#felixfics

Rosekiller microfic: 779 words || cw: mild themes of horror, necromancy and Barty being like... that

Death was a funny thing. A door that only seemed to open one way. A threshold that, once crossed, spanned into the endless inky blackness of eternity.

Barty had always been smarter than people gave him credit for. It had started, as many things did, with his father. He had never quite figured out how to be enough for the man who had seen fit to bestow his name upon him. Had never managed to live up to impossible standards that so often went unspoken until he'd inevitably failed to live up to them.

Ultimately he'd stopped trying.

People underestimated him or came up with all sorts of assumptions based on the superficial—yet perfectly practiced—facade he offered the world, and that was that. There was a certain freedom that came with choosing how he was perceived. Over time it became his armour, his defence against a world that never cared to look deeper.

Until Evan.

Evan had bothered to look deeper.

Bit by bit, piece by bloody piece, he'd taken the time to peel back the carefully constructed defences and Barty had let him, giddy from the high of being seen after so long.

Perhaps that was why losing him felt like losing himself.

Barty hadn't bothered going to the funeral, he'd never been one for the messy sentimentality of endings. Besides, 'goodbye' wasn't for people like him. Either he would take back what had been stolen from him, or he'd set fire to the world for daring to turn without the most important part of it. Either was fine.

Which brought him back to how death really was a funny thing. Cold, impersonal, sure. But immutable?

The hardest bit had been sourcing the parts. By the time Barty'd done enough research to feel confident in his plan, Evan had already begun to rot. It was fine, a minor hurdle that had been overcome. Thank Merlin that Barty had never concerned himself with the delicate boundaries of morality that seemed to constrain most.

In the end, a little bit of creativity and charm went a long way...

Looking down at the scarred body laying on a stone slab that had less to do with practicality and everything to do with curating the right sort of vibe, he was impressed with his work.

Sure, some things weren't quite right. His nose was a tad too straight—in fact, it was tempting to lovingly break it, but that could wait. His lips were just a tiny bit too plush, the cupids bow didn't arch at just the right angle. But it was close enough.

It was the eyes he had been the most proud of. Perfect pools of blue that felt like looking into the sky.

Laying his hands on the smooth, cool stone, Barty began to chant. The incantation rolled off his tongue like poison dripping into a wound. Soft and insidious, yet as sweet as a lullaby. Like Evan was merely sleeping and it was time to wake up.

Static pricked at his fingers, causing the hair on his arms and the nape of his neck to rise. The lights flickered, casting sinister shadows around him—twisted, elongated things that bled down the walls, pooling at his feet. Still, he pressed on.

Hot, sharp static zapped up his arms and a rough, raw sound tore from Barty's lips as lightning shot over the slab, over his skin, over the would-be-Evan... He could smell burning—was it him? He couldn't tell. He grit his jaw so tightly it was a wonder that his teeth didn't break as lightning shaped like long fingers stabbed into his brain, into his soul, tearing and clawing. He was going to die.

No sooner than the thought had formed, the fingers retracted. Barty fell to his knees, the breath punched from his lungs.

There was a strange ache in his chest, a curious, hollow thing that seemed to echo behind the cage of bones that held it. Almost as if something vital had been removed. It didn't matter, he wasn't naive enough to think that this wouldn't come at a cost.

What point was there in a heart that lacked its reason to beat anyway?

When the pain finally began to subside and Barty opened his eyes, he found himself staring into pools of blue that made him feel like he was like looking into the sky.

"Rosie... Is it..? Did I..?"

A trembling hand rose to cup a too cold cheek, scarred fingers curling over it to hold it in place. Evan's voice, when he finally spoke, was little more than a rasp and Barty flinched when the sky clouded with horror.

Jegulus Microfic: 1265 words (idek, this scene came to me in a dream)

James wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when Regulus had hauled him out to see the city, but it hadn't been this.

