but I will gladly join the fight

[lina-kim-is-here]

Darling, your love is like starlight.

Bright and beautiful, a beacon in the dark, guiding my way even long after you have disappeared .

But dear, in order to live I don't need starlight, I need sunlight. So even though you give your love and give your all, it simply isn't enough for me.

So let me break your heart as gently as I can

[lina-kim-is-here]

Shit slytherins say #5

Me: "Well, you know what they say, don't let the truth get in the way of a good story"

The judge: "Ma'am, you're the prime witness in this murder case!"

[lina-kim-is-here]

Shit Slytherins say #5

"Always remember, the gods have no say in this world. Only in the next."

[lina-kim-is-here]

Shit Slytherins do #4

Asking questions they already know the answer to, just to find out whether you will lie or tell the truth.

[avendell]

The Golden Trio

[lina-kim-is-here]

the houses of old

...

Red and gold was the house of the bold

with fiery swords of molten gold

and with a lion’s heart they stood apart

to defend and protect the hurt and neglect

to breathe and to fight for the dying light

and to give their best to end the quest.

...

Bronze and blue was the house that knew

with the quickest minds of all that was true

and with their eagle eye they always knew why

to sing and to write of pleasure and plight

to hum and to spin a tale for the win

and to give their all so no other shall fall.

...

Black and yellow was the house of the mellow

with their soothing love for each drowning fellow

and with their constant calm they held in their palm

to safe and to heal all one could feel

to create and to cope even the faintest of hope

and give their heart to make a new start.

...

Silver and green was the house of the keen

with the sharpest words of a rising queen

and with their broken soul they took controll

to honour and uphold their vows untold

to die and to give so others could live

and to give their last to safe future’s past.

[lina-kim-is-here]

Battle of Hogwarts

The Brave go walking to the barricades,

screaming, shouting, living high,

As fire tears across the sky,

This house will fight,

no more shall die.

The Wise are waiting on the hill,

Scheming, planning, seeing all

As winds are howling through the hall,

This house will stand,

And heed the call.

The Loyal prowling through the fort,

Calling, whispering, breathing hope

As roots grow deep and break the scope,

This house will rise,

And cut the rope.

The Cunning working in the dark,

Healing, mending, nursing light,

As oceans rise to starry night,

This house will win,

And end the fight.

[natello]

Dumbledore: After all this time?

Snape: Always

Dumbledore: Yikes..

[lina-kim-is-here]

What’s you favorite song ever?

Oh my, I have a lot of favourite songs, but if I had to pick one right now... Civil War by Guns and Roses

[lina-kim-is-here]

Run, little witch, or they will burn you at the stake. Run, little witch, or they will drown you in the lake.

Stand, little witch, they will find you anywhere. Stand, little witch, don't want your friends your death to share.

Fight, little witch, raise the demons from their sleep. Fight, little witch, make their future widows weep.

Rest , little witch, we will sing you songs at wake. Rest, little witch, safe and sound beside the snake.

[lina-kim-is-here]

Hogwarts

Hogwarts wakes up with Professor Sprout. Even before the first ray of sun can reach her precious wards she is up and hobbling though the halls of the still sleeping castle. By her gentle humming the portraits arise from slumber, yawning and stretching each other over the magical canvases and mumbling a lazy morning greeting. Like a cat rousing from nightly rest the ancient building croaks and with a rumble of distaste moves and bends her stony stairs to the professor’s will and way. By the time the witch has entered her Green houses the sun has finally surpassed the surrounding hills and the first light of day illuminates the halls and glistens on the lake. Flowers of the night mimic their farewell for the day and roll up while roots and petals and blooms of the day uncurl and rise and glow in the light of the morning. In their beds students and professors alike are stirring and like the mother she is Hogwarts sends her little helpers to tend to fires and the clattering and chatting of house elves soon fills the hidden kitchen. A new day is here.

Professor McGonagall brings Hogwarts a  joyful break around noon. On silent paws she moves though the empty classrooms now that all the students are at the great hall for lunch. With the Curiosity of a  child the eyes of the castle follow the cat around the halls and stairs even though they never manage to catch her entirely. Like a game of hide and seek the Head of the brave house disappears from sight to find some peace within the castle herself. And like the old stony rooms and halls she finds her joy in a quiet, sunny place far off the buzzing crowd. But only until eventually the scent of a hundred promises and mysteries manage to lure her back into the hallways. Up the stairs and down the tunnels. Through trap doors and over beams and bridges. After all, there is always something new and bright to discover.

The afternoon brings a new kind of solemn and steady thrum to the castle. With a lofty breeze flying in from the West the curtains of Professor Flitwick’s office are billowing around his room - though not disturbing the tiny man who is pouring over books as old as time and long as merlin’s beard. With the sun now steadily setting the rose and  golden glow is dancing over vanishing letters and forgotten words. But like the stories in the books Hogwarts prevails and stands her ground like the beaming beacon of powerful knowledge and wisdom that was written about and fought for all those centuries ago. A soft knock on the door lets the professor twirl around and he too is reminded to join his fellow witches and warlocks at the dining table. And as the castle watches over her many proteges she prepares for the night.

