satanic college

Scar Tissue

Draco had learned a lot from the Dark Lord.

He’d learned how to think quickly and critically—how to isolate alternative exits and easily accessible windows immediately upon entering a new room, how to evaluate escape routes and measure the weight of excuses, omissions, denials and exaggerations and lies.

Similarly, he’d learned how to strategize; how to infiltrate an enemy stronghold and capitalize on fear, disorganization, surprise—how to plot a successful murder, too, even if he hadn’t quite had the stomach to finish the job.

The Dark Lord had been incredibly generous with his knowledge.

He’d taught Draco how to hide in the shadows of his own house, how to deflect attention and, perhaps more importantly, how to steal attention, how to keep that narrow, endlessly curious crimson gaze away from his mother and firmly on himself.

He’d taught Draco how to differentiate between what was nice and what was necessary, and he’d taught Draco how to correctly identify the appropriate times in which to utilize the Unforgivable curses; because it wasn’t about not getting caught, no, that was child’s play—adequate advice for the Draco who’d been young and stupid and frozen, maybe, desperate to fix what he’d broken but unable to rationalize why; the Draco who’d been stripped raw, flayed to the bone, left to haunt the roof of the Hogwarts astronomy tower like the dried-out husk of a long-shed snakeskin.

And Draco, he had adapted since then, he’d had to, had felt the shift in his temperament—in his demeanor—in his veins, and he had relished it, absolutely and resolutely—and it was entirely thanks to the Dark Lord.

For example—

Draco now knew how to properly barricade a door, how to pretend—how to believe, truly believe, that was the trick—that a solid mahogany chest of drawers could protect him from the things that went bump and bang and boom in the middle of the night.

He knew how to avoid a mirror and block out reality and grit his teeth against the sudden, blinding pain of having to listen to Hermione Granger be tortured on his sitting room floor—and hadn’t that been a particularly illuminating lesson in humility, his mother’s fingernails digging deep and sharp and hard into the bend of his elbow as if she’d understood that this was going to be it, this was going to be the thing, the moment, that finally shattered his composure and attacked what remained of his conscience with all the efficacy of an ice pick against a glacier—because in all the years that he’d been acquainted with her, Hermione Granger had been equal parts annoying and infuriating and captivating, unfairly so, and as much as he’d loathed her—sometimes, only ever sometimes—he could not watch that, could not watch the tears streak her face and the breath get trapped in her throat—

But he knew better than to speak up.

The Dark Lord had made sure of that.

He’d made sure that Draco knew how to stay quiet; knew how to keep his head down and his mouth shut and his screams—thick like honey in the quivering cavern of his lungs, thick like Granger’s blood as it seeped into and around and across his mother’s priceless antique rugs—locked tight inside, always, always, always inside—right where they belonged.

And really—

Really, the Dark Lord had been an excellent teacher.


In “honor” of @julialepetit‘s amazing attempts to draw Pokémon with nearly zero knowledge of them (a series that I hope @drawfee keeps going forever), I decided to mock-up a couple of old-school GameBoy inspired covers for them.

(I do plan to do one with her Spheal and Shuckle… like a back cover, but I don’t have good software, so it’ll take time. I don’t have the money for Photoshop. I’m literally stuck with MS Paint. Ugh.)

An acceptable use of your first kiss:

Making out for a solid thirty seconds with a female in front of a homophobic preacher

Mother Nature: how about while your finals are punching you in the face, I punch you in the uterus??
Me: how about no Mother Nature. How about you leave me alone and go take a nap or something and chill the hell out
Mother Nature: lol knock knock
Me: I refuse to play your games
Mother Nature: too bad if you aren’t pregnant or like 80 your participation is mandatory.
Me: I hate everything

The Satanspawn Weeb

Warning: some sexual harassment and violence. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.

Me: anon: short Japanese girl, 22 at the time, large breasts (important to the story) bisexual
Satan: weeb: 24 years old, total stereotypical weeb, creepy, male
Jess: 23, girlfriend at the time
Brawn: male, friend, anger issues, strong

Let’s begin. So I’m at a con, 4 days, and I’m in a sweet rouge from x-men cosplay. Brawn is collosus, Jess is Jean gray. So in sitting eating lunch while everyone else is gone. Then this sloppy looking guy approches me in a hentilia cosplay (I don’t watch so I don’t know who it is) it’s satan. So he compliments my cosplay, even though he doesn’t know the character. I say thanks, and then we start talking. He had all the red flags out, and when I leave, he follows me like a stray dog. So when brawn see’s this, he flips shit and curses like a drunk Irish sailor who had his leg chopped off. Satan leaves, and then we browse the selection. Later, when I’m alone, I feel someone “glomp me” and I fall to the hard ground. I start yelling, and guess who it is? Anyway, then he apologizes, I accept, and that’s all that the con had to offer to the story.

Next: college

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