If you want me to draw/write for an oc or a character, just send me some information! I will warn you I am a bit slow at times, but I'll try my best. I haven't updated in a while, but I'll hopefully be doing art for HPHM, Houseki No Kuni and Pathologic.
i havent been up to date in this fandom so this idea has probably been done before
but like, some friendship rewards being hairstyles is such a sweet idea? like just picture tonks trying to pull your hair into a mess of spikes or orion trying to replicate his little curl/cowlick
tagged by @nostalgiaslithersin - thank you for tagging me! :D
Rules: Tag 15 people you want to get to know better.
I... don’t know that many people, ahaha, nor am I brave enough to tag anyone... I guess go for it if you see this and want to do it? It’d be cool to learn about everyone. >.<
Relationship status: Waiting for the one to break my heart because I need some precious angst to survive.
Favorite colors: Grey, navy blue, black, white? That’s all I ever wear to be honest! (I don’t even look good in those colors but shhhh)
Lipstick or Chapstick: None, I can’t stand having anything on my mouth(even if I have cracked lips 24/7)
3 favorite foods: Egg-fried-rice(because I only know how to make that, nothing else), plums, and... pretzels. I’ve survived on pretzels last school year and am determined to do it again.
Song stuck in my head: There’s like five going on at the same time, but I’ve recently heard Lie by Jimin(BTS)(I’ve just started to try out K-Pop and this is what I found)(I don’t even know how to speak the language but it’s stuck)(help me out here)
Last movie I saw: I’m watching Age of Ultron right now, for the second time, yay.
Top 3 TV shows: Idon’twatchTVshows
Book I’m currently reading: Catch 22, though it’s less reading that stumbling through pages while trying to make sense of my life. I’m a pretty bad reader... a wonder how I passed middle school.
Last thing I googled: How to find your google history... but if you want the more interesting recent search, it was - what to do after pumpkin animal bug borrower attack - which wouldn’t even make sense with context.
Time: 10:03 PM (darn it, I missed by two minutes to get a nice number)
How many blankets do you sleep in: Three? It’s burning here but I need to suffer to be happy.
Dream trip: Nowhere... I’m content with being stuck in my room with no sunlight and only having to worry about the world in my computer. Look at me, a model for the youths of today: run from your problems and bury yourself in watching vine compilations while pretending you don’t exist.
Anything you want: Uh, confidence? A personality? Motivation? An ability to do something, anything, without sucking at it? But I’d say friends, I’d love to talk to more people considering how I’ve isolated myself from the world last year. Be kinder, more sociable, y’know? Be able to hold a conversation without making it awkward? Friends would be nice.
or, alternate title: my hogwarts mystery mc goes off the deep end because I can’t keep myself from making promises for huge projects that I’ll never finish and it’s actually not discord’s fault
or, shorter alternative: Limits
Oh god, what have you done? What have you done?
Hands fly over open wounds, as if somehow he could staunch the blood running rivers into the carpet and polished wooden floor, shaking, trembling fingers pinching at still-warm skin. Mark Knox, eighteen, just out of school, and he’s sitting next to a body that is splayed over an inn room like some sort of fucked up decoration piece. It’s wrong, all of it’s wrong and yet he can’t look away from those dreadful glazed eyes staring into his. It’s your fault, they say, and a small whimper escapes him to agree.
What have you done?
The point - there was a point to this madness, a point to justify the cold, dead, man - right? A reasoning for the insanity - for murder? He stifles the sobs that wrack his body in an attempt to regain stability, spreading the blood all over his face as he tugs at his hair, panicking, breath shortening in watery gasps. He didn’t like this at all, despite the hysterical laughter that had slipped through those tainted lips when the adrenaline spiked. Why? Why was this-?
His treacherous brain supplies filthy words to comfort him, dripping with its false sympathy when it reminds him of those snake-like hiss-whispers that had infested him too long ago. Infinity, it reminds him, you’ll taste the truth of forever.
He shouldn’t have listened to poison, to sharp fangs and split tongues, shouldn’t have fallen for promises of peace and hope when the story of that voice mirrored his own tragedy. What good was ever going to come out of someone like him?
Nothing. Now there’s a man dead because of you.
A feeling of cold spreads throughout - calm apathy and indifference even as his heart screams in agony. Too late to go back, the ice says, sounding just a tad too similar to his own, you can’t waste this innocent life now, can you? He can’t disagree quickly enough, and those dirtied hands releases the skin to move to their next task, somehow moving without his direction as they dance over the corpse and go on to paint the room with their evil deeds.
