heart’s spurt of rage @malfvs - Tumblr Blog

chosenpottxr:

→ cumulonimbus clouds.

It smelled like it was going to rain.

Harry looked up at the sky for the third time that late afternoon, watching the clouds overhead beginning to take form. The thick, puffy clouds were easily recognizable, and from where he was, they almost looked menacing. The wind picked up then, pushing through the thin, cotton material of Harry’s pullover. Cursing under his breath, Harry pulled the hood over his head and looked back down at the matter at hand.

Harry had overheard someone talking about going to scavenge for more herbs or any kind of vegetation, and he’d took it upon himself to go out and try to find some on his own. Although someone like Neville probably would’ve volunteered to go with him, Harry had this desire to be useful in whatever way he could find. Everyone had a place in the Resistance, it seemed. They had their fearless leader, a band of capable soldiers, and a support team - everything a group needed to survive. Harry was just having trouble finding his place in their world, their revolution. It didn’t quite feel like home, but…for reasons he couldn’t give voice to just yet, he desperately wanted it to.

These people were good. They felt good.

So, after trudging along the moors for some time and dropping down a rather steep hill, Harry had stumbled upon some plants that had a high chance of not being weeds. Harry pulled a small pouch out of his pocket that he found in Neville’s greenhouse and started pulling. As the late afternoon shifted into evening, Harry couldn’t ignore the chill any longer. It was about time to make his way back. He’d picked a good amount when he saw the unmistakable red orb lying on the ground near his foot.

Was that a cranberry?

A laugh escaped his throat before shifting into a joyful shout. Victories came in all shapes and sizes, and he was thankful for this one. Harry turned around in search for the tent, eager to share the find, and his smile dropped. How far had he walked, exactly? And for how long? Harry tried re-tracing his steps, and found himself at the bottom of the hill again. From where he see, there wasn’t an easy way to climb back up. The cranberry dropped from his fingers as his hands came up to cup around his mouth.

“Hey, uh, is anybody up there? Somebody?”

It had been three hours. Maybe two and a half, but it’s not as if he was counting. Three hours, and his feet were on the verge of numbness despite the pelting of warming charms every other minute, his cheeks were stained pink from the onslaught of wind, and he’d only managed to bag two out of the three ingredients he was harassed to search for.

Frankly, he was half a breath away from screaming his face red.

If his fifteen-year-old self had caught a glimpse of him now, revulsion would be the least of the forces to churn his stomach. Worse ⏤ if Pansy knew, she’d probably Avada him herself; she was giving like that.

Casting a lumos to illuminate his path (tripping on a pebble wouldn’t exactly soothe his fractured temperament), Draco rerouted his steps gingerly, careful not to stray from the direction to the camp, even if at times the desperation to leave them and war behind was as hard to stifle as a wand down the throat. It was completely insufferable.

Cursing Salazar under his breath, he mumbled a stronger incantation, brightening the hue of the orb. A certain dampness was padding the air, the tell-tale scent of oncoming rain sharpening his movements into as brisk as a trek as his prudence would allow him. He was just passing through a particularly steep ridge when an especially stupid voice rang out. Even two, pitifully shallow weeks in, it resonated unquestioningly. Nevertheless, unwilling to consider the truth in that statement stitched at least a fragment of his sanity back together. Yet, as he turned, eyes sweeping downward ⏤

And oh, there he was: the man (more malnourished boy), the (disappointing) legend, and the (oh-so grand) moron, Harry fucking Potter. Both Draco’s head and stomach seemed to squeeze at the sight, and if he happened to take in a breath, that was his business. Glowering in a way that assured even Potter ⏤ ghastly eyesight, grotesque glasses, and all ⏤ would notice from his distance at the bottom of the hill, he gave himself pause to consider leaving the prat to his own devices, shouting like a loon. Perhaps Draco would even be lucky enough that he would just circle this rubble land until the gang of them apparated far, far away from Potter and his gnarled, stupidly fit being. The dream viciously popped as he remembered who exactly was included in his entourage, and the fact that they’d likely rather leave Draco stranded than their beloved Boy Who Tossed. What an absolutely wretched lot.

