Q:What would you do if there was Snakeskins convention?
Be shocked because there are, at the absolute most, maybe only 150-300 readers and WOAH.
Xuanxuanmi and I had a lot of fun this summer when she was in Okayama though!
GUYS WE ALL HAVE TO REBLOG THIS TO GET A SNAKESKINS CONVENTION.
When I finish this job if I have the money I’m sprinting around the safe parts of Europe and no one can stop me
there is a tablespoon of raw garlic in this meal and we eat it with half a raw white onion per person and this is why you cannot kill the arab race because we are born each day in fire and hatred.
Sunny, I thought you were Canadian.
I’m ethnically Arab (Lebanese!)
Born in canada
Working in japan
The train ride down from Scotland had been long and stifling. Feliciano hadn’t thought it would be that bad really, snacks, games, talking…
Q:Imagine Arthur and Feli being trapped HetaOni loop style on the night of the spiders. And someone dying everytime, and them slowly going insane as they realize how hopeless it is, watching Charlie, and sometimes more dying time and time again.
u are mean
Snakeskins, Part 110 [there are typos because I’m so tired my eyes are out of focus]
The train ride down from Scotland had been long and stifling. Feliciano hadn’t thought it would be that bad really, snacks, games, talking about exams, hiding from Gryffindors: the usual.
But it was the first time without Scorpius. It was the first time riding the train without Charlie.
No one laughed about how easy Slughorn’s final had been- only to cough on his words and go ‘oh, really, you didn’t think to add the extra spoon of baboon blood to yours? Tough luck I suppose’. His friend didn’t try to distract from that by giving a sixth or seventh rendition of the duelling tournament’s final matches, detailing wand position and stance changes, to groans from everyone to stop bringing it up. But yes, they would have said, next year would be his year.
No one mentioned Quidditch, not because they were afraid of having Slytherin’s Seeker pull a great big frown and curl up in a dejected heap on the compartment floor, but because Feliciano still didn’t feel like he deserved to have the title.
Some of the time was taken up by David detailing what the house win had looked like from inside Hufflepuff: apparently they’d all been woken up bright and early by the sound of several house-elves heaving a massive seven-tiered yellow lemon cake, dolloped with frosting so thick David hadn’t been able to finish his, and decorated with sparklers. Miss Mimsey had left a pink tin of smaller lemon jelly tarts in the All Commons, which David had been smart enough to check before leaving for the summer. They shared the treats in their compartment, with unspoken agreement from Margaret and Gloria that since they had never seen the All Commons, the three tarts left in the tin were not for them- they were not for anyone.
David pitched Hugo’s out the window sometime after they entered England.
They tried playing exploding snap for a little while. The games ended when someone absently mentioned chess and Scorpius wasn’t there to whine about being sick of playing with his broken, beaten up set: the one still haunting the Slytherin Common Room since February.
The ride down from Scotland was long and stifling. Feliciano woke up with his head on England’s shoulder where he’d nodded off for a little bit, and followed the other nation out into the noise and confusion of the station.
They were picked up, made long, painful farewells, and were pushed into a car and driven straight from London to Kent.
Norway and France were waiting for them in England’s big old house.
England and Feliciano had to take off their charms first.
For what felt like the first time, Feliciano actually vomited when he took the cold Rosetti cross off from around his neck. It felt like someone threw him down on the bathroom floor and started kicking him, beating his shoulders and cutting his legs with a willow branch, and when it was finally over he was shivering on the cold tiles, teeth chattering and skin sweating, tears leaking from his eyes.
It took him longer than normal to feel better again. Lovino kept him under a steady stream of warm water until he stopped shivering, but he was still giving up tears when he crawled with his damp hair into the spare bed made up for him, his brother there sitting on the mattress speaking to him in a slow, steady voice that they would talk in the morning. They would deal with it later, not now, and settle things when he felt better.
North Italy dreamt that he was falling. He was falling until he hit something, something thin but strong, something wide and flat. It clung to him, stuck to him. It twisted and constricted itself tight, not like a snake, but a web: something that wrenched his arms wrong and dropped him upside down, half blind and screaming, over eight titanic legs and hair like tall grass, bladed and ready to cut him to pieces if he fell again.
He woke up with his central bank and heard the far away echo of a rich man dismissing parliament for the summer, stagnating an already slow process of governance, interfering with already aggravating lag in the bureaucracy. He groaned, felt a headache coming, and rolled over with his face smothered in the borrowed pillow.
