(no subject)
Fandom: Assassin's Creed x Harry Potter
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Desmond Miles, Ezio Auditore, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: G
Warnings: Kink meme request: Assassin siblings meet Hogwarts.
like pillars four
1. Desmond
Ah, says the Sorting Hat the moment it falls on the crown of his head, flopping low and uneven over the brow above one eye. Another one, but not quite like your brothers, are you?
Desmond fidgets in his seat, kicking the heels of his worn trainers against the tall legs of the uncomfortable wooden stool. He can feel the eyes of the entire student body bearing heavy and apprehensive on his face, the matching gazes of the teaching staff piercing sharply into his back, and he hates it. He is not the quietest amongst the siblings, but Desmond has always disliked drawing attention to himself, which is sometimes quite an unfortunate thing to be disinclined towards when one has brothers like his.
Both Altair and Ezio are sitting at the Gryffindor table, looking expectantly up at him. Altair has his cheek pressed into the flat of one fist, smirk crooked under the bump of his knuckles, and Ezio has both hands spread on the table to either side of his empty plate, looking incredibly ready to jump and welcome his youngest brother to the House of the brave. Their red and gold ties are already rumpled, slung loose around their collars and disappearing under the black cascade of their robes.
The still-unsorted First-Years blink owlishly up at him from the base of the small flight of stairs, wondering what he'll be, wondering what they'll become. Lucy, who he met on the train, is holding an anxious heart to her chest, ring finger curled inwards in a nervous quirk. Rebecca and Shaun, already sectioned off into Ravenclaw, lean forward curiously, straining their ears to hear the hat's decision. They all wonder; young and new and brave, they all hope. There is the potential for greatness in all of the Houses.
But Desmond is only eleven, and all he really wants is to be normal.
But you are brave; you will be when it is needed. You are different - not as cunning as the eldest, who almost slipped into Slytherin, and not as daring as the middle, whose heart blazed so strong there was never any question at all - but your courage beats strong in your blood. You can See it, can't you? Just like your brothers. You can See.
Desmond closes his eyes and can barely make out the bright azure blurs staining the inside of his eyelids blue. He thinks, Yes.
“Gryffindor!” shouts the Hat, and the school erupts into cheers.
2. Ezio
Ezio blunders into the classroom in a tornado of robes, papers and quills, sweeping in like a strong gust. He beelines towards the front of the room, throwing a passing wink at fourth-year Christina Vespucci from over the top of his Arithmancy textbook before sitting down next to Leonardo, sending tufts of downy feathers everywhere. Despite the aplomb of Ezio's entrance, Leonardo hardly notices, head bent so low over the piece of parchment he is scribbling on that there is a splotch of ink smeared over the tip of his nose.
Ezio has to clear his throat four times.
Leonardo looks up and starts, dropping his quill to throw his arms around Ezio's shoulders in greeting. “Ezio!” he exclaims, sounding just as enthusiastic the first time they met, despite the fact that they saw each other every day. There is an ornate drawing of something winged and peculiar on Leonardo's paper, but nearly everything about his best friend is somewhat peculiar, so Ezio does not pry. “I did not see you there!”
“I figured as much,” Ezio replies in amusement, patting Leonardo soundly on the back before letting go and drawing back. Once, during their First Year Ravenclaw-Gryffindor shared Potions semester, Ezio had been too distracted to properly return the embrace, only to be faced with Leonardo's puppy-eyed disappointment for the next two weeks. He has since learned his lesson, and learned it well.
Suddenly, a hand comes up and cradles his chin, turning his face to the side. “What happened here?” Leonardo asks, disapproval clear in his tone as he leans in to inspect the split lip that Ezio is oh-so-dashingly sporting (in his opinion) on the right side of his mouth. It is still red and raw, though it has since stopped bleeding, and Ezio can practically hear the tsk-ing noise running through Leonardo's thoughts. Looking worried, Leonardo adds, “You should go to the medical wing!”
Self-consciously, Ezio swipes the tip of his tongue over the wound, tasting iron and salt. It stings as he wets it and when he winces, he doesn't notice the tiny jolt of his best friend's shoulders, the stiffening in his back as his eyes trail the movement. “It is just Vieri. He and his little group had some...ah, choice words about one of the other Slytherin fourth-years.”
“Words?” prompted Leonardo, quirking a brow. “Surely, you didn't get cut from words-”
“The kind with fists,” says Ezio, flatly. “And kicking.”
