#axconitum

   There’s no telling how long he’s been where he is, or where it is that he is, exactly. It gets more and more difficult to grasp the last tendrils of memory as time goes by (a nebulous thing, too; he’s been in this half-aware state of existence for no time at all and as long as he can reasonably remember) but he knows that he’s chasing something.

   What, he doesn’t know. He remembers the sharp, high spike of laughter, faltering steps, and a prickling, cool sensation washing over his body.

   Then he remembers nothing at all except wisps. Things pull at him, jog his memory through the haze: voices, blurred shapes, echoes of people he is sure are important to him somehow, but he can never quite reach them. When he tries, they filter through his fingers like smoke, or maybe it’s his fingers that are smoke; he can’t tell.

   He isn’t fully aware of anything until he’s pulled through to the other side, and the sense of who he is crashes into him all at once as he stares into the terrified, brave face of his godson and he says, “Not at all. Quicker and easier than falling asleep.”

   But that feels wrong, itching at the back of his mind in a way that he can’t ignore. He struggles to reach it, pushing his way through heavy waters, and walks beside Harry - beside him to his death - and he thinks, must this be it?

   He wonders, grasping at the frayed edges of recent memory, if this is really how it must end. If James and Lily died for this, if he rotted away for over a decade in prison for this, if all the pain and suffering and torment of Harry’s short life was really meant to end in this moment -

   He decides no, and a moment later he feels a hook behind his navel and a pull.

   The curtains of the veil flutter wildly behind him as he stumbles out, feet skittering against cold marble. He stumbles, clumsy and gasping for breath as though he’s run a marathon, and the slap of his palms hitting the floor echoes into the silence. Chest heaving, he scrambles forward, his knee catching on his robes and tripping him again, and he swears when his shoulder slams into the ground.

   He presses himself up against the wall, every breath tearing through his chest like a misery, and watches wide-eyed as the curtain flutters softly and then goes still.

   It takes him only a moment to decide that he has no time to spare; wherever Harry had been, whatever he’d been doing - it had looked like a forest, perhaps the Forbidden Forest - he was in grave danger. So too was Sirius, if anyone found him in the Ministry of Magic after hours, but most importantly: he needed to get to Harry.

   By the time he escaped the Ministry, he could be grateful enough that it was dead of night and there was only a skeleton crew of staffing to contend with, but that was all he could be grateful for. Grimmauld Place, disturbing and inhospitable as ever, offered no one from the Order for him to question. With no time to waste, he grabbed a spare bit of parchment and scribbled out a note, tying it to an owl’s leg impressing and upon it the urgency of the message.

Moony -

Where the bloody buggering fuck are you? Harry’s in trouble. I’m going to our old stomping grounds.

Padfoot

Sirius lets the silence hang between them for a few beats, enjoying watching his best friend squirm in place perhaps just a little too much more than a good friend ought to. Remus was many things, and he was talented at most of them, but keeping secrets - aside from the obvious, which he and James had found out about almost immediately regardless - was not one of his strong points. At least, not from his friends, and Sirius was relentless when he actually worked up the energy to want something.

Which means that Remus doesn’t stand a chance, whether he wants to admit it or not.

He doesn’t rouse himself immediately, but his smile does widen, and he shifts his leg to make room on the sofa. Several people have been covetously eyeing the cushions next to him since he sat down, but he’s enough of a presence in the common room that no one has outright asked him to move, and he certainly hasn’t offered.

“Moony,” he says finally, the nickname gusting out on a sigh, “We both know that whatever you’ve got behind your back you’re going to show me eventually. Have a sit and spare me tackling you to get it.”

sent by @axconitum | What is my muse’s ideal date?

Well, there are a lot of different factors to this (first date? three hundredth?).

For Charlotte, one of the most important things is going somewhere relatively quiet and not busy. A lot of people seem to go on dates to crowded restaurants, bars, or even the cinema, and she feels like that takes away a lot of opportunity to actually talk and get to know one another, which is kind of the point.

A good date would be a cozy cafe, or perhaps a museum. In the former, people can talk properly and also probably not worry about ordering and eating in front of each other, and in the latter, you could have a lot of talking points around you, which is helpful. Even something as simple as a cooking class; something that gives her and her prospective date something to discuss while they’re together. 

Family Headcanons!

👨 = What’s your muse’s relationship with their father, what made it that way?

harry potter themed questions!  || @axconitum

@axconitum - 

   It is, in fact, Remus’ shirt. It’s half-buttoned up and a little long on him - Remus is not only taller than Sirius is by a good few inches, but he’s lean with it, too, so it sits a bit strangely on him. Sirius prides himself on being able to make any look work, and the post-shag, wearing your (boy?)friend’s shirt is one that he’d never actually anticipated, but he can confirm that he is, in fact, working it.