His bad dream was born from the way the borrowed sheets had snagged his arms, his torso locked by a rope of twisted cotton and knee stuck in a twirl of folded summer quilt. Getting up to shower and shave actually made him feel a bit better, even if it meant poking his head into several doors looking for his brother, and being told to fuck off instead of the answer he wanted.
“Brother, a razor?”
“Fuck you and your razors I’m sleeping fuck off.” So Feliciano, who was awkwardly one of the first nations up today thanks to Hogwarts’ schedule, simply dropped his towel and crawled into the borrowed bed next to his brother, and slept for another hour.
He woke up to Lovino’s horizontal face scowling at him.
“You lost weight too, you son of a bitch.” He had not. At least he didn’t think he had. “Fuck it, I’m sending you food again if you go back to that stupid place. I figured they’d feed you better, but if I have to cook the goat in its own god damned milk to keep you going then I will.”
“Vino, that’s not how you make cheese…”
“No, but it’s how you plump a moron up.”
He got a hug from his brother. Lovino hooked an arm around him and pulled, holding him close and tight and nuzzling his face into Feliciano’s hair, kissing the crown of his head while the younger brother was given a place to tuck into and close his eyes, feeling safe, feeling good…
“You’re too invested in those kids, idiot.”
“Four years, Vino, you’d be invested too.” Which only brought up the question of what to do in year five… Did he want to go back? Did he want to leave those children alone?
They were very quiet together for another hour, until finally there was a knock at their door and Wales hesitantly poked his head in, Feliciano keeping his eyes closed in his brother’s arms and letting Lovino twist around on the bed and answer him.
“Breakfast is soon,” Wales reported. “Arthur’s finally back and they’ll be tackling the Triwizard question first after eating. After that North’ll really want to be there.” Lovino didn’t answer, just rolled back over, one hand tapping him on the back looking for an answer or opinion. But wait, England was back? Back from where?
“No,” Feliciano murmured, stretching his legs out slowly, and then propping himself up on one stiff elbow. “We’ll come down now.”
There was a deep sense of quiet over the house. It felt like the dark chestnut panelling over the walls refused to creak, footsteps muffled over wood or carpet- it didn’t make a difference. The clink of ceramic dishes and the scrape of the metal skillets used to make breakfast all felt muted, and it was hard to hear whenever anyone dared say something.
Feliciano thought it might have just been something wrong with him since his senses were still figuring themselves out, but that wasn’t the case. It was coming from England and, by extension, his brothers’ worry over him.
He looked worse than he had in February. He was thin, thinner than a nation ought to be, and looked haggard. His hair wasn’t golden, it barely counted as yellow: nearly white and almost like it was poisoned with green from the Slytherin bath water. It looked thinner than it should have been, making Feliciano think back to that morning in May where he’d looked up at his friend’s face and thought it was just the dungeon light making him look so strange. His skin was too pale now because as an adult Arthur’s freckles were nearly invisible, but they stood out as strongly now as they did whenever he put the charm on. There were deep black circles under his eyes, and he was just staring with limpid green eyes at the teacup in front of him.
Feliciano was shocked, and then he felt ashamed.
He’d been with England every single day since they’d gone back to Hogwarts in March, he’d sat with him at every meal, he’d walked with him to almost every lesson, and then gone to bed either in the next or same bed. How had he not noticed what was going on? How had he missed counting how many meals England skipped? How had he let him get away with that at all? Why did the nation look worse off than the children he was meant to be protecting? Margaret had lost a bit of weight too, but nothing like this, and Eliza’s nightmares were almost rare now, maybe one every few weeks instead of every night.
“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Norway was seated mid-way down the large dining room table, one wall of the chamber nothing but tall windows, their curtains pulled back to let the natural light in. France was still in the kitchen, probably with Wales, and Scotland was standing next to his brother’s chair, looking worried but trying to hide it with a polite, general nod to Feliciano and his brother.
“A few hours.” England answered, too exhausted to look up at Norway properly. “All I could hear was gunfire.” And that was a terrible thing for him to say.
“The war in Pakistan?” Feliciano asked, not sure where to sit but more worried about England, who treated him to the same lack of eye-contact as Norway.
“Don’t say it.” England whispered. “You told me so. You warned me more than enough.”
