#the intervention

My best edit yet!!

Mood board for chapter 30: Grimmauld Place

You hope I like it????? YOU HOPE I LIKE IT????

MA’AM, I LOVE IT!! I AM BESOTTED WITH IT. I AM HOPELESSLY OBSESSED. I AM ENAMORED. I HAVE ACHIEVED ABSOLUTE INCANDESCENT JOY.

I read The Intervention (A Friendship Experiment) by @pollutionisbad this weekend in a single sitting (as in I literally forgot to eat dinner because I was so hooked 😂) and it was EXCEPTIONAL!!!! I was def inspired to make some art for it *cue searching on YouTube “how to draw a stack of books”* *cue realizing Procreate is also a different learning curve* 🫠

I don’t tend to gravitate towards fics with a “softer Tom” but I’ve loved all the oneshots/short fics the author has put out recently so decided to give this longfic a shot. And…can this Tom truly be considered soft when he is a FUCKING TEENAGE MENACE?!?!?!?!

Sneak peak of Chapter 29 of The Intervention (a friendship experiment):

Tom doesn’t so much as step out of the flames as tumble. He falls ungracefully on top of his trunk, covered in soot and ash, his throat burning, but not from the smokeless flames.

“Mum!” A deep voice bellows from nearby. “A man just fell out of the floo!”

Tom lifts his head toward the sound and is greeted by a large grin, a freckled face, and a shock of bright red hair. A Weasley, certainly, but older than even Fred and George, with the beginnings of a strawberry-blond beard.

“Never mind the bit about a man, mum!” He continues, maintaining eye contact. “Built like a man but has a proper babyface. Must be Ron’s friend.”

Tom scowls as he straightens, brushing soot off his clothes, resisting the urge to prod at his cheeks. He’d been wondering if his face was too full—

“Tom! You’re here early—I thought you’d be another hour at least!” Mrs. Weasley rushes in, wearing a bright pink apron embroidered with different colored cupcakes. “Ron!” she calls without pausing. “Come down! Your friend Tom is here! Let me look at you! Rough journey? Come to the kitchen, dear, I’ve made French toast—Ginny’s favorite. You remember Ginny from school?”

She pivots to the redheaded man on the sofa. “Take care of the trunk, Charlie—Ron’s room, please!”

Tom barely has time to take in his surroundings.

The sitting room is small and cluttered—a sagging sofa patched with mismatched fabric, weathered armchairs with blankets strewn over their worn upholstery, a coffee table stacked with old copies of the Daily Prophet, knitting needles clicking away on their own in a basket by the window. The walls are covered in photographs, all moving. Fred and Goerge zipping by on brooms. A very small version of Ron and Ginny holding hands. Mrs. Weasley in a wedding frock, much younger and quite pretty, twirling under her husband’s outstretched arm.

A clock hangs above the mantle, but instead of numbers, its hands point to locations: Home, Work, School, Garden, and… Lost? Mortal peril?

Before he has the chance to examine it further, she’s ushering him forward.

The hallway is even more cluttered, bags piled in the corner, cauldrons stacked so high the tower looms overhead, threatening to topple.