jagged edges.

girl is a war. girl is a weapon. girl is something sharp. girl is trying to be better. girl wishes she was softer / girl is proud of her fists. girl is dangerous. girl is trying not to be. girl is fury. girl never wanted to be a war. millicent bulstrode. ⊰ xvii. slytherin. she/her. neutral. ⊱

[mllicent]

faydunbarr‌:

Though Fay had no interest herself in Herbology, there was something kind of relaxing about kicking back in a corner of the greenhouse to hang out with Millie. She was stretched out lazily against the back wall as Millie worked on things, chiming in now and again with conversation before drifting off into a half nap. Her head perked up when Millie called for her, grin flickering across her lips at the request. “You know the way to my heart, truly,” Fay chuckled, pushing herself up from the ground to scramble over to where Millie was. 

“So I just…squeeze it, yeah?” she asked, head tilting towards her friend questioningly. It had been a minute since she’d done it and she certainly hadn’t done a lot of her Herbology work back when she’d had the class. “Bet ya this shit is exactly what Pansy has inside of her. Bitch.”

It was nice, Millicent noted, to be out here with Fay. The company, absolutely, but there was also something a little comforting about being outside of the actual castle. The only thing you were at risk of being attacked by in the Greenhouses was a Venomous Tentacula, and if you got attacked by one, you were probably either eleven or idiotic enough to deserve it. She flashed a grin at her friend at her chuckle, adopting a wry expression.

“I’m not sure which of them would be most insulted to be compared to a Bubotuber,” she commented, before nodding. “Yeah, just do what feels natural —- it’s been waiting a bit long, so it should go pretty easily. Put on some gloves though,” she added, nodding her head towards some thick gloves to their side. “Bit poisonous in its undiluted state —- which is the same thing I guess you’d say about Pansy.”

[mllicent]

michaelscorner‌:

Time: 16 January, 18:48 Location: outside Snape’s office Status: open

Michael slammed the Headmaster’s door shut with far more force than necessary. His nerves were on fire, and he was sure if he stopped moving, even for a moment, he’d stop breathing entirely. Their conversation was brief, but Michael was already forgetting the details. A lot of no sir, no sir, no sir. Snape asking if he was lying – absolutely not, sir. And despite the fact Snape looked no less dour on the way out than he had going in, Michael felt little satisfaction. 

He should’ve gone with them, was his first thought. If they’d all left together before Christmas none of this would’ve happened. Michael knew, in his heart, it was never really an option, but it didn’t stop the guilt from soiling ever thought that popped into his mind. He didn’t even realise he’d put his hand through an empty painting, until he pulled out his closed fist. It was another beat before he registered the witness a few steps away.

“Let’s, uh, not tell our Headmaster about this, yeah? What d’you think?”

A better person would ask are you okay, but Millicent was only trying to be better, and anyway, it seemed like a stupid question.

“I always thought it was an ugly painting anyway,” she said, shrugging. “And the witch who lived in there? Total bitch. Could give Myrtle a run for her money. Painting decor didn’t look much better than Myrtle’s bathroom either, which is saying something seeing as it’s always being flooded by a wailing ghost.”

A pause. There was some squawking, probably from the residents of the other paintings, but Millicent ignored them. She barely considered it beneficial to listen to most living people she knew, let alone dead ones egotistical enough to be immortalised in acrylic.

“How’s your hand?” she said briskly, instead, because that was something. Anything. And she wasn’t really built for sympathy, when maybe this would be the right time for a soft tone, but maybe —- sometimes sympathy made people angrier, she thought. Or maybe that was just her.

[mllicent]

Sophie had never really interacted with Millicent much - but that didn't mean she had nothing to say to her. Starry-eyed thanks to the alcohol, Sophie headed towards her to greet her with a kiss to the cheek. "Hey, Millicent! I just... I just came over here to say that you're beautiful."

