of the city, and I won't give a rat's arse about your grief or your shitty coping strategies. Do you understand?"

Something lifts and vanishes from his eyes, like a dark shape that flees arrest in the cover of night. The crack in his façade widens, and maybe it's the reek of him, of old stale drink that wisps out of him in short breaths, but something makes you lean back, give him space to process your words, to process his mistake in crossing you.

You were yelling all that, and the rest of the pub has quietened in response. One of the regulars stands up and makes eye contact with you, but you wave him away. You're all right. The freckled stranger understands now.

The look on his face is not just defeat... but clarity.

"Understood," he rasps out eventually.

"Good." Your heart races – you fight to control it. "Now, I've got other customers waiting, so if you don't mind keeping your voice down?"

But he knocks back the rest in one go and leaves without saying a word.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

Maybe you were a little harsh.

You stew on it the next morning as you prepare for a busy day. Wiping the surfaces, preparing the stock, checking the tills, rallying the other staff and replenishing the taps – so much to do and occupy your mind, yet there you are, face creased as you think of the freckled stranger and his grief.

He needed the push, you don't regret that, but you do regret, just slightly, how you delivered it. It could've gone so many ways – he could've complained to the police and tarnished the pub's reputation, could've destroyed furniture, glass, could've hurt you. You might own Ye Olde Hen House but at the end of the day you're a glorified barmaid – a wench, some of the older patrons sometimes use against you derogatorily. Who are you to offer the freckled stranger life advice?

You thought he might not appear that evening, but at eight o'clock, he shoulders through the door and takes the same bar stool, right in front of you, as always.

"Pint of beer," he murmurs, "please."

You pour it for him, making it extra frothy, but say nothing when you slide it over. This time he pays the correct coinage, no fuss. So he's capable of using his brain just as much as you're capable of feeling guilt. His knuckles blanch over the glass, clenching it hard – you find yourself distracted by his hands, solid and engulfing, like he would never yield anything in his grip.

You let out a scathing sigh. "Look, I'm sorry."

He raises a finger and tips the glass back until all the porter has slid down his throat.

"Can't have this talk sober," he says, using his muscled forearm to wipe his mouth messily. "Another. Please."

He sets out the coin, you pour him the drink. He doesn't say a word until the next one goes down, and the next. Eventually he massages the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry myself," he forces out, even though the drink softens the consonants. "You shouldn't have to apologise."

"I was harsh."

"You were an arsehole."

"Funnily enough that's why I'm saying sorry."

"No, but... it was nice, your bluntness." He sags on the counter, but his gaze is still locked on you. "Every bloody person I know has been coddling me for months. Sorry about Anne this, I'm sad for you that. The condolences and sadness and hugs and well-wishes has never stopped. Even my best friends Ominis and Garreth keep tiptoeing around me like I'm as fragile as a Remembrall."

"A what?"

"Glass," he amends swiftly. His thumb presses into the curve of his jaw, protruding the strong cords of his neck. "I'm so fed up with it. So fucking fed up."

"You know you're not helping yourself, right?" you say, hoping this doesn't cross a line again. "Coming in here to drink—"

"Every day, I know. I just need it. I need to drink. I need to— to forget what I did—" He shakes his head and grasps his temple fiercely. "Tell me something. Quick."

"What?"

"Anything. Your favourite book, how your parents met, the drama of whoever you're shagging at the moment, I don't care. I don't want to think. Just – give me anything. And another beer. Please."

So you tell him your favourite book – you don't get to read very often, you're lucky you can read at all – and you tell him the less-than-exciting story of how your parents met. You're not 'shagging' anyone at the moment, which you say with a roll of your eyes, so you're relatively drama-free. Your life is utterly mundane, as you like it.

You don't leave him with nothing, however.

"I've been at this pub since I was eighteen, seven years ago. Inherited it off my parents now that they're too old to work."

He must do the maths as he squirrels away another beer.

"You must enjoy it."

"It was either here or the match factory. You must know how that went."

He smiles indulgently. "Expert in women's rights, remember?"

You huff a snort.

"You get how this place works, then."

"I've been helping out here since I was a tot, so yes, I know everything there is to know. Plus it pays well and keeps me mostly protected, and I get to be part of the community and meet new people."

He lets out a breathy chuckle.

"Like me?"

You tip your head.

"Yeah, like you, I suppose." You gently pry the empty glass from his hand. "Another?"

"Stupid question."

But he smiles fondly this time, so you make a face and pour his fourth beer without complaint.

You don't talk much from then. You're busy with other customers and he's probably tired of chatting, though you meet his eye several times during the last hour, like a hook on a thread that catches by accident – or fate. It's those coffee eyes that you're drawn to. They dance like fingers on skin, to a rhythm as constant as ocean waves, cascading down your spine even when you turn away.

By the time the other patrons have left and the gramophone has run out of records to play, all that's between you and closing is the freckled stranger.

"What's your name?"

You glance his way. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you want to know?"

"It's not an interrogation. It's just so you're not the bar girl in my head."

"In that case," you smile sweetly, "it's none of your business."

"You drive a hard deal, bar girl," he says, taking it in his stride. "My name is Sebastian Sallow."

"Didn't ask."

"Trade you? I'll even throw in a middle name as a bonus."

"No thanks." You flick towards the door. "Now, it's nearly one o'clock and my pub is about to close, so you better skedaddle before I toss you out by ear, Sebastian Sallow."

"That's a lot more effective now that you can use it against me." The barstool scrapes – Sebastian Sallow manages to make it to the door without stumbling once. "Will I regret telling you?"

You hold the door and smile indulgently as he steps out.

"Stupid question."

You shut it in his face.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

[next chapter to come] <3