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And they lived happily ever after... until they killed each other on the same day... (about Revan and Malak)

Little Witch Tom Riddle x Malfoy Reader

Hello readers! So, had an idea in the dead of night and wrote this chapter for this potential story and I need some feedback. Do you like it? Would you like to see more of this? Please tell me because I would love to write more of this, but I don't know if anyone would want to read something like this. Also, the title is not its official and final title. If you guys enjoy this idea, the title will be something completely different from Little Witch.

Hope you enjoy this random thing of mine.

The smell of moisture and mildew clouded my senses. I could feel the tendrils of the musty basement curl around my head, tightening their hold. The familiar throbbing ran down my head and face, causing me to wince and squeeze my eyes, trying to work through the pain. I’ve always hated coming down here. This underground layer underneath my home always made my spine shiver and made gooseflesh appear on my delicate skin. This place, full of death and sorrow from previous victims throughout the history of my family, haunted these walls. In the dead of night, I could hear their wails and shrieks of terror. I could hear their weeping and their cries for help. Hear their pleas to a higher power and bargain with their soul, trying to escape this prison. But their prayers and pleas went unanswered. Day in and day out, they were still here. Stuck. Tethered to these bloody walls.

Knowing that these souls occupied these walls and halls was one reason I avoided this place. But something was calling me. Whispering my name. Urging me to come down here, to explore. To search for it. I’d tried to ignore the call, the whisper, but each night it grew louder and louder. Finally, after a nightmare of snakes strangling me in my sleep, I allowed the voice to take control and call to me. I followed the voice, down the corridors, passing portraits, the sleeping quarters of the house-elves, all the way down the stairs that led here. Unlike the dungeons that were kept clean and lit, the basement, underneath the dungeons, was dark, dirty, and had a metallic smell. Here, I could feel the voice calling louder, urging me more quickly, practically pushing me forward, moving my stone-cold feet towards a chest. An ebony chest, decorated in silver and bore the Malfoy family crest. On the lip of the lid wrote a name: Abraxas M. Malfoy.

This was my grandfather’s chest. My recently deceased grandfather.

Now, this close to the chest, I could feel magic electrifying in the air, crackling with energy. The voice, now clearer and deeper, called out my name. I felt an invisible hand take my own and place it on the chest. Magic pulsed and cracked throughout the house, passing through my fingertips, travelling up my body, tingling my nervous system. Power gushed through my veins; an echo of spells in Latin, French, and German rang through my head. I felt a pull in my abdomen, as if something was trying to reach through my body and pull out my magical core; rending me magickless. I tried to fight it, combating it with my own power, using ancient spells and curses passed down through my family, trying to ward off the entity. However, my attempts became futile. Whatever this spirit—voice—was, it knew how to avoid and get past my family's magic, delving itself into the pits of my mind, reaching into the darkest parts, seeing memories I’d wish to avoid.

Memories of a man with red eyes and cold skin.

I felt my brain being torn in two when my throat convulsed. I screamed loudly. I felt a whoosh of power flow from me as I screamed. I felt the chilling laughter of a monster crawling up my skin, piercing my soft and supple flesh, drawing blood. Ruby drops coated the floor, soaking a carpet and dripping onto my feet.

The lid of the chest flew open, the lock breaking, and a sense of dread curled in the pit of my stomach. Still under the control of whatever this spirit was, I felt myself lean and bend, reaching my hand into the chest and grabbing a small black book. A name was etched into the leather cover, written in gold lettering. When my fingertips connected with the cover, I felt a pulse of dark magick flow through my fingers, numbing them.

I ran my index finger down the leather cover, tingling with power, as I traced the name. Names were power. Though some people disagreed, the old ways were proof of that sentiment. Names held power over someone. You knew their true name, the name their soul carried, you held power over them. And this name, I knew, even in my drunken and controlled state, that this name held power I couldn’t even imagine. That this name was dangerous. And if I uttered it, it would seal my fate.

“(Y/n)!!”