Millicent didn’t really know Sophie Roper —- well, at least the same way she knew Noah or Fay or Blaise or Pansy. Not that it was difficult. There were very few people she knew like she knew them. That said, she knew of Sophie —- she knew she was important to Fay, knew about her and the Ravenclaw boys (Terry, who loved her; Michael, who now hated her; Anthony, the best of the three), knew she had a soft but good heart, the kind of thing Millie would have mercilessly mocked once upon a time—-

But it was one thing to know that she had such a thing, and another to experience it, and it caught Millicent Bulstrode completely off-guard. It was just... so soft, so open, and sure she was drunk, but Millicent sometimes preferred drunk people—sometimes they were pathetic disasters, and she and Blaise would judge them, but sometimes they were real and raw and honest and true, and secretive as Millicent Bulstrode may be, she always appreciated being able to deal in truth—and it was just... It felt sincere, in a way Millie didn’t really have words for. And beauty —- well, that had never been something Millie had associated with herself. Certainly not something she’d valued, but largely because she’d always felt like it was synonymous with delicate and dainty and rich purebloods who never worked a day in their lives, and not like her, big and tough and built for destruction, a battle axe like her grandmother. But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t something that touched her to hear.

“I—-” she paused — blinked — and then there was a hesitant smile making its way onto her face, uncertain but real. “Thanks, Sophie.” She paused again, and then, with the same smile — “you too.”

[marchofwarhq-blog]

Below the cut is an ASK MEME for our Hufflepuff party event. This is a bit different than a typical ask meme, so here’s how it will work:

REBLOG THIS POST to participate (you can still send things to other people if you don’t participate yourself).

Send a maximum of one symbol to each person who reblogs, so no one gets flooded with more than they can write (unless you play more than one character, in which case you can send one for each).

Unlike typical ask memes, the content of these replies will be considered just as “real” as a normal thread.

For this reason, event memes DO count towards activity.

We also want to be careful with god-modding here, since anything you send someone is an actual event that will be happening. If you haven’t already discussed it, please shoot a quick message before sending a meme in order to make sure the other player is down with the idea / hasn’t already gotten too many of that same symbol.

These memes can serve as starters for threads if you wish ! Just make sure you copy & paste the first reply into a new post rather than reblogging the original ask.

They can also be short if you’d like — they’re meant to allow for quick, fun interactions like one would have at a party. Although if you’d prefer to go deeper into it, that’s fine too !

Keep reading

[mllicent]

 WHEN: 17 January, 5:22PM WHERE: Greenhouse #3 WHO: @faydunbarr

Millicent was glaring at the Bubotuber to her left, which had an air of anticipation around it, and seemed to her to be heaving slightly. Millicent did not trust it. She was fairly certain that it was only a few more shuddering movements away from bursting Bubotuber pus over everything—-which really shouldn’t be something at risk, but it looked like it needed to be squeezed out at least a week ago. She glanced longingly at the Screechsnap she’d come down to the greenhouse to care for, and then shuddered at the idea of the poor thing being attacked by the pus.

“Fay,” she called over her shoulder, “how do you feel about pretending this Bubotuber is Pansy or one of the Carrows and squeezing the hell out of it?”

[mllicent]

WHEN: January 15th, 9:14 pm WHERE: Slytherin common room WHO: @stvneheart

Millicent, it must be said, had paid less attention in Transfiguration today than she should have. It was odd for her, especially now that focusing on magic and learning was one of the few reprieves from the Carrows left in the castle, but, well. Noah had been acting... she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it had been enough to have her mind wandering ever-so-slightly during class. Now, looking at her half-finished essay, she sighed, deciding there was nothing for it. “Theo,” she said, turning to the boy in the seat beside her—having claimed the nice seats near the fire, using the cool expressions they’d developed through six and a half years of Slytherin to keep away the younger gremlins—“did we do Ptolemy’s Law today, or is that next week?” She blew a strand of hair from her face with a huff, and added, in an undertone that still managed to ring out, “and if those Third Years don’t stop staring, I’ll test which ever Law it is by turning them into a fountain.” 

[mllicent]

zcbni‌:

And what he expects - wants, even - from Millicent is advice on how to neutralize his brew and not more questions about their current situation. Of course, he’s the one that’s started it - he shouldn’t have asked about Slughorn in the first place but now, now he’s forced to think about the rest of the teachers on strike and what it means for them. If it even means anything.

“Honestly? No.” He answers eventually, looking over to the side to pick out a small bottle of dittany oil, “I’m surprised that they’ve lasted this long at all. Change,” he spits, sighing a moment later as he realizes that he’s accidentally put in an extra drop of the oil, turning the potion into a new, equally grim shade, “it’s all pointless.”

