; words are our most inexhaustible source of magic

charles alexander potter. 16. gryffindor. aviator with both feet on the ground.

[leoyaxley-blog]

DATE: 10 September 1944  (Sunday)

TIME: 2:21 AM

LOCATION: Gryffindor Common Room

STATUS: Open to Gryffindors

It’s only the third week of September, but already he feels as if he’s sunk into the depths of familiarity, returned home from a strenuous journey on the open seas. Crashing waves and the cry of a gull at noon, monsters and whirlpools and myths. There’s been enough time for his body to cease aching with wild abandon; but not enough for it to forget summer and the way things – flowers, bruises, terror, defiance – bloom beneath the rolling heat of the sun. The season of idleness has come to an end, and in its wake comes cool nights like these; when the forest rustles fondly in the distance and the cooing of a stray owl sounds somewhere above Gryffindor tower. It’s late, and the common room has thinned to the last stragglers – but more and more often, Leo finds himself fraying at the seams when left to wallow in solitude. He almost craves the constant racket of Bellavie’s wireless, if not for the destruction which lies behind every quick-spoken phrase. London and Exeter and Sunderland – Belfast too, so close to where the Prewett estate has lain for centuries. Hidden. Hiding. Vulnerable. He couldn’t sleep if he tried. 

So he fills the silence.

“Hullo darling, “ he says when someone emerges from the dormitory staircases, half hidden in the darkness that lays beyond the glow of the candlelight and the moon. Lifting one hand to the cigarette held between his lips, he looks up at them from his position on an armchair. “And what are you up to tonight?” Before him, spread out across one of the low mahogany tables, is this year’s quidditch roster; still undergoing final revisions. At the top of the parchment, in his elegant but boyish scrawl, is his name. He’s only written Leo. The latter half is notably absent. 

[charles-alexander-potter]

He didn’t know why reading in low light was such a habit for him. He’d had glasses fitted to his face at age two, and this was what he chose to do with them? Charles raised his eyes from the text in front of him, realizing just then how close his nose was to the page. The light emitting from his wand was still just as strong and bright as it had been two hours before, but it wasn’t bright enough to keep the Potter boy’s eyes from stinging. He reached beneath his spectacles to rub them, leaning back against the headboard as he did so. He couldn’t say the principles of nonverbal spells for Transfiguration were all that interesting, but he also couldn’t say he’d been absorbing much of what he read. Not tonight - not lately. 

The dormitory was quiet, but with the curtains drawn about him he couldn’t be sure that the other sixth-year boys were asleep. He snapped the book shut in his hands and gingerly leaned over, sliding one of the curtains open; slow, steady breathing coming from the lumps in the other beds told him all he needed to know, and something like jealousy stirred inside him. Sleep was an elusive creature, skirting the edge of Charles’ capabilities each night and relishing in the chase. Charles was less enthusiastic, a fact made obvious by the dark circles beneath his eyes and the listlessness with which he floated through each day, and he was weary with frustration at the prospect of entering yet another week this way. Rubbing his eyes again, he rose from the mattress, still dressed in the Gryffindor sweater he’d donned that morning. He snatched The Daily Prophet from his endtable, his movements slow, deliberate, and automatic; the pages were soft from handling, and the thing was so creased it was a wonder his poor eyes could still read it. But, somehow they managed, and he planned on doing it all over again.

A fire was smoldering in the hearth, and the light from the numerous scattered candles was strong enough that Charles saw fit to snuff out his own wandlight before stepping down into the common room. He smelled Leo before he saw him; cigarette smoke wasn’t a scent he had any particular liking for, but he had to admit that he found comfort in it just then. A smirk tugged at one end of his mouth in response to his friend’s drawl of welcome, and he stuffed his wand into his pocket as he moved toward him, dark eyes alighting upon the cigarette poking out from between Leo’s lips. Without a word he plucked it from his mouth, stepping closer to the fireplace. He took a short, halting drag himself; but, as usual, the smoke burned his throat and sent him into a series of coughs, smoke escaping his mouth and nose in puffs so that he looked very much like an ill dragon. Then he tossed it into the fire. 

“I still think those things will kill you,” he said, swallowing another cough.         

[charles-alexander-potter]

Date: September 14th, 1944 Time: 4:00pm Location: Library Open to: @druella-rosier

If anything was sure to draw people out of the icy hush of the opening week, it was Quidditch. Professors practically beamed when they happened upon bickering students in the hallways, and even they could be seen partaking in the occasional good-natured heckle. Charles, however, never showed much of an interest in the sport; his early broomstick experiences hadn’t been particularly thrilling, and aside from the impressive physical feats a match promised, he found the whole thing rather dull. Still, he attended more matches than someone with such an alleged opinion would, thanks to the other three-quarters of the Aviators (a name more fitting for them than for him), and he had to admit that the game was more exciting when the players were your best friends. The trade-off, though, was that Quidditch season meant a great deal of alone time; Declan, Leo, and Bellavie were almost constantly on the pitch, which left Charles to his own devices. 

Late afternoon sunshine trickled through the library windows, just strong enough to eliminate the need for a candle or a lamp. It’d been overcast for days, the sky gray and full of swollen clouds. Charles allowed himself a glance at them from his perch on the windowsill, and he could almost smell the impending shower. ‘Better to get it out of the way now,’ he thought - a wet and soggy kick-off match would likely dampen his spirits, and those were already struggling to stay float. He sniffed, tugging a handkerchief out of his pocket; his watery excursion into the dungeons the night of the feast had left him with a nasty cold, but he counted himself lucky that that was the worst of it. Things could have gone much worse than they did, but the fact of the matter was that not everyone shared this view. A sheet of parchment, folded, fluttered out of his pocket with the handkerchief, his mother’s handwriting visible on its surface. Unlike a great deal of the other pure-blooded parents, the Potters didn’t blame the staff for the events of September first. Charles received an immediate and concerned letter straight away, of course, but his own explanation and assurance that he was all right seemed to be enough. He was sure they had questions, but it they wrote to Dippet or Dumbledore about them they didn’t see fit to tell him. Handkerchief to his nose, Charles snatched the letter from the floor and stuffed it back into his pocket. His attention now elsewhere, he lifted his gaze to see someone peering at him from the main aisle. Shaking a bit of dark hair out of his eyes, he offered a nod of acknowledgement, sniffing again as he stowed his handkerchief away and reached once more for the copy of The Prophet lying beside him.

