John Hurt -To you, we raise out wands. Forever our Ollivander-The Best Wandmaker in the Wizarding World. 1/22/40 - 1/27/17.

Hermione: Don’t do the thing Harry!

Ron: Hey Harry, lets do the thing!

Snape: Don’t do the thing you dunderhead ball of deaf ignorance.

McGonagall:  Mr Potter, don’t you dare do the thing.

Dumbledore: Hmmm…  Perhaps you shouldn’t do the thing, but here are some tools, explained in the most vague possible way, to get the thing done, I’m counting on you.

Hagrid: *Gives all the details about the thing*  Shouldn’t have said that.  ‘Arry don’t do the thing.

Sirius: James, I mean Harry, back in my school days with James, your dad, we always did the thing.

Remus: Sirius, perhaps you shouldn’t encourage him, but if you’re going to, here’s a map to help you do the thing.

Draco: Potter can’t possibly accomplish the thing.  Prat.

Luna: We must go do the thing from the side while riding nargles to freedom.

Voldemort: THERE IS NO THING BUT POWER AND THOSE TO WEAK TO ACCEPT IT.

Harry: I‘m doing the thing!  I’m doing IT RIGHT NOW!  CONSIDER THE THING DONE.

One thing the Harry Potter franchise did right that a lot of other movies didn’t:

NOT put the movie posters on the book covers.

Harry Potter isn’t an interest it’s a lifestyle.

Since the announcement of JK Rowling’s new project, I’ve noticed the amount of Harry Potter books on reserves has skyrocketed.

And we just got a shipment of new Harry Potter books, and the materials management ordered the gorgeous new paperback editions. They’re sprinkled all over the reserves shelves.

The set is so beautiful. I just–

The wizard also told us that I’ll have to go to Diagon Alley, a place in London to get my school stuff. I’m so excited to go to a place where they sell wands and cauldrons! I’ve never seen such things in real life. It’ll be so much fun!!

Tried and failed not to cry while watching character deaths in Harry Potter!

https://youtu.be/svryOswBE9I

Did my makeup to match the gryffindor colours

https://youtu.be/i3QsaFMsegk

https://youtu.be/DGMeZ0wLmO8

Huge Harry Potter haul

I just filmed the Harry Potter exhibition in Valencia and OMG it was fudging amazing!! I was sooo blown away by how beautifully decorated it was!! ⚡️

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom:Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes:I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding fromsomething?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy’s or the girl’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake’s venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six©: He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’llnever be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feelyoung.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six© might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six© seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

His Butler, and the Problem with Magic (Ch2)

Fandom:Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji x Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets Crossover

Fic Synopsis: Life at Hogwarts isn’t all bad…usually. But when Valentine’s Day rolls around, and Lockhart throws an extravagant ball, the number of couples at school the next day skyrockets, and Sebastian finds himself a new object of devotion…Can Ciel save his butler from the spell on his own?

Character Focus:  Ciel (Edward Midford, Grell, Lizzie, Snape)

Notes:I bet you all thought I forgot about this fic didnt you? SIKE! I forget nothing.

(By the way, I’ll definitely repost chapter 1 of this as well, in case you guys forgot about it XD)

I was informed that Valentines day with this coming Sunday and I couldn’t believe it. I had been wanting to work on multiple valentines fics and I thought I had weeks left to write them XD So in light of that, I knew I had been slowly chipping away at a chapter 2 of this over time, so I decided to check it out and see how much work I had to do to make it postable in time for valentines day. To my surprise, the chapter was pretty much ready to go! So at long last, here it is!!

I really hope you enjoy it!! If you do, I implore you to consider commenting and/or reblogging!! I assure you its much much more likely this fic will get a chapter 3 if I know that people are interested in reading more <3

@elegantkittycat Tagging you in case you’re still interested in reading more!!