With that, he leans back in his chair as though he’s given up, throwing an empty bottle in the air and catching it when it comes back down. “I don’t even know if any of this shit matters anymore. Draw my blood and draw Granger’s blood and who’s going to know the difference?” He mutters, only catching himself moments later and how that must have sounded.

“ - obviously, there’s a difference,” he adds, straightening his back and leaning forward as though he’s really interested in what’s going on inside the brewing pot and scrunches his nose. “Just - is this supposed to smell like Goyle?” 

Scientific theories are accepted when no other theory can explain the observed phenomenon. This is a fact which Millicent learns some time in Sixth Year, when there is an argument in Charms Club about the limits of magical craft and what it means for Muggle physics —- and Millicent does not know Muggle science, does not build herself on the bones and theories of these dead white men, but if magic is simply science that the Muggles haven’t discovered yet ( which —- she’s not sure she believes, because what even is science, but there is something in that which lines up with the laws and rules of the charms her family has built their legacy on ), then perhaps the same is true for other things.

Case in point: Blaise asking about Slughorn. Blaise and Millie talking about Slughorn —- about the teachers —- about war —- about blood, and whether it matters. The working theory: none of them are as affected as they might pretend or project.

Honesty from Slytherins. Some might also think of that as an inexplicable phenomenon. It’s not. Their den of snakes is built of the truest people Millie knows, even when they’re all falling through the cracks built by their own lies.

“Perhaps they should try improve their longevity rather than their vandalism,” she murmurs in response, if with a touch less bite than usual. It’s not so much a softening as it is the tiredness that runs hand in hand with cynicism. Casting a critical glance at his concoction, her eyes nonetheless glance sidelong as he throws the bottle. As he says those words.

Blink and you’ll miss it.

“I’m sure Crabbe thinks he’d be able to tell it apart, but then, he also thinks he can tell left from right and we’ve seen how well that works out,” she remarks, and it’s almost letting it slide, but not quite, and it’s almost an agreement, but not quite, and —- this is what it is to be Slytherins. Dancing just out of reach. They know better than anyone the venom in their bite.

It’s steadier ground, moving forward, and maybe it’s avoidance, or maybe it’s something settling between them —- this is a minefield enough, without turning all your friends into mirrors to avoid. Careful, now. Reflections catch the light. “Yeah, well, I doubt your potion would tell the difference either, though it certainly looks like it’s got some blood in it —- how much dittany did you put in it?” and she’s leaning closer to his cauldron too, wrinkling her nose at the odour. “It should have a pleasant aroma so... no, unless your standards have dropped significantly.”

[mllicent]

WHEN: january 15th 1998 WHERE: owlery WHO: @lcvendcrs

Millicent had no particular love for Lavender Brown—-she was... flighty and silly but she was less explosive than Seamus Finnigan, not that it was hard—-but, well, Alecto was running riot, screaming her lungs out at someone, and —- well, you didn’t have to like someone to not lead them into that hellfire, right?

Still. She didn’t have to be... friendly, right? “Brown,” she said, nodding her head down the stairs from the Owlery. “I wouldn’t go down there —- I mean, your funeral, but Carrow’s down there.” She paused, and then added, muttering, “it’s a wonder we can’t already hear the screaming of virgin sacrifices.”

[wantedgallerie]

INSTAGRAM PICTURES if you save or use some of these images give like. so will give us motivation to continue to post ♥

[mllicent]

ofsight‌:

WHEN: 14 january 1998, 7:42pm WHERE: fifth floor corridor WHO: open

Parvati stepped back, admiring her handiwork. The DA’s practice of vandalism was one she always quite enjoyed partaking in, being both an artist and, as of this year, a rebel. She was proud of the way they’d painted the names all over the walls, but in her opinion, it was all in need of just a bit of flair. So she’d taken advantage of everyone being at dinner to bring her painting supplies up to the fifth floor, where there was a stretch of blank wall, and painted a simple yet unmistakable portrait of none other than the missing Chosen One himself, lightning scar shining bright red, with the word HOPE emblazoned above him. Parvati was now cleaning up, quite satisfied with the permanent sticking charm she’d cast on her work, when she was suddenly startled by the sound of footsteps rounding the corner. 