“Druella.”

[charles-alexander-potter]

book one: chapter one

“Augustus?”

Smoke and ash drifted through his wandlight, reducing everything beyond its reach to shadows. Charles swore he’d heard something - a sharp hissing sound, almost like an intake of breath - and he moved purposefully toward it, defying the primal instinct within him to flee. Something moved just out of range of his ‘lumos maxima,’ and not a heartbeat later a wild-eyed young boy stumbled into the light, panting. He was holding his wand in front of him like he knew what to do with it, but Charles took note of his grip, the full-fisted hold that separated most first-years from their peers. Augustus hadn’t even had a proper lesson, but his will to survive urged him to try. Nonetheless, he lowered his wand at the sight of Charles, seemingly relieved that he wouldn’t have to resort to channeling powers he didn’t know how to control. His leader was here - his guardian - and Charles wordlessly reached out to grab his shoulder, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He was sure this was the boy he’d been looking for. Now that he saw him, so small and frail amidst the ash and crumbling walls of the east-wing corridors, he was absolutely certain he’d never forget what Augustus Riggens looked like. 

“I-I tried to keep up...” 

The eleven-year-old’s voice was hoarse, tiny, and Charles shook his head, giving Augustus’ shoulder a squeeze. 

“Nevermind,” he interjected. “It’s not your fault. Come on, let’s get you back...”

-x-x-

Charles wondered how many of the Slytherins would rather drown than accept his help. It wasn’t a thought that should’ve been running through his head at that moment, not while he was already ankle-deep in frigid lake water, but it persisted all the same, nagging at the back of his mind and threatening to exacerbate his discomfort. He made a fist with his right hand; water flowed freely into his shoes, his socks squelching inside with every step, and he almost hoped his aching palm would distract him.The light from his wand shimmered on the water’s surface as he swept it back and forth, combing the area for any sodden snakes.

Since finding Augustus not three hours earlier, things had certainly taken a turn. The immense relief and elation Charles felt at locating the wayward first-year was short-lived, and even now, wading through the flooded dungeons, his mind’s eye registered Declan’s face in clear technicolor. “Will you fight for me?” he’d asked, and Charles didn’t hesitate. He was tired, harried, stretched thin and filled to the brim with worry, but he’d already answered Declan’s question years ago, volunteering himself the moment he entered the Aviators’ circle. He knew it wasn’t an easy question for Declan to ask, but he hoped his willingness offered some respite, prevailing over the lump in his throat and the sweat on his palms. Compared to most Gryffindors, Charles’ prejudice against Slytherin house was subdued; he found it easier than others to separate the Knights and their like from those made of ambition and cunning of the less harmful variety, and it was this that made traipsing into the fray seem worthwhile. In times like this, he believed, there were no Slytherins and Gryffindors - only people, and every one was worth something.  

Just then, a deafening noise shook the walls, yanking Charles out of his head. It was somewhere between a groan and a roar, and for a moment he imagined himself in the galley of a ship, stranded at sea and at the mercy of a great aquatic leviathan. His instructions were clear: evacuate the stranded students. It might have been on purpose that Declan hadn’t asked him to face the squid head-on, but nevertheless his stomach twisted with worry, and he found himself peering desperately around at the black stone walls, his thoughts far away from the water in his shoes. After the squid’s angry roar (or whatever it had been), the flooded area around Charles was plunged into silence once more, his watery footsteps echoing off the walls. His heart thundered against his ribcage, and if he’d been trying to hide he was certain it would’ve given him away. He pressed on, turning a corner and descending a short series of stairs. Charles noted the fine clouds of vapor rising from his nose and mouth when he breathed; the dungeons were chilly at the best of times, and the water running in from the Black Lake didn’t seem to help. His descent deeper into the underbelly of the castle resulted in water lapping at his thighs, and he halted, biting down on the inside of his lip so as to brace himself against the cold. He lifted his wand, casting its light over the flooded corridor before him; all was quiet, and he was just about to turn back when he heard a splash. 

He heard them before he saw them, their efforts to push through the (for them) waist-deep water weary but concerted. The silver and green of their neckties flashed in Charles’ wandlight, but he was looking at their faces instead - two girls, probably third-years if he had to guess, pale and wide-eyed. They clutched each other desperately, and at the sight of him the leader sped up, the other practically floating in her wake. They said nothing, but Charles thrust out his aching hand all the same; there was no hesitation in the way the first girl grasped it, just as there was no hesitation in the way Charles tugged them backward. He moved and his light shifted, plunging them into darkness whilst lighting their way. Suddenly, they were not lions or snakes but three children with sodden robes and chattering teeth, wading hand-in-hand through the dark.      

[teachingliteracy]

[charles-alexander-potter]

abraxasmlfoy:

“I am right, aren’t I?” he laughed bitterly. How silly was it that Charles would play the hero without knowing the victim’s face? How ridiculous was it that Abraxas was the one who knew?  Abraxas, with his disdain and his supremacy, who Charles and his friends would paint as a villain without knowing his heart- 

Without thinking, he had offered himself up as a hero. He had tricked himself into thinking he could help. The havoc had disillusioned him, when he realized what he was doing, when he realized how vulnerable and strange he sounded, he had no choice but to raise his walls in the only way he could.  Mudblood--  he had said, purposefuly, unbidden and he had immediately flushed with relief.

He knew he had gone too far, but he cared not for it.  Abraxas knew what effect it would have, he knew how it would make him sound.

