cutie patootie

“now what makes albus dumbledore so fond of you, mr. scamander?”

uh, mr. graves

have u seen that face

u go right ahead and try telling me that dumbledore didn’t have a gigantic crush on that lil cutie patootie

anonymous asked:

Could you write something where Neil has "died" before like he flat-lined after getting shot but in the hospital their able to restart his heart and him and his mother run a couple days later and some how this comes up when the foxes are all kind of chilling and their like wtf

(this isn’t entirely what you asked for but here is something? A mess, actually.)

It knocks the breath out him, though he’s not exactly sure if it’s from surprise or pain. His vision stutters violently, tinged red and he reaches for anything to steady his tilting world. His fingertips scrape the dingy Detroit wall, clinging to the space between the rough bricks before slipping away. His knees hit the ground so hard he feels the bruises forming. That however, is the least of his worries.

Home, he thinks. He has to get home. He can feel the warmth that travels down his side. Logically, he knows it’s blood. He could touch it to see but he doesn’t want to acknowledge that just yet. He stumbles through alleyways, doing his best to avoid people. Even though this is Detriot, he can’t walk down the street covered in blood. They’ll find him again. They always do and he can’t lead them to his mother.

He takes alleyways, winding through buildings while his blood slips sluggishly through his fingers. His vest was supposed to protect him. But he moved at the last second. Had he moved any later, he would’ve been shot in the neck. Just thinking about bleeding all over a grimy alley, without his real name and at his father’s hands, makes him sick. He pauses to retch violently in an old trash can before continuing.

He doesn’t remember getting home, just remembers that he hurts. Just remembers that he’s losing so much blood. He knocks on the door, just barely. But his mother always listens carefully and within seconds, he hears the deadbolt slip back.

“William! What happened?” Mary reaches for him and he cringes backward. His alias doesn’t register for a moment. She reaches out again, gripping his arm and he groans loudly. The pain makes his head spin and he feels himself begin to fall again.

Mary drags him inside, pulls him onto the table and he feels her hands ripping his clothes away. She pokes and prods at the wound, flickers in and out of his line of sight. He hears her muttering to herself, hears supplies piling up next to his head. She fits something into his mouth. A wash cloth, he realizes. It sucks the moisture from his mouth.

“Bite down,” Mary says. He does and a moment later, the pain rips his mind into pieces.

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