Millicent was walking with Katya, down from the Clock Tower — one of Katya’s favourite places to roam, and where they’d whiled away the early evening until Millicent realised the time, and decided they should probably head off to dinner — when she paused, coming across the gigantic portrait of Draco’s favourite Gryffindor-without-a-fucking-survival-instinct. “For fuck’s sake,” she huffed. Beside her, Katya looked at it appraisingly, and then sniffed, as if she found it deeply distasteful.

Here’s the thing: Millicent wasn’t against the DA, exactly. She had no love for the Death Eaters, and no interest —- but that was it, wasn’t it, the crux of it? Stubbornly refusing to be a part of the monstrous narrative they had always crafted for her was what it was. Though sometimes, she looked at Tracey —- thought of Gemma, that kid from the bathroom —- and Fay, Fay most of all —- and something a little heavier, a little more desperate, loosened itself in her head. Still, this was just ostentatious. It was almost funny —- Millicent did not have a high opinion of Harry Potter, but as much as he might approve of some rebellion—Merlin knew he was never any good at paying attention to any sort of power structure, and she doubted that would change when the rules were actually hurting people—she imagined he’d be less keen on having murals of his face splashed around. “Vandalism,” she noted, raising an eyebrow. “Something new and exciting from you lot. What exactly about a gigantic painting of your missing bespectacled hero is meant to inspire hope?”

[mllicent]

pcrkinscns‌:

It’s strange. Blink and you might almost think they’ve gone back in time, an era when things were different, when they could truly call each other friends. It’s almost the same, but it isn’t quite. There’s an apprehensiveness about the pair of them, a lack of intimacy. They aren’t quite at peace with each other - and you can see. But, Pansy thinks, at least they’ve done a damn good jobs with their masks. At least alcohol can make a friend out of anyone. “Good.” Pansy snorts, moving to lie back on her bed. “I was hoping the costume enough would do that, but it’s nice to have a secret weapon.” Umbridge really was a sadistic fuck. As bad as the Carrows, for sure. Shooting upwards at Millie’s words, Pansy’s smile turns genuine. “You bought me a present?” There’s no point hiding the fact that she’s touched. Because she is. Surprised too. She thought they were past that…thought wrong, apparently. “Of course. You know I love being the center of attention.”

“Oh, I imagine the costume’s enough,” Millicent assures her. “That particular shade of pink is probably the backdrop for half of their nightmares,” she mutters. Umbridge’s reign occupies an odd position in Millie’s thoughts. Most of it is terrible, but, well, here with Pansy —- it was also the last time she and Pansy were truly friends, in a way that had more truth and heart to it than the guise they’re assuming now, and seeing Pansy dressed up as the woman herself, well. It has an odd effect on the nostalgia of the moment. Millie’s never been one for sentiment, but maybe some things can be earnest without being overt. Pansy’s smile, though. Sharp as she can be, it’s a real one, and no matter the jokes their classmates might make, that’s the difference, Millie thinks. You don’t bet against Pansy Parkinson, sure, but she’s human beneath it all. Even if most of them never get to see it. She shrugs slightly, but there’s an answering smile on her own lips, almost wistful, but mostly just warm. She shakes her head with a breath of laughter at Pansy’s words, and reaches under her pillow and pulls out a wrapped parcel. It’s meticulously wrapped because, well, Millicent can’t afford to buy people things, but she has steady hands, and this —- this matters. It’s odd. She and Pansy—-they’re different now. Millie doesn’t regret what’s pulled them apart, not really, not when it’s what gives her a chance and a choice and the knowledge she can be something other than a weapon, but —- but it means Pansy has one less person tethering her to shore. And maybe Millie isn’t part of that same space anymore, but... at least she can give Pansy something, right? Sometimes it can be nice to have something to hold onto. Pansy Parkinson is stronger than most, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to be her.