Now striding, Draco kept his pace in the journey downward, gritting his teeth. If he was to be Potter’s saving grace, surely the least he could do is take his time. His dragon-leather oxfords were ruined enough.

“Potter, you absolute ponce. While disappearing acts are notoriously charming to muggles I’m sure, taking a pause to admire the scenery won’t do much for Granger’s stress wrinkles.” Selfish.

As soon as the words fell from his lips, a drop of rain blotted his shoulder.

And another, caught fat on the tip of his nose.

Fucking brilliant.

At this rate, his own wrinkles would out-sag Granger’s.

“And now its gone and began to rain ⏤ splendid, you prick.”

#i'm still laughing over the cranberry #also i'm sorry but? a shorter thread? it's just not realistic.#interactions : harry p.#( → cumulonimbus clouds. )#date : 10 / 99.#draco: blames anything and everything on harry

Draco hated this.

As soon as the thought manifested in his head, an insistent wind ruffled his already windswept hair and further wrinkled his clothes from the tight clutch he had around his waist, bunching them up unforgivably. The lack of density in the moors made them all victims to the weather’s temperamental forces, but you’d think there’d be a give to rest at least sometime in the dead of the night.

Clearly, he had more of a chance with the blistering winds than with the bitch of luck.

Rolling his eyes and shoving them deeper into the briefly comforting peace of his charmed-warm coat pockets, Draco kept his gaze firmly forward, hardly risking the headache that looking at his brazenly wag of a companion would induce. He’d once read (in one of Pansy’s frisky romance novels, but that’s neither here nor there) that three in the morning marked the devil’s hour, and as another frigid breeze mussed his frame and the tell-tale groan of the Irish prick next to him joined the whistle of the winds, he wholeheartedly believed it.

As another creak sounded in the night from the furious storm, his own curse joined the chorus, loud even through the filter of the scarf covering the entire latter half of his face. Why it was insisted that two of the group should be on patrol that night was entirely lost on him, but it was simply untoward for him and Finnegan to be the chosen pair. Apparently, saying “no” didn’t have much effect toward his cause. Perhaps if he just happened to trip him into bloodying his face on the rocky terrain, it wouldn’t be entirely implausible that the wind was the culprit.

That is, of course, if Thomas didn’t double the damage to Draco’s own face either way ⏤ and with his wardrobe already suffering the abuse so dastardly as it was, he couldn’t exactly afford his face to lack in appearance as well. It would be unseemly.

Casting a tempus charm with a gloved hand, he was sorely fucked in seeing the time remaining, turning his head to glare at Finnegan as if it was him at fault. Typically, it tended to be.

A feral smile twisted his lips, his tone edged in a way that even the vicious weather didn’t wholly account for. “Delightful ⏤ another hour with your smashing company. Who knew luck could be so kind.”

#interactions : seamus f.#date : 10 / 99.#bc i didn't want to put an exact date lmao #but my boys! hating each other like champs!

There was a tear in his shirt.

The goblin-tailored fabric promised durability, but it seemed that in the face of months of abuse (proper cleaning charms made an enemy of him quickly and he’d be loathe to admit weakness and ask), a tree branch of all fucking assailants could be as damaging as a blade.

Resisting the urge to grit his teeth into dust, Draco fingered the almond-shaped cut for a second before tucking it under his coat, needing no reminder of the incident to welcome further bursts of annoyance ⏤ especially as his eyes caught sight of the obtrusively ginger head wading though the moors to his right.

Truly, the tear seemed to be the lesser of two evils.

If it was up to him, Draco would be lounging in his subpar bed, faintly entertaining himself with a subpar book stolen from Granger, and doing everything he could to blithely ignore all of the subpar responsibilities tasked to him. Yet, as Merlin and Morgana both have assuredly convinced him quite too many times in just the past months to have it out for him, he was instead gifted the absolute displeasure of a moron’s company ⏤ collecting bleeding firewood.

