Ootp - Tumblr Posts
Things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix 2007 | dir. David Yates
The worst Wolfstar fanfic I’ve ever read ?
Oh definitely Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Cho Chang didn’t get one. Tehehe!
May the Fourth be with you!
Mouth Full Of White Lies
From this prompt by @impishtubist . It's un beta'd, so don't be too critical. ao3
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Remus cannot do this.
He doesn't have the strength— the courage.
Sirius sits in the armchair front of him, slender fingers wrapped around a mug full of Irish coffee and pitch black hair pulled back into a messy bun, looking as comfortable and relaxed as if he was sitting on a cushioned throne. He stares out of the window, wearing a snug cream coloured jumper and one foot pulled up to the seat. Something twists in Remus' chest, but he cannot pull his eyes away from Sirius' face. He takes in the sharp angles and the arched eyebrows, the grey eyes and the relaxed line of his lips, the few flicks of his hair that fall over his forehead as he looks down into his mug when he takes a sip. Sirius looks anywhere but at Remus.
Remus doesn't know how to do this.
Without Harry around to act as a buffer, Remus feels the tension crawling up his spine slowly but surely, and it's worsened by the fact that he cannot tell if Sirius is feeling the same or not.
It has been eight days since Remus arrived at Grimmauld Place with Harry in tow, and in all that time, he has taken great care not to be caught alone in a room with Sirius.
Clearly, he went wrong somewhere, because here they were— alone together in the second floor parlour.
Remus swallows. Digs his fingers into the armrest of his chair.
"Padfoot—"
"Don't."
Sirius did not raise his voice. He did not say it in a hostile manner. He did not even look at Remus. That hurts more than Remus thinks it should.
"Sirius, I—"
"Don't, Lupin."
Remus flinches, feeling the words dig into his heart like he's been slapped. Sirius has not called him by his last name since the November of their first year at Hogwarts. After that, it was always Remus, Remi, Moony, Moons, Froot Lupes, any other nickname he could come up with. Not Lupin. Never Lupin.
"Padfoot, I'm sorry—"
"Lupin." Sirius finally looks at him. Remus flinches again, curling his shoulders into himself at the expression in his eyes. Or rather, the lack of expression. Sirius' face is blank, and his eyes are colder than a blizzard. He looks down his nose at Remus through lowered eyelids, the set of his eyebrows making it seem like he is utterly, completely indifferent to this conversation, like he does not give a single shit about what Remus has to say.
"I don't want to hear anything from you. If we must spend time together, we spend it in silence. Understood?"
Remus gives him a beseeching look, but Sirius doesn't waver in his decision, and Remus casts his gaze into his lap.
They sit in silence. Remus does not look back at Sirius, and Sirius relaxes into the soft padding of his armchair.
"I really am sorry, Sirius," Remus says quietly after a few seconds, fidgeting with his own fingers in his lap.
"I really don't care, Lupin."
Remus huffs and lifts his chin to stare at Sirius' impassive face. "It was wrong of me to leave you in Azkaban and I know it—"
"This," Sirius interrupts in a deceptively soft voice, "is not about my imprisonment."
Remus feels a chill travel down his spine. Still, he swallows down his urge to cut the discussion short. For once, he is not going to run away. For once, he will stay, and he will see this talk through.
"Then what is it about?"
Sirius looks at him like Remus hasn't an ounce of sense in his brain— the kind of disdainful and judgemental look he used to reserve for the students of Hogwarts who were not as smart as him or James. Remus feels the point of a dagger dig into his heart.
"Harry, Lupin," he says, and the icy frost that covers his tone makes the dagger pierce even deeper. "This is about my godson."