The wrapping is silver. Millie thinks about its contents —- there are only two things, and Millie internally scowls at the ridiculing expression she imagines Draco would have made at that, once upon a time, back when he was on top of the world and not licking his wounds and forgoing responsibility for the mess they’re all in. There’s a jacket, because fabrication charms are her familial legacy, and a pendant. The jacket is a deep, dark green, soft and sleek and interwoven with charms. Some from her father’s notebooks, some she chose herself —- temperature charms, charms to resist wear and tear, and she’s tried to weave some shielding charms in, though she’s not sure it’ll hold up to any truly serious spell. Millie’s proud of the cut, though, of the way it looks —- sleek and dangerous but something softer on the inside. It’s a lot like Pansy that way. The pendant is also sleek. Pansy’s not someone Millicent associates with that which is large and bulging and clunky, and the chain is fine, though Millie spent her last two Charms club sessions strengthening it. Hanging off it is a thin snake, wrapped around a flower; Millie’s not sure why this reminds her of Pansy, why this was the shape she chose, but it fits, somehow. There’s the obvious, she supposes, but this snake isn’t just Slytherin, or at least, isn’t more Slytherin than Pansy —- it is coiled ready to spring, to protect viciously, and Millie can’t imagine something more Pansy than that. Something with venom and sharp teeth, but always ready to turn those weapons on those that try attack its nest. A snake coiled around a flower —- some might see it as suffocating, as trapping the flower, but Millie sees protection, and something about that speaks of Pansy Parkinson, with her words like knives and smile like a wolf, but who would lunge for the throat of anyone who went after one of her own, one of her Slytherins.

The parcel is in her hands, and then — she passes it to Pansy. She hesitates a second, and then: Pansy and Millie are not really friends, not like they once were, but they will always be Slytherins, and that means something. It might be the only thing that means anything at all. And so maybe she can give her a truth, or the hints of one. “It’s —- it’s not much,” she says, her tone mostly brusque, but there’s something there behind it all — a little vulnerability, perhaps, and the slight twisting of her fingers. “I made them.” It is not a statement of pride, or bragging, nothing like that, but nor is it a confession, an admission of why —- it is something in between. Something like: This is the most truth I’ve ever said about this, even if it’s nothing at all. Something like: Maybe I don’t have a lot, but at least I have enough of me to make this — I wanted you to have this.

[mllicent]

☁

AN INTERACTION ON CASTLE GROUNDS.

It had been a while since Millicent had, well, talked to Sally-Anne. Though, that mightn’t be the most accurate term for their previous interactions, she supposed. The last relevant one was more like… working together, if not exactly with each other. And there was this odd limbo between the gratitude or — odd sense of truce mingled with both discomfort and respect of working together for the first year kid, Gemma (for, as much as Millicent tended not to give many her attention, Gemma’s name had sort of… stuck with her, as did the kid’s face, so much so that Millicent noticed her in the corridors and it was odd, all right, it was, but it seemed like the sort of thing you couldn’t stop noticing once you’d started, and Millicent couldn’t decide if she was disgruntled about it or if she just thought she ought to be out of force of habit), and her absolute simmering cold fury at how Sally-Anne had treated Noah, at the things she’d said, and —- Millicent thought of Noah that night, tear-stained and desperate and heartbroken and trying, he’d been trying so hard, and that cold fist of fury clenched her heart all over again.

But then, apparently, it was all right. Or, well, maybe Noah and Sally-Anne weren’t, but he and Stephen were… something, and that was something enough that it was making Noah careful again with her (though, Millicent reasoned, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been trying to be that night —- it was Sally-Anne, after all, who had decided to go after Noah on his birthday — Sally-Anne who decided to fucking ruin his night and blame him for something her best friend had done, as if it wasn’t hard enough for Noah to have to have made the call to step back for both of their well-being — Sally-Anne who had been brutal and angry and careless and wrong, Sally-Anne who —- well), and Millicent was keeping stock of that. Besides, well, the truth of it was, Sally-Anne occupied a complex spot in Millicent’s head —- fury & regret & bitterness & rage & vindictiveness & satisfaction & something like a sorry she didn’t know how to articulate and didn’t want to try if she couldn’t be sure she always meant it —- and so did the idea of forgiveness: because it wasn’t as if Millicent was perfect, far from it. The thing was, she had no tendency in her bones to give an inch to anyone who hurt Noah, but there was always that point in the back of her mind that people could change, or become more, maybe. It was just so hard with Hufflepuffs —- not because of the colour of their tie or anything, nothing defined by their house, but rather their house became defined to her by their behaviour. They were just… so bad at fronting up, Millicent thought. It was hard to put her finger on sometimes, but it was the way they could be just as cruel as any other house, just as sharp & as angry & as destructive, but somehow they always seemed to think they were fundamentally better. It was almost like Gryffindors, but —- something about Gryffindors bothered her less. Perhaps it was that there was nothing especially compelling about Gryffindors, whereas Hufflepuffs, well —- she could absolutely get behind their loyalty. It was their extraordinarily frustrating way of acting like their actions were always somehow moral that got to her. Millicent wouldn’t care —- beyond their effects on her friends, of course, but that was on par for course —- about anything they did, if only they didn’t always try to act like they were right to do it and scorn anyone else who did it while wearing the wrong colour tie.