“Arthur…” I told you so? Those were the last words Feliciano wanted to say now, this was nothing to lord over a friend, over another nation. Scotland had both hands on the back of England’s chair, and he’d been given a place at the head of his own table. Scotland lifted one hand and gestured for Feliciano to sit to England’s left, which he accepted, and Lovino sat next to him in turn, between North Italy and Norway. He took his friend’s hand and felt his brother’s touch on his back, trying to sooth him.
“I thought you would feel better without the charm, Arthur.”
“So did I…”
“It’s not just the war.” Scotland said softly, looking down with obvious worry at his brother, but standing far enough back that there was no way for England to notice it. “Lets eat first, here it comes.”
Wales and France brought the first plates of food: scrambled eggs and fresh baked bread, a bowl of diced melon, apples and other fruits, a heaping dish of hashbrowns, a plate of sausages, and a tray of small, piping hot chocolate rolls to go with the fresh coffee and more tea. Feliciano wasn’t allowed to dish his own plate from the spread because Lovino had already swept it out from under him, and was loading everything on top.
“Eat.” He ordered, and Feliciano tried to- “No, you eat what I fucking tell you to eat, you walking skeleton of an Italian. I should take your fucking passport away.” Fine, Feliciano made up his own cup of coffee instead from the hot silver pot, pouring some for his brother as well. It wasn’t espresso, but it was good enough after four months without. Scotland and Wales were treating England almost exactly the same, and France was watching very closely, eyeing the quantities of food and letting his blue eyes dart from Feliciano to England and back again. Norway didn’t touch the food at all where he was sitting, one arm over the back of his chair, the other touching his lips gently, waiting for them to be served first.
He’d grown used to having a large breakfast at Hogwarts although he still, sometimes, tried to avoid it. A muffin or bread roll with jam was usually enough in his culture, that with some milk and coffee could usually do him just fine until a light lunch, and then a proper dinner. His body was tricked into thinking it was fourteen years old most of the time though, and he didn’t have the luxury of being more than just Feliciano most of the time, so after the last four years, he ate more than he wanted to at breakfast.
He ate more than he was comfortable with right now, because he knew he needed it. A helping of eggs, three sausages, two cups of fruit and some bread was more than enough to make him feel full, but Lovino rudely pointed his fork at the untouched hashbrowns. He opened his mouth and scooped them in, chewing and feeling the way they just sort of stuck to his teeth, gumming up his jaws, feeling heavy on his tongue and difficult to swallow. Feliciano forced it, and then looked over at England who was doing the same thing. He’d eaten half the fruit that had been dished up for him, and was making a very concerted effort to chew breakfast muffin he’d already buttered and jammed for himself. But he was already struggling with it, and there was only one bite taken out of the sausage Wales had piled on his plate.
Scotland hadn’t eaten anything either where he was sitting on England’s right, but that was because he was watching his brother struggle to swallow. He topped up England’s tea and received a nod of thanks for that, but England only sipped it once and then seemed to forget about it. It took him ten minutes to eat half his muffin, and everyone else at the table seemed like they’d slowed down dramatically to help cover up this fact.
France tried three times to stir up conversation, but never got past the point of taking a deep breath and stalling. Finally, after England seemed to give up on the mouthful of sausage sitting in his mouth without swallowing, Norway stood up and went straight into the kitchen. He came back with a shallow bowl and a bottle of milk, and quickly recruited Feliciano and Scotland to pushing away England’s dishes so there was a place for it.
“My hands are clean,” was the only thing he said when he took a piece of that freshly baked bread and began tearing it to pieces, dropping them into the bowl, where the milk soon followed. A spoon stirred it so the bread became swollen, and he diligently handed it to England, nudging the sugar bowl closer in case he wanted sweet.
All of them, including England, silently agreed that this was for the better. England didn’t even look up at Norway properly, just spooned the soft bread into his mouth and, without having to chew, physically forced himself to swallow. He knew he needed to eat, he knew he needed calories and vitamins and protein and fat, he knew, this was not a question, but eating was hard. Norway stood over him between England and Feliciano and watched him eat, silent, but waiting.