Remus grits his teeth, a sudden wave of annoyance rising up his throat. "I told you, Sirius, a werewolf is not capable of taking care of a child—"
"You could have visited him," Sirius cuts him off, and Remus hates how calm he looks, hates the way Sirius looks at him like he isn't worth his time. He hates the way his mind whispers in his ear about the school days when Sirius became eerily calm and composed, when he got that thunderstorm glint in his grey eyes that meant he was out for someone's cold blooded annihilation. "You could have checked up on him. You could have wrangled a deal out of the Hell-flower that made it impossible for her to harm my godson the way she did—"
"I HAD NO CHOICE!"
Remus is on his feet now, glaring at Sirius, who simply reclines back in his seat and still manages to look down his nose at Remus. The expression is so similar to the times in school when Sirius eviscerated someone with nothing but his whip-quick tongue that it makes Remus' blood boil. He hates the way Sirius is so.. so calm and collected. He wants Sirius to scream at him, yell at him, throw shit around and rage at him.
"Everyone always has a choice," Sirius answers coldly. "You had the time to make one— you had twelve years to make a choice. You didn't."
Remus breathes in, then breathes out, and the air that leaves him feels hot with anger. He glares at Sirius, clenching his fingers into fists and locking them down to his sides.
"You don't understand—" he grits out, but Sirius cuts him off again, the expression on his face growing colder with every word he utters. "Oh no, of course I don't. I have no idea what it's like to be a werewolf. That doesn't change the fact that you left Harry there. You left him there. James' child. The child we swore to protect—"
"I did no such thing."
The moment the words leave his lips, Remus knows he has fucked up.
Sirius shuts his mouth with a decisive click of his teeth, face going blank and unreadable. He stares at Remus, nothing showing through the mask he has snapped into place. Remus feels the dread trickle down his throat like freezing cold water, and he scrambles for words the longer the silence goes on, trying to find ways to fix this, to make it better, to get Sirius to understand.
"Sirius, I—"
"I suggest you stop speaking before I rip out your tongue and strangle you with it."
Remus snaps his jaw shut with an audible clack of his teeth at the flat tone of voice. Sirius is very much capable of carrying out that threat and both of them know it.
"Get out of my sight, Lupin."
Remus swallows down the seven replies his mind comes up with and twists on his heel, stiffly walking towards the door. When he is about to shut the door behind him, Sirius speaks again.
"You're not Moony to me. I am not Padfoot to you. You will refer to me as Black, I won't answer to any other name. And stay away from my godson."
Remus let's out a shaky breath. Nods. And steps out, pulling the door shut behind him.
No. That’s enough. He’s just a boy. You say much more and you might as well induct him into The Order straight away.
“My mum always said things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end. If not always in the ways we expect"
𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕨𝕒𝕧𝕖//𝕕.𝕞
Draco Malfoy
Soulmate one-shot where everyone gets their soulmate's first words to them branded on their skin on their fifteenth birthday.
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings: angst, fluff at the end
MASTERLIST
-Ⰶ
What the bloody fuck is wrong with your face?
That was what was written on your blemish-free forearm, available for the whole world to see.
You groaned for the tenth time that day, face flushing pink. No matter how many times you had tried to scribble over the newly formed words with a Spell-O-Pen, the black ink always seemed to vanish when you weren’t looking, seemingly absorbed into the flawless calligraphy taunting you.
What a brilliant start to your 15th birthday.
Your best friend, Ron Weasley, shared your birthday and received his soulmate mark. He started cackling when he saw yours, the wording sending him into stitches. Unimpressed, you pointed out that his tattoo wasn’t located anywhere to the common eye, like the usual forearm marks.
And naturally, Ron panicked, claiming that he would be alone forever. Until you spotted words, scrawled in neat print on his armpit, spelling, And, you are?
That was how you and Ron found yourselves in thick jumpers in the middle of summer, managing to almost pass out during Snape’s lecture because of the heat.
As Snape’s monotone droned on, you began to not only feel unaccomplished but also bored out of your mind, and it was difficult to feel anything other than the scorching heat of your Gryffindor jumper. A slow migraine was starting to develop, and Ron didn’t seem to be having any better luck, with a sopping wet brow line and his pale skin matching his flaming ginger hair.