He had said too much, shown too much of his heart. On one hand, he had known he could not look for the boy, not without being disingenuous. He had a responsibility to be careless and cruel. It was what everyone expected. But, on the other, how could he leave that boy alone when he saw that little face so clearly in his mind, felt a string of empathy fly so fiercely to that first year’s heart. 

Charles had cut him off, said something snide that begged them to part ways, and, for some reason, though it was what Abraxas had expected, he could not leave it alone. His hand lashed out grabbed Charles’ shoulder, wrenched him closer.

He was close enough to read the words on that stupid badge, close enough to see the pulse in Charles’ throat, close enough to see those shallow eyes that would never understand what Abraxas’ mind, “If he’s with the Slytherins, then it’s too late, Potter. You know what we do to people like him down there. You best pray he’s in the corridors still.”

“Do you know who Gaius Augustus is?” the remark seemed to come out of nowhere. His voice was dark and unreadable, “he turned a city of brick to marble. He was the first Emperor of Rome.”

“When you find that boy, Potter,” when, not if- he turned his head away briefly as if he could not bring himself to meet Charles’ eyes. He felt the dampness of his own grip seep through Charles’ shirt and spat out his next words as if they were a curse, “Tell him what his name means, wont you?”

Tell him that I wish him well. Everything will be alright soon. 

He pointed his wand at Charles’ chin and muttered something unintelligible. A pocket of air enveloped the other boy’s nose and mouth. 

“Bubble head charm,” he said finally, backing away, “it’ll stop the smoke from getting in your mouth.”

Charles’ left hand moved almost as quickly as the one Abraxas used to latch on to his shoulder; the blue light wavering at the tip of his wand pointed directly into the Slytherin’s face, poking up between them like a sad little shield. But, it  was anything but sad, and Abraxas had to know that. Muscles tensed and wand at the ready, Charles braced backwards against Malfoy’s hold - but he didn’t struggle. He refused to. His brow, already furrowed, only crinkled more at the words Abraxas hissed into the air between them, and he bit down so hard on his tongue that he tasted blood. 

“If you,” he growled, “or any of your ‘friends’ sees fit to harm even one hair on his head...”

There was a ferocity in his voice that he barely recognized, and the full extent of it was silenced by more words from Malfoy that Charles didn’t hear. His blood was rushing in his ears, and the thought of his wayward first-year at the mercy of the snakes made everything else irrelevant. He was almost certain Abraxas was bluffing, but this knowledge wasn’t enough to reassure him. The Slytherin’s hold suddenly slackened; Charles pulled away, and the Bubble-head charm that tried to envelope his nose and mouth met a swift end via his own swatting hand. He didn’t need help, especially not from Malfoy, and before he turned his back he held up his wand, brown eyes boring into gray. 

“One.”  

[charles-alexander-potter]

reginaserpentes:

So easy to rile up, so easy to disarm. 

She had always perceived Charles Potter to be a weakling, the intellectual rioter struggling to keep his books from being torn on the battlefield as his mates raised their banners and made their war cries. He was not built for the same fate as the rest of them. Knocking knees, thick-framed glasses, a face soft and boyish, not at all intimidating. He may have been a lion (by some laughable standard), but if Gryffindor house was a pride, then he was their runt. It’s pitiful. She lets her coy, dark gaze linger on him now, and she feels it rising in her throat like bile — pity. 

To be pitied is to be weak. 

They’re done: she’s made her blows and toppled her towers. Evadne almost turns to leave, but then he says something she can hardly expect, and in a moment’s inflection, she feels herself grow impossibly cold. She doesn’t step away. Instead, she steps closer. 

“What did you say, Potter?” It’s a cool, low question. A black shadow enters her gaze. In her chest, her heart begins to pick up its pace. Though externally she maintains the shimmering facade of calm, a spike of anxious fury comes into being, like a match lit. Surely Declan hadn’t exposed their shared secret – and if to anyone, surely not to Charles. Surely he hadn’t betrayed them, hadn’t betrayed her in the most heinous of ways. It was the most regrettable and terrifying thing in her life, to have handed the leader of their enemy the ammunition to bring her to her knees: to blow the deck from under her and watch her drown beneath the waves of slander. 

But if Declan was to expose her, then he would strip himself naked too. 

She forces herself to smile again. It’s not kind, but rather some sort of slow, creeping thing; like a beast crouched to the ground, ready to spring, ready to draw blood if need be. 

“Do you think I care about your little posse, Charles?” She moves in, and without any semblance of permission, reaches up to straighten the younger boy’s collar. There is something innately intimate about the gesture, but she can almost sense the goosebumps rising over his skin, a revulsion as deeply rooted as attraction. “Do you really think I give a fuck about who buries your dead?” She gives the fabric a pull, then smooths her hands over his shoulders. Her voice falls to a thrilling whisper, though her words are nothing to flirt with, only to shudder over. “The only time I’ll pay attention is when the casket’s six feet under.” 

His stomach plummeted. It was so unlike him to be bold with his words, especially in the company of someone like Evadne, and he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he’d made a mistake. It was all speculation - he hadn’t actually seen anything that night, holding his own glass of dark red wine and squinting into the shadows - and as such he wasn’t going to declare it true. The scholar in him wouldn’t allow it. However, Declan’s mannerisms spoke volumes, and Evadne’s reaction did nothing to quench the unease rising like vomit in Charles’ stomach. She inched closer, and a desperate backpedal knocked at the closed door of his lips.There was still time, he thought - time to cover his tracks, to draw the Slytherin’s gaze away from the image he’d just produced. He knew that, despite what she said, neither of them wanted him to elaborate, so he stayed quiet, lips drawn into a tight, thin line. The distance between them grew shorter without warning, and he had to steel himself from stepping back; her hands reached for his throat, the fingers of his left hand twitched instinctively... 

