Polarisgreenley - Solution: More Tea - Tumblr Blog

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

Sunan meanwhile:

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!’

He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled so broadly.

I wanted an excuse to draw the one scarf trope + a big, fluffy smile for Ominis just in time for cozy season, and also because he deserves all the fluff in the world🥺

💐A Bouquet of New Beginnings, Ch 30💐

Title: "Juniper"

Summary: Artemis and Garreth go on an excursion to find Tobbs and obtain a key ingredient for a potion to ward off dragon fire.

Floriography: Succour

Full Chapter: [AO3]//5.4k words

Excerpt Below:

“You know potions,” started Artemis as they reached the midway point of the brewing process.

“Why thank you.”

Artemis chuckled. “I was wondering if you knew any that made someone heat-proof. Or, heat resistant.”

“How resistant are we talking? A regular house fire? Potion explosion?”

Artemis looked up from crushing the juniper berries. Garreth in turn looked back with an innocent smile.

“A dragon’s fire.”

Garreth’s jaw dropped. “...a what?”

“A dragon’s fire.”

“Okay, my hearing’s fine.” He stirred the potion as he poured in half the chopped dumbcane leaves. “Why?”

Artemis smiled small.

“That’s not an answer, Snow.”

“I can offer you something in exchange for the recipe and your discretion?”

Garreth lifted an eyebrow with a cocked smile. “I’m all ears.”

“Leech juice. Ample amounts.”

“Brilliant!” Garreth exclaimed as the potion turned a midnight blue. “Where are you getting them from?”

“Spinner’s Cavern.”

“Wait, aren’t there spiders roaming about? Heard my aunt talking about it last year.”

She blinked twice; of course he’d know, she should’ve thought of that. “That’s the rumour.”

Garreth groaned. “Why is it always spiders?”

“What else could it be?”

“Butterflies?”

“Pretty sure they don’t like caves.”

“Bugger.”

Artemis chuckled before they moved on to the next steps, and Garreth’s peridot eyes glimmered at finally opening the last bottle of arcane lightning. Garreth followed her exact instructions on how to tip the bottle just right before uncorking and disabling the safety runes. The redhead let out a gleeful shout as half of the teal-lightning shot into the liquid; the runes lit up once more when it was corked.

“Nice job,” complimented Artemis.

“Thank you, I’m here all week.”

🌷Writer Interview Game 🌷

Thank you @galaxiasgreen, @gingerlegacy07 and @zetadraconis11 for the tags!

When did you start writing?

According to AO3, 2014.

It was for another fandom, and then disappeared for 7 years until 2021. But that one I'm at the limbo of leaving up or abandoning since I don't have plans on writing out the rest...

Hogwarts Legacy pulled me back in 2023 and still going decently strong 💪

Are there different themes or genres you enjoy reading than what you write?

I have the opposite where I stay clear of any romance novels, but will eat up fanfiction pairings and am planning on including a romance subplot somewhere.

Is there a writer you want to emulate or get compared to often?

If I could even have a morsel, a smidgen, a crumb of Agatha Christie's writing abilities...

Can you tell me a bit about your writing space?

80% of the time I write at my computer desk. Keyboard, dual monitor, speakers... a Maurauder's Map desk mat... there's usually at least one mug and a water tumbler. A few books on flowers, runes, D&D and CoC rulebooks, etc.

What's your most effective way to muster up a muse?

Rewatching or playing the source material, as well as daydreaming. Bouncing off ideas and expanding theories has proven fruitful as well.

Are there any recurring themes in your writing? Do they surprise you?

Slow-burn. I haven't written enough for any other recurring themes, I think. Oh, and flowers. Lots and lots of flowers (and their language).

What is your reason for writing?

Creative outlet.

Is their any specific comment or type of comment you find particularly motivating?

I love all of the comments that've been left (though only really started interacted the past year), but my favorites are those where I get to hear how the reader interpreted the writing. It's like seeing their thought process which is always lovely to get to know 😊

How do you want to be thought about by your readers?

Just a regular human like everyone writing out blorbos of something I enjoy and hope they enjoy it as well 😊

What do you feel is your greatest strength as a writer?

I've been told I'm good at descriptive writing, but I'm still working on what I think of it is for myself.

How do you feel about your own writing?

It is what it is - some days it feels better than others. I want to cringe at what I wrote in the past, but they're still an important stepping stone and shows the progress (sort of).

No pressure tags (sorry if you've been tagged already - I took 1,500 years to do this 😅): @dom1re @thefeatherwrites @theladyofshalott1989

Credit to @lyworth for the new divider that she generously gifted for my birthday 🥹

*Screaming into the ether*

The scream I screamed when I saw this I'm 🥹🥹🥹 thank you so much you truly honor me with your art and bringing Artemis to life like this 💚💚💚Excuse me as I am unavailable for 5 business days glued to this and staring.

Please check out @dom1re's The Keepers - Sunan is a fantastic and delightful Slytherin and her storytelling is 🤌🤌🤌🤌

My fanart of Artemis Loreley from A Bouquet of New Beginnings!!

@polarisgreenley thanks for letting me draw Artie! Truth is I've been wanting to do it for a while 🙈🙈💖 Your fic has been my comfort read these past few months. Whenever I go back to it I'm amazed by your vivid proses and clever world building, and I leave each chapter feeling inspired as a writer.

If anyone's looking for a quality longfic with a badass MC this is the one!! go check it out check it out💃💃

Bookworm Sebastian, he’s giving into dark magic. He doesn’t know that he’s already lost against it.

Drawn for a Twitter challenge

🎼🌙Moonlight

Fluffy Ominis x MC!Reader drabble [G-rated, 800 words]

"Fitting, isn't it?" he murmurs, so quiet his voice blends with the song's deeper notes. "The verse speaks of how we wear masks to pretend all is well, but only in moonlight do our true feelings arise." "Shall we promise, then, to leave the masks behind tonight?" "I’ll promise that," he says, offering a hand, “if you'll honour me with a dance.”

In search of distraction from Ranrok's rebellion, you dance with Ominis in the Undercroft.

[read on AO3]

A/N: I originally wrote this for @yoshitsuno's #Hogtober challenge last year, but I've since made some edits. Very short and sweet, no use of Y/N (just you/yours) and MC is gender neutral. Enjoy. <3

The music lilts up the lift shaft, reaching your ears long before it clunks to a juddering stop. When the grille slides up, you tiptoe into the Undercroft. It’s a classical tune you don’t recognise, a poignant operatic with a melody that evokes a sense of sadness and beauty – and you know immediately which Slytherin will be enjoying it.

Eyes shut, Ominis is reclined against the furthest pillar. He’s dressed down today, in an unbuttoned waistcoat and loosely knotted tie. You could almost believe he was asleep if not for his wand, gently mimicking a conductor’s baton against his thigh, tapping perfectly in time with each beat.

“It’s a lovely song.”