Yeah, it probably wasn’t the greatest idea in the world.
As you sat there, counting the agonizingly slow minutes until release, an impatient finger tapped your shoulder. You knew it was Ron, but the unbearable amount of stress and heat on your shoulders caused you to ignore your best friend’s hand. You tried to focus on any little thing, the way Hermione’s curls bounced when she scratched on parchment with her quill, or how Harry’s eyebrow twitched when he sneezed as he carelessly sniffed the lacewing powder.
The finger was still discreetly tapping your knee at an incessant pace, and you began to get quite irritated. Couldn’t he get the hint? How was he so unfazed about it?
“[y/n]. I need to itch my belly button.” Oh for goodness sake!
“Hush up, Ronald! Just focus on your work or something.”
A pause. The constant tapping resumed, as if Ron didn’t realize he was doing it and was on autopilot, moving his smaller appendage like the beating of his heart. “I knew we shouldn’t have done something like this. This is all your fault, [y/n]!”
You look up at his strained face incredulously, forgetting about Snape’s lecture. Ron was tapping at your leg forcefully now, and you had quite enough. Pushing him away by his face, you sneered, “This was your idea, Ronald, and a bloody terrible one at that!” you were enraged, how could he blame you on something that was his fault? “Because of you, we are sitting here burning-” your voice was rising incrementally higher, anger at everything; your situation, your bloody soulmate mark, Ron’s impudence, was fueling your words.
Ron’s face was slack, and slowly morphed into a panicked expression. His impossibly red face turned redder still, until he looked like a ripe cherry from a muggle farmer’s market. The bucket load of sweat slipped onto his face from stress wasn’t helping his situation either, and he constantly reached up to swipe the runny liquid from his face with his damned jumper.
You weren’t finished, fists clenched and shaking at your sides. Your anger was completely unreasonable, but the embarrassment of receiving a soulmate mark such as that, of your soulmate berating your face, made you livid. “And I am so sick of-”
“[l/n]!”
Snape towered over the both of you, his beady black eyes searing into your skull. His disapproving frown was etched onto his face, and you gulped, previous anger forgotten. Ron released a barely perceptible sigh of relief that you didn’t hear. You must have not realized Snape was even there, your rage-filled rant attracting the unwanted attention of the other students in the class as they watched you in confusion.
A pregnant pause ensued. You held your breath, hoping the punishment wouldn’t be too painful.
“Fifty points from Gryffindor.” A collective sigh of annoyance arose from the scarlet-clad members of the potions class, as Snape snapped his hands across Ron’s head. If you weren’t put in such a position, you would have laughed. Now you just felt like crumbling to the floor in a heap and bawling your eyes out.
He looked at you again, in confusion this time. “And remove your jumpers, both of you. I don’t want your performance in this class hindered by distracting clothing.”
Your eyes widened. No. No you wouldn’t.
If you removed your accursed crimson jumper, everyone would see your mark. You clenched your fists. This was unreasonable in more ways than one. You’d be known, not as [y/n], the best Gryffindor keeper of your age, but [y/n] the girl unworthy of her own soulmate. A few tears sprang up from your eyes.
Before you knew what you were doing, you sprang up from your desk and stormed out the door, not wanting to spend another moment in the classroom. You ignored Hermione and Ron’s calls, charging into the nearest girls’ lavatories.
You finally let your tears flow, hiding from nobody in the corner of the damp room. You covered your face with your fully clothed arm, not daring to remove the offending cloth to relieve your own body temperature. You would do anything to not see your mark of shame gazing up at you, and you had the uncontrollably odd urge to rip your own skin off.
What kind of person were you, that your own soulmate hated you? You felt pathetic beyond belief, and the thought alone caused you to sob harder. You felt your sweat roll down your chest, a tiny feeling of relief. At least you were out of the sweltering room.