The voice of my father reached my ears, making me blink a few times, as my vision became blurred. I felt my body becoming numb and buckled under my weight.

“(Y/n)!!” Father’s arms wrapped around me and I felt my body become weightless. Light. As if I was a feather.

“Sweet girl, what happened? What’ve I told you about coming down here? It’s dangerous!”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t feel. All I could do was blink and stare at my father; his grey eyes trained on my figure as he assessed the situation and damage. His hair was tied back in a bow, keeping his strands of silver out of his eyes. He wasn’t wearing pyjamas. He was still in his clothes from earlier. His cloak, his three-piece suit, his dragon-hide wingback shoes.

He was still awake then; I mused.

“(Y/n), look at me, tell me what happened.”

I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t. I felt my body and mind slip in and out of consciousness. All I could do was grip the book tighter. He noticed. His grey eyes travelled to my hand, where I clutched the book for dear life. As if it was a part of my soul. A part of me.

A gasp left my father, his eyes widening as he took into the leather cover. His eyes flashed back and forth.

To me; to the book. To me; to the book.

Over and over and over. Until he finally gained the strength and re-established his mind.

“Come (Y/n),” Father picks me up in his arms. I feel the book drop from my hands. It slapped against the cold stone floors. It’s voice called out to me again. I wanted to hold it, clutch it close to my heart, weep over the pages. But I can do nothing about it. I was motionless. Paralyzed. My strength was all but gone. The fight for control and the will of my magick took its toll on me. I could no longer feel.

As father carried me away from the basement full of death, my vision was blurry and I could only hear distorted voices. It was as if I was hearing things on another frequency. As if I reached another plane of this universe. The only voice I could hear clearly was the whisper.

“Come to me,”

“Free me from this cage,”

“Come to me, (Y/n),”

“Come…”

The last thing I heard was a man whispering in another language, a language I knew and understood, yet I could not understand.

In the dark basement of Malfoy Manor, while house-elves and the Lady of the house took care of the heiress Malfoy, trying to break her fever and console her shaking and convulsing body—a man walked down the long spiral staircase leading down towards the damp basement. He held his wand in front of him; it was lit with the simple lumos spell, as he travelled down to the haunted walls.

His eyes were set in an icy determination, the same look he had about him when he was intending to see things done properly—his way. His brows were furrowed and his pointy chin was jutted out. The surrounding air crackled as his own magical core expanded, covering his person in protection spells.

For years, that blasted diary was quiet. It slept peacefully, only to be awakened when it was time for his master to see the light of day. It appears, when the cursed pages woke, it stirred something in his eldest child, his daughter. Called out to her, hypnotising her. She was its victim, wanting her to take the book and pour her soul into its cursed ink so that his Master might live again. His Dark Lord’s plan was planned out so very well, its cursed nature, its spiritus malus enchanted his daughter. While Lucius was angry and wanted to incendio the cursed book to nothing more than a pile of ash —- it was his master's orders to answer the call, and Lucius was a devoted servant of his Lord.

He walked down the long corridor, towards the chest. Lucius bent down and picked up the book, feeling its magick course through his veins. He suppressed a shiver from running down his spine, and turned on the balls of his feet, clouding himself in shadow as he marched his way down the corridor, up the stairs, and into his private office.

Sitting the book on his mahogany desk, he took a seat in his leather winged-back chair and stared at it. He could hear the whispers of the curse, trying to seduce him, place him under the spell.

Lucius didn’t know what to do. He ran through his memories, looking for one of his Dark Lord. He shifted through his categorised mind, tearing down the walls and boarded up doors of his mind. He sorted and searched until he found it.