He doesn’t stop. “From Gabriel Fauré's Clair de lune. I particularly like its message, comparing the human experience to rays of the moon.”

He gets to his feet as you drift closer. The voice swells dramatically; he flicks his wand, and the gramophone quietens.

“No, no, don’t turn it down on my account,” you say; Ominis’ hand hangs in air. “I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Why did you come?”

“To find something to do. To… distract myself. All this business with Ranrok…”

You don’t need to say anything more. He knows.

The corners of his mouth tug upwards. “There’s always homework. I believe we have eight inches to write for Defence Against the Dark Arts.”

“Already finished it.”

“Naturally. Don’t tell Sebastian though, he might want to copy.”

“If he doesn’t I’ll assume someone hexed him.”

Ominis smiles more warmly and takes a tentative step closer; in the light of the braziers, shadows writhe and bend against him, sharply cleaving his features, and it makes him look like he could set fire to the world.

"Fitting, isn't it?" he murmurs, so quiet his voice blends with the song's deeper notes. "The verse speaks of how we wear masks to pretend all is well, but only in moonlight do our true feelings arise."

"Shall we promise, then, to leave the masks behind tonight?"

"I’ll promise that," he says, offering a hand, “if you'll honour me with a dance.”

“You can dance?”

“A little. And you?”

“No,” you admit, yet you breach his space, close enough to smell his cologne, “but it might be nice to learn.”

“It’s simple.” He guides your hand to his shoulder, and clasps the other gently in his own. “If a blind man can do it, you are more than capable.”

“Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“I’m only trying to make you feel comfortable.” His tone is lighter, laced with teasing. “Follow my lead.”

His free hand goes to your waist, and the touch dizzies you as he coaxes you back, to the left, forwards again and around. Ominis commands you so well you wouldn't believe he wasn’t born to play the role of the dutiful heir of Slytherin, born to lead his pure-blood family to its inherent greatness. Were it not for his virtuous beliefs, his unwavering loyalty and kind heart, perhaps it would be true. It was that compassion that drew you to him in the first place, so long ago – and it's the small ways he continues to prove his compassion that keeps you there, a stalwart presence at his side.

With him, leaving the mask behind is easier.

“Let the music show you the way,” he says, when you curse after a misstep. “Feet position doesn’t matter so much as the reason we're dancing.”

You step in again, basking in his scent. “What are we dancing for?”

“That depends on you.”

“To peace, then.” You smile at him though he cannot see. “We dance to carve out a moment of peace.”

“I like that.”

He leads, you follow. The Undercroft becomes your stage, Ominis the prince that sweeps you away. There is no rebellion, no school, no expectation of society, responsibility, or real life. All you see is him, all you feel is his compassion, the shadows that yield to him giving you room to breathe. He may have darkness at his beck and call, and you the tumult of an incoming storm, but together you make something brilliant and beautiful. Together you make the lone ray of the moon that lights the way through the everlasting night.

“You see?” he says, with that inexplicably captivating softness. “You're a natural.”

You squeeze his hand.

“I have a good teacher.”

A loud cough jerks Ominis back, out of your grip.

The grille closes, and Sebastian strolls inside, robe thrown over his shoulder, looking terribly smug.

“Interrupt something, did I?”

“No,” Ominis barks at once, that softness replaced by calloused edges and walls. He steps a polite distance away, but doesn’t turn his back. “You presume too much.”

“Or I don’t presume enough?”

You sweep down your robe, fixing Sebastian a glare. He only wiggles his brow at you. Ingrate.

“Either way, stop that racket. I need absolute silence to copy your Defence Against the Dark Arts essays.”

Moment dashed, masks on, Ominis makes a weary grunt and goes to turn the gramophone off… but you don’t miss the smile that lingers on his face.

Fin.

[read on AO3] [Gabriel Fauré's Clair de lune on YouTube] [Divider credit]

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.

---

✨ Hello, I'm Kali, The Plot Mage! ✨

I’m here to ignite your creativity and help you craft your next bestseller! Today is your lucky day, writer! 🪄 Whether you're battling writer's block or building an epic fantasy world, I've got just the tool you need to make your writing journey enjoyable and organized.

Introducing the all-in-one writer’s toolkit designed by a fellow fantasy writer. 🌟 This comprehensive resource includes:

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Happy writing, and let’s bring your fantasy world to life! 🌈📚

Thank you for the tag @gingerlegacy07 💐

🌸Last song: "Nightsong" - Borislav Slavov

🌸Favorite color: Greens and blues.

🌸Currently watching: None; not much of a TV or movie person on my own.

🌸Last movie: Shrek 2 watch party with friends 🩵

🌸Sweet/Spicy/Savory: Savory. Sweet is a hit or miss for me, and medium level of spicy is good!

🌸Relationship status: Happily single

🌸Current obsession: Hogwarts Legacy even after a year and half, Baldur's Gate 3

🌸Last thing you googled: 『英文 擬音 ふわふわ』

tag nine people you want to get to know better!

thank you for the tag @hazyange1s 🖤

last song? - Since I was channeling my inner Zach for writing, it was one of his songs I have on his playlist. Of Virtue - Sinner

favorite color? - black is my happy color 🖤 (but if black doesn't count I can life with purple too)

currently watching? - the Umbrella Academy - but, what a disappointment

last movie? - uff. good question. It's been to long since I actually watched a movie. The last one was a movie called "Eli" on Netflix. It was okeish.

sweet/spicy/savory? - sweet. I can't stand spicy things - I'm weak okey :D

relationship status? - taken

current obsessions? - Hogwarts Legacy, still. It never ends :) and sometimes I got dragged back into my Tom Riddle corner

last thing you googled? - how to embed a youtube link to AO3 (which I did not manage in the end)

no pressure tag (and sry if you got tagged multiple times, I was lazy and didn't check): @thetotomoo @annarielmidori @smilenewfifthyear @ravenwind-75 @killsworthss @lorriiraine @pheexblack @sailorgoon13 @annarielmidori

A Bouquet of New Beginnings: Chapter 27 "Poinsettia"

Summary: Little things before winter break

Floriography: Merriment

Full Chapter: [AO3]//5.2k words

Excerpt below:

“Ready, Richard?”

“I’m always ready but, why by broom?”

Artemis mounted her Moon Trimmer. “Can ghosts go through floo flames?”

Richard lifted a finger with his mouth open as if to retort, then shrugged.

“Fair point. Alright, lead the way.”

“Libro.”

Sensory Balancing Charm in place, she kicked off the top of the Astronomy Tower with Richard in tow. The clouds had cleared to reveal a beautiful, starry winter sky, and her breath puffed white smoke as the wind bit her skin. The borrowed gloves clung to the broom handle as the thick, borrowed cloak billowed. There now lay a thick layer of fresh, white snow over the usual ground canopied in the dark green pine.