Say what you will about Slytherins. At least they know what they are.

Still. Sally-Anne was a more complicated situation than most Hufflepuffs —- than most students, even. Sally-Anne, Stephen, and her fellow Slytherins: they were the complex things, the ones Millicent could muse about for hours if the fancy took her and still not untangle how she felt. So it was easier not to.

But there she was, on the grounds, and —- Millicent didn’t know. It was like, despite everything else, despite her genuine gratitude for helping with Gemma, despite her seething outrage about Noah’s birthday, despite her own dichotomy of regret / satisfaction with regards to her, when she saw her there on the grounds, she was just… a girl. Which, obviously, she always was, but there was something about the redhead standing in the wind that made her look entirely separate from everything else Millicent associated with her.

“Hey,” she said, curious despite herself. “Are you—-were you going to the Greenhouses or something?”

And if it sounded uncertain, well. That was par for course with Sally-Anne Perks these days, apparently.

[mllicent]

zcbni‌:

december 16th, 2018. potions class. @mllicent

He reaches into the glass container with a tong, hand shaking as he tries to make sure that his skin doesn’t touch any part of the said container. After all, he has no intention of getting any salamander eye-juice on his hands, but at least, he supposed, potions wasn’t yet ruined by the strike like every other class.

When he drops the eyeball into his mixture, it turns into some awful shade of maroon and he looks up at shoots a glance over at Millicent, silently requesting her help. As ridiculous as he finds potions to be in general, he knows that staying on top of his classes - or at least what’s left of said classes.

“How long until Slughorn gives in too?” He whispers as he flips through a page, trying to look for the right answer. The question is posed casually but he knows their situation is nothing to laugh at. At least not anymore - not when Slughorn is sitting up there trying to teach a class and instead sweating through his shirt for reasons they already all know. “He looks like he’s about to faint, for Merlin’s sake. And I’m supposed to sit here making salamander eyes into soup?”

Blink and you’ll miss it, but Blaise Zabini isn’t quite impassive.

Potions. It’s dangerous and hard, but Millicent finds it soothing in its immensity, especially now these days, when it’s one of the only distractions left. Bizarrely, there’s something calming in how quickly it can still go wrong —- it’s one of the only consistent things in this world. Pansy Parkinson values Daphne Greengrass more than anyone, Amycus Carrow is as lethal as he is a fucking moron, Draco Malfoy is built of angles and cheekbones and elitism, and Potions is complex and Blaise is looking at her sidelong for help.

Some things never change.

( Well —- Draco, maybe, but she’s reserving judgement on that. She’s fucked off, they all are, but she thinks he might have something harder to hold inside him now. )

“D’you reckon they’ll—” meaning the professors on strike, meaning the ones standing against the Carrows, meaning the ones who are brave, maybe, or just tired or possibly even thick, Millie can’t make up her mind, and they sounds like it’s them & us and that’s not what Millie means, but it seems to be the lines that are drawn around them and try to pull them in, even when they refuse to engage, “—last much longer?” she murmurs. The Carrows hadn’t done anything yet, but that fills Millicent with more unease, if she’s honest. It feels like a snake coiled, preparing to strike —- they ought to know, the Slytherin few. “If they don’t give in soon, though...” she shakes her head, clicking her tongue slightly as she puts her hand on the edge of the page he’s on, tapping the instruction he’s looking for. “Add a dash of dittany oil as well to reduce the redness,” she adds. “And then, if he faints, we can always use the salamander eye soup to wake him up,” she says dryly.