He can’t even cry anymore, as if his entire body has snapped into a machine, fixated on the end goal of immortality. A leather bound journal gifted to him by his brother(would Jacob hate him for this?), drawn from his left pocket and placed on red and white carpeting, a knife stolen from his parents(they would miss it more than they missed him), slowly inserted into his leg so the pain would overcome the guilt.
The snake had told him to do that, but he knew that even the worst physical pain couldn’t hold a candle to the sea of regret that he carries with him.
Not enough to stop this horror that progresses with every moment his mind slips into its delusions of hope though.
The splitting doesn’t hurt more than everything else - feeling like the throbbing emptiness that comes after he runs out of cuts to keep fresh and the bile that rose in his throat when he had turned away from their outstretched hands. After the burning void in his chest dissipates, nothingness. And renewal and power and forever.
this is a mess, please don’t read it unless you’re interested in what i come up with when i’m sleep deprived and creating my first rp character
https://character-resource.deviantart.com/art/Big-Ass-Character-Sheet-Updating-167182524 but i cut out a buncha shit
welcome to hell(or the place in which I can’t capitalize for shit and curse too much and am vague but that’s honestly my personality in general)
Full Name: Mark Knox
Meaning: Mark, derived from Martkos(Roman), related to the war god, Mars. Knox, derived from cnoc(Scottish), meaning hillock.
Origin: made it up on the spot because planning is for cowards
Signature: illegible letters - MKX
Gender: male
Orientation: pan(i wrote pam and don’t regret it)-aro
Blood: three-quarters pure, half blood father
Birthday: 6-6
Deathday: (May not have one yet)(oh gee, did you not expect me to have a day of death?)(well, i don’t)
Astrological Sign: Gemini(fun fact: Draco’s the only Gemini on the wiki)(why is this relevant)(astrology is weird as all hell)
____
Immediate Family: Jacob Knox(brother)
Distant Family: Shay Knox(mother), Clark Knox(father)
Parenting: non-existent
Upbringing(morals and ideals): considering he was raised by a person only a few years older than him, during the period of Voldemort’s rule, he is less screwed up than he could’ve been. However, he still possesses a rather vague and undefined sense of right and wrong - using his logic to bypass any sort of regrets if it blocks him from his goal
Infancy: (dropped at birth is an option and i’m living for it)
Childhood: that one kid who lit ants on fire and was ‘rebellious’ (you know that post about america being the asshole kid with neglectful parents? That’s the one)
Adolescence: canon
Adulthood: never. He hasn’t even gotten taller
____
Species: hooman
Preferred Hand: ambidextrous(he keeps injuring his hands)
Facial Type: like a face, why is this - oval, i guess
Eye Color: dark brown
Hair Color (Self Explanatory)(it isn’t when his hair is grey/silver/white)(the kid probably bleached his already pale hair)(he probably likes the smell of bleach)
Hairstyle: fringe-up
Complexion: blushes easily, relatively smooth unless you look at the cuts and bruises and scars on his arms, back and legs
Body Type: ectomorph
Build: skinny arms and legs, he isn’t the most physically fit and regularly damages his body due to his complete lack of care for his own safety
Height: 65 in
Weight: 120 lb
Shoe Size: (Shoe size doesn’t matter)(goddamnit i forgot this was an innuendo)(keep it pg, please)
Birthmarks/scars: no birthmarks, and has tons of ugly marks all over him, none of them particularly remarkable
Distinguishing Features: the contrast between his eye color and hair color - but other than the hair, he doesn’t have a memorable face
_____
Health: as healthy as a wizard without impulse control and emotional support could be
Energy: swings from highs and lows without any pattern
Memory: remembers the small stuff, the negative parts - forgets about major ideas or lessons
Senses: heavily relies on eyes, can’t taste for shit
Allergies: (Self Explanatory. May be optional.)(i mean, i would put animals, but we have transfiguration)
Medication: needs some, doesn’t take any
Phobias(irrational fears):
Symmetrophobia(fear of symmetry, an unnatural-looking but normal occurrence, which isn’t debilitating, but causes him stress and uneasiness)
Siderophobia(fear of the stars, the idea that there’s so much out there that he doesn’t know of is pretty awful and, again, while it isn’t going to freeze him up, it will cause him to become upset)
Addictions: none yet
Mental Disorders: undiagnosed
______
Style: couldn’t care less about appearance - he wears the school robes most of the time
Mode of Dress: doesn’t have a particular taste, as long as it’s passable, it’s fine - tends to wear a size or two larger
Grooming: somewhere in between messy and neat
Posture: he displays an air of aloofness and confidence - almost condescending in stance
Gait: quickly and efficiently - it’s brisk at his slowest
Coordination: not physically fit at all, he’s too reckless for that - exercises to the point of exhaustion without realizing that it’s detrimental to do so and has limbs flying all over the place
Habits and Mannerisms: taps his foot or fingers when excited, nervous, or anything that deviates from his usual ‘cool’ facade
Scent: earth, smoke, and grass - faint but noticeable
______
Mood: ‘calm’ - probably plotting though
Attitude: he’s charismatic and charming until you dig deeper
Stability: hA
Expressiveness: can act like he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve but can never fully give his true thoughts
When Happy: smirks - invades personal space and slows down
When Depressed: smiles - talks louder and speaks faster
When Angry: (trolls online is an option and if that isn’t Mark, i don’t know what is) smirks - wide eyes and tense hands
______
Friends: Rubeus Hagrid - but not really
Enemies: Rita Skeeter - but not really
Bosses: Filius Flitwick - but not really
Followers: not even himself
Heroes: Filius Flitwick - “short people are closer to hell and he’s gonna whoop my ass if I do anything stupid”
Rivals: Ismelda - “for most edgy teen”
Relates to: Dumbledore - impersonal but seemingly close, full of contradictions and ulterior motives
Pets/Familiars: does his jar of bug bodies count?