The two of them had spent the better part of the afternoon wandering down the promenade, their arms brushing against one another as they swung lazily by their sides as they stopped at various shops to sample a range of treats.

James was particularly partial to the passionfruit sorbet that a little old lady with a toothy smile pressed into his hand on the end of a popsicle stick. So much so that he'd brought two cones for them to snack on as they followed the shoreline towards the pier.

In a perfect world, James would let his fingers drift across the space between them, lacing them together so there was no doubt that this wonderful man belonged with him.

Regulus was beautiful in the fading light; soft sunlight danced across the constellation of freckles dusting his cheeks and James knew then why astronomers and poets fell in love with the night sky.

Wolfstar(ish) microfic: 584 words

Cool metal dug into his skin as he was yanked forward by the chain around his neck, his feet scrabbling on cracked flagstones against an iron grip that just wouldn't let go. 

"No, please... I didn't— I swear!"

The words tore from his lips and Sirius' voice cracked despite his best efforts. There would be no noble attempt to hold it together, not now, not as he was dragged into darkness. It was all he could do not to snarl and snap at the cruel hands that urged him ever onward.

"Shut it, you mangy beast."

The guard laughed—actually laughed!—as he shoved him through a set of steel doors.

"Keep it up and I'll have no choice but to muzzle you."

It was cold inside, the air was heavy with a sense of desolation as sharp as a knife. Sirius tried not to listen as he was dragged past row after row of cells. The howling of those contained within converged to create a truly unbearable cacophony. 

"Get in there," the rough voice of his captor commanded, before he stepped close to unhook the chain around Sirius' throat. The man's fetid breath fell against his cheek; the soft puffs of rancid air like a caress of rot and ruin to welcome him to his new home. 

He was innocent. 

The thought echoed in his head, like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage. 

He was innocent, but it didn't matter.

The door closed behind him with a clang and Sirius was left in a heap, discarded like a piece of trash. 

He didn't know how much time passed, there were no windows in his cell, making it impossible to mark the passing days. Instead, he began to count meals. The food was awful; a dry, flavourless affair that caught in his throat and made him choke down the tepid water he was given at various intervals. 

He knew, without a doubt, that his sanity was fraying. He could feel himself fading away, bit by bit. Piece by piece. Until all that remained would be a hollow shell.

He was already starting to forget the things that made him him.

The happy memories were already beginning to fade. He could barely recall the sound of James' laughter, or the feeling of Remus' calloused fingers brushing across his freckles every time he lifted a scarred hand to cup Sirius' cheek. 

In the end, Sirius just curled up on the floor of his cell and waited for whatever would come next. He hadn't made peace with his inevitable demise, let the record be perfectly clear on that matter. It was more that hope had wilted amidst this cold, lonely place until any alternative was preferable to more of the same stretched out nothingness.

Maybe that was why he felt a subtle sense of relief when he heard the footsteps approaching.

The bolt on the door slid back, the rough, metallic sound grating against his ears. He pushed himself to stand, determined to at least meet his maker on his feet.

"This one yours?"

"Yup." Remus popped the 'p' as he stared down at the scruffy black dog. "That's my idiot alright. Come on, Padfoot. Let's get you home."

~

Prongsfoot microfic: 355 words

James didn't know when it started, the warm rush that would bloom in his chest every time Sirius looked at him like that. All pouty lips and stormy eyes that sat amid the sea of freckles dusting his pale cheeks like stars. He couldn't remember when he had wanted to start counting them, or Merlin forbid, tracing them with his thumb with a tenderness that would have bordered on reverence.

Like an astronomer marking constellations in the night sky.

Sirius may have been the brightest star in the sky, but his namesake had nothing on the man himself. He didn't help matters either; personal space wasn't something that had ever existed between them, there was always some point of contact—the press of a thigh as they sat jammed together on a too small couch, or the unconscious brush of hands in the night that seemed to say I'm here, it's okay.