The difference in intent between her mouth and her hands was staggering - intriguing - and Charles was thoroughly confused. It was a rare thing for him to feel, and his discomfort was palpable. Still, something rooted him to the spot; Evadne’s fingers fussing about his collar made him bristle, his stomach clenched, but he kept himself from backing away. That was what she would expect him to do, and why not surprise her a second time? Narrowed brown eyes searched her face, his upper lip curled into a scowl. Your dead, she said. The casket. Try as he might, Charles couldn’t push the thought from his head. His mind’s eye was always much too clear, much too imaginative, and the image of a polished mahogany casket sinking into the earth was almost too much for him to bear. 

“Get off.”

Roughly, he wrenched himself out of Evadne’s reach, smoothing down his own robes in an attempt to rid himself of her. ‘That sort of thing might work on Declan,’ he thought as he turned away, ‘but it won’t work on me.’

[charles-alexander-potter]

abraxasmlfoy:

Abraxas had no love for children. Those grimy grubby fingers always reaching out to someone. They were always wanting something, needing something and they always had something sticky wiped around their mouths. At age 11, Abraxas had completed his own anthology of Titus Andronicus, had torn through the histories of Alexander the Great, had memorized his family history since the 1600s and had started attending board meetings for his family company. Most of these first years were still toddling through Babbity Rabbity and hairy hearts and their ickle fickle feelings. 

“Gryffindors-” his lips curled in disdain, but it was less a display of any true contempt and more of a veneer of disdain, “pray tell, Pottter, what exactly does that mean? Everyone who can? Who exactly - me, you and who else? Merlin forbid whoever sent you to save Au- that boy. Might as well have left him in the Lake.”

His chest ached, but he paid it no mind. 

Augustus- that was his name. When the word had sat on the tip of his tongue, he had had to stop it, it had felt too strange and too familiar at the same time. His mind drifted, he heard the same echo in the Great Hall, he drew up an image of someone sitting under a cavernous hat, thin legs trembling as they climbed up that chair. 

“Riggens…Brown hair, small, more than the average first year… glasses …Mudblood,” his voice went tight, at once daring Charles to say different and imploring him to agree, “…no?”

He tucked his hands behind his back and shook himself off, “Right, Potter?”

Brown eyes narrowed behind glasses blurred with smoke. Abraxas’ snide remarks about him were easy enough to ignore - the prefect badge on his chest said more about his abilities than Malfoy could, and he’d become quite used to dealing with insults. But, that word - the one that slid like a great, ugly snake from Abraxas’ lips - made Charles’ jaw clench, a flicker of ferocity alighting across his visage. 

“Half-blood,” he corrected, his voice lower than normal but not without a well-rounded note of warning. “He’s a half-blood, but that doesn’t have anything to do with identifying him in a crumbling hallway, Malfoy. So besides that detail, yes, you’re right.”

You’re right. The words felt dirty, unnatural, and Charles couldn’t hide his discomfort at having to utter them. Still, he pressed on, refusing to give Abraxas time to mutter another unnecessary retort.

“If you happen to see him with the Slytherins, keep him there.”

[ficra-blog1]

Date: 5 & 6 September, 1944

Location: a hallway within Hogwarts

Time: late evening

Status: Closed ( @charles-alexander-potter )

The Astronomy Club was having its first meeting. Fiora was all eyes alight and bouncing footsteps throughout the day, her mind a galaxy within itself, filled with wondrous celestial bodies that she could only barely define. Classes flew by—notes were jotted down, homework assigned to a hushed chorus of groans, and although she already felt that familiar sense of tiredness that binds together most all students she could still keenly feel excitement for what the night yet to come held for her. Stars and wonder, knowledge she craved to have in such an intensely sincere way. Fiora wanted to understand the universe as best she possibly, humanly could, and Astronomy Club brought her that much closer to her dreams.

She walked quickly, excited, head in the clouds—no, higher: the stars. Evening had fallen, golden-red and was in the process now of giving way to a cloudless, velvety night. It was a perfect night. As she passed through a hallway, a door to her left opened and students walked out. She saw Luca, Felix, Lacey, Kharmali, Septima—and Charles Potter. He was Bellavie’s friend, and while he and Fiora had never really spoken she had gotten to know him vicariously through Bellavie; in summation, he was known to Fiora as brilliant, quiet, and an excellent boy all around.

As she saw him leave the classroom—Charms Club!, she thought, finally remembering Felix mention that they were meeting that evening—two thoughts ran concurrent through her mind and meshed into one, leaving her with a singular and somewhat daunting idea. While she did not necessarily struggle with Charms, Fiora was forever looking to improve, and who better to ask for help than Charles? A nervous flutter briefly gripped her as she walked towards him, thinking, Am I really going to ask? But, there would never be so good a time as this: there was no one else with him to ramp up her nerves. As it was clear she was coming towards him, she smiled brightly in an attempt to conceal how shy she was truly feeling.

“You’re Charles, aren’t you? Bellavie’s friend? I’m Fiora—Bellavie’s my friend as well, and she’s told me that you’re very smart, and I was wondering if you might be able to help me with my charmswork, if you ever had some spare time?” She rocked back on her heels for a moment, looking up at him wide-eyed and still smiling. She hoped she wasn’t making a fool of herself, although it rather felt that way, but if he really was the dear friend that Bellavie made him out to be then she believed that she had little to truly fret over. “If not, of course, that’s no bother—I just thought that since I’d seen you I might ask.”

[charles-alexander-potter]

“Seemed a bit tense in there, didn’t it?”

Charles raised his eyebrows in response to Luca Scamander’s whispered question, giving his head a small nod. “A bit,” he agreed, “though I wouldn’t say this group is particularly boisterous to begin with.” 

If he had to use one word to describe this year’s first week of classes, “tense” definitely came to mind. The staff’s concerted effort to make everything after the first night’s fallout feel as normal as possible was a noble one, though it didn’t seem to be having the desired effect. Last year’s batch of Gryffindor first years had been somewhat of a nightmare, and Charles, ever prepared, was quite ready to deal with the same this time around; however, the five new boys barely made a sound, and their prefect found himself checking in more than usual, just to be sure they were still alive. The whole castle was like that; the hallways were unusually quiet during passing periods, and mealtimes were subdued and absent of their usual din. Charles wasn’t about to blame anyone for being...affected - he also spent most of his days moving about in a half-daze - but as an authority figure, he had to save face. That’s what he believed, anyway, so that’s what he did, and the last hour had exhausted him. He’d forced his energy to skyrocket, something that probably only succeeded in making both him and everyone around him uncomfortable, but it was worth a shot and it was one he was more than willing to take. Now, though, he moved slowly, his eyes slightly glazed as he tried to hold a conversation with Luca. 