It was after his daughter’s first birthday. October 31st, 1976. She had just received her soul-mark—something the Malfoy family has always had; the magick of soulmates. It was also after the Dark Lord appointed him as his Second-in-Command. He remembered how thrilled he was, earning the approval of his Lord, and rising in the ranks of Death Eaters. It was a glorious moment for him and his family. Lucius remembered how, after the small gathering they had for his daughter, the Dark Lord stayed around, claiming to speak to him about an urgent matter at hand. But what he didn’t notice back then, in the present, of his Master’s eyes on his child’s soul-mark embedded in the skin of her right wrist. It was strange, Lucius remembered himself saying. A snake wrapping its body around the child's wrist, eating its tail. The mark was nothing like his own mark with Narcissa; a flower with a snake coiled around its stem. His mark was calm and held an aura of serenity. While hers was violent, untamed, out-of-control. There was no softness, only a cold exterior of a snake eating itself.

Lucius remembered when he was a child asking his own father about the nature of their soul-marks. As to why snakes were always included in their depiction of the other half of their soul. Abraxas didn’t know, but claimed there was a snake involved in the ritual to tether the souls of mates together, to show, to embed a mark on the skin, showing the world the superiority of Malfoy’s and their magic.

While many of the guests stared at her wrist with curiosity and fascination, his master’s eyes were full of something Lucius could not place. When Cygnus and Druella approached their granddaughter and daughter, they gave gifts and encouraging words to Narcissa. However, Cygnus looked at his granddaughter with disappointment, wishing his loyal and obedient daughter had given birth to a son first, rather than a daughter. When the man's cold eyes flickered to her little wrist, he reached out and touched it, tracing the mark. Something snapped in his master’s exterior, and the mask of calm and connectedness broke and a sliver of emotion passed through his facade. His red eyes flashed angrily, and his hands clenched into fists.

Before his Lord could make a scene, Lucius approached him, asking him about what matter he needed to speak of urgently. The two left the scene, walking down the long dark-lit corridors, passing sleeping and awake portraits. Lucius pushed the door open to his study, letting the light of the fireplace cast a glow to the porcelain man beside him. His grey eyes watched as the Dark Lord took a seat, pulling something out from his cloak. Lucius turned, closed and locked the door, and strode across the threshold to his master.

“Lucius,” his Master’s voice, was icy, filled with nothing but cold, bitter ice. “This is what I wished to discuss with you.” He placed a book on the mahogany desk occupying this room. Whispers filled the room. Lucius shivered as his magick core sensed the dark magic, the death, surrounding this book.

“What is it, my Lord?” he asked, the hairs on his neck standing up, attentive to the magic in this room. His Master smiled. His smile reminded him of a snake before striking.

“This, my friend, is my old school diary. It is now a cursed object.” He picked up the book, flipping the pages as he spoke. “It contains my younger self. Preserved in these pages.” The book screamed a silent scream.

“I want you to hide it. Once the book awakens, I want you to give it to someone. Magic or non-magic, I care not who it is. Give it to them, and they shall write in it, for the pull of this diary is too strong for anyone to resist. As they write, my younger self will suck their life-force; their core. And once my younger-self has done it, they shall be reborn again.”

Lucius stared in astonishment. “But my lord, you are already here. Alive.”

His Master smirked. “I have no doubts, Lucius, that I shall succeed. But if there is a slight chance. A slight possibility that the old fool beats me, well, then you will know what to do with it.”

Lucius watched as he ran a finger down the spine, watching the book itself shudder.

“This is only a precaution. I know I will have no need for it.”

Voldemort stood from his chair. His eyes, red as blood, gazed into Lucius’ grey orbs.

“Do you understand, Lucius?” he asked. Lucius knew that tone. He’d seen it in action when Death Eaters failed their mission or when he interrogated wizards, witches, and mudbloods.

“Yes, My Lord,”

A chilling smile spread across his face.

Lucius knew what to do. He sighed, laced his fingers together, and sat in deep thought. Thinking up a plan. A plan to resurrect his master's soul. He knew, deep in his soul, that if he was the one to resurrect his Master, he would be welcomed back joyously. His comrades would praise him, his master would thank him.

And if what his master said was true, this new form would be young. No one would know him. He could fit in the ranks of the Ministry, infiltrate it from the inside. Corrupt the Wizengomat. His Master would do wondrous things for the good of the Wizarding World. Purify the scum of their world, and lay waste to the blood traitors.