“...Ah.”
“Anyway, they were giving him a hard time in one of the halls near the dungeons. He was holding his own, but not enough to do well against three of them. I forget his name - Machi-something? Michelangelo?”
Leonardo's brow furrows. “...Machiavelli? I have History of Magic with him. A good man.”
Ezio slaps a hand down on Leonardo's knee. Leonardo flinches from the force of the blow, but doesn't draw away. “Yes!” Ezio exclaims, nodding right out of Leonardo's grip. “Yes, that is the one. A bit of an ass, but not as much as those Pazzi bastards. Anyway, it is taken care of now. You should've seen the state Vieri left the hall in. This is nothing compared to that,” he says proudly, going so far as to thumb his nose and subsequently miss the entirely-too-fond look of exasperation Leonardo throws him.
“I do wish you would be more careful, Ezio,” Leonardo says, only slightly disapproving now. He turns back to his papers, eyes lowered, but he is not really looking at them, Ezio knows. When Leonardo really looks at something, his eyes tend to glaze over with a sort of manic intensity that few things on this earth can disperse. Ezio frowns at the sudden sobriety in his friend's voice and leans over the table, trying to peek at Leonardo's expression from behind the tawny curtain of his hair. “We are always worrying for you.”
Ezio frowns, thoroughly perplexed. “What? I don't get it-”
“Open your books to page two-seventy-three!” shrills the Professor, ever so inconveniently.
3. Altair
The wind races past his ears, loud to the point of screeching, like a bird of prey. The rush of air through his scarlet robes is stronger on his right side, where another body is dipping, diving, cutting through the air like a knife, side-by-side with Altair's plunging broom. Their arms are outstretched, Altair's left and Malik's right (never his left, ever since that incident in third-year with the shattered arm), hands straining for purchase around the ever-elusive snitch, which flutters just a hair's breadth away from their fingertips. They can feel the beat of its tiny metal wings against their nails.
The ground is coming up too fast, speeding towards them at an alarming rate, but neither boy takes the coward's way out (Malik is too stubborn and Altair is, of course, a Gryffindor, after all). The crowd has fallen deathly quiet, holding their breaths in their lungs and their hands to the 'O' of their mouths as they watch the opposing Seekers drop to their fates. It is a difficult call - they are well-matched and their rivalry has been the draw of many games since the year they met on the field for the first time.
Altair can still hear the zing of the Bludger as it nearly grazes them, but both Beaters and Chasers are doing a valiant job of keeping the projectiles away from the trajectory of the dive. Malik and Altair are too close together - they cannot risk trying to beat one off the other's trail without risking their own blood. All there is in this moment is the flight, the vertigo, the adrenaline, and the elusive, bright, glittering thing that he has to get in his hand right now right this instant right there take it - now!
At the last moment, Altair swerves his broom up into a painfully sharp turn, narrowly avoiding pummeling into the grass. In that split second, he feels his fingers brush up against the Snitch's back, feels them bump against Malik's thumb before pushing it away. He closes his fist over the tiny golden body as soon as he feels it give slightly into his palm. Altair clenches his hand around the little prize even as he tumbles off his broom, the momentum too strong for his quick maneuvering to avoid, even as the world turns into a topsy-turvy, swirling mess in his vision.
His body comes to a stop a few feet away, curled into itself on the ground, red robes fanned around him like a pool of blood. The crowd is still quiet, in awe and in fear; only two pairs of approaching footsteps break the silence. The referee is speeding towards him, but it is Malik who reaches him first, hopping off his broom and sprinting across half the field to drop to his knees beside his rival's prone body. He reaches out a hesitant hand, shoving at Altair's shoulder.
“Hey,” he calls, loud and without gentleness, sounding almost angry. “Hey!”
For a long moment, there is nothing.
Then, Altair shifts, winding into a tighter ball as he grunts before pushing up on his knees, up into Malik's splayed hand. His uniform hood has fallen over his head; it hides the smirk he throws Malik over his shoulder from their spectators, so it is Malik who knows it first, the outcome of the game, a split second before the rest of the school. Malik sees it in the glint of Altair's eyes, the flash of his teeth, feels it in the thrum of his blood, the daze in his head. Malik keeps his eyes trained on Altair's face even as the other boy's arm unfolds from under his chest.
Altair thrusts the captured Snitch into the air, its now-feeble wings battering uselessly against his wrist, and all of Gryffindor rejoices.