In fact, by the time James realised how far gone he truly was, it was much too late to turn back. Somehow Sirius had found a way to weave himself through each and every part of the tapestry that was his life—silver and gold intertwined so completely that the whole thing would probably fall apart if James ever dared to pluck at a single thread.

People liked to say that James was the sun, bright, shining, belonging to the day. How could day and night ever co-exist?

People often forgot that the sun was a star too.

Yet every time he opened his mouth to say something, he thought of split lips and bruised cheeks and hands that clung on tight, as if he were the only solid thing in a world gone mad. James had made an anchor of himself, had built a home, a sanctuary without strings.

The thought that his feelings might jeopardise that sense of safety was too much to bear.

Looking down at the sleeping figure beside him, their limbs tangled together so that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began, James smiled.

This was enough.

More than enough.

It had to be.

Jegulus(ish) Microfic: 992 words || cw: minor themes of horror? (enchanted/cursed doll Reg)

Dust motes danced in the pale shafts of light that slipped through the cracks in the boards covering the windows. Their presence made for a welcome distraction, Regulus liked to make up wordless melodies for them to dance to, humming softly from his perch on the shelf near the back of the attic.

He didn't know how long he'd been there, only that it was getting harder to remember the sound of his father's voice. But maybe that was for the best, he'd never quite managed to live up to the expectations bestowed upon him before his mechanical heart had even had the chance to beat.

It shouldn't have mattered and yet it did. Regulus hadn't been given the capacity to care, not by design. But that didn't stop the curious ache in his chest that had less to do with the rats and their gnawing teeth, and more to do with the sense that even a broken doll like him deserved... Something. He wasn't entirely sure what.

As it was, he would have been grateful if someone shifted him closer to the window so he might feel the sun caress his cracked cheeks.

He'd been able to interact with the world around him once, a long time ago. Back when there had been people, laughter. Back when he'd been given beautiful clothes and his curls had been styled just so. Now, they were littered with cobwebs and he couldn't even lift a hand to brush the spiders away.

Now he was lucky if he could focus his influence enough to disturb the papers stacked on the desk by the door.

A floorboard creaked somewhere below him, probably just a rat on the prowl for some unfortunate morsel to nibble on. For a moment, just a moment, he let himself imagine his father had come back for him, that it had been a mistake, that he wasn't a failed prototype after all. That it was okay, that he could finally come home.

Home.

What a curious word.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, thud-thud-thudding closer, belonging to something much larger than any rat he'd ever seen. 'Please', he found himself thinking desperately. 'Someone, anyone... Just shift me into the light, that's all. I don't need anything more.'

There had been a time when it would have been enough, when he had been strong enough to be heard.

For the first time in longer than Regulus could remember, the door to the attic creaked open. The man was dressed in simple clothes, his hair sticking out in all sorts of odd, unruly angles. The frames sitting atop his nose gleamed in the fading light and when he swept his gaze across the room, Regulus found himself looking into rich hazel that was almost bronze. Almost gold.

"Oh. Hello there." The man's voice was light, warm, as he spoke to the doll on the shelf. "Aren't you just the prettiest thing?" His lips curved in a smile that made Regulus steel heart jolt and, for just a moment, he felt like he could mean something again.

"Find anything up there?"

The voice that called up the stairs was unwelcome, Regulus wanted to slam the door shut, to keep this lovely stranger all to himself. He felt the energy course through him, from him, almost enough—

The door barely even twitched.

"Nothing worth writing home about," the man called back and Regulus felt his heart sink when he turned away to scan the attic one more time.

'Wait.' He knew it was futile. 'I'm here. Don't go, don't leave me behind. I can be something. I can be enough...'

For a moment, when the stranger's lovely golden gaze snapped back to him, Regulus wondered if maybe he had been heard. He didn't need to breathe, but if he did, he would have held his breath.

"James, come on. We don't have all day."

The man, James, rolled his eyes in a good natured sort of way that felt warm—did everything this man do feel like that? Or was Regulus just so starved for warmth that anything just shy of hostile would have felt like it? He wasn't sure that it mattered. Either way, it would make for a lovely dream. Something new to hold onto when the loneliness grew so strong he felt like he might choke on it.