The glory days would return, and his youngest would live in a world full of wizards and witches like him.

Lucius smiled. Yes, it’ll all work out. All he needs to do is find a mind curious enough to write in the pages of a diary and who’s ignorant enough to believe that this book means no harm.

While this was happening, the young Malfoy Heiress thrashed in her sleep. House-elves tried to calm her, but she continued to convulse. In her fevered dreams, stood a man standing on a hilltop. His eyes were a deep shade of black, almost like he held the starless night sky in his orbs. His skin was pale, blemishless, and pure. Pure as snow. Hard as marble. His sharp nose, his full lips, his arched brows. Everything about him was beautiful. As if he was cut from marble, shaped by elegant and artistic hands. Details you’d seen in statues at muggle museums. His hair was onyx, tousled like he ran his long and articulate fingers through the strands regularly. He stood tall. His back was straight. He looked angelic. But there was something dark around him. Shadows surrounded him. Clouding his body in a dark mist. His face distorted, the skin on his jaw pulled back, revealing bone and rotten flesh. The hill was no longer a grassy hilltop, but a hill of bones; skulls. He stood on them, as if he was a King. His face was slacked in determination and his eyes were hard. He was the victor of a battle, of a war. He no longer held an angelic look, but a demonic aura, full of darkness and evil. Yet his face, though rotting and had parts revealing bone, was the only place on his body that still looked angelic.

It was hard to look at him; she thought. He’s beautiful, was another thought of hers. It was as if her own mind was being torn in two, her thoughts constantly contraindicated each other. She didn’t know why. Why was she still looking at this beautiful monster? Why didn’t she run? Why was he calling her over?

“Who are you?” She called out to him. The man smirked, exposing the right side of his mouth, rotting. She shivered.

“Who are you?” She called out again, her voice trembled. “Death?”

The man chuckled, his voice booming all around her. As if she was in an echo chamber. She felt his laugh in her skull, rattling her bones.

“Sometimes.” He answered, smirking at the young Heiress. “But not today… little witch,”

The next thing she knew was that she was ripped from her dream in a cold sweat. But what she would later learn is that she could not remember the dream, nor the man, only the words: “Little witch,”

Translations:

spiritus malus = evil spirit (I used google translate for this, sorrry if I'm wrong)

Cosine may or may not have developed as a character... :> (see tags for his Lore)

plus some bonuses from the layers!

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my poem:

Good parents, bad choices

Dirty decisions prospered unwarranted experiences

Harsh consequences to my cold conditions

Living life on the street like my baby brother

Kissing strangers who offer to please my needs

On the quest for love i can’t receive

He tattoos his mistakes to remember the pain

She’s no living saint

Just an angel without her wings

A boy who loves too hard

A girl with impossible dreams

Dirty fingers to match her mind

She’s everything he doesn’t need

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•

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my poem:

Sharing my precious minutes and late hours With a man who doesn’t sleep

The boys don’t know how to keep

Men are my vice and I’m feening

I only wish he cared for me

The way I know he does the other plastic barbie

The stories secretive like his prison tattoos

I’m a comfortable civilian to his masculine mind

I thought I’ve survived my troubled youth

Discovered the trap doors and atoned with selfish sorries

Signed the peace treaties and fell to my knees, pleading as if something’s listening

Yet nothing compares to soldier stories he shares of barracks and bravery

If he’s a veteran, I’m a goodie two shoes

A rookie with a mouth like a chambered glock

Ripped up boots sustain my weak knees

Distorted memories

How can a special moment that just happened yesterday, feel a decade old?

Love bites fade slowly

With trust so will my misery

Judgement don’t faze me

Nor what God has in store for me

I live for love and love even harder

I’m a pretentious painter like an instagram model is an actress, who stars only in “adult movies”

Dirty hair with an intense stare

Do you wanna hurt me or is the fist around my throat your way of saying

“I love you too”

Boys Are Dogs 🐾 (my sad seductress dark poetry reading)

Finally reposted (and published to ao3). Might throw it on Wattpad. I don't know.