“Not that I’m ungrateful but, why are we going to do my funeral at two in the morning?”

Richard seemed to have no issue keeping up – that’s one less worry at least.

“Well. You said you preferred to do it at night when everyone was asleep ‘just like the good old days’, and I’d like to do this before winter holidays. Plus, I thought you could also help me with gathering some first snow.”

“Um. I feel honoured that you think me so alive but slight problem?” Richard passed his hand through her broom. “Not solid. Bit of a problem trying to pick things up.”

Artemis shook her head with a smile. Her borrowed scarf kept the sharpest edges of the winter wind at bay.

“I just wanted your company, Richard.”

“Oh!” Richard beamed. “Well why didn’t you just say so! Allons-y!”

At least it seemed like he picked up some French.  

This fic is 🤌🤌🤌🤌 Gibby is glorious. Literally read the *entire* thing in one sitting and had to think for a good thirty minutes because it was like. Damn. Glorious.

All of her character portrayals are wonderful, truly such a good read!!

🍭☀️A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet

Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader [T-Rated, 5.4k words]

Never before had he really met a Muggle-born. He had no idea how naïve they were. How unprepared. Certainly, his family said they, and Muggles in general, were inferior, stupid, barely worthy to be at Hogwarts. Barely worth existing. But you weren't any of those things. You were just afraid.

In which, against the wishes of his staunchly pure-blood supremacist family, Ominis Gaunt befriends you, a naive Muggle-born Hufflepuff, and his life inexplicably changes.

Or, what happens when a pure-blood from an anti-Muggle family falls in love with a Muggle-born?

Tropes: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, pure-blood culture, canon rewrite, book!canon compliant.

[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: familial abuse, blood/ injury, torture, fantasy prejudice/ racism.

He calls you Gibberish, because sometimes that's all you speak.

In first year, Ominis remembers crossing your path after the Sorting ceremony. You, a shaky little Muggle-born, near no knowledge of the magical world and its machinations, and the depths of its cruelty. You, who only enjoyed wonder in everything: every moving painting, the candles that floated untethered, and the way the air hummed with something else, something ethereal. He remembers hearing your distinctive voice in the foyer outside the Great Hall.

He remembers how you, somehow, managed to get lost.

Your upbeat curiosity pealed like a bell amongst the sombre tension of the first-year Slytherins. For some reason, your hair is what Ominis remembers best. Later he would find out it was thick, bouncy wild curls pinched into two pigtails at the side of your head, but the first thing he recalls is the smell, faintly of something saccharine.

"You're in the wrong place."

A pause, presumably as you realised he was addressing you. "Aren't we going to the form rooms?" you asked, that high-pitched voice like birdsong at dawn. It was hard to forget, given the nervous squeal you made when you were called up to be Sorted. It was already ingrained into his head.

"You're meant to be going to the Hufflepuff common room," he said, frowning. Form. What was a form? He pointed his wand at the Hufflepuffs heading the other way through the hall. "Your house is over that way."

"Oh!" You giggled, a sickly sweet noise, and headed over. "Thanks!"

How did you even get them mixed up? Ominis still doesn't know. He didn't think about you again until the next day, when term officially began Charms. By chance, he was seated next to you. That smell again, that voice.

"Have no fear, Master Gaunt," cheered Professor Ronen, "I will be giving you more practical assignments, so you don't have as much writing to do."

That was some consolation, he supposed. Practical assignments played to his best strengths.

When Ronen moved on to check Adelaide's technique, Ominis heard your chair squeak. Heard the hiss of your clothes as you peered over. Something rattled on your face – glasses.

"It's... Ominis, right?"

He pursed his lips, displeased at the interruption. "Can I help you?"

"You're an actual wizard?"

"... What?"

"I mean, you know, you were born into this magic thing."

A pure-blood, is what you meant. "Yes. What of it?"

"That's great, because I just wanted to know... erm... which way around does the wand go?"

That had to be a joke. "You can't be serious."

"S-Sorry, I swear I'm not pulling your leg." Pulling your leg? You laughed nervously. "It's just— my wand is a little crooked, and it doesn't have a handle, like yours— so I don't actually know if I'm holding it the right way up or not, and I don't want to blast myself in the face."

A wave of that saccharine soap again. Ominis wrinkled his nose and continued practicing Wingardium Leviosa. Swish and flick. "Can you really not tell?"

"No..."

You sounded genuine. Not joking.

Hmm. Never before had he really met a Muggle-born. He had no idea how naïve they were. How unprepared. Certainly, his family said they, and Muggles in general, were inferior, stupid, barely worthy to be at Hogwarts. Barely worth existing. But you weren't any of those things.

You were just afraid.

"It's the tapered point that's the end."

"They're both thin."

"Let me feel it."

You hesitated. "Feel— it?"

"Well I can't look at it, can I?"

Another moment of hesitation. An intake of breath.

"Oh!" You nearly blew out his eardrums. "Sorry. You're blind!"

"Well spotted."

"I didn't notice."

"I figured."

You made an indignant noise and handed it over. His senses immediately flooded. It was an intimate sensation, to hold someone else's wand, especially that of a near-stranger. To feel the springy wood beneath his fingertips, the coarse grains of the wood. A light wood, airy. He was no expert on wands, and certainly no Ollivander, but he'd been touching and feeling things long enough to recognise details most sighted people would miss.

Yes, it was crooked, an odd shape for an odd person. He drew his thumb up the wand's janky spine.

"That's the top." He held the handle and offered it back to you. "There."

"Brilliant. Okay." You took the wand back. Cleared your throat. "Here goes then. Wingardium Leviosa!"

Something shifted beside him. A soft fabric drew up against his leg, raising higher and higher, past his head—

"Wait," Ominis spluttered, "is that my satchel?"

"It didn't— oh!" Panic fluttered through you. "No, no, no! Stop, wand! Un-Wingardium Leviosa! Erm, Spellus Stoppus?"

He didn't know how you did it, but even when he told you the right orientation, still you managed to point it the wrong way, the tip facing the bag by his chair, and Professor Ronen had to instruct you on the correct way by using chalk to mark the right end – after he got Ominis' bag down from the ceiling.

There are so many things he still doesn't understand about you.

Weeks into first year, when he'd learnt to adapt to your strange, Muggle quirks, your funny language and unwittingly explosive efforts in other classes, the two of you were doing homework on the lawn with Ominis' Slytherin dormmate, Sebastian Sallow. Sebastian thought you odd, too, but he had more exposure to Muggles than Ominis did – certainly more than the anti-Muggle disdain he received at home – and quickly warmed to your jolly attitude.

"It's strange. My dad hears all the confectionary chatter from America. Apparently this thing called peanut butter is making waves over there now." You grounded the sugar quill with your teeth – Ominis could hear it like a second heartbeat. "Doesn't that sound disgusting?"

"It does," marvelled Sebastian. "Butter and peanuts? What a strange combination."