Chapter 2:

Ciel jerked his hand away as the cauldron sizzled, muttering curses under his breath—(the normal kind, not the magic kind). Usually Sebastian managed their clandestine dealings and he didn’t have to worry about burning his fingers off.

His conversation with Tom Riddle had left him with a list of ingredients, and a method of combining them into a potion that would allegedly cure Sebastian and others of this ailment.

He was fully aware trusting strange voices in diaries wasn’t the best decision he could make on the career path of life, but considering he had found no other options, and a whole lot of annoyance, he didn’t have much to lose. Besides, Sebastian was a demon, so even if it was supposed to make your eyes pop out or something, he’d probably be okay.

Ciel looked down the instructions and grimaced, reaching over for the next ingredient, trying not to look directly at it.

Despite the potions classroom being the main place to get potions, and potion making materials, he was not in the potions classroom. This late in the evening, Snape probably would have killed him. He was in a room on the seventh floor which Sebastian had found last May. It seemed to hold within it whatever the person walking by it required.

He dropped the last ingredient in, raised his wand, muttered a very complicated spell and sighed.

The only thing left to do was wait. It had to brew for twenty-four hours, which meant it wouldn’t be ready until six o’clock the next evening. Twenty-four hours was too much time with a love infested school to deal with.

Ciel packed up his stuff and headed out into the hall—making sure to check for Filch first. He was almost back to his common room when—

“CIEL PHANTOMHIVE!”

He nearly tripped and toppled to the ground taking all his supplies and homework with him.

As he righted himself, he jerked his head up to observe the source of the disturbance: a tall, blonde boy, a few years older than Ciel, sporting his Gryffindor robes as if he was the reincarnation of Godric goddamn Gryffindor himself.

Ciel had the displeasure of knowing this boy.

“Edward?!” he growled, recovering his dignity and dusting himself off. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

“That depends,” he said in a low murmur that seemed to hide waves of anger.

He marched up to his future-brother-in-law, stopped far too close, and stared into Ciel’s eyes like he could bore into his brain with his gaze.

“What. Did you do. To my sister?”

“What did I— ?” Ciel blinked, rivalling anger disappearing in the face of concern. “What?”

Edward was the son of the proud, and not to mention handy-with-swords Marquess Midford, and all this noble, virtue-loving, God-fearing, paladin energy was often channeled into being protective of his younger sister Lizzie…who also happened to be Ciel’s fiancé.

“Lizzie. What did you do to her?!”

“Yes, I’m familiar with to whom you’re referring!” He pushed him back, “What’s wrong with her?!”

It was Edward’s turn to blink. “You don’t know?”

“You may or may not have noticed I am otherwise occupied! I’ve been running around trying to save my butler from this hell, thank you very much!”

“Oh,” his eyes flickered.

Ciel looked up at him, then blinked. “You think I caused this?!”

“Well you don’t exactly foster an atmosphere of peace and calm, now do you?”

“I’d thank you to have more confidence in me in the future! For your information, Undertaker caused this!”

“Undertaker?! Oh that slimy bloke hasn’t seen the last of me!” He turned, putting his fist into his palm, beginning to march out of the room.

Ciel lazily grabbed the sleeve of his robe, pulling him back. “Hunting him down isn’t going to get you any answers—and will likely make you more frustrated. Believe me, I’ve already tried. Now, if you’d be so kind, I’d like to know what’s wrong with my fiancé.”

Edward rubbed the back of his head. “Well…”

“Tell me, Edward.” It was Ciel’s turn to stare him down. Apparently it was effective, because Edward couldn’t meet his gaze.

“Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I went to go say hi, and I found her sitting in the common room, staring out the window. She barely took any notice of me. And when she did she started spitting prattling nonsense about this man she met,” he said the last words like men were the most revolting things in the planet. “Naturally I assumed this was a newfound appreciation for you, or she simply was admiring Lockhart like she usually does.”—Ciel made a face at this—“But apparently…not.”