Swallowing down the urge to snap (his sanity or Weasley in half, whichever came first), Draco veered further left, mimicking the calls of Accio and packing the whizzing firewood into Granger’s enchanted bag. It was a testament to her (misplaced) faith in the pair of them that she even allowed them to leave the camp together, surely knowing intimately exactly how brutish Weasley was. Draco chalked it up to a rare case stupidity instead ⏤ Finnegan must have begun to rub off on her.

After a number of minutes of summoning and huffing, he stopped and turned, searching for the red beacon that’ll probably faction in their demise one day. Sighting him, he stomped every couple of steps toward Weasley to punctuate his umbrage, though the rocky earth was practically teasing his shoes into further assault on his (limited and fraying) wardrobe.

Wasting no time to breathe in the misfortune of his company, Draco slanted his shoulder and narrowed grey eyes, hands nearly traveling to his hips to complete the picture.

“Will you hurry up? Considering how often wood must come to you any other day, Weasley, surely this level of difficulty can be overreached, even with your poor skill for the most basic of spells.”

#draco lucius malfoy: the most dramatic bitch on the planet #also u in no way have to match length! this just . . happened #interactions : ron w.#date : 10 / 10 / 99.

rosalesernesto-deactivated20180

ASK MEME

╳ Aguamenti: Truth or dare ╳ Levicorpus: An awkward question ╳ Rictusempra: A random headcanon ╳ Bombarda: Wed, Bed, Behead ╳ Piertotum Locomotor: This or that ╳ Prior Incantato: 3 letters that never were sent and one that did ╳ Accio: Ask for the character’s advice on something ╳ Legilimens: Ask any question, the character is unable to lie ╳ Tarantallegra: Describe the character’s family life ╳ Imperio: An assumption, the character must confirm it or deny it ╳ Engorgio: Smash or pass ╳ Muffliato: A song that means something to the character. What? ╳ Revelio: Have you ever? ╳ Expecto Patronum: Describe the character with a meme or a gif ╳ Obliviate: A relevant NPC in the character’s life ╳ Alohomora: Ask the player a question (ooc)

#hit me with em #ask memes.

( B A S I C S . )

FULL NAME ⏤ Draco Lucius Malfoy NICKNAMES ⏤ None, if you know what’s good for you. AGE ⏤ Nineteen DATE OF BIRTH ⏤ June 5th, 1980 ZODIAC SIGN ⏤ Gemini GENDER IDENTITY & PRONOUNS ⏤ Cismale, he/him SEXUAL ORIENTATION ⏤ Homosexual Homoromantic FACECLAIM ⏤ Dominik Sadoch

HAIR COLOUR & STYLE ⏤ Golden white, sides and back are shorter than the fraction at the top of his head, which either hangs over his forehead or is pushed back. FACIAL HAIR ⏤ None EYE COLOUR ⏤ Silver; grey COMPLEXION ⏤ Pale, will easily burn in the sun and emotions are easily impressionable. ETHNICITY ⏤ White HEIGHT ⏤ 6’1.5″ WEIGHT ⏤ 150lbs PHYSIQUE ⏤ Lithe, lean, “scrawny” STRENGTHS ⏤ Fast and accomplished on a broom, dexterous and swift with a wand, instinctually capable and deft in a duel; Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, Dark Arts. WEAKNESSES ⏤ Struggles wandlessly, despite the well of capability; may be too tall for his own good; cannot conjure a corporeal Patronus MOVEMENT ⏤ There is an elegance in the movement of his limbs and how they seem to be in perfect tandem with the rest of his surroundings; typically, his muscles are tense and rigid, but even so, their is a certain poise that he holds that is indistinguishable. MANNERISMS & HABITS ⏤ He tends to rub his wrists whenever he is lost in thought, whatever the cause or underpinning emotion; wrinkles his nose; raises his eyebrow(s); purses and bites lips; wraps his arms around himself and crosses his arms (only when he is nervous); often tries to smother his laughter; full-on smiles are rare, but tight-lipped snatches of a grin aren’t as uncommon; his eyes are extremely expressive, as are any features on his face. TATTOOS ⏤ None PIERCINGS ⏤ None (however, for both piercings and tattoos, I’m certainly excited about potential prospects that hold a night of regret for Draco and glee for myself) SCARS & BIRTHMARKS ⏤ There are a splash of faint, nearly invisible, freckles on the highs of his shoulders, and as a child, his mother and he used to try and name constellations during his bath-times; a particularly dark mole on the back of his left foot, right beneath his toes; he claims that there is a remnant of a scar from Buckbeak on the mark where he was “attacked”; an apple-shaped scar on his right knee from a quidditch incident in his third year. CLOTHING & STYLE ⏤ He is used to wearing very traditional, Pureblood clothing as was appropriate of him, and despite still favoring his savored few possessions from what he packed in his haste (a Slytherin-green velvet cloak; a small collection of oxfords in varying leathers and styles; half a dozen or so button ups; two jumpers, one cashmere night-blue and the other a white turtleneck; a few tailored trousers along with a coat that was a gift from his father), he has adapted a fair few Muggle-style pieces into his makeshift wardrobe. Tragically denim jeans keep being tossed toward him, as well as another coat or two to help battle the harsh sting of winter. He’d rather be stunned than be seen in the t-shirts he’s acquired, but for when the nights get too frigid and his silk pajamas from the manor too thin, no one has to know what he’s layered beneath.