"I know!" You rolled onto your back – and Ominis caught it again. Your scent. So intrinsically tied to you that every fresh wave made him feel comforted somehow. "You can't just put those two things together!"

"Your soap," Ominis blurted, and the conversation paused so abruptly that his cheeks heated. "What is it? It doesn't smell like anything I know."

"Oh, yes." Your voice was contemplative, sheepish as you pushed up your glasses. "I brought it from home. It reminds me of my family. Smells like our confectionary shop."

That didn't answer the question, and by his expression, you knew it.

"It's strawberry laces! You know? They're strawberry-flavoured, and they look like laces..."

"What in Merlin's name is a strawberry lace?"

"It's a type of candy! They're chewy and sweet!"

"Are they laces for your shoes?"

"No! That's just the shape of them."

Sebastian leant over crinkly parchment. "Do you mean red liquorice?"

"Yes!" You belted it so loud Ominis fell back. "Sorry! Sorry, yes. Red liquorice. That's its proper name."

"Then why didn't you call it red liquorice?"

"... Because it's strawberry laces. That's what we call them. It's my favourite treat."

"But that makes no sense! Why not just call it what it is?"

"Is it a Muggle thing?" Sebastian asked.

"No." A beat. "Maybe?"

Ominis scoffed. "You talk so much nonsense I can barely understand you sometimes."

You spat out your tongue. "Oh yeah, Ominis Gaunt? Mister, I Cast Whoopy-Doopy-Goopy to make your Thingimajig Ringadingdong?"

He spluttered, exasperated. "I don't sound like that! That's— that's just gibberish!"

"... Wait, is gibberish an actual language? Because goblins speak Gobbledegook, so..."

Sebastian howled with laughter. Your naivety was kind of adorable.

"The only one who speaks gibberish here," Ominis said, going back to his wandwork, "is you."

"Hmph!" You enunciated your indignation with such purpose. "Then maybe I'm fluent!"

And you were. You still are.

Neither Ominis nor Sebastian let you live it down, and the effects rippled throughout the first years. Sebastian's sister Anne found you adorably strange and joyfully brazen. Your Hufflepuff housemates enjoyed your humour and shenanigans. Even outside of your mismatched little groups, others in the the year, like Amit Thakkar and Garreth Weasley, thought you were a hoot, the silliest Muggle-born they'd ever met. Gibberish was your native language, and they all agreed. Soon everyone gave you the nickname. At one point it became Gibby. You pouted at each mention at first, but you grew fond of it eventually – then wearing it like a badge of honour. You adopted it, made it your own.

And even into second and third year, when the magical world became more familiar, you were Gibby.

Of course, you were never Gibby when Ominis wrote home. You were never anyone. It didn't take Ravenclaw wisdom to clock that his friendship with you was never considered proper. Pure-bloods, you learnt as quickly as he did, were the superior blood-status, and Muggle-borns the dregs left to rot at the bottom of the scummy barrel. That Mudblood was a slur of the lowest calibre. Ominis was shrewd enough to lie by omission in his letters back home, when his parents demanded to know about his friends and alliances. He simply never mentioned you at all, and all your adventures were given to Sebastian.

That didn't stop them from finding out.

"Who is she?"

Father had marched him to his study, made him sit. Even though a fire roared in the hearth, the place was cold, a slick tar against his skin. Even in the plushest chair, a high-back velvet with curling arms, he was the most uncomfortable he'd ever been. Even though he was blind, he could feel his parents' gaze like the tips of a thousand knives, pressed to the soft flesh of his throat.

"She's— no one."

"Don't lie to me," snapped his father. His mother was silent but complicit, by the way she paced from wood to carpet to wood again. "Edwin Malfoy said his son mentioned you frolicking around the school with some Hufflepuff. A Muggle-born."

There was no way he could deny it. Damn Peregrine Malfoy. They weren't in the same year group at school; why did he have to mention you at all? Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut? It had been three years already – what was another four?

Ominis contemplated what to say, urging his fingers to still, his toes to flatten. He could not betray his fear, betray the sudden rising heartbeat, the clamminess of his palms, nor the pure, unadulterated dread that roiled through him.

"It's— it's just Gibby," he forced out as calmly as he could.

"Gibby?" shrilled his mother.

"Not her real name," Ominis said quickly. "It's actually—"

"But she's Muggle-born?" his father demanded.

"Yes, but—"

"Have we taught you nothing, boy? Muggles, and their filthy spawn, are weak. Muggle-born magic is diluted, and therefore they are not worthy to wield it."

His mother was sobbing in the corner, like this extended hand of friendship he'd given to you, this supposed error, was grievous enough to tear a hole through her heart.

"Our bloodline is sacred. We are descendants of the great Salazar Slytherin himself! When you choose to associate with these disgusting Mudbloods," he spat the word, "you are sending a message that these interlopers can take our land, our magic and our privileges. They can encroach on what is rightfully ours. Did you know they used to burn witches? Even though, in every way, we are superior to them?" His father drummed impatient fingers on the marble mantelpiece. Each clack sent more and more terrified shivers down Ominis' spine. "A good thing Noctua went missing. Spending too much time with her addled you. Now we must have a more formal hand in your education."

Ominis didn't know how to respond to that. How could they say that about Aunt Noctua? "What do you—?"

A knock at the door cut through his words – Ominis immediately recognised the knock's low timbre. His older brother. Marvolo. Panic rendered him paralysed.

"Come in," called his father.

Ominis heard his brother's footsteps. Heard the cruelty of his smile.

"Is it time, Father?"

"Yes. Take him downstairs."

Ominis didn't speak. There was no point. Marvolo, of all his older siblings, was the cruellest, an exact replica of their father who despised Muggles and Muggle-borns, despised Noctua, and revered the family name and the bloodline as divine, rather than simply blood and sinew and a surname. His grip on Ominis' shoulder was hard enough to draw blood, curled into the muscle like claws.

They all went downstairs, silent. Ominis had never been to this part of the house before – sometimes, when the moon was highest, when he stowed quietly to the kitchens for a midnight nibble, he heard screaming. At first he thought it his imagination, the night playing tricks on his keen senses.

When he descended into the cellar, he realised for the first time that it was not the night's whims having their fun. The dark, after all, had never been so wicked to him before.

The smell was the first thing that hit him. A strong, tangy scent, coppery and unpleasant. Blood. He couldn't help a sharp intake of breath, which only left the taste on his tongue. The chill was second, as bone-deep as a tundra. By the echo of breath, the ceiling was low and poorly lit, for his father cast a Fire charm at the braziers besides the doorway.

There was a ruffle of cotton. A low murmur. Marvolo's grip ceased, and he roughly shoved Ominis forwards.

"Do you know what's in front of you?"