Ciel blanched. He was about to speak, but Edward continued:

“When I learned it wasn’t you, I told her to have some decency, but it was as if she couldn’t even hear me!” His air of forced calm broke. “Apparently she’s madly in love with some—some—some idiot!”

“She’s… what?” The words were soft.

“I said—”

“I heard what you said!” He grabbed his robes.

Some third years walked by at that exact moment and stared at them. Ciel released him, and he and Edward paused and waved awkwardly. After they passed, Ciel continued in a shout-whisper.

“How the hell did this happen?! I specifically made sure she stayed away from the punch at that party!”

“The punch? What punch?”

“The punch Undertaker spiked!”

“Undertaker spiked—?! Oh…Maybe she drank some when you weren’t looking? You can’t have been keeping her under constant surveillance, can you?”

“I was watching her very closely, she couldn’t have!” He said, realizing his usually-more-than-adept butler was quite possibly compromised at the time. “When did these symptoms start? The morning after Valentines Day?”

“Um,” Edward put a hand to his chin, thinking, “I…I’m not sure.”

“Oh you’re just useless aren’t you?”

“More useful than you! If you knew it was spiked at the party, why didn’t you tell everyone?! Or try to stop him?!”

“It seemed like a harmless prank!”

“What are we up to?” Snape’s greasy form appeared, cutting the scene.

“Nothing, Professor Snape,” Edward said quickly. “We were just—”

“I wasn’t talking to you.” He folded his arms and stared down his hooked nose at Ciel. “Your detention is to take place tomorrow evening at six o’clock. Meet me in my office. Try not to earn yourself another one before then.”

“Yes, Sir.” Ciel said softly.

Snape’s black robes swished passed them.

“So Lizzie—? Wait, did he just say six o’clock?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Damn it!” Ciel groaned, leaning against the bannister.

“What’s wrong?”

He waved him off. “It’s none of your concern.”

Edward folded his arms and glared at him.

“I’m working on a potion to try to neutralize this whole…love mess.”

“I’d say that’s very much of my concern! You have the antidote?!”

“I said I’m working on it. It’ll be ready at six o’clock tomorrow evening—six o’clockexactly.”

“I guess you’ll have to get it after you get back.” Edward shrugged.

“It’s a very delicate potion I have to—Ugh Nevermind.”

After a pause Edward asked, “…And you’re sure this antidote will work?”

“I’m not sure of much of anything. The only thing I am sure about is if the potion doesn’t kill me, if I’m late to his detention, Snape just might.”

*****

As Ciel sat down to breakfast he made the silent resolve to quickly finish the potion at six o’clock, then speed to the dungeon as fast as possible, taking the bottle with him to his detention, and hurry to Sebastian right afterwards. Snape wouldn’t be happy, but, despite what he said to Edward earlier, the worst he’d do was give him another detention, or take a large sum of house points. And he wasn’t so strict he’d make students empty their pockets, so he shouldn’t notice while he sat sitting for a few hours cleaning viper guts off potion bottles. There was no telling what this potion would do if he left it for however long detention was, so it took priority. And even if his detention went into the night, that would be the perfect time to test it—the demon wouldn’t be asleep anyways.

Ciel was currently trying to make his seat in the great hall a little corner of peace and calm, and block out the chaos in the rest of the hall, setting down his knife properly, trying to ignore the food flying across the hall, when—

“Oh, Brat~!”

Ciel sighed resignedly as his least favorite redhead came swinging into his vision.

“What are you doing back here so soon?” Ciel grumbled, holding his scowling face in one hand, sticking his fork aimlessly into his eggs with the other.

“And when I came all this way to see you, too?!” He turned up his nose in disgust. “I couldn’t possibly get my beauty sleep after I saw my Sebas-chan in such dire straits.” He pulled a scroll out of his jacket pocket, “So I was up all night thinking of ways to get him back to his sexy self!” He unrolled its impressive length, the end landing in Ciel’s eggs.

Ciel couldn’t help but skim through some his ideas, if nothing else for a good laugh.