Sun at Night (夜に太陽)

@ayaisokay / Yoru Ni Taiyō / M.H

Short story for 1K word prompt challenge

Ishi awoke violently, escaping subconscious terrors, and grounding himself within vivid sensations of reality.

With arms involuntarily outstretched, Ishi breached the cold air. Incidentally, they moved with ample pace, enough to induce pain. His left arm had jerked out and hit the wall at the side of his bed.

The pain preceded the sound. "Yume!" He winced. His stutter was like an echo of the thud that reverberated throughout the small shelter.

"Sis?" He called out once more, finally sitting up and looking towards Yume’s rocking chair. It was empty.

With a shudder and a shiver, Ishi got to his feet and analysed the shelter. He took care to avoid long glances at the mirror. But he did notice a new crack, and a droplet of blood obscuring his image.

That of a pale, meek boy, with short bed-worn hair, puffy cheeks, and brown eyes that hastily avoided the sight of their face’s softness— a contrast to other boys his age. The subtlety of his chin was a sore spot, his visible bindings too.

With a forced smile, he concealed his body with rags.

Between the warning signs of mould setting in, and the cracks on the cold floorboards, Ishi was certain, the mess he called home hadn't notably changed.

Safe for additional discardings of hair, clumsily brushed to the corners of the room.

Ishi wished he could help Yume as much as she helped him. She cut his hair nice and short and helped him bind his chest with lace and leather. She'd been working to buy fabric so Ishi could enjoy some comfort. But, she wouldn't let him join her for any of her work— not even the jobs that hurt her.

She was bad at hiding new bruises and sore spots, or the redness in her eyes. Ishi didn't get why she didn't ask for help. Yume always told him he was strong.

But the thought vanished.

He spotted blood by the door that was left slightly ajar. It was softly illuminated by a mix of distant village lamps and the moonlight. It evoked great concern.

"I’ll help this time." ishi promised, hoping to finally be of use to his big sister.

His decision was in spite of Yume warning him against staying up. She’d told him a journey awaited them tomorrow.

Yet, Ishi quickly set about the door and got onto the stone path anyway.

He was used to walking barefoot. He outgrew his last pair of shoes. Unfortunately, nightly walks were new, and Ishi struggled to avoid sharp pebbles that prompted his small feet to rise with haste.

The dancing luminosity of fire light was not as reliable as it was beautiful.

Though Ishi couldn’t help but ponder the fire that guided him as walked the arching path, seeking the village’s closed off river. One encased by trees.

The fire was pleasant and warm with a gentle hum. There was safety. It reminded him of Yume. But, to get too close, well, even such beautiful things could cause harm. Maybe that’s why Yume never let him help, he assumed.

“You wouldn't hurt me.” Ishi thought aloud as he reached his destination, only to be halted at the foot of the river’s opening. A light thud, followed by hushed whispers, took him from his thoughts. For what they lacked in mutual tone they made up for in synchronised intensity. A lover’s spat? A fight? Ishi wasn't sure.

Slowly he drew nearer the river’s opening, sticking to the side opposite the whispers, about 10 metres away. He oriented himself around the tree slowly, using it to shield himself while I leaned out and peeked.

The tree was less comfortable than grass or smoothed stone on his bare feet. His hands were reddened from his hard grip on the tree. There was no salvation in its holes either— but Ishi was thankful for that. Disturbing a bird nest wouldn't have helped him right about now. Though he wasn't sure what could help. When the first figure came into view, Ishi’s breath grew short and his throat tight.

A bearded man, noble by the looks of his cloak and the silk of his shirt. He was leaning over someone, a hand placed towards them, and another stretched towards the river, holding Yume’s knife.

At that moment, Ishi couldn't help but wonder if Yume had been helping hurt people. He feared that's why they had to leave tomorrow. But, he couldn't accept that thought— “she wouldn't,” he decided silently. Finally turning enough to bring more of the scene into view.