With even the last student in bed Hogwarts breathes out. The soft glow of the moon flows over her walls and stairs and through rooms and halls like liquid silver. Just deep within the most secure part in the heart of it all a lonely man creates love in cauldrons and slow and painful death in vials. He procures dreams as soft and loving as a summer’s kiss and puts them next to the bottle of luck that would get a drunken fool past an enraged dragon safely. And whilst he creates hope for the darkest part of the night  in a pot the castle keeps watch. Like the warden of hearth and home she stands tall as she had learned oh so long ago from the proudest of her four founders. And when Professor Snape corks the last of his bottles the flickering lights of the stony lady guide him to bed as well. And if the last ingredient of his hope in a flask was his tears, who is she to say?

[lina-kim-is-here]

Ever evolving

There is magic in my blood and fire in my veins. There is hope in my eyes and dreams in my head. There is stardust in my soul and blood on my hands. There is scratches on my wrists and tears on my my cheeks. There is a thrumming in my ears and vengeance on my thoughts. There is a sob in my throat and a whole in my chest. And then my magic meets my fire and I ignite and burst into stardust and tears. And my dreams thrum over my bleeding vengeance and quell the sobs and fill the gaping whole. And I am ever healing and growing and ever evolving. I go up so far I can touch the moon and count the stars and I fall so fast I can’t hear my scream. And when I crash, fallen so far even the devil looks down on me, I reach for my magic once again and the fire comes back ablaze and I rise again. And like the moon goes round and round I climb and fall and laugh and cry and life goes on because what else is there to do? And the sun still rises over my crushed body and the stars still smile when I count them aloud. And here I am ever evolving.

[lina-kim-is-here]

A writers hail

The moment you put the pen onto paper the world stops and waits with baited breath. There isn't much this world doesn't know but this? This is your world. This is your doing.

This is birth. The birth of a nation, the birth of a legend, the birth of a dream or the birth of a heartbreak. The beginning of a life, the beginning of a truth, the beginning of a lie or the beginning of the end. It is visions you see when sleep leaves you in the early morning. It is the shadows of the fire that danced across the wall in grotesque pirouettes. It is the glimmer of hope that you catch in the corner of your eye or the song of the sirens you can barely hear over the crushing sea. And whilst the Ink is black it paints the new world in a billion colours and hues and pigments and shades. And it forms cities and mountains and oceans and hills. It protects farmers and kills kings and let's the snow fall upward into the sky. And with each word you write down you create streets and alleys and paths and roads and they lead to huts and castles and caves and temples. And beast and fairies fight and dance and love and grief at each others side and against the enemy. And the people and creatures come into this new world to suffer and conquer and fail and triumph. And with each stroke of the pen you add hardships and challenges. You give hope and take life and save the ones that don't deserve it. You bring kindness to strangers and comfort yourself on the way. And you forgive.

You forgive.

Don't forget to forgive.

Forgive the father who tried but made it worse.

Forgive the mother who wanted what was best and destroyed what she had.

Forgive the child that should have known better but ignored it anyway.

Forgive yourself. You wouldn't have made it so far without yourself.

Remember where the father started out.

Remember why the mother wanted to risk it.

Remember how you felt when you were a child yourself.

Remember you can make another chance.

Forgive, but don't forget.

Us writers, we tend to forgive easily in our tales and myths, in our tragedies or ballads.

Now it is time to forgive yourself. Remember your mistakes and learn from them. Forgive yourself for making them.

[lina-kim-is-here]

Witches

Take a moment to think about witches nowadays.

Just take a second and think about modern witches in the big cities, living in small cosy apartments or little lofts, staring out of their big windows, watching over their city and snuggling a bit deeper into their blanket. Sage and lavender hanging from the ceiling, slowly drying and filling the room with a lovely scent. Books all over the place and a few lit candles give the room a homey feeling whilst there are two cats lazily kneading away on the thick red and blue carpet on the floor. Rain is drumming against the window and it’s slowly getting darker and darker, autumn is coming and the light of the day leaves earlier now. With a sigh our witch gets up, picks up the black cat that started playfully attacking her partner and makes her way over to the gas oven where a kettle started whistling filled with herbal tea made by her friend in the woods of the other side of the world. Smiling she fills her cup and with a low murmur she conjures one of the yellowish spell books from her living room. As it slowly floats from room into the other she throws another teabag into her kettle and randomly picks up one of the crystals to toy with it. Blowing away the steam she sits down at the bar and grabs the book with one of her hands. It opened up on another projection spell for the city. After all, one can never be cautious enough.