They ranged from the more simple and reasonable Find the spell, and make a counter curse,andBash his head in, to the not-so-reasonable Maybe true loves kiss will work~?

“What’s this?” Ciel squinted at a particular line. “‘Put that brat he calls “master” in mortal danger’?”

It was starred and underlined several times.

“Oh you noticed that one did you?” He said in fake innocence. “That’s one of my personal favorites!”

Ciel’s eyes lidded.

“And how exactly would putting me in mortal danger solve the problem of my butler being in love with you?”

“For some reason—can’t see why—Sebas-chan is very attached to you—”

“Sure, it has nothing to do with the contract we made.”

“Yes, yes.” He waved him off. “Well he’s very against you being in any sort of danger. See the idea,”—He put a nail on the table— “is that if we put you in mortal danger his primal demonic—”—he said the word in a way Ciel was not fond of—“inclinations will override the spell and snap him out of it.”

Ciel blinked, staring down at the line of text.

The worst thing was…that actually made some smidgen of sense. You know, in a sadistic kind of way.

“And how would you propose we do that? You know, without actually killing me?”

“Oh all part of the fun. I have a number of ideas as to how we could push you riiight up to the edge! It’ll be delightfully diabolical. Of course, if it doeskill you, well…” he turned away and muttered, “All’s well that ends well, as they say.”

“Not that that doesn’t sound fun…” Ciel stood, pushing the list away. “I’ve found my own way of breaking the spell thank you very much.”

“Oh?” Grell blinked, intrigued. “Have you now?”

“Not that its any of your business, yes.” He brushed himself off, gathering his stuff, “If you’ll excuse me, I have my own business to attend to.”

“Well when that fails don’t hesitate to come crawling back to your favorite reaper Grellypoo ~!” He rolled up the scroll.

“You’re not even my fifth favorite reaper!” He threw over his shoulder.

“But at least I’m on the list!”

*****

Due to the fact that little real learning was happening on either side—unless you count learning too much about various students and teacher’s romantic habits—they had decided to cancel classes for the time being. This gave the teachers more time to devote to finding the cure as well.

Ciel decided to take this time to ascertain the validity of Edward’s statement the night previous and visit Lizzie.

She was a Gryffindor like her brother. Visiting the Gryffindor common room wouldn’t be first, or even last, in a list of things he wanted to do…but he’d half to bear it.

As he walked up the stairs he bumped into someone. At first they apologized and continued walking but soon the other person called back:

“Hey, I ran into yesterday didn’t I?”

Ciel turned to see none other than Harry Potter.

“Yes?”

“Did you happen to see a diary? Like when you were helping me pick up my stuff?”

“The great Harry Potter keeps a diary?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s not my diary. Just adiary.”

“A diary that just so happened to find its way into your bag?”

“Well…yeah.”

“Sorry to say, I haven’t seen it.”

“Hmm…Alright. Thanks anyways.” He waved as he continued down the stairs.

As another Gryffindor left, he slipped into the common room.

Lizzie was sitting in a chair against the window, just like Edward said she would be. She rested her hand on her chin, her elbow on the table, and watched the rain fall.

“Lizzie!” he ran up to her.

“Oh…Ciel…it’s you,” she said in a dreamy, nonplussed tone.

“Yes it’s me. What happened? Have you completely lost your senses?!”

“No I’d say my senses are in tact thank you. And I’d thank you not to ask a lady such an impolite question.”

“Sorry but…what happened? Why are you—?”

“I don’t know. I just, of a sudden, found him to very attractive one morning, and I’m having trouble thinking of much else.”

“Who?” He sat in the chair across from her.

“That’s not really of your concern, is it?”

“It is when I’m your fiancé!” He said a little too loudly, making Gryffindors turn towards him.

“Mm…” She muttered like it wasn’t an issue.

“Lizzie, I tried to make sure you didn’t drink that punch at the party! How did this happen?!”