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Desmond Miles, Ezio Auditore, Malik Al-Sayf
Rating: G
Warnings: Kink meme request: Assassin siblings meet Hogwarts.
like pillars four
1. Desmond
Ah, says the Sorting Hat the moment it falls on the crown of his head, flopping low and uneven over the brow above one eye. Another one, but not quite like your brothers, are you?
Desmond fidgets in his seat, kicking the heels of his worn trainers against the tall legs of the uncomfortable wooden stool. He can feel the eyes of the entire student body bearing heavy and apprehensive on his face, the matching gazes of the teaching staff piercing sharply into his back, and he hates it. He is not the quietest amongst the siblings, but Desmond has always disliked drawing attention to himself, which is sometimes quite an unfortunate thing to be disinclined towards when one has brothers like his.
Both Altair and Ezio are sitting at the Gryffindor table, looking expectantly up at him. Altair has his cheek pressed into the flat of one fist, smirk crooked under the bump of his knuckles, and Ezio has both hands spread on the table to either side of his empty plate, looking incredibly ready to jump and welcome his youngest brother to the House of the brave. Their red and gold ties are already rumpled, slung loose around their collars and disappearing under the black cascade of their robes.
The still-unsorted First-Years blink owlishly up at him from the base of the small flight of stairs, wondering what he'll be, wondering what they'll become. Lucy, who he met on the train, is holding an anxious heart to her chest, ring finger curled inwards in a nervous quirk. Rebecca and Shaun, already sectioned off into Ravenclaw, lean forward curiously, straining their ears to hear the hat's decision. They all wonder; young and new and brave, they all hope. There is the potential for greatness in all of the Houses.
But Desmond is only eleven, and all he really wants is to be normal.
But you are brave; you will be when it is needed. You are different - not as cunning as the eldest, who almost slipped into Slytherin, and not as daring as the middle, whose heart blazed so strong there was never any question at all - but your courage beats strong in your blood. You can See it, can't you? Just like your brothers. You can See.
Desmond closes his eyes and can barely make out the bright azure blurs staining the inside of his eyelids blue. He thinks, Yes.
“Gryffindor!” shouts the Hat, and the school erupts into cheers.
2. Ezio
Ezio blunders into the classroom in a tornado of robes, papers and quills, sweeping in like a strong gust. He beelines towards the front of the room, throwing a passing wink at fourth-year Christina Vespucci from over the top of his Arithmancy textbook before sitting down next to Leonardo, sending tufts of downy feathers everywhere. Despite the aplomb of Ezio's entrance, Leonardo hardly notices, head bent so low over the piece of parchment he is scribbling on that there is a splotch of ink smeared over the tip of his nose.
Ezio has to clear his throat four times.
Leonardo looks up and starts, dropping his quill to throw his arms around Ezio's shoulders in greeting. “Ezio!” he exclaims, sounding just as enthusiastic the first time they met, despite the fact that they saw each other every day. There is an ornate drawing of something winged and peculiar on Leonardo's paper, but nearly everything about his best friend is somewhat peculiar, so Ezio does not pry. “I did not see you there!”
“I figured as much,” Ezio replies in amusement, patting Leonardo soundly on the back before letting go and drawing back. Once, during their First Year Ravenclaw-Gryffindor shared Potions semester, Ezio had been too distracted to properly return the embrace, only to be faced with Leonardo's puppy-eyed disappointment for the next two weeks. He has since learned his lesson, and learned it well.
Suddenly, a hand comes up and cradles his chin, turning his face to the side. “What happened here?” Leonardo asks, disapproval clear in his tone as he leans in to inspect the split lip that Ezio is oh-so-dashingly sporting (in his opinion) on the right side of his mouth. It is still red and raw, though it has since stopped bleeding, and Ezio can practically hear the tsk-ing noise running through Leonardo's thoughts. Looking worried, Leonardo adds, “You should go to the medical wing!”
Self-consciously, Ezio swipes the tip of his tongue over the wound, tasting iron and salt. It stings as he wets it and when he winces, he doesn't notice the tiny jolt of his best friend's shoulders, the stiffening in his back as his eyes trail the movement. “It is just Vieri. He and his little group had some...ah, choice words about one of the other Slytherin fourth-years.”
“Words?” prompted Leonardo, quirking a brow. “Surely, you didn't get cut from words-”
“The kind with fists,” says Ezio, flatly. “And kicking.”