"Well, you heard him." James smiled apologetically, hesitating for just a moment longer, before he reached out and lifted Regulus off the shelf. "You don't mind, do you? It's just that something as lovely as you really shouldn't be left here to gather dust."

Regulus almost wept. He might not have been capable of producing tears, but that didn't mean he couldn't cry; an awful, silent thing that echoed inside him.

Cradled in James' arms, he let himself be carried down the narrow stair and through winding corridors that had once been grand, but had now succumbed to rust and ruin.

The man in the foyer looked up when James approached, a slight frown curving his lips when he saw Regulus. "Who's your friend?" His tone was curious, not cold, and Regulus felt the urge to turn his face and hide in the warmth that had claimed him.

"I found him upstairs." There was a sort of breathless quality to his voice as he held the doll out for the scarred man to get a closer look. Regulus wasn't sure what to make of the way the stranger's amber eyes widened when he took him in.

"He looks just like—"

"I know, Moony. I know."

Regulus didn't know why these men were looking at him as though he were something precious, he really wasn't. Years of solitude had proven that fact. But as he was carried away from the crumbling ruin that was Grimmauld Place and into the light of the sun, he felt for the first time in a long time, like things might be okay.

☆

Jegulus(ish) Microfic: 515 words

Part two of Somebody Shine a Light (Shatter Me), you can check out part one here: | 1 |

~☀︎~

James didn't know what to make of the doll. If he were asked, he'd say he took it because it reminded him of another doll—the one with silver eyes that Pandora kept on the armchair by the telly. Because it liked to watch movies with her, or so she claimed.

Really though, he'd taken it because he'd always felt a certain sense of responsibility towards lost, lonely things. Someone had to look out for them. It wasn't out of pity, though it broke his heart that something so beautiful could be abandoned for so long, but because James couldn't help but feel that things and places knew when they were loved.

It had been decades since Orion Black and his wife had disappeared, leaving nothing but a cluttered house and rumours that had become little more than stories, the kind that were told around a campfire with the express purpose of frightening one's friends. No one knew the full story, of course, but such was the nature of these things.

James was partial to the one where they'd fled in the dead of night after a sordid life of crime caught up to them. Remus, on the other hand, was much more practical and maintained that it was probably just the result of economic strain catching up with the couple that had forced them to seek out greener pastures abroad.

In the end, it didn't really matter.

All that mattered was the dare that had sent them over the threshold of a long abandoned place to see what dark relics they might find to prove once and for all what had really transpired at Grimmauld Place.

Peter had waited in the car, of course. He claimed that it was better for someone to keep a look out, just in case. After all, they were technically breaking and entering; even though the door had swung open for them without so much as a creak.

Despite the creeping sense of unease that had twisted his stomach and caused the hair at the base of his neck stand on end, it was exhilarating to step into the object of myth and mystery. To walk the crumbling halls and cavernous rooms, to breathe in a place that felt alive with history.

There had been no vault filled with stolen gold and priceless artifacts, nor did there seem to be any sign of dark rituals or pentagrams etched into the hardwood floors. It was almost disappointing—to think that the stories had been just that.

But then James had found the doll.

So, sure. If he were asked he'd say that he'd taken the doll because it reminded him of the one on Pandora's armchair. He couldn't begin to explain how those eyes—more grey than silver, more like the ocean in the middle of a storm, than a star—had seemed filled with a tentative hope that had almost broken his heart.

If James really was built to be a friend to the lost and the lonely, then let it begin and end with the doll he held tenderly in his hands.

~☀︎~

Since this idea has been haunting me since I posted part one, I've decided to flesh it out and turn it into a full size fic (I have no idea what that size will be yet, but I'm sure Reg will tell me as his story unfolds.)

so what if one of them's dead and may and may not actually be there, let them have this.