A new anger settled itself in your heart. Something full of self loathing, self hate. Grappling with your tie, you managed to yank it off from underneath your jumper. Throwing it to the ground, you sat dejectedly on the linoleum tiles and cupped your face in your hands.
You were angry at yourself. How could you be so… so ugly that the person you were meant to spend your life with hated your fucking face? The urge grew stronger, and you had the morbid curiosity to claw your face off. At least your soulmate would have a reason to question your appearance then.
Peering up, you looked into the mirror. Mascara tracks slithered down your face like an eroded waterfall, and your hair stuck together, sweat clumping it up. Rubbing your face tiredly, you managed to smudge your eyeliner and strawberry lip gloss. You looked deranged, like you had broken out of an asylum you were imprisoned in for two decades.
The flash or rage came again as you let out a roar of frustration, hands slamming into the sink. The force of your upper body cracked the ceramic, slightly but still noticeable. The sink was crumbling, its old age not doing anything to help its mortality. Splinters of the white material were stuck in your hand, but you didn’t notice. All you saw was your face, and how the reflection of yourself glared into the mirror, as if you could wipe the pain and imperfections from your face.
And it wasn’t even your time of the month.
A squeak of a door from behind you shocked you out of your stupor. Whirling around, you saw a boy with straight platinum blond hair and startling blue-gray eyes. He was about a foot taller than you, and he looked annoyed, eyebrows furrowed as he gazed at your small profile shaking beside the sink.
It was Draco Malfoy.
The boy who had tormented your other three friends, who warned you to stay away from him. He was exactly as they described him, pale, aristocratic, his dark robes contrasting perfectly with his complexion. The green Slytherin emblem was stitched on his robes, and you felt confused by the mere sight of him.
He started forward, pushing past the door. There seemed to be nobody from behind him. He completely disregarded the girl’s bathroom sign and strode towards you, causing you to stumble back in fright.
“What the bloody fuck is wrong with your face?”
Pure white-hot anger shot into your system, making you forget your situation. Rude. “I could say the same about you, you albino mongoose!” You shrieked, moving to shove him away.
As you lunged forward, Malfoy caught your wrists. You gave a startled gasp, the momentum of your shove having thrown you into him. As he steadied you, you looked at your hands.
They were bloody, the pieces of ceramic from the sink having been lodged painfully in your joints. You winced as he scooped up your hands again with a tenderness that you hadn’t felt in a while, not even from Ron.
His long, pale fingers were almost translucent, and you found yourself frowning at them in curiosity. They seemed to be ghostlike, ethereal, a glowing undertone of mother-of-pearl under the masterfully-placed veins. His grip was gentle, as he slipped his grip from your wrists to your tiny fingers.
“No, I meant,” he stroked your palms with his thumb, a strangely intimate move for someone he just met. Besides being fascinated by the boy in front of you, you were weirded out immensely. “Why are you crying?”
You stared up into his stormy eyes. They softened, and he led you towards where your tie was laying, thrown to the ground by your antics. Realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer, he picked it up with his nimble fingers before sitting you down.
Pressing a thumb to his soft lips, his pink tongue darted out to lubricate it. You watched in fascination as he near painlessly removed the shards from your mangled hands. He was skilled, you could tell, his hands dancing across yours to relieve you of your pain. You briefly wondered why a boy as rich as him learned how to heal.
Reaching out with his finger coated in saliva, you winced loudly as he smeared it over the biggest wound on your thumb web. You hissed in a breath, watching as his eyes flicked up to meet yours for a dreadfully long second. His handsome face was set, as he seemed to ask for permission from you.
You gave him a barely perceptible nod. He smiled back. A lovely, caring smile that made your heart thump painfully in your chest.
He then pulled out his wand, a beautifully polished hawthorn one with two rings encircling the bottom. Running it over the wounds, he whispered, “Episkey.” You watched, mesmerized, as the skin seemed to see itself up painlessly, stitching itself together until the aching in your hand disappeared. You were stunned.