Norway was a deceptively short man. He didn’t carry himself like a short person, he never really obliged to look up at anyone who was taller than him or to stand there and look around like he was lost, even if his surroundings were interesting. He wasn’t big on extra movement, like a glacier that grew or receded as necessary, but never more than it had to. His pale blue eyes had a glass like quality to them, the iri actually quite small in eyes that seemed too large, giving an impression that his eyes were completely white if he wasn’t staring directly at you. Feliciano had always thought his hair looked surprisingly soft, not thin like Iceland’s or wild and tangled like Denmark’s. Just soft, sweeping blond bangs and panels of silver and white through the back, interlaced with the gold. He wasn’t like snow, more like fresh young corn: pearly and soft, waiting to ripen at its own pace with no say from anything or anyone else. Norway moved at his own pace, be it at a crawl or a lightning-pace, but did it only on his own terms, with zero sense of urgency from others. In plain blue jeans and a white shirt today, he looked unusually casual, but he was still standing there when England finished his bland meal, leaning over and asking a soft question:
“…” England looked tired, taking a few deep breaths, but then nodded. Norway reached for the bread and Lovino was there to offer the basket it was sitting in, but England reached too and Norway, without missing a beat, ripped the piece he’d taken in half and handed that to England. He may have needed help, but he wasn’t helpless. More milk was added and England looked like he was swallowing sand every time he closed his eyes and forced it down, but he ate. He ate as much as someone half his size would need for their morning, but it was more than he’d been able to struggle down before.
Feliciano had to eat another sausage and some eggs wrapped in bread before his brother released him from the table, and it was Scotland and Lovino who offered to clean up the dishes while England, Feliciano, Wales, Norway and France all moved from the dining room down the hall into a freshly dusted conservatory. No plants, just plenty of bright sunlight, a pleasant breeze through the open windows, and a view at England’s untended, slightly overgrown rosebushes immediately surrounding the house.
“Before we begin,” England said, sounding a little bit stronger than he had before breakfast, “I would like to ask if there’s been any progress made in a search for Acromantula anti-venom.” The host nation took a seat first, he could still easily get up and walk around on his own, and when he sat down in the arm-chair waiting for him he rested with his back straight, head up, his focus restored as he gestured for the rest of them to seat themselves. Norway and France took two more arm-chairs, Feliciano and Wales across from them on a small couch.
Norway was already shaking his head.
“I have never had direct contact with their species, and the only samples of anti-venom the hospital in Oslo had, we gave to India years ago.”
“About thirty years ago my magical communities in Europe and abroad began to cull them.” France added, waiting his turn and delivering bad news. “I have asked, but there are no more live colonies in French territory, and what anti-venom was not used up in the culls was given to other nations who asked for it. Have you approached Australia?”
“We have,” Wales answered, picking up the question France left open to all of them. “In May he committed to handing over what little his wix have, but it was only about a half-cup sitting on a dusty shelf in Melbourne. Saint Mungo’s has it now but they said it was dreadful quality.”
“How difficult is it to make?” Norway asked, something Feliciano was wondering now too. Wales took a deep breath and leaned forward on his knees, tapping his fingertips together. France answered instead.
“The process is not so much the problem as it is obtaining the ingredients.” Feliciano didn’t want to hear all of this. “A quart of venom only produces about an ounce of antidote. If your aurors were wise, England, they would have milked the dead spiders in that nest they destroyed in the spring- the queen alone would have had enough in her fangs to-”
“If my Aurors were that forward thinking, Francis, then why would I be begging to the international community?” The silence after that razor-sharp comment was stifling, and it was Feliciano’s turn to cover his mouth with one hand, waiting for someone to break the quiet.
The responsibility fell to Norway.
“You blessed a child who was poisoned.” He stated. “How much is that having an effect on you?”
“Look at him and then look at me and ask that question again.” England pointed at Feliciano, one ankle kicked up on his knee, leaning his elbow on the arm of his chair as he spoke. To make things worse he looked at Feliciano and asked him a question: “What did you stock market close at last night?” Oh.
“Aah…” Feliciano closed his eyes, reeling, at the sudden technical demand. It was there. It was there, but he opened his eyes to a blurry after image of market numbers and percentage trends, blinking to get back to France and Norway sitting across from him in the English salon. “Thirty-thousand, two-hundred and nine-teen point-” Down half a point from the day’s opener, but this morning they were already gaining a bit in- in something, he couldn’t suss out what.
“Excellent. What is your inflation rate for this quarter expected to be? Do you consider the Italian economy to have contracted or grown in the last six months?”