A slender girl, flat at her chest with bruised skin that was otherwise pale. She stood adorned in rags, now freshly cut at the waist where a dampness had begun to form. Her face was obscured by a hand that forced her head against the tree opposite Ishi’s.

The man kept her turned away— leaving only slightly torn hair in view. “You help me enjoy the night, and I give you money to fill your rotten gob.” The man hissed, before lurching her towards him. Kneeing her gut, and twirling to toss her closer. She landed in the middle, by the edge of the river bank.

“Trying to use a toy like this? Well, you can forget about the deal… Boy.” The man snarled.

As he turned to look upon the girl, Ishi’s heart ceased its rapid rhythm. He became a candle, extinguished by grief.

The girl’s brown eyes met Ishi’s in mutual recognition. Her pain heightened by the man’s last words, and her defeat spelled by the presence of kin.

An innocent brother, and his defiled sister. But Yume wasn't the only one to spot her beloved brother.

“You shouldn't have come here; you have ruined us both.” She whispered, trying to get to her feet and position herself between Ishi and the man. But her steps were unsteady, and she was quickly knocked down. Wetness and blood trailing her legs.

“Well, perhaps you can keep the welp’s deal.”

Tearfully, Ishi remained in place, struggling for air, to compose himself, or command his limbs. He knew this man.

“D-dad?”

My mom just told my seven year old sister a story from her childhood.

She had two pet mice. One of them was mean and one was sweet.

The sweet mouse would sit on her shoulder and was super nice and stuff.

Then one day, the mean one killed the sweet one.

The end.

SHE TOLD THIS TO A SEVEN YEAR OLD CHILD WHO SAID THAT THEY WANTED A PET MOUSE BECUASE SOMEONE ON TV HAD ONE.

This is the kind of parent I want to be.

The Bathroom

Archive #2 | Copyright to saturnfairycat

Author's note: Day two of posting pieces that I really like. This one is a bit more dark so slight trigger warning (?) to easily sensitive people. Let me know if you like it! Suggestions and feedback is welcome, enjoy :)

The Bathroom

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Dark and hideous, 

I stare at my reflection, blurry from steam. 

My shower, cold droplets on glass— I tried drowning my sorrow for hours.

The shadows that grasp at my skin drag me back down from my high— 

The pleasure that lingers on my lips, 

Tongue numb from the biting of my stained teeth. 

Lips cracked and blue; 

I do not recognise those who have seen me. 

Resentment is the familiarity I cling onto— 

The smell of gore bores into my mind like a surgical drill. 

If you wish to mush my brain, it will take more than one pill to convince me. 

Betrayal and words; 

I will stab my eyes out. 

Pickled for your cocktails; 

Watch your back as you swallow me whole. 

I am mute, silenced by mistakes, 

I see their pain, damned for their torment. 

Blind and tears. 

Do you regret?

Do you regret?

Do you regret? 

I know,

I know…

I know.

Everyone knows.

I will take this to my grave, 

But you will use it to your advantage in heaven.

When it comes the day—

Where I crash into the walls I hastily built up, 

My defences crash as you stand by and watch. 

Will you penetrate such a fragile structure? 

Vulnerability is a sought out weakness from those who grew out of it. 

Endings and virtue; 

I will end this on my own terms.

But I ended the wrong thing— 

Tumbling and spiralling; 

I will see you in hell. 

I scream as you floated, 

What goes around comes around…. 

I was never a part of this equation. 

You cheated from the beginning, 

Your reflection must be hideous. 

But the steam is blinding, 

And the dust clings onto skin. 

The pleasure was hidden burns. 

I am resentment, that familiarity that cannot be described.

You choke on the dark olives in your drink,

Saw heaven for a second, but the screaming drags you back up from your low.

Did you picture my brain on your platter?

Your pain is my torment;

I do not recognise the shadows, the madman that slams into the shower door.

My walls shake,

Cold droplets down the drain.

Will you regret?

I stare at your tears, whispers come from my silent, blue lips…

Hollow eyes stare back.

You will regret it.

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