Tremoring, Ominis reached for his wand. In the time he'd bought it at Ollivander's, it had become something special to him. A way to navigate the castle, yes, but it was much more than that. Almost sentient. It seemed to know how he was feeling and how to react to it, just as it did now, pulsing like a wild heartbeat beneath his fingertips. At eleven he'd been sceptical of the phrase 'the wand chooses the wizard', but now he believed there was truth in it. His wand had shown him that magic was in the air, all around him – all he had to do was draw on it.

He reached out, trying to fit together the scattered pieces of feedback. The ruffles and strangled breaths and scratch-scratch of rope. The cold, as sharp as the ice they used to keep fruit and meat fresh. The overwhelming smell of blood and dirt.

"Is—" He shouldn't have second-guessed himself, not with his family present, but he couldn't believe what he was hearing, smelling, tasting, what he was potentially beholding. "Is that a person trussed up?"

"You missed an important factor," said his father. "This is no person. This is mud."

A Muggle.

The Muggle whimpered. There was some gag around their mouth, and yet Ominis deciphered every note of fear.

"But this is dangerous!" He went to hide his wand, but Marvolo's hand stopped him. "You shouldn't have brought—"

"We can do what we want," Marvolo said. "We're Gaunts, little brother, and this scum before you requires humbling."

Ominis swallowed bile. Perhaps errantly, your voice hummed in his mind then. Your laugh. He imagined hearing it. Imagined it was you tied to the floor.

"No," he said at once. "I won't do it."

"The Cruciatus Curse has been used to subdue our enemies for centuries." Pride flowed through his brother's words. "You should be overjoyed to have this opportunity. Your siblings and I were thrilled with our first Muggles."

They've tortured innocent people before. All his brothers and sisters – they'd all done it.

"But— I can't hurt them. T-They've done nothing wrong to me. They're just—"

"They are worms beneath our boots, and their very existence is an abomination." Marvolo gave him a rough jerk. "I taught you how to use Crucio."

Yes, but Ominis swore it was only for self-defence.

When he didn't reply, Marvolo spoke, "So cast it now, on the Muggle."

Ominis shook his head. Fear and panic ran his mouth dry. "I can't."

"You will, or so help me, boy, you'll be a disgrace to the family," muttered his father. "Cast it."

"No."

"Cast. It."

"I won't."

Marvolo's laugh rang out. "I didn't realise your spine was made of cotton, Ominis."

But Ominis was made of steel in that moment, for he couldn't imagine a better reason to defy his family than for the sake of Muggles and Muggle-borns. For you.

"I won't cast it."

"Then you clearly need some encouragement." And before Ominis could even process what that meant, Marvolo yelled, "Crucio!"

It was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Pain, as he understood, was simply a reflex of the body to let the brain know something, somewhere, was wrong. A warning sign to cease whatever behaviour was causing it.

This was pain with no epicentre. There was no singular point that was bowing to the most pressure. This was all-encompassing and never-ending. This was his stomach and chest and heart, his brain and lungs, from the tips of his fingers to the knobs of his shoulders and knees and the ends of his toes. Every part of him, alight, doused in oil and set on fire through the concentrated rays of the sun.

Nowadays he doesn't remember that moment very clearly. The anguish was so great, he must've blacked out once or twice. Marvolo held it for a long time, longer than he needed to ingrain his foul teachings. All Ominis does remember is the pain, so acute that words fail to describe it, even to this day.

And the thought, back then, that his family could cause such pain, tore something inside him he would never be able to stitch back up.

When his brother released the curse, Ominis was curled up on the floor. Something wet lay beneath his cheek. Perhaps sweat. Perhaps spit. Perhaps blood, his own or the Muggle's. Perhaps even piss, for the curse had been too much for his bladder to handle. Every nerve ending on his skin was trembling. He'd let go of his wand somewhere in the room, and even now he couldn't sense it, like the pain had burned a hole where instead should be that bond.

"That is a Gaunt," said his father, pride sugaring his tone. "Your brother didn't hesitate."

Marvolo's voice was warm with mockery. "I have no qualms using the Cruciatus Curse on you, little brother, if it will teach you a valuable lesson."

What lesson could that possibly be? In the dizziness, Ominis couldn't untangle what the crucial moral was. It was a puzzle he couldn't solve, and perhaps never would.

"Would you like me to cast that on you again?"

"No!" Ominis managed to weep. He dribbled as he did, and shame burst through him. "N-No, please."

"Then get up," Marvolo hauled him to his feet, whether he was ready or not, "and cast it on someone who really deserves it."

Ominis is ashamed of the memory that follows. Sometimes he wishes he could alter it, pull it out of his mind like brittle thread and snap it into pieces, but then he wouldn't remember the valuable lesson he did learn that day. That his family were a cruel peoples.

And, as he raised his wand at his victim, that he was cruel now too.

"Crucio!"

Back near the end of third year, Ominis had found you climbing a tree on the school grounds. The wind was high and fretful – like his nerves, hearing you so far up, that carefree giggle carried on the current like bird's wings.

"Is that you, Gibby?"

"Ominis!" you chirruped. "You have to come up. The view is great!"

"I bet it's really swell."

"Sorry, sorry! I mean— oh, just come up! It's amazing, I promise!"

"You know you have a broom, right?" he called up, exasperated. "It's much safer than climbing trees! Where you could fall."

"I know! But this is all I've got back home, so I'd better get used—"

You let out a noise. The tree rumbled. There were four hard knocks that sent terror through him like lightning and a sudden thump on the ground like a knife to the gut. He rushed over to where you were crying out, breathless with pain. He'd never heard such a keening sound before, not in a physical, raw sense, where he could almost feel it himself. Pain that was almost too burdened to bear.

"Ugh, you're so foolish!" He nocked his wand skywards and sent out a flare. Hopefully someone would see it. "What have you hurt?"

You were in too much agony to reply – something had to be broken.

"I'm going to feel you, okay?"

You made a straggled noise he took for consent and pressed a hand to your arm. It came away wet. Blood. A broken and torn arm for certain then. You wheezed, too. Perhaps a broken rib. He pressed gently around, searching for the worst sources of pain through the leaf-ridden folds of your robes and shattered remnants of your glasses, but only when he reached forwards, felt the wetness around your upper lip and cheeks, did he realise you were choking from the blood of a broken nose.

He'd never felt a face before, not anyone outside his family. Yours was smaller than he'd expected. Your presence was so loud, so vivid, he'd expected you to match it physically as well. Even in the state that you were he could smell that sweet soap, and for some reason had the sudden urge to touch the rest of your face, explore how you were made, how the world shaped you.

"I'm going to staunch the bleeding." Instead he dispelled the thoughts and pointed his wand, enunciating as clearly as he could, "Episkey!"

A whip-like crack. You shrieked, but after a moment, your hysteria calmed, and he wiped the blood around your nose with his sleeve.

"I—" Tears filtered your winded voice. "I can't... move... my leg."

"It's probably broken too, like every other bone in your body," he retorted sharply. Good thing he'd had advance tutoring for healing spells. "I told you it was dangerous."