“Christo, Arthur, I’ve barely had twelve hours back in my own skin, I-” Point-zero-five and growth of half a percentage point. Sluggish, but better than nothing, but England already had a hand up showing he didn’t care about the answers he was asking for.
“Scorpius Malfoy is dying.” He said, and Feliciano bit his lip, shaking his head and ready to tell him off for- but then England gave a weak, pathetic kind of smile. “That’s it. I know Scorpius Malfoy is dying.” It was France’s turn to lean forward now, and Norway was sitting back in his chair, arms folded, watching.
“What do you mean ‘that’s it’?” England shrugged.
“I mean no matter where I look I only find the same information. Scorpius Malfoy is dying.” He said it with a chill in his voice, something that made the bright sunlight go grey. “He should have died four months ago with his parents and grandparents watching him, but I interfered and now I can’t get away from it.” That didn’t… Feliciano didn’t want to consider how that could be possible. “Every time I look elsewhere I’m called right back to him. I look for infrastructure reports and I smell his burning flesh, I reach for inflation and economic numbers and find broken chess pieces. I leave and I hear him screaming for me to come back, I stay and I can’t see anything but the burnt black walls keeping him a prisoner in his own mind because Scorpius Malfoy is dying and no one on this god-forsaken planet has the anti-venom to help me save him!”
The shouting was awful.
It was worse that Feliciano had nothing to offer either.
He hadn’t known it was this bad. He hadn’t known anything with England was this bad, and all he wanted to do now was creep back upstairs in shame and crawl into his borrowed bed and hide. How could he have just not known?
Maybe England hadn’t been certain either though. Maybe he’d thought, like Feliciano, that he’d take off the charm and get some sense of normality back. His balance, his scope, his context: that would all come flooding back to him under the nausea of the physical transformation. He’d wake up feeling dizzy and groggy, but slowly fall back in sync with himself. Maybe England hadn’t known how bad it was either. Or maybe Feliciano was just terrible at looking out for his friends.
“If I’d saved them…” he whispered.
“You tried, Italy.”
“And I failed.”
“What did you offer for the boy?” Norway asked, interrupting them and pulling Feliciano’s attention to the Nordic nation. “You must have suggested something big to keep him alive against this many odds.”
England pursed his lips. Feliciano had never drummed up the courage to ask that question.
“I offered anything, a carte blanche as the Frog would say.” The nations reeled.
“England that could mean-”
“Economy, infrastructure, trade, security, culture, arts, education, finance, currency, information-”
“Because it didn’t seem like such an unfathomable risk since Mungo’s alone had two full doses in stock!” Wales suddenly shouted, causing Feliciano to jump in his seat since he was sitting right next to him. “Who’d have known that every wizarding capital from Buenos Aires to Wellington to Moscow to Jakarta would have already dumped their supplies in some damned world-wide cull? Forgive us for assuming some knob-head in the British Ministry would have heard about a massive Acromantula extermination near Hogwarts and either gone scavenging to make a quick fortune or thought ‘hold on a tick that venom’s worth more than gold!’. So quit taking the piss outta him! It’s his bloody fault and he knows it, so if the three of you can’t help the situation then just shut up about it and move on to what you can do instead: shutting down that school.”
The transition was difficult, but with Scotland and Lovino’s return from the kitchen, the conversation changed course and rudely, roughly, forced itself in a better direction.
“The Triwizard tournament takes place every four years in Northern Europe.” France said, taking over the informal role of speaker this time, gesturing loosly with one hand from his seat. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but the twenty-seventeen tournament was cancelled: Hogwarts unexpectedly withdrew, and my beloved Beauxbatons, who were preparing to host the event, were hit with major flooding which damaged the library and washed away an entire academic wing. We understand what happened but it was still a shock none-the-less.”
“Why did Hogwarts withdraw?” Norway asked, looking briefly at Feliciano, then to England. The two of them shared a look and then… tried to answer?
“The former Headmistress mentioned nothing to us.” England said.
“A lot of things were cancelled that year,” Feliciano added. “There was no senior dance, no duelling tournament, now no Triwizard delegation…”
“The headmistress had to deal with you two idiots coming under cover into her school, so I can understand her personally not wanting to leave with the seventh years.” Scotland interjected. “But why she didn’t just send Flitwick with them is a mystery, and I don’t think I can just walk up to Flitwick and ask the poor bastard, he’s got enough on his plate this summer.”