Now take your time to think about the witches in the mountains. The Himalayan witches have many names and faces. Windcallers, Eaglewomen, and Realmwalker. They are still clothed in their traditional colours but there is something in their eyes that makes you look twice. They live together in families, slightly apart from the main village. Our witch sits near the crackling fire place and listens to its untold story and the elders, all joined in in a rhythmic chant.  Unlike the western witches who depend on the elements, we call the names of our ancestors and feel their magic thrumming through our veins. As old and as wild as our land itself. One day we will be one of these names and nothing fills us more with pride than knowing that a new generation will have our power to call on. The wind makes the coloured cloth flutter in the air and you can hear its song joining in to the grandparents’ chant. The story of the all seeing birds, the story of the never bowing tree, they are all shared in songs and chants and echo through the tent and into the dark of night. A smile hushes over our witches face and he cocks his head, straining his ears. Another grin cracks onto his face. He turns his head to look through the fluttering entrance sheet of his home, out in to the cold and starry night. There it is. The howl of the dogs runs through the air and signals the return of the hunters. Slowly our witch gets up, a heavy fur piece falling from his shoulders. It’s time for him to greet his sister. 

Meanwhile, far away in the tropical, deep greens of Amazonas our witch stalks his prey by following his familiar that silently walks on his velvet like paws. Our witch holds their spear with such natural determination that it seems impossible for them to loose any kind of fight. The mighty jaguar next to them doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the supernatural’s presence. With a flick of its ear it signals its human counterpart to follow deeper into the undergrowth. The hunt with familiars is no strangeness in this part of the world. The prey is killed swiftly, praised, thanked for and used fully. The fur for a blanket, the meat is food, the bones will be carves, washed in the ancient river and dried over ever glimmering coal and carved to new rune bones. The capybara did not die for nothing and will be honoured in the appropriate way. The sun, now full up in the sky, mercilessly burns down from the never ending blue and leaves our witch with their folk in the little village hidden deep in the heart of the green. Our witch stares at the water in the wooden bowl in front of them. Slowly they dip their finger into the white creme next to it. Starting a low murmur they redraw the white lines on their face and follow them down onto their chest. The stark white looks vibrant against the dark of their skin and with a smirk they finish their skincare and artwork. Another glance onto the reflection of the water and they are done. Time for the next ritual. 

Far away from our exotic friend a heavily clothed witch steps out of her igloo. Wolfhounds are jumping to their paws and trample over each other to get to their friend. With a raised eyebrow they are calmed down and gather around her feet. Distractedly she pets them on their heads, her own tilted back, her eyes searching the sky. With a blink the warm brown iris gives way to a stark yellow and a small gasp falls from our witch’s lips. The eagle lets out a piercing cry in response. The bird’s view is something she will never get used to but it’s an easy way to oversee the land and scan the horizons for friends and enemies alike. There they are. The ice blocks with their ancient inscription towers over the land and it’s not the first time that one of them fell directly onto one of the leylines. Sighing she signals her hounds to get ready for a ride. Leylines are a serious matter and it is a strict rule that no witch artefact, no matter how important is, is allowed to draw power directly from it. Concentrating she wills her mind to a form and gently prods the eagle’s consciousness. It lands not far from her and she hastily writes a few runes and words onto a small piece of parchment. Carefully she inches closer and murmurs a small thank you to the ancient gods. The animal hops closer, always keeping an eye on the nearby hounds that don’t take their’s off a possible threat either. Eventually it gently grabs the message with its beak, blinks in understanding and swings itself back into the air. Off to deliver a message to the nearest tribe.

There are so many possibilities in how and where witches live. And I just feel like I could talk about them for ages.  

[lina-kim-is-here]

Where they burn books they will in the end burn humans too.

But why would they burn books?

They don't know what they are reading. Some ideas are too big for their feeble minds. And what they don't understand they fear. And what they fear they burn.

[lina-kim-is-here]

Slytherin is winter.

When darkness falls early and the cawing of the crows echoes through the dancing snow. It is the coldness that billows through the streets and over fen and field and the stillness of time and space. Slytherin is the blanket of quietness that covers tumultuous nerves just as the snow covers the gnarly roots on the ground. Slytherin is the sharp breath, that opens your lungs and stings in your eyes. And the howling of wolves that chases away sorrows and fills your heart with aching hope. Slytherin is the feeling of safety in the night when the only light are the stars veiled by the ghostly green of northern lights. Slytherin is the daring to hope and finding your will.

Slytherin is the thunder that brings the storm. It is the blinding strike of lighting that flashes across the sky and paints the earth purple and blue for just a split second. Slytherin is the whipping wind that turns the soft snow into needle stings on your face. It is the death that comes slowly but steadily if angered and provoked. It is the bitterness of pain and hurt in the withering flowers. Slytherin is not giving another chance after being hurt deeply.

But slytherin is also the crackling fire that warms hearth and home. It is the flickering torch that illuminates maps on the wall and book strewn over the table. It is the comfortable quiet between the people watching the snow fall outside and the quiet laughter around the house. It is feasts and balls in halls lit by candlelight with folk songs sung by a thousand voices. And the solemn silence after the toast. Slytherin is sharing with those who have no shelter from the cold. It is the giving and receiving of trust on the highest level. Slytherin is finding a home and opening it for those who are lost themselves.

In the winter Slytherins walk their paths in the snow. When the untouched snow crunches under your feet and proves that you walk alone, don't look back. You will find your place and once you found it others will come.

[lenoreamidala]

“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign … to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection for ever. It is in your very skin.”