"I know," you bleated.

But his anger dissolved. There was no point rubbing it in your face. Whether he was right, or whether you had come down the tree perfectly well, you would've done it anyway.

"Can you last until someone comes to help?" he mumbled, lowering his tone.

"I can last."

"Good. I'll wait with you."

"Promise I... won't look into the light."

Ominis wrinkled his nose. "A sight joke now? Really?"

"No, no... it's a Muggle saying— never mind." A weighted pause. "Thank you."

He scoffed. "For being right?"

"Yes," you said softly, an admission. "But also... for being my friend."

Madam Blainey hurried over eventually and carted you away, cooing over your injuries, admonishing your actions, and Ominis stayed at your side until you drank every last acrid drop of healing potion, and you were fast asleep in the infirmary wards, at peace.

Even though you were silly, frivolous, an oddball who spoke fluent gibberish, he never wanted you to be in such pain again. He certainly couldn't imagine being the cause of it.

Which is why he swore on that day, after the Muggle had long since collapsed on the cellar floor, after his father and mother and brother delighted in his first successful cast of Crucio, that he would never again cause anyone such agony. Least of all you.

So in fourth year, he did his best to ignore you. To create a wide berth. And to find a way to escape his family.

He hung out more with Sebastian, even though his friend was slowly changing, ambitions growing. Both of them were equally matched in many things, like academics and opinions, and with Anne taking suddenly ill, trapped within the bindings of a unknown curse, Sebastian had his own demons about finding her a cure. They explored more outside – the countryside was huge, after all, and Ominis had always found the place intimidating for someone who couldn't see any of it. They lounged in the Undercroft more often – their own hiding spot to where they could escape the stress of school and home life and the increasingly pressing threat of a goblin rebellion. Mostly, Ominis went there to avoid you.

Sebastian quickly noticed you were missing from these adventures, though. Nothing much escaped his notice, even when his sister's illness consumed him – too shrewd to forget the giant girl-shaped gap in their homework brainstorming sessions, or learning questionable jinxes, or snacking on magical sweets. Ominis eventually confessed to what he'd had to do over summer – and what he would do to keep you safe.

"Very noble of you," Sebastian said, the wide, open walls of the Undercroft echoing his voice. "But you didn't have a choice."

"I did." Ominis shot at the dummy, again and again, to channel his frustration. "I chose to hurt that Muggle. I chose to cause them pain. And I couldn't have done it if I didn't want to."

"What else were you supposed to do then? Let your family hurt you again?"

"I should have! What I did to that Muggle... they're probably dead now..."

"Your family would've killed them regardless."

"That doesn't make it better!"

Sebastian yanked Ominis' shoulder, obliging him to stop, to listen. "You're being ridiculous. Your family forced you to hurt that Muggle. Now you're going to self-destruct an entire friendship because of them?"

Anguished panic stripped his insides raw, but he fought to contain it. "If they'll do that to some random person they found on the street, think what they'll do to her! My family isn't like yours, Sebastian. I can't risk Peregrine Malfoy telling on me. I won't."

Sebastian let out a singular, dark chuckle. "Don't you worry about Pretentious Perry. I'll sort him out." He exhaled, softening. "You ignoring Gibby isn't going to do anything but make you both upset. She's tenacious, and too loyal to us. She's just going to keep demanding an explanation until we give her one."

"Then she's going to be disappointed for a long time. Tell her whatever it takes to keep her away from me."

"You can't—" Sebastian let out a frustrated grunt. "You can't make me the mediator between you two."

Ominis turned back to the dummy. "I'm not asking you to. I don't care if you want to be her friend, but I won't. For her sake."

"Yeah? And what about yours?"

Ominis didn't have an answer for that.

He did manage to avoid you all autumn term. An excruciatingly difficult task, because teachers often paired the two of you together now – your chaos matching Ominis' order perfectly well. But he was cold to you, callous when you pried, outright mean when you demanded. You were as tenacious and loyal as Sebastian warned though. No matter what Ominis said, how rude he was, you never gave in.

Eventually the cold shoulder was all he could give emotionally. He was tired of drawing from the hatred that welled inside him, and turning it on you.

Over Christmas that year, Sebastian invited Ominis to stay with his family in Feldcroft, and Ominis agreed. So did the Gaunts, who knew the Sallows, albeit poor, to be a well-bred family, though perhaps less aware of Sebastian's more radical opinions on Muggles and Muggle-borns. It was good to see Anne, too – even sick, weak, body breaking down piece by piece by the curse, she was spirited and stubborn and filled the feminine void that was missing between him and Sebastian.

But she wasn't you. She could never replace you.

"Have you heard from Gibby?" she asked on one of her good days, when Solomon Sallow was mucking out the horses. She was tucked in bed still, wrapped in thick cloths and furs whilst the boys played Gobstones by the foot of her bed. "I miss her enthusiasm for Muggle sweets."

Before Ominis could speak, Sebastian declared, pouring on the smarminess, "They're not talking anymore."

"Oh?" Her curiosity was directed at Ominis. "Why?"

"We fell out," Ominis said through a clenched jaw, hoping his tone was enough to quiet Sebastian. "Nothing else to it."

"You and Gibby? Falling out? What did you do wrong?"

"Why do you assume it's my fault?"

"Because Gibby would sooner stake her own heart than argue with you."

Neither twin pressed, so Ominis didn't answer. Later that week, however, her prodding questions changed to sympathetic disagreement, and he suspected Sebastian gave her enough information to infer his reasoning. Unfortunately, Anne's thoughts on the matter aligned with her brother's, and though she frequently tried to convince Ominis of this fact, most of the time he couldn't stand to listen to it, and he simply walked out of the house.

She would never understand his decision. They did not have his family.

When Ominis returned to Hogwarts for the spring term, however, knowing Anne was partly right about leaving you in this middling state, he resolved no longer to hide behind feeble excuses. Sebastian was slowly seeking solace in the Dark Arts, something Ominis rejected vehemently, but even then there was safety with Sebastian's status that there never was for you.

He had to protect you by any means necessary. That meant it was time to end the friendship for good.

So it wasn't surprising when, on the first day back, he entered the Undercroft and found you standing there.

"Colloportus!"

The lock behind him clicked, the grille sealing shut. This infuriated him to no end – four years and your naivety still preceded you.

"You know I can cast Alohomora—?"

"Expelliarmus!"

The wand flew from his grasp, clattering somewhere to his left.

"That was excessive."

"Was it?" you challenged, coming up to him. Strawberry laces. "You've had the whole of Christmas to think about what a meater you've been, and I'm not going to let you start the silent treatment again."

Meater. Context was a useful thing at filling in Muggle-vocabulary-shaped gaps.

"How did you find this place?" he asked.

"I followed you, last term, when you were not talking to me."

"Why don't, for once, Gibby," he snarled, "you mind your own business?"