“How...” You mumbled, your eyes cautiously scanning your hands for other spots. Malfoy’s spit had vanished too, numbing your thumb web.
“I’m training to be a healer at St. Mungo’s.” You looked up to see Malfoy watching you carefully, kneading out your expression with a soft gaze. Why was everything pertaining to you soft?
“I...see. Thank you.” You seemed to have gained control of your voice. Malfoy smiled.
Then leaned closer.
And closer.
And closer.
Your breathing seemed to have halted in your chest. His breaths were shallow, smelling of apples and mint, a strangely pleasing combination. Instead of the expected pungency of cologne, you were struck with the soft smell of teakwood and pine, an earthy aroma that made you backtrack a bit.
He seemed to hesitate. Then reaching down, he tugged at the end of your jumper, pulling it up.
Oh. Oh no.
“No!” You exclaimed, snapping your newly healed hands to his, halting his movements. You involuntarily ran her fingers over his veins, and shivered. You were reminded of the entire situation in the first place, how you ran out of Snape’s class, had a bawling fest, and…
Met him. You met him.
Of all the days in your life, you had never met someone who struck a chord in you so profoundly after minutes of meeting them. Your body had seemed to memorize him, a strange connection like moths to flames ignited within you.
You looked back up at him shamefully, and found him smiling in amusement. His fingers slipped from yours and pressed against your hot forehead, startling you. Everything he did startled you. His touch was like static on metal to you, his presence was like hot chocolate and warm blankets on a winter day.
And you had just met him. This boy was affecting you like nobody had ever affected you before. Your emotions ran high, and you started trembling when his hands held either side of your face. As if both of you had done this before. Thousand times before. Like it was rehearsed.
He tilted your head, so your eyes met his. A blizzard, a tundra, swirled through his greys. While most saw bleak blue, you saw a paradise in his eyes. The color of steel, reminding you of so much stability. His euphoric eyes gazed at you with something you could only describe as adoration.
“I’m not ashamed, so don’t be.” His words were soft, gentle, like the breeze on a pleasantly chilly day. It took a moment for you to realize he said something, so you tilted your head.
“What?”
“Don’t be ashamed.”
Tilting his head to the left, your breath caught when messy handwriting- your handwriting- was scrawled onto his pale neck. Lifting a shaky hand, you placed it on his sculpted cheek. He released a soft sigh of relaxation, turning his neck further for you to see the tattoo.
I could say the same about you, you albino mongoose!
Wait.
Without wasting another minute, you seized the ends of your jumper and pulled it over your head. The fresh air welcomed you, as you sighed in bliss, throwing your jumper to the side to join your tie. Holding your tattooed arm out for your soulmate- it was so strange to say, soulmate- and watched as his eyes widened impossibly, pure happiness filling his oceans.
He cupped your face, hurriedly pressing his lips to your forehead, cheeks, and nose, peppering sweet packages of love to you, his quest to find his other half complete. His lips felt so right, as if you two had done this a million times. Both your laughters filled the small lavatory, your small arms wrapping around his waist as he nuzzled his face into your soft locks.
“[y/n]...” he whispered, your foreheads pressed together, and your heart almost burst, because nobody in the whole wide world could say your name as beautifully as him, and he was sure he felt the same when you replied, “Draco.” A confirmation. And you could stay with your Draco forever, you knew that, you wouldn’t leave for anything, because you love him, you love him, you love hi-
“[y/n]! My belly button still needs itching!”
You groaned. It would be a long day.
What an icon. This incident is right up there with him speaking about the nickname in HBP.
i know i use the word iconic a lot in relation to harry james potter but i feel it bears repeating here
This ficlet is so beautiful yet heartbreaking knowing what happens at the end of OOTP 💔🥺. I also love the callback to the SS chess games between Harry and Ron during Christmas time as well.
Finally getting to know his godson.
-
Sirius: Your mother used to sing in the school choir. Do you sing? Harry: No……. Sirius: That’s what everyone who sings in secret says.