COLOURS ⏤ Silver, forest (Slytherin, emerald) green, white, pale blue, dull purple, black WORDS ⏤ Pure, dragons, night, steel, opulence, decay, vicious, thorny, theatrics, stories, sharp, snake SCENT ⏤ Rainfall in a forest; his mother’s garden; a settling cauldron; the fresh air of Wiltshire; his father’s cologne; the musk of the Hogwarts library; the dampness of the Slytherin common room. TASTE ⏤ Sprigs of mint; Earl Grey tea; firewhiskey cascading down his throat TOUCH ⏤ His mother’s soft hands; a broom beneath his grip; his wand tucked against his arm; the warmth of a Lumos. SOUND ⏤ the first horn of the Hogwarts express; Pansy’s snide voice; the crowing laughter of his audience; his mother’s call of his name. WEATHER ⏤ The warm summers in Wiltshire; downpour in the Scottish highlands; thick, snow-coated forests lush with pristine white. FEELINGS ⏤ The triumph of a quidditch victory; clutching Pansy’s arm as they weave through Diagon Alley in it’s former golden hue; lying for the last time in his childhood quarters; having a dreamless sleep in a storm of nightmares; swallowing down his pride despite the acid in his throat; throwing all caution to the wind and goading anyone who’ll listen into a fight; staring truth in the face and forcing his eyes closed. MEMORIES ⏤ "This is the tale of the Boy Who Lived . . .”; receiving a heavier owl the summer before his fifth year to find a prefect’s badge; twirling Pansy around the dance floor of the Yule Ball, in perfect synchronization from their past memories at Pureblood balls; the green overcast of the Slytherin common room; his mother’s hand gripping his; entering the Great Hall with Vince and Greg on either side. MAGIC ⏤ the first spark of finding his wand; casting his first spell from his father’s wand; bewitching pins and signs through the night; frustration tinging his every thought as the spell fails and fails; impeccable control in maintaining a steady wandless Wingardium Leviosa; casting his first Cruciatus and being cast in return; the thrill of a duel with a matched opponent. 90S MUGGLE TRIVIA/PARAPHERNALIA ⏤ Turtlenecks; milky pens; both misusing and overusing the phrase: “getting jiggly with it.”

#the key relationships evolved into shitposts of a kind and i had to stop myself from putting any more #also this just got worse bit by bit catch me coming back to this when i've had enough sleep and editing everything lmao #potter:tasks #we don't fear mistakes and shitty writing today folks

you: let it go & move on

me, with my fingers tightly curled around a subject, nails buried deep in it: I Have

#muse.

fenharel

(¬_¬)

#muse.#look @ this bitch icb

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heart’s spurt of rage