“Fair enough,” the Ravenclaw agreed with a shrug, and he reached over to give Charles a soft pat on the back. “See you in class tomorrow.” Charles managed a small wave as Luca moved away, headed to his next meeting, and he plunged his hands into his pockets, eyes on his feet. If Fiora hadn’t spoken up, it’s possible he would have crashed into her; instead, her voice made him look up, stopping in his tracks and bobbing backwards on his heels so as to balance his own momentum.

“Oh, um...yeah, I’m Charles...”

She spoke so quickly and with such purpose that he couldn’t do more than blink at her, running her words through a mind turning via squeaky, worn-out wheels. Her slight pause gave him a moment to process what she’d said, and he nodded, allowing comprehension to dawn upon his face. 

“Fiora Brown. Wait, Bellavie said that? Well, she might overestimate me just a smidge, but I suppose...being in Charms Club and all...”

The words coming out of his mouth were quite different from the ones careening about in his head. Fiora Brown, a Hufflepuff, was one of the few he’d failed to see at a Resistance meeting. Of course, unlike the rest of the students who identified as “neutral,” Fiora’s stance seemed on the verge of changing; Charles saw the way she watched them, a bit hopelessly conspicuous but endearing all the same, and he found himself giving another nod at her question, his plan forming quicker than he could keep up with. 

“Of course,” he replied. “Um, let’s see...Are you free at all tomorrow evening?”     

[charles-alexander-potter]

bellaviechambers:

She glances up at him as he mutters, lifting her gaze from the mangled palm of his hand to meet his eyes, exasperation momentarily outweighing worry in her expression. “You’ve called me out on that line often enough not to try and use it on me, Charles Alexander Potter,” she says tartly, putting a faint stress on his middle name, “and if you try to get back up before you’ve rested, eaten and had something to drink I will sit on you, are we clear?” It was, she thought, perhaps not the best threat, but it would at least prevent him from trying to charge back out again. She hopes.

She sighs, shaking her head slightly as she goes back to examining his palm and slowly, carefully starts removing the glass fragments she can see and dropping them into the nest of fabric with the rest. The glass in his palm – in his palm, her Charles’s, the gentlest of all her boys – is bad enough, but his hand is smeared in blood too. They’re scholar’s hands, soft and gentle and quick with a quill and if they’re covered in anything it should be ink, not blood, not his blood – (and for a moment she sucks her breath in and thinks is this what Thomas looked like, is this how it happened— and she ruthlessly pushes that thought aside because she can’t, but it doesn’t stop the hitch in her breath) – and what else will this night take from them all before it is done?

She forces herself to breathe, because Charles is hurt and he needs her to focus  – and how could she not when he has so often done the reverse for her? And so she breathes and pushes aside anything else, to keep working in methodical silence as she eases out the slivers and runs her wand over the wounds once each shard is free, murmuring episkey quietly and hoping the charm will be enough for these – it is good at small injuries, usually, and they are small but there are so many cuts that she wonders if it will make it through them all. She breaks the silent after a moment, eyes still on his palm as she says quietly “You’re right, I think, it’s not as bad as it looks, but that’s not–” she cuts off when her voice starts to waver, swallows, then continues with her voice noticeably thicker and a little pleading despite her attempt at reassuring normality, “Just let me fuss, Charles dear heart, you know I’ll worry else.”

If her tone wasn’t enough, her utterance of his middle name drew his gaze. Brown eyes searched her face, pale but determined, and Charles stayed where he was; he couldn’t say he was quaking with fear at the thought of Bellavie sitting on him, but something in her voice kept him obediently rooted to the spot. The first shard of glass she plucked from his skin came as more of a surprise than it should have. On instinct he flinched, tugging his hand away from her, but he didn’t quite get it out of her grasp before he regained control, tenderly offering it back and biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. His eyes wandered away from her, but only briefly; the small hitch in her breath didn’t escape him, and his admittedly out-of-focus attention dropped to the red smudge that was the palm of his hand, watching in silence as she fussed over it. 

The muttered healing spell sent a sensation like a cool breeze billowing across his skin. It felt taut and dry like leather, and as far as he could tell (which wasn’t much) most of the blood had been siphoned away. He gave his fingers a small, experimental flex, and save for a bit of a stinging ache, the sharp, piercing pain was gone. He opened his mouth; a small, guttural sound escaped, the beginnings of a “thank you,” but Bellavie spoke before it could properly form. There it was - that break, that hitch he’d heard earlier - and it just about broke his heart. He’d always been a perceptive person, but he doubted anyone needed to be a sleuth to hear the desperation in her voice. 

“Bells,” he said slowly, dipping his head so as to catch her eye. “Hey. You can worry yourself silly over me if it makes you feel better, but that’s it, alright?”

[charles-alexander-potter]

reginaserpentes:

She has a semi-automatic tongue, and it very rarely fails her. 

Witnessing the shift upon Charles’ ordinarily stoic face – like the turn of a coin on its edge – is proof of how it lethally it strikes. Fury is elicited easily if one knows where to hit the hardest; and when it came to the precious quartet of dreamers, only a fool could aim and miss the target: a girl painted in shades of red and blue and white, the colours of England and war, mundane chaos and pitiful propaganda. Everyone could see how they doted upon her, the weakling, the muggle filth which marred an otherwise presentable front. Bellavie Chambers, the hamartia of three boys who could have been so much more if only they had fortified their Achilles heel with more than flesh and blood. 

It almost upsets her, to see such potential go to waste. But ah, she said ‘almost’. 