“...Ah.”
“Anyway, they were giving him a hard time in one of the halls near the dungeons. He was holding his own, but not enough to do well against three of them. I forget his name - Machi-something? Michelangelo?”
Leonardo's brow furrows. “...Machiavelli? I have History of Magic with him. A good man.”
Ezio slaps a hand down on Leonardo's knee. Leonardo flinches from the force of the blow, but doesn't draw away. “Yes!” Ezio exclaims, nodding right out of Leonardo's grip. “Yes, that is the one. A bit of an ass, but not as much as those Pazzi bastards. Anyway, it is taken care of now. You should've seen the state Vieri left the hall in. This is nothing compared to that,” he says proudly, going so far as to thumb his nose and subsequently miss the entirely-too-fond look of exasperation Leonardo throws him.
“I do wish you would be more careful, Ezio,” Leonardo says, only slightly disapproving now. He turns back to his papers, eyes lowered, but he is not really looking at them, Ezio knows. When Leonardo really looks at something, his eyes tend to glaze over with a sort of manic intensity that few things on this earth can disperse. Ezio frowns at the sudden sobriety in his friend's voice and leans over the table, trying to peek at Leonardo's expression from behind the tawny curtain of his hair. “We are always worrying for you.”
Ezio frowns, thoroughly perplexed. “What? I don't get it-”
“Open your books to page two-seventy-three!” shrills the Professor, ever so inconveniently.
3. Altair
The wind races past his ears, loud to the point of screeching, like a bird of prey. The rush of air through his scarlet robes is stronger on his right side, where another body is dipping, diving, cutting through the air like a knife, side-by-side with Altair's plunging broom. Their arms are outstretched, Altair's left and Malik's right (never his left, ever since that incident in third-year with the shattered arm), hands straining for purchase around the ever-elusive snitch, which flutters just a hair's breadth away from their fingertips. They can feel the beat of its tiny metal wings against their nails.
The ground is coming up too fast, speeding towards them at an alarming rate, but neither boy takes the coward's way out (Malik is too stubborn and Altair is, of course, a Gryffindor, after all). The crowd has fallen deathly quiet, holding their breaths in their lungs and their hands to the 'O' of their mouths as they watch the opposing Seekers drop to their fates. It is a difficult call - they are well-matched and their rivalry has been the draw of many games since the year they met on the field for the first time.
Altair can still hear the zing of the Bludger as it nearly grazes them, but both Beaters and Chasers are doing a valiant job of keeping the projectiles away from the trajectory of the dive. Malik and Altair are too close together - they cannot risk trying to beat one off the other's trail without risking their own blood. All there is in this moment is the flight, the vertigo, the adrenaline, and the elusive, bright, glittering thing that he has to get in his hand right now right this instant right there take it - now!
At the last moment, Altair swerves his broom up into a painfully sharp turn, narrowly avoiding pummeling into the grass. In that split second, he feels his fingers brush up against the Snitch's back, feels them bump against Malik's thumb before pushing it away. He closes his fist over the tiny golden body as soon as he feels it give slightly into his palm. Altair clenches his hand around the little prize even as he tumbles off his broom, the momentum too strong for his quick maneuvering to avoid, even as the world turns into a topsy-turvy, swirling mess in his vision.
His body comes to a stop a few feet away, curled into itself on the ground, red robes fanned around him like a pool of blood. The crowd is still quiet, in awe and in fear; only two pairs of approaching footsteps break the silence. The referee is speeding towards him, but it is Malik who reaches him first, hopping off his broom and sprinting across half the field to drop to his knees beside his rival's prone body. He reaches out a hesitant hand, shoving at Altair's shoulder.
“Hey,” he calls, loud and without gentleness, sounding almost angry. “Hey!”
For a long moment, there is nothing.
Then, Altair shifts, winding into a tighter ball as he grunts before pushing up on his knees, up into Malik's splayed hand. His uniform hood has fallen over his head; it hides the smirk he throws Malik over his shoulder from their spectators, so it is Malik who knows it first, the outcome of the game, a split second before the rest of the school. Malik sees it in the glint of Altair's eyes, the flash of his teeth, feels it in the thrum of his blood, the daze in his head. Malik keeps his eyes trained on Altair's face even as the other boy's arm unfolds from under his chest.
Altair thrusts the captured Snitch into the air, its now-feeble wings battering uselessly against his wrist, and all of Gryffindor rejoices.