“It is Durmstrang’s turn to host.” Norway said slowly, looking around the room and taking his time with it, as always. “I toured the grounds last week, they are more than ready.” He paused on Scotland. Slid to Wales. Moved with marked precision to England, and said: “But I will not allow students from a cursed school to come and infect my children. Can you swear to me that Hogwarts is safe?”
“I wouldn’t bet ten pence on that.” England practically spat the words. When Norway looked at him, Feliciano gestured to his own body.
“Do either of us look like we’ve been spending time in a safe school, Norway?”
Norway considered this, fingers curled over his chin and mouth, and finally removed that hand with a light gesture, looking around the room again conversationally.
“I, the Kingdom of Norway and national host of The Durmstrang Institute of Magic, hereby forbid any Hogwarts students, staff, or representatives from attending the twenty-twenty-two, twenty-twenty-three Triwizard Tournament in my sovereign territory.” There was weight and absolute authority in that statement, something their words couldn’t often manage in muggle affairs, but they rung now. “Violators will be apprehended by school security and detained in Oslo while their ministry is contacted. Security forces will abide by all international conventions and laws, or face prosecution.”
England and his brothers stood while Norway left his seat, handshakes passing around the four of them to officially bind the agreement. Then it was France’s turn.
“The Beauxbatons Academy of Magic is eager and willing to accept Durmstrang’s hospitality this fall, but should any agents of Hogwarts make themselves known within the school walls, all French parties will disperse at once and return to their native lands in accordance with their own safety.” Unlike Norway, France finished his speech on his feet, looking around the room with his hands gesturing, eye falling to each nation present and resting there as he spoke. “If any harm befalling a Beauxbatons student is later traced back to Hogwarts and its influences, there will be direct and immediate from Paris, spearheaded by myself. Am I understood, and my resolutions respected?”
It was not Feliciano’s turn or time to speak, but…
“Rome will stand with Paris.” And he met eyes with Lovino, who hesitated for a moment, and then nodded.
Everyone stood this time, and there was a certain kind of order in the way every hand met every other one at least once with a firm grasp, steady eye-contact, and an affirming word or nod.
“So now we have a Biwizard tournament,” France joked when the last of the formalities were over, the seven of them still standing like they were at some sort of cocktail party, and he turned a smile on Lovino, patting him on the shoulder right when his brother looked ready to say something to Feliciano first. “Italia! Who do you nominate for the Trinity? You two have the most schools per-capita than anyone in Europe, it must have been hard.” What? An Italian school was going to Norway this fall? He looked to Lovino.
“Who?” And his brother wilted.
“That’s what I was about to ask you, idiota.”
“What? Why would you ask me about this?” He shot back, not angry, just confused. “La Symphonia in Florence is my largest but they only have, at most, I think, fifty students, and they’re a place for the arts, not combat magic.”
“I was thinking maybe Colosseo, from Rome?” Feliciano almost gagged.
“Have you gone stupid without me?” He asked, “Romano the Colosseo doesn’t even own the land it stands on! The most important figures it’s ever produced were pick-pockets and Grandpa’s stage tumblers! For God’s Fiona Finnigan could beat any of them with a broken wand and her eyes closed.”
Behind him, England snorted and then coughed into his own hand. Lovino was going red.
“It’s the largest school in central Italy.” His brother argued, and then gestured quickly between the two of them, “It takes an almost even number from north and south, it’s the most neutral place we have.”
“Neutral?” What was this garbage? “There is not a neutral inch to spare between us, brother, there is north and there is south and then there are the little bits in the middle that we fight over, this is us. My magical community is not, I’ll admit, what I wish it was, but I’m not sending children to Norway armed with nothing but a trick wand or a few sheets of Botticelli.” And then, although he hated to say it out-loud… “What about Ercolano?”
South Italy did a shitty thing when he said that, because he pursed his lips very tightly amidst the chatter around them now, the others bored with watching them shoot back and forth in Italian. South Italy didn’t look at him, just sent his eyes up to the ceiling and then around the room, acting like he hadn’t heard anything.
“How many ministers of magic, from or since your time, came from Ercolano?”
“All of them.” Lovino quipped back, eyes straight up before he added: “Except one during the plague, he was from Rome. Good head on his shoulders until he lost it.”