“Really.” It’s a sardonic, belittling inflection of her voice. Evadne smiles, slow and sharp, like a she-wolf who languidly shows her teeth to the rabbits hiding in the snow. Her muzzle is red. The prey is frozen in terror. “Are you saying, Charlieboy, that your little Miss Chambers could beat me in a duel?” She pauses, lips turned up in a false show of goodwill, eyes narrowing into dark-lashed crescents. The Carrows are a small but fiercely prideful family – and it hasn’t escaped her, the legacy for arrogance. It tinges her whole. “Though – I do think it could be more dramatic if it were a proper battle. There would be no Dumbledore to intervene, no safeguard, no excuses. Victory would be lasting. Don’t you agree?” 

Evadne turns her back to Charles momentarily as she circles back towards her trunks, which have now been stacked neatly in a precarious pile. Besides it, houseelves pant in exhaustion, sweating beneath the heat of the midday sun. She surveys their work for a moment, decides that it’s terribly pitiful, and with a click of her tongue and an airy wave of her hand; dismisses them back to the manor, where they will undoubtedly spend the remainder of the day toiling with equally pathetic effort. When she turns back towards the conversation, her wand is out; a slender dark length gripped casually between her fingers. 

“Now, which of you would pay for her funeral?” Wingardium Leviosa, she says; taking pleasure in the uneasiness of her companion as her wand flicks. The trunks rise from the ground and hang uncertainly in the air as she holds them stagnant. “Yaxley wouldn’t have the support, and you wouldn’t have the guts. Prewett then.” Her smile grows, but it only serves to make her look more unkind, more vicious. The wolf steps forward, her jaw unhinges. Prewett. It was always Prewett. 

“And we come full circle.” 

As much as he read and wrote and dealt with words in one form or another, Charles was not gifted in waging war with them. Really, waging war at all wasn’t a strong suit of his, but dueling with a wand seemed to come easier than dueling with his tongue. He was horrifically unfit to battle Evadne, and he knew it; but, that stubborn, steady lion inside him shook its mane and rose to its feet, emitting a great growl at the Slytherin’s parry. It was a low blow, but definitely not one he hadn’t heard before. It must have been common knowledge among the Slytherins - particularly the Knights - that Bellavie was a sensitive subject. Then again, he imagined it wasn’t that hard to figure out, what with how notoriously (and, to Bellavie, exhaustingly) protective he, Declan, and Leo were of her. It was a predictable insult, but judging by the way he bristled and the way he gnawed on the inside of his cheek, it was one Charles couldn’t let go.     

‘Of course she could beat you,’ he wanted to say, but the words came to a sliding halt at the tip of his tongue. He had every faith in Bellavie’s magical abilities, but he’d also seen Evadne duel and knew better than to take the bait. With his luck he’d end up inadvertently signing Bellavie up for a nighttime, no-holds-barred duel, so he kept his mouth shut, a muscle working furiously in his jaw. But, he could only hold out for so long...

“Enough.”

The lion in his chest roared, and Charles faced Evadne with fierce intensity. If she fancied herself killing his best friend, then he was going to have something to say about it; however, as per usual, he came up empty. 

That is, until she mentioned Declan. 

He almost laughed. Almost. 

“That’d suit you, wouldn’t it?”

[charles-alexander-potter]

khalilahshafiq: 

Kitty’s laugh was mocking, it echoed off the stone walls and ricocheted off her own ear drums, filling her with much sarcastic distain. Charles believed he didn’t need help. Didn’t he know he was weak himself, to be honest Kitty had no clue what Headmaster saw in this Potter boy to give him a badge of honor, the second highest degree, he may have been intellectual but he had not been a Ravenclaw like her. 

“Oh Charles,” She purred, stepping towards him slowly like a cat on the prowl. “The only burden in this corridor is you. Shouldn’t you go to the boat houses and breath in fresher air than this polluted substitute? You’re practically slumping over in defeat. In fact, fix your posture, you’re a boy who should know his manners.” 

Kitty had not been kind; in fact, she would have preferred to search alone. She could see the future now, almost as if her Divination classes had paid off, all the divine powers falling from the stars that hung onto their last strands. Headmaster Dippet would award her greatly, saving the life of a first year Gryffindor, not even her own cub. A badge? A trophy? Fifty points to Ravenclaw? A feast in her honor? Oh the glory. Khalilah settled her eyes on Charles, she didn’t need him to find the boy. She wanted the recognition. “Oh Kitty, how brave of you!” 

She didn’t realize the distain in his voice until she recollected from her dreams of glory, the banners that would fill the halls only for the Kitty Shafiq - savior! His snarl was the closest thing to a roar he would ever experience, Khalilah knew that. “Looks like the lion is finally finding his voice,” She mocked. “We’re wasting time Charles, the boy could be pinned by fallen debris and you’re crying about me, I should be flattered.” She turned on her heels, knowing he would follow much like he followed Declan and Leo. Instead of returning the way she came, very well knowing she had not seen a foolish first year, she went left, turning down another corridor, and to no surprise the conditions of this one was much like the last. Horrible. 

Charles was no stranger to the way Kitty stalked toward him, to the way she practically purred his name as she tried to draw him in like a moth to a flame. This was how she was, and with that knowledge Charles stood his ground, lifting his chin ever so slightly and regarding her with narrowed eyes. Ah, so he was now the burden? Her words elicited a scoff and a curl of his upper lip in a show of disgust; inside, he pushed back a pang of worry in his chest, the sneaking suspicion that although Shafiq’s opinion mattered little, she might not be far from the truth. 

“I could’ve had this corridor searched by now if it wasn’t for you, Kitty,” he said, outwardly ignoring her comment about his posture. He’d found that that was the best way to deal with Kitty Shafiq; ignore her jabs, because attention was what she craved most of all. Still, every snide remark she uttered made Charles’ face hot, and he had to fight to keep his mouth shut. The “lion” had already found his voice - he was just wise enough to keep it quiet. Deftly, he adjusted his grip on his wand, feeling a wave of relief wash over him when Kitty turned away. There were so many things he longed to say, so many responses flooding into his brain as he watched her shadow slide out of his wand’s range of light. But, he stayed silent, and with little more than a parting glance in her direction he went down the corridor to his left, his purpose not forgotten.    