[marchofwarhq-blog]

As promised, here is our second official in-character ask meme ! This isn’t getting a specific task number because it has no time constraints, and it can be reblogged again at any point in the future. If it goes well, we’ll probably continue to release more of them — both general ask memes and ones that are specific to events and plot drops. This will work similarly to the ask meme we used for our Slytherin party event, but for those of us who weren’t here or don’t remember well, the rules can be found below the cut.

Keep reading

[ginnyws]

Good work! I’m just saying what I feel and people do not like what they’re hearing.

[acrylicbrushstroke]

[nofruitjustcookies-blog]

Info that matters

[mllicent]

trcydvs‌:

date & time: november 2nd, 20:13 location: slytherin common room status: @mllicent​

the worst thing about occupying the dungeons with their teenaged haze and war-torn identities is that they never get to smoke. the gryffindors and ravenclaws have their towers and open windows, the hufflepuffs are close enough to the kitchens that tracey doubts they feel the need to, and they get the closed-off, claustrophobia-inducing, damp dungeons. she remembers how it had taken her months just to get used to the feeling of being constantly underwater, years for her to stop fearing imminent doom via the great lake rushing through their sealed windows. now her biggest problem is that she doesn’t get to light a cigarette and enjoy it while puddlemere gets its ass kicked by the cannons.

she’s thinking about this as the game goes into its first quarter of an hour, her feet dangling off the arm of the sofa she’s half-covering. millie’s sitting by the fireplace next to her, there’s a calming mood to her, one tracey hasn’t seen around her in ages, and she wonders if noah got the same treatment from millicent like the one she got from pansy and theo. she still remembers the feeling of her legs almost giving out as she stood, daphne and noah by her side, sue clutching at her hand, and thinks about how they all just sat there, watching as the few of them who have the guts to do something walk off. it seems as if the entirety of her thoughts fall to this, but this is quidditch time, the one time tracey allows herself to let go of all the history that trembles in her bones. she looks at millicent with a smile plastered across her face, because the cannons score another goal, and she can’t wait for the harpies match that is in a couple of days.

“funny how half the league members are either on the run or sentenced to azkaban and the league just keeps going like nothing’s wrong.” this shouldn’t be their topic of conversation, but there is hardly anyone that could prove to be a bother right now – and tracey wants to know what millicent thinks exactly of the shit they’re going through. “i guess i’d play with all i could give, too, if half my friends had been taken by the ministry.”

millicent thinks —-

well, millicent thinks a lot of things, chief amongst them how things really are terrible but it isn’t her job to engage. millicent has been looked at as something destructive and violent for most of her life —- isn’t it enough to try not to be that anymore? how dare the carrows ask for more from her, when she has no interest in their fight? and on the flipside —- she has no interest in putting herself on the line for people she doesn’t need to, for people she doesn’t even know she likes half the time.

but now is not the moment for that. now is cannons and puddlemere and sitting there with tracey, warmth from the fire soaking into her skin, the feeling of the sofa beneath her. now is not thinking about what her dorm would look like if the carrows did something about the walkout —- now is not the war running through her head, the only place you can’t escape it if you try hard enough —- now is not is not is not—

now is smiling back at tracey when the cannons score.

except then, of course, tracey speaks. and millicent is back there. but it could be worse, she supposes. tracey isn’t someone dangerous to her, not really, except when she talks —- not like theo could be, or pansy or draco. “i guess it’s pretty easy for the league to keep going,” she says. she shrugs, then says, “it’s pretty easy to keep going if you don’t look up.” she thinks about what tracey said, tilts her head, half listening to the radio, half thinking. she thinks she would too, if they were her friends. that’s the thing, though, it’s all theoretical, because she doesn’t have many friends. maybe the fight would seem less escapable if there was something that pulled her in as tightly as some of those she knew, but —- she was hardly going to complain about that, was she? “do you really think they’re all friends?” she wonders. merlin knows, you can be bonded by experience and still not be friends —- this year was an excellent lesson in that, thus far. “i guess i would too,” she says. she sighs. “still probably wouldn’t do any good,” she adds, almost an afterthought.