“Do any of our magical ambassadors come from that school?”
“About half. Last I checked anyways.”
“When did you last check?”
“When France and Norway nominated us as a replacement for Britain.” Shit-eating son of a bitch. He puffed out his cheeks trying to hold his bursting pride in and looked Feliciano square in the eye for a moment, waiting.
“Italy nominates Accademia d’Ercolano,” The Academy of Herculaneum, “It is my brother’s pride and joy. Nestled in the foothills of Monte Vesuvio, Ercolano was founded shortly after the fall of our grandfather’s Empire, and has been a bastion of academic pride and magical ingenuity for centuries. Many great achievements and greater people have come from the academy.”
“Excellent!” France said, but-
“For example…?” Feliciano had not broken eye-contact with his brother, but they could feel the others looking at them. He wished it was easier to speak, and now regretted not just saying ‘fine you do it’ instead of jumping to the announcement. Lovino was pushing him to praise a school that deserved whatever Feliciano could give it, but that didn’t mean the task didn’t rub him the wrong way.
“Wizarding Venice’s canals were…” He was going to punch him. He was going to punch Italia Romano in the throat. “…in part…” this was painful. “…inspired by…” Oh, kill him. Let him die and wake up in Rome than go through this. “Certain research conducted by staff and students from Herculaneum in the seventh century.”
“Because…” The shit-eater said, fluidly stepping around behind Scotland, who had the curious, fussy look of someone who had just become an unwitting human shield. “Il Doge of Venice…” Don’t. “Who was a wizard by the way.” Hiding behind France would not save him- Lovino. “Was a student-”
“I will salt your garden and drive your car into the Tiber I swear to God.”
There was a very meaningful pause with Lovino hovering by the conservatory door, Wales making a point of looking at anyone who wasn’t Italian because he was uncomfortably between them.
“I taught you how to build Venice and you’ll never live it down!!” And Lovino ran- good!
“YOU ARE A LIAR YOU WELLFARE PIG- TAKE IT BACK!” Because Feliciano chased him,
to kill him.
*COUGHS ASHES AND COLLAPSES*
IT IS DONE
staying up too late when I have work and french tomorow and have not done the french homework but
I said I would update this fucking fic and by god I’m 4400 words further into it than I was this morning.
did she get a haircut
does it make anyone else uncomfortable that they changed her entire race because she went out with Ron in their sixth year
isn’t that what happened???
they changed a character’s entire race because she as a character became important and relevant for a short amount of time
Umm, no. They did not change her entire race simply because she dated Ron. Actually think about it. Up until the sixth book, she was a background character that was only ever mentioned in passing, so she wasn’t given a physical description. Then in the sixth book, Lavender was finally described, as having ‘pale skin and dirty blonde hair’. Well, the first few Harry Potter movies came out before the Half-Blood Prince book did, so the casting directors did what they wanted with the character.
Another thing, the Lavender Brown from the first few movies only appeared in the first few movies. Lavender didn’t even appear in the 4th and 5th movies, because again, she was a background character, and wasn’t vital to the story. The only reason her race was changed was because a physical description was finally in the books, and it didn’t fit what the directors had, so they had to recast her. It was not because she dated Ron.
Somebody spread this shit because I refuse to have this turn into some social justice bullshit
Actually, I think the kid is playing Minecraft. Which is essentially digital Legos.
Two generations of creative people, just different methods of expression. Let’s not shit on the digital age as much, ‘eh?
You know what’s great about Minecraft?
You don’t get lacerations from stepping on it.
You know what’s great about legos?
Your shit doesn’t get blown up because a green penis snuck up on you.
there is a tablespoon of raw garlic in this meal and we eat it with half a raw white onion per person and this is why you cannot kill the arab race because we are born each day in fire and hatred.
My most recent work, to appear in a local magazine.
Waaaaay to expensive $
560/ month…not that great…very noisy compound-mates I screwed up I meant to only reply to tag but it just deleted OP’s comments not the image frick sorry
I don’t know how much housing costs in general are in El Paso Texas, but heck.
UBC housing was $4000/academic year, not including meal plan. (so like just over 600/month, again, without food)
Living off-campus easily exceeded $1500/month.
Considering cost of going to uni PERIOD in the US that doesn’t sound expensive at all, especially not with utilities and internet included.
Q:Why do I torture myself rereading the Death Arc?
because u silly nonny