"You are my business!" you yelled – and there it was, the first inkling of pain. "Last year you were my best friend. You and Sebastian, and Anne too. Now she's sick and I haven't seen her in months, you refuse to talk to me and Sebastian won't tell me why!"

Ominis pushed out a laugh and ran a hand through his hair. Sebastian had done a terrible job at warding you away. Yes, you had spent more time with other people in your year, like Adelaide and Evangeline and Arthur, and Garreth, Leander and Cressida and even the new girl, Natsai Onai. But still you crawled back to him.

"Like I said, it's not your business."

"I'm not accepting that answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting."

"Is it me?" you flung out. "Did I say something wrong? Did you get fed up with me copying your homework? Or showing Natty around? I know you pretend to despise everyone in that house. Or maybe it's personal? Have I been annoying? Do I smell bad?"

You never smell bad. He opened his hand. "Give my wand back, Gibby."

To your credit, when he asked for the thing that helped him make sense of the world, you retrieved it, no resistance, and placed it into his waiting palm. The brief touch sent a pleasant, unwanted current tingling through his skin.

"Is it family?"

Ominis snatched his hand away. "No."

"It is. It must be. You stayed at Feldcroft all Christmas." You softened. "You know you can tell me anything—"

"Butt out, Gibby."

"Ominis—"

"No. Listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once. I'm tired of picking up the pieces after you. I'm tired of your clumsiness and your stupidity. I'm tired of holding your hand and coddling you. This world is cruel, and since you haven't learnt it yet, maybe you will now. You don't need me, and I certainly don't need you. So leave me alone." Then the word slipped out, unbidden. "Mudblood."

Your gasp was drawn out, a long inhale that sucked all the light over an arid horizon. Ominis immediately regretted it. He'd caused that Muggle physical pain, he'd been a silent bystander as you fell off that tree in third year, but emotional pain, the crossing of a line that could never be turned back upon, the shattering of your heart into pieces no spell could mend... that was worse than any Cruciatus Curse.

"T-Take that back," you demanded, holding back a sob. "Y-You take that b-back, right now!"

He didn't. All he did was turn around and cast the Unlocking charm. The grille lifted.

You sniffled. Tears splattered onto the stone. In that moment, your sweetness had been stolen, your brightness dimmed. All because of him.

"You're a beast, Ominis Gaunt," you yelled as the lift churned into motion. "I wish I'd never met you!"

And he left you there, knowing you were right.

[Next chapter coming soon] <3 [Amazing art by Giselann, Divider credit]

Highly recommend commissioning Ly she's so talented and just 🤌 🤌 🤌 🤌 

I'm open for commissions! 👉👈 I adore bringing your wildest, sweetest, and spiciest visions to life. Shoot me a DM--my pen is yours!

Every time I see this I just melt into a puddle 🫠🫠🫠

Artel AU in all its glory and love 🩵💚

A huge thank you to @ketto-art for making this stunning commission for me! Thank you so much for making this AU of Knight Cael and Fairy Artemis a beautiful reality!

Artemis of course belongs to my great friend @polarisgreenley, and we just love our ocxoc pairing and wanted to share the lovely couple!

I also wanted to do this amazing art justice and decided to write a one-shot to go along with it! It is available on Ao3 and Wattpad :]

Wattpad

A Knight's Fairy Tale - A Knight's Fairy Tale

Read story A Knight's Fairy Tale by ZetaTheWritingDragon (Zeta) with 0 reads. lovestory, shortstory, sweet. Author's No...

Incredibly honored to be mentioned here 🥹🥹

Please go read her fics because they're fantastic 🫵🫵:

A Love Like Leander's - so utterly sweet my soul received a warm hug.

Her and The Hoop Part 1 - be prepared to need your sides mended because the level of hilarity is unreal

who are some of your favorite mc’s and why?

Thank you for this ask, sweet anon! Here are some of my favorite MC’s, in no particular order

🍭 “Gibby” by @galaxiasgreen:

Everyone who knows Green’s MC Gibby would protect her with their life. Which she might need, because according to Green, she once got her head stuck between the stair bannisters for eight hours. Gibbles is adorably naive, perhaps a littleeee gullible, and is as sweet as her backstory, born to muggle parents who own a confectionary shop. She’ll gleefully stuff your MC’s pockets with sweets in an act of love, whether they like it or not. I love her larger than life attitude, silliness, and special way of weaving herself into one’s heart 💛 You can read about Giblet and her many names in A Cruelty Vivid and Sweet

🎃 Lorraine Juniper Jones by @lorriiraine

LORY! First off, what a name. She’s another MC with so much love and creativity that went into making her. I love Lory’s secretive and intriguing backstory, her light-pink hair and affinity for experimenting with different hairstyles, and the wonderful group of OC’s that accompany her on her journey. She’s as sweet as can be, but isn’t afraid to use the killing curse if needed! You can read about her in Cursed Passion, and Aeonion as well as see all the amazing screenshots/artwork/and video edits of her on Lory’s page.

💚 Alistair Perseus Cushing by @lorriiraine

Again, WHAT A NAME. Alistair is one of the MC’s that accompany Lorraine in her story. Why do I like him? The simple answer is: he’s hot af and I’m weak for dark-haired Slytherin’s lol. Looks aside, he’s also a great character. He’s a little hesitant to open up about his past, having been born into a family with a penchant for practicing the dark arts. Because of this, he’ll fiercely protect his younger sister Iris Cushing (which makes my heart mush). My favorite line of his is “I have many things I dislike, and less things I like.” I just love him; I could write about him for days. He’s got a cuteee pet rat, too. You can go to @lorriiraine ‘s page or TikTok to watch video edits about Alistair.

🦋 Aurélie Collins by @morelikeravenbore

Aurélie Is Aura’s (creator goes by Aura) elegant and gentle, yet sassy and unapologetically stubborn, gorgeous French Ravenclaw girl. She’s special in that she’s one of the very first MC’s I got to know! Aura continues to pour her entire heart and every ounce of creativity into bringing Aurélie to life. She’s such a well rounded character that it’s so easy to come up with endless li’l headcanons of my MC and hers together (they are wives). Aura loves her bebe so much, as do I. However, she can write about her much more eloquently than I can. So, I would encourage you learn more about Aurélie in How to Make a Villian, where Hogwarts is not home, and the angst is ANGSTY. *insert yodeling Dumbledore emoji*.