“Party?” She paused, and for a moment he wasn’t sure she was even going to continue the conversation. “…Oh I don’t know. I seem to faintly recall the most beautiful man I’d ever met saying I simply must try it.”

His eyes widened. “Someone gave it to you directly?! Who?! Why?!”

“I’ve already tried that, I don’t think you’ll get much luck. She won’t tell me either.” Edward arrived at his side, then leaned over and whispered, “I think she knows we’ll come after him.”

“I was going to opt for slow psychological torture,” he muttered back, “but I’d like to hear more about your method.”

Edward tried to suppress a smile.

“And you really love this man?” Ciel asked Lizzie.

“Oh, with all my heart!” She seemed to gain a rush of energy.

He sighed, realizing more questions would be futile, and getting up.

“Alright well…” He ran his hand gently over Lizzie’s fingers. “I-I’ll see you soon.”

“You’ll give me the potion as soon as you can, right?” Edward demanded.

“I’m going to use Sebastian as a test subject, but, if it works, then this will be my next stop.”

“The password is ‘chocolate frog.’ Feel free to wake me up. I can’t stand another minute knowing Lizzie is in love with some-some lunatic!”

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry.”

*****

Ciel carefully held the porcupine quills, and gingko leaves over the cauldron, dripping them in one at a time, stirring counterclockwise with his other hand, glancing continually back to the instructions.

Finishing off the potion was proving no easier than making the rest of it, but at last, it gave a final sigh, and turned a foggy white.

Ciel gave his own sigh of relief, before using tongs to dip and fill the bottle beside him, making sure to clean off the sides of it—(it was a good thing he used a towel to do so, because the stray drops burned through the fabric).

He held up the bottle, staring at the potion. At long last. Finally, after three days of slow torture, he’d finally be rid of this curse, and the world could return to its normal state—demon butlers included.

He slipped one into his robe pocket and the moment he stepped out of the room, he sped off towards Snape’s dungeon for his detention without a moment to clean up the rest.

He hadn’t intended to burst through the door, but he found himself doing that a lot over these past few days.

Snape’s black eyes narrowed upon his panting form as if he were a worm to bottle. Then they flicked to the clock.

“You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, Professor, I—”

Snape held up a hand to stop him. “The last three days have been longer than the past few months, and am not interested in feeble excuses, Mr. Phantomhive.” He glided around his desk, but instead of setting him up at a desk, he marched past him, swung open, and exited the classroom.

Ciel paused a moment, leaning over to the side, watching him exit, a quizzical look on his face, before deciding he wanted him to follow him.

“Where are we going, Professor?” He asked as he caught up—(not altogether happy that he’d have to do more walking after the run he just made).

“Your detention is to take place in the Forbidden Forest tonight.”

Ciel’s eyes widened.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Is our dear Mister Phantomhive afraid of the dark?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all…due to it being forbidden and all.”

Snape smirked. “Most of the time, yes. But on some extra special detentions we may take students inside.”

He was right: The Forbidden Forest wasn’t exactly a common detention spot, though it wasn’t unheard of either. What was more surprising was that Snape taking him there. Usually Snape’s detentions consisted of pickling rat brains, or cleaning octopi suckers off desks. Not that he’d been to very many of his detentions—he’d always been pretty good at potions. It was this godforsaken spell that had reduced him to a less-than-model student.

“Professor, may I ask what exactly will we be doing?” He asked as they traversed the grounds, the trees growing ever closer.

“You will be coming with me to gather a rare flower that lives in these woods.”

Ciel gave a curt nod. It was a moment or two before he asked, “May I ask what it’s for?”

“I am a potions master, Mister Phantomhive. I encourage you to use your brain.”

“I understand that. But what potion is it for, Sir?”

“I am attempting to remedy the spell that has plagued the school.”

Ciel fell silent at that, resisting the urge to tell him he already had the solution in his pocket.

They arrived at the edge of the forest, the trees reaching towards them with gnarled claws, the darkness like curtains for a stage set.