[fuckyeahadriensahores]

[headlesssamurai]

Judge a man by his questions, rather than his answers.

Voltaire (via headlesssamurai)

[poor-readers-almanac]

We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.

Dhammapada by Buddha (via poor-readers-almanac)

[declanprewett-blog]

DATE : 1 September 1944 LOCATION : Boathouse TIME : 22:58 ( 10:58 pm ) STATUS : Open

Gather your best, he says.

The boathouse sits like an unearthly shadow upon the black lake waters, eerie and desolate from where Declan stands, a fortunate distance from the school granting it pardon of smoke, of disaster. It looks ruinous in its perfection; a bared throat begging for a hand. How easily it could collapse, Declan has come to realize within a single night, how humbly it trembles with contained human life and spirit. There are upwards of one hundred Gryffindor students huddled against its walls, Declan knows - some who hollowly consider the wreckage of a place they have called home for six, seven years; others who haven’t seen beyond the Dining Hall.

Gather your best.

He knows nearly all of them by name. Knows their Patronus forms, their Boggarts, their adolescent fancies and vacation travel plans and their Mums and and their lionhearted dreams, that shared shred of hope they pass between one another like water, like body heat, like necessity. To us, they cheer over butterbeer and smuggled firewhiskey, a beautiful mess of thrown arms over his shoulders, pressed mouths to his cheek. To our Resistance, and to a kinder tomorrow. They say it with molten eyes, glittering teeth, battlecries and laughter caught in their throats, and now it wrecks him. Declan knows his Resistance like he would know his own mind. And he knows which ones will fight for him.

He knows which ones will die for him.

Distantly, Declan is aware of cicadas singing in the Forbidden Forest, the water lapping rhythmically against the dock he stands upon, alone. A last, tender echo of a summer that feels so long ago. Dumbledore has Apparated to the kitchens to alert news of the crisis to Hufflepuff House, and has left Declan with nothing more than a lingering gaze, the ghost of a hand on his shoulder, and silence. Declan needs to move, he knows - the longer he stalls, the greater the damage. And yet, even while he runs through names, collecting and categorizing and strategizing - Soo, Scamander, Shafiq, Lee, Vane, Potter, Chambers, Yaxley - Declan strains beneath the impossibility of it. A rescue mission. This is all and everything his Resistance has been meant for - rescue, promise of a glorious future, promise of security, promise.

And yet. It hits him, as it has been hitting all evening, over and over again: this is war is war is what you’ve prepared for is what you itch for is war. Declan is no longer afraid - and if he is, it has become a muted fear, a buzzing terror that suffocates beneath his desperation to see his friends safe. And now, it is this very coping mechanism that keeps Declan frozen, unmoving. The gravity of what Dumbledore has asked of him, what Declan will soon ask of his Resistance, his friends, is nearly unbearable: go with me to war, with your wooden wands and unmarred adolescence. He hears the sound of a shoe behind him, and tenses. Perhaps it is one of the Gryffindor first years, or an old friend he will soon demand blood from, or a Ravenclaw, a Hufflepuff, a Prefect come to deliver news and ask what Declan will have his Resistance do.

“I’m,” Declan begins, and ceases immediately, abruptly furious with the weakness in his voice, the unaffordability of it. 

Gather your best, Dumbledore had commanded.

And Declan had said, yes, sir.

After a curt silence, he speaks again, this time with impenetrable valor. Declan turns to face the figure, and oh, how he rises - like the sun, like a lion reared to defend its pride, heartbreak evaporating from his eyes. This is loss, loss is this. And this will be loss expanded, if Declan doesn’t do something. “The Giant Squid is attacking Slytherin House.” Declan’s gaze slides from the figure, to the boathouse, to the figure. “My Resistance will head to the commons and evacuate as many students as possible. And I will go to the dungeons to stop the Squid.” There will be no cracks tonight. He will mourn only after he completes what he has been ordered to do, and what he has stood up for all his life.

He looks the figure in the eye, unrelenting and commanding, solemn and sincere. 

“Will you fight for me?”

[charles-alexander-potter]

Charles didn’t know what drew him out of the boat house. Perhaps it was a need for fresh air after traipsing through the ruined east-wing corridors, choking on smoke and squinting through floating ash? Perhaps it was the noise - Gryffindors of all ages sniffling, sobbing, shuffling here and there in a space not designed to handle more noise than the soft lapping of water? It might even have been the fear, an almost tangible presence, a thick but invisible fog that hung in the air, just as suffocating as the smoke in the castle. In truth, it was probably a mixture of all three. Even the most devoted caretakers were known to fatigue, and Charles, though more stubborn than most, was no different. 

The cool night air pushed his hair away from his forehead; he hadn’t realized how warm he was until now, and the breeze soothed his sweaty, burning cheeks, offering reprieve from the soot-choked atmosphere he’d escaped moments before. He flexed the fingers of his right hand, biting back a wince at the dull pain. His glasses were intact, but their handiwork remained etched onto the skin of his palm, no longer bloody but tender enough. He tipped his chin skyward, but the moon and stars were obscured by plumes of smoke rising from the castle. It was fitting, really, that the devastating results of war and hatred should rob him of a simple pleasure like peering up at the night sky, and he drew in a somewhat halting breath, holding it for a moment. He waited, allowing his eyelids to lower; his heartbeat was fast but strong, pounding in his ears and shaking his core with every desperate pump. When he exhaled and opened his eyes once more, he caught sight of a figure standing at the edge of the dock, but he didn’t have to wonder who it was. 