⛈️ Siobhan Sloane by @sloanesallow

Siobhan, who goes by “Sloane” is an empathetic and sweet Hufflepuff bb I’ve taken an instant liking to. She’s not the typical in-game MC who shows up to Hogwarts all wands blazing. Her creator describes Sloane as “fairly reserved and shy, but it’s mostly because she prefers to watch and listen. She’s a very loyal friend to those she cares about.” Sloane reminds me so much of myself as a teenager, and continues to touch my heart the more I learn about her 🥹 You can read about Sloane in MMHS, and The Call of the Void. *insert crab rangoon emoji*

🌾 Cordelia Blevine by @2centniffler

Because Cordelia rhymes with memorabilia 😌 That’s all. Kidding. I’m just beginning to learn and read about this wonderfully witty farmgirl bb. She has a knack for getting herself into sticky situations, and bears a total of five scars along her face and neck because of it. Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop The Horrors from letting up in her life, and she goes into her second year at Hogwarts struggling to get by. Thankfully, she’s not alone, with asthma!Sebastian at her side, a niffler named “Ham”, and a mooncalf she’s quoted telling to “eat your fucking pellets, Larry.” In all realness, you should absolutely go read about Cordelia in After the Storm and not my cracked out version of her 💚 Though I will warn you, Cordelia once threw up in the Slytherin common room fountain, and who knows if it still lingers (Banshee told me this herself).

🐉 Lydia Parkinson by @esolean

One of the first things I first noticed about Lydia was her auburn braids, amber eyes like literal molten gold, and the wistful expression she often wears. The second thing I noticed was how she’s paired with Tom Riddle. In my mind, at least, you have to be incredibly intriguing to capture Tom’s attention romantically — and she is. Simply put, her Ravenclaw bb and aspiring dragonologist (who I believe dies at 28 and becomes a ghost) is always fun to read about, and I’ll continue to consume her ever-growing lore like breakfast 🍽️ Breakfast is my favorite meal, hehe. You can read more about Lydia on @esolean ‘s page.

🫡 Calypso Salutations by @dwightschrute11

I first grew to like Calypso through Lin’s portrayal of her in drawings, but it was her backstory I found so, so compelling. The part that struck me was the mysterious disappearance and drowning of her father, whose bloated corpse was found in the ocean by a young Calypso. Not only does she have to deal with her father’s strange passing, but the later development of Alzheimers in her mother. She’s had it rough — really rough, and despite her traumatic, heartbreaking past, Calypso comes across as remarkably resilient to me. Especially due to the fact that in Lin’s artwork of her, Cal is often seen smiling, surrounded by an abundance of MC’s that adore her. Not to say she doesn’t have to deal with The Horrors, because I know she does 🥺 You can find art of Calypso on Lin’s page

🪻Artemis Loreley by @polarisgreenley

Artemis is another MC I’m just beginning to learn about, and while there are two versions of her (one with ancient magic and one without) I’ll be talking about the ancient magic version. Her flower girly is quiet, considerate and tenacious, with one of the coolest fighting styles I’ve read about. With her wand in one hand, she’ll use the other to chuck handmade potions and throwing knives at enemies. However, when asked about her weapon of choice, Polaris said this: “Silence speaks volumes, and much can be gained with the unspoken word. Silent footsteps could mean the difference between a full confrontation, or avoiding danger.” OOF. Just oof. You can read Polaris’ fic which incorporates the Victorian language of flowers into it, in A Bouquet of New Beginnings.

Last but not least, my own MC, the Bean herself

🩵 Jean Vestrit

I obviously had to add my own MC because she’s my favorite. I’m not going to write about Jean here, but will later make a couple posts with facts about her. You can find snippets to the upcoming one-shot she’ll be in called Where We’ll Go After Battle here and here.

This was fun to do, and I could potentially see myself doing another! But first, I have a one-shot to finish. I also wanted to say I adore so many MC’s out there, and find some of their quirks to be so freaking creative. Even if I didn’t write about yours, they’re still deserving of all the love 🩵✨

*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

A 'proper' greeting is in order ;)

A short, little video for the adorable, sweet @gingerlegacy07 💛💚

*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

Hello sir 😳😳😳

Morning ladies......

And gentlemen and all, equally....

"Flowers speak quite clearly even in silence. Don't you agree?" - Artemis Loreley

🌿Picrew 🌿

Thank you @morelikeravenbore for the tag 💐

No pressure tags: @clrfulstupidity @thefeatherwrites

🦋 Bebe pouting at the ball

Picrew

NP tags: @dwightschrute11 @esolean @girl-named-matty @galaxiasgreen @localravenclaw @mianeryh @polarisgreenley @sunnyrealist @sallowsangel @sallowslove @sloanesallow @sleepywitchlory @toonedupfiction @vienguinn

Thank you for the tag @sallowslove 🩵💚

Artemis Loreley: Ancient Magic Version

🌿Appearance 🌿

There was no 'real-life' Artemis to be found, so please forgive the AI image utilized.

🌿Style 🌿

Hand-me-downs from her cousin are her preferred choice (so she doesn't have to think about clothes), but her preference is simple, timeless clothes. Preferably black, if color needs to happen, earth tones. Skirts must have pockets!

🌿Choice of weapon 🌿

Silence.

Silence speaks volumes, and much can be gained with the unspoken word. Silent footsteps could mean the different between a full confrontation, or avoiding danger.

🌿Flower that represents them🌿

Red spider lily. Silent protectors of those whom have passed, and has a beautiful combination of sad and heartwarming flower language.

Aside from the 'appearance', all images are pulled from pinterest and credit to original posters.

🌿No pressure tags: @theladyofshalott1989 @betheckart @lyworth @writingannyred @tusklovercstb @galaxiasgreen @gingerlegacy07

Inspired by @l0tus_12 on Instagram who started this tag, post a collage of your MC in real life, their fashion, their choice of weapon, and a flower that represents them!

NP tagging: @dwightschrute11, @morelikeravenbore, @ethniee, @lilac-ravenclaw, @siboom777

Thank you for the tag @betheckart 🩵

Finally catching up to these :) Here's my sweet, tenacious Artemis Loreley

I also do have her in a version with non-Ancient Magic....which honestly just is a happier (less traumatized) version

No pressure tags: @galaxiasgreen @tusklovercstb @lyworth

Tagged by @raresvtm and @justasmolbard , thank you!

[link]

Tag: @chloekistune @graveyard-party666 @alypink @statichvm @themotherofhorses @priceseyes @cassietrn @socially-awkward-skeleton @thewanderer-000 @thedeadthree @sinclxirx @alicedarkmair @strangefable @captastra @aceghosts @kikiharinezumi @katsigian @dickytwister @theelderhazelnut @elderglocks @caelums-fate @chewbokachoi @yourluckyoswald @moosch @illmetbymoonlight @starcrossedspirit @la-grosse-patate @pan-anarcho @killerspinal @dani-the-goblin @g0dspeeed @ghostgirlvii @josephseedismyfather @welldonekhushi @dreamcast641 @milkywayhou @jackiesarch @esolean @itsmwifenolan @scorpiosleeps and everyone who wants partecipate 💚

Your honor I love her

I was jetlagged and 5am scrolling and had a sudden itch to draw so... Here's a portrait study of natty

(based on this lovely screenshot by @girl-named-matty ☺️)