______
Wardrobe: mostly consisting of Hogwarts robes, formal robes, and the identical grey-blue sweater and jeans
Equipment: carries a wand and a pencil(but not paper, because he has problems)
Accessories: a single dangling silver piercing on his right ear(family tradition)
Trinkets: carries hair ties on his wrist all the time(why? He doesn’t even know)
Funds: his family is relatively well off, being a respected branch of purebloods
Home: almost like his personality, warm and nice on the outside, cozy on the inside, but dead silent and empty when no one looks - not large but not small either, seeming normal by all accounts if you don’t look into any of the rooms(jacob’s windows are taped shut and Mark broke through the locked door that connected their bedrooms)
Neighborhood: the woods
Transportation: running because stamina apparently is infinite in this world
Collections: bug bodies, herbs, and lighters
Prized Possession: his wand, after seeing Jacob’s broken one
_____
Lovers: yeet
Marital Status: yeet
____
Experience: works in the three broomsticks in his off time to get experience and money, nothing serious
Organizations/Affiliations: changeable, he doesn’t plant many roots or make any long-term promises
______
Education: i mean, Hogwarts. But is it even ‘education’?
School: (What was their school like?) bitch this is Hogwarts
Social Stereotype: “least favorite cursed student”
Intelligence: mostly interpersonal, linguistic and logical
Extracurricular Activities: would do theater if given the chance
_____
Morals: don’t exist - but he honestly has a problem with reasoning his way into committing seriously wrong deeds
Crime Record: hasn’t been caught yet ;)
Motivation: adrenaline, change - nothing truly meaningful or satisfying
Priorities: knowledge, humans, self
Philosophy: gen z nihilism
Etiquette: usually practices ‘correct’ etiquette - does not give a fuck if his behaviour offends someone though
Influences: everything and anything he finds intriguing
Traditions: tries to run away from them, always moving and staying ahead of the past
______
Career: spell-inventor or wand-maker/seller
Desires: uncertain
Accomplishments: undetermined
Biggest Failure: failing Jacob
Secrets: his manipulative side, his genuinely mean streak and the fact that he regrets having those traits
Regrets: a shit ton of things
Worries: Jacob, being nothing in the grand scheme of things, being a hypocrite, betrayal, a shit ton of things
Best Dream: having a greater purpose
Worst Nightmare: dying alone and being left behind as a ghost
Best Memories: finding his brother’s secret room, meeting Billingsley
Worst Memories: losing his brother, lying to his teachers, accidentally calling Chester: Jacob
_______
Hobbies/Interests: explore the wilderness, identify flora and fauna, observing other people
Skills/Talents: pyromancy, charms in general, debating, acting, singing
Likes: mint, sharpies, fire
Dislikes: himself, close-minded people, pity
Sense of Humor: sarcastic, self-deprecating, relatively dark
Pet Peeves: the guy scratching his quill the wrong way in the front row whenever they write essays
Dreams/Nightmares: doesn’t dream usually - when he does, it’s usually flashes of color and abstract black and white shapes
Quirks: can’t sit on the fucking couch correctly
Understands: how people think, the reason they fail, mistakes
Can't understand: quidditch, values, structure
Closet Hobby: burning shit(though that isn’t really a hidden thing with him)
_________
Strengths: charismatic, diplomatic, quick-witted, inwardly caring, able to understand