“Lumos.” Snape spoke, and Ciel drew his wand and did the same as they ventured into the shadows.

The trees seemed to taunt them, to whisper about them, to dare them to come any closer, any phantom sound at home here.

After more than a few minutes walk in silence—quite possibly half an hour—Snape stopped and spoke: “They should be around here, nor should they be difficult to spot. Look for a glowing blue flower.”

Ciel made a move to venture off in search of them, but Snape grabbed his arm, warning:

“Don’t wander off where you can’t see me.”

Ciel nodded before venturing into the trees, scanning the ground for anything glowing, or blue, continually glancing back to make sure he could still make out the figure of his teacher.

It wasn’t long before he saw something glowing, and ran up to it. …It turned out just to be a mushroom.

As he sighed disappointedly, and stood back up, he saw two beady eyes staring at him from the darkness.

His heart began to pound as he stared, unsure if he should back up, stand his ground, play dead, or attack, the ghost of a certain name forming on his tongue.

He never had to fear beady eyes, bandits, or bullets with Sebastian around. This was the first time he felt real fear in a long while.

A black spectral horse reared out of the bushes, its eyes aglow with more than just a reflection of the dark.

It stepped towards him in slow, calculated hoofbeats, flaring its nostrils a little too frequently for his liking.

He’d read about these before.

He continued backing up, as the thestral didn’t seem like it planned on stopping its pursuit anytime soon.

“Mister Phantomhive,”—Snape’s voice was low, warning—“I am aware you likely don’t see anything but—”

“I can see it.” He continued his reverse walk.

Snape gave him a short glance like he had a newfound respect for him.

These creatures only appeared to people who had seen death, and he was sure the look in his parents’ eyes that night sufficed. But they didn’t commonly act like this.

Snape lifted his wand, casting a nonverbal spell, and the thestral fell to the ground with a bloodcurdling whinny too much like a scream, ropes binding its legs.

Ciel let out a relieved exhale as Snape joined him.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine…Thestrals…they aren’t commonly…aggressive, are they?”

“No.” Snape muttered softly, gazing for a moment at the now-helpless creature, then turned sharply to Ciel, pointing his wand at him. “Empty your pockets.”

Ciel jerked his head to the professor, saying a little too loudly, “What?!”

The thestral fought against the binds, and Ciel took a step back.

“I said, ‘empty your pockets.’”

“Why?!”

Snape flicked his wand, and his pockets’ contents excavated themselves of their own volition.

Snape grabbed the potion from the air, and let the rest of spare quills and things fall helplessly to the forest floor. He held it up and stared at it, observing the contents, his emotion as imperceptible as always. Then he lifted the cork, sniffing it. His eyes widened and he jerked to look at Ciel, his eyes almost more terrifying than those of the thestral, and definitely not holding a look his eyes had ever contained for him before.

“Where did you get this?” He whispered.

“Excuse me?”

He lifted the potion up, and violently smashed it on the ground, the contents breaking out with a puff of smoke, spilling helplessly onto the forest floor.

“NO!”

Snape grabbed his arm as Ciel made to reach for it, as if to save the unsalvageable.

“I said—” he grabbed both his arms, forcing him to look at him. “Where. Did you get that?”

“Sir…. I don’t understand…”

Snape’s face was far too close to him for comfort.

“Listen to me and listen to me very carefully. That potion is more than dangerous—it’s banned in every major country. It’s not something I could easily mistake. If you were to use it, you wouldn’t just die an excruciating death, it would rot you from the inside, and leave you open to the possession of any vile spirit in the vicinity. A fourteen-year-old boy such as yourself shouldn’t be carrying it around in his pocket,” he spat. “And I’d like to think that you didn’t know what it was when you gained possession of it. Now.” His grip tightened on one of his arms, his nails digging in, as he put his wand to his throat with the other enunciating each word, “WHERE. DID. YOU. GET. IT?!”