Charles moved silently towards Declan’s silhouette, and with each step he grew more and more uneasy. He wasn’t sure why, but something felt wrong - something in the air made him tenser than he already was, and his brow furrowed behind his glasses instinctively. When he was within earshot he slowed his pace, mouth ajar; he was about to say something, but Declan cut him off, and the tremor in his voice caused what felt like an icy hand to wrap around his heart. 

“The - what?”

If Declan’s aura struck fear into Charles’ heart, then his words did one better. Shaking his head, he did his best to search his mate’s face in the darkness. Were the bombs not enough? Hadn’t they already done enough suffering for one night? Charles licked his lips before forcing them into a thin line. His jaw set, and his left hand dipped into his pocket, fingers brushing his wand. 

“Yes.”

The word held none of the panic fluttering madly in his chest, and he straightened his back for good measure. 

Yes. 

[charles-alexander-potter]

abraxasmlfoy:

“I’m trying,” Abraxas snapped his hand to his side and wiped it off on the side of his trousers compulsively, “Apparently not hard enough, given that I’m here with you.”

He had half a mind to make it back to the Dungeons, but a small part of him refused to leave Charles alone. As a person, Potter wasn’t morally objectionable, but frankly– as a Gryffindor, Potter stank. That veneer of timidity gave him a bedside manner, but no backbone. 

Even now, he was coughing, tripping over himself, acting the fool. Abraxas had only offered his hand in something like pity. He didn’t understand what people saw in Potter and his merry band of gangsters. When they walked by, they tinted the air with expectation and something terribly wholesome. He shuddered to think of it. 

“First year?” it wasn’t a question. That poor little thing- Abraxas sneered- whoever it was, it was probably faring better than Charles was. 

Abraxas scourgified his hands and adjusted his tie, unconsciously attempting to cover any evidence of his lack of composure. Ashy fingerprints still hinted above his collar, but, if he even noticed, he paid them no mind. 

The attack, whatever it was, it had broken brick, turned the home and traditions he loved into rubble. Every year, things were the same and he loved them best that way. The disturbance perturbed him deeply. He could only press his lips into a line, focus elsewhere. 

He swept his cloak and turned away from Charles, “Name? Are you sure he didn’t fall in with another group? Who else is looking for him?”

He pictured a figure, small and huddled in a corner- oh, that poor poor thing. It was a fate he saved for only his worst enemy.

Abraxas was adept at hiding it, but there was a desperation to his preening that gave Charles pause. This was not the kind of thing Malfoy was made for; dust, ash, and fire only served to stain his pristine aura, and for a moment Charles almost pitied him. He had no love for the Slytherin prince, that was certain, but he didn’t have cause to show outward disdain for him either. As a Malfoy, his beliefs weren’t a secret, but unlike Tom Riddle and his Knights of Walpurgis, Abraxas didn’t let them define him. He was quiet about his prejudices, some would say, and he was far from a bully of Electra or Cygnus’ caliber. 

The shadows on Malfoy’s face stirred in the flickering light, and Charles watched his lips tighten into a line, momentarily distracted from his words. “Augustus Riggens,” he answered, more sure of the boy’s name than his appearance. His shoulders inched toward his ears and dropped in a thoughtful shrug, his head cocking ever so slightly to one side as he considered Abraxas’ question. 

“It’s possible he could have, but I still have to find him. The headmaster would be moved by such inter-house unity, I’m sure, but he is a Gryffindor and I have to know he’s safe.”

Charles swallowed the bitterness that rose in his throat at Abraxas’ next question, grateful the Slytherin had turned his back. 

“Everyone who can.”   

[charles-alexander-potter]

khalilahshafiq:

Khalilah lowered her wand, her feelings towards Charles have been indifferent, he truly was the most irrelevant Gryffindor. He was no threat. Although he had been an Aviator, she wished to roll her eyes, it should have been her not him. Lips pursed as she stared at Charles as if he was a weak first year, she met him eye to eye, but with a tilted chin she proved to be the most dominant. 

He was weak. She could tell by his demeanor, his shoulders had been slumped as if he did not have a Prefect pinned to his cloak, matching with his burning scarlet. He may have been a Prefect, but Kitty knew she was the best because it was she who would be Head Girl next school year. Regardless of his status, Kitty pressed on with her demands, eyes glancing around, once he mentioned the missing first year. 

“I may not be the only Prefect, Potter-” 

She spoke his last name like venom, she had not been a blood purist, the ideals of blood traitors so absurd, her distain for Charles was for his irrelevancy in the Aviators. He held a spot so pointless, so undeserved. 

“But I am the best.”

Kitty pressed her lips together, eyes lingering on Potter’s. She wanted to go back to the Library, to tell Luca they have found all the lost Ravenclaws and to sit and wait for the disaster to pass, wishing only for her bed and less about the chaos that now ran through the corridors, smoke filled. “I’ll help you find him.” She spoke, so confidently, almost as if she sighed, peeved by the task of saving another. “But not because I like you, Potter, I just want this to be over with.” She glared at him, a manicured index pointing at him, almost tempted to prod his eyes out. “Let’s go.”

Charles’ eyebrows climbed so high on his forehead that they nearly disappeared beneath his fringe. He shouldn’t have been, but he was always taken aback by Kitty’s demeanor, perpetually caught off-guard by the things that came out of her mouth. But, his shock turned to exasperation soon enough; just as quickly as his eyebrows shot up, they came back down, and he rolled his eyes, exhaling through dramatically loosened lips. She could harp on about being the best all she wanted, but he knew better than to engage her. How could he? Now was not the time. Whatever academic rivalries stewed between the Ravenclaw princess and the grounded Aviator were trivial compared to the matter at hand, so Charles soldiered on, forcing his thoughts back to his missing lion cub. 

“You - what?” 

Something like anger stirred in the pit of Charles’ stomach, lifting its ugly head and sampling the air. First of all, Kitty’s help was the last thing he needed at a time like this; second, her small, peevish sigh ground in his ears like nails on a chalkboard. 

“Don’t bother,” he snapped, startled by his own voice - a rough, irritated snarl. “He’s not your responsibility, and I’d hate for you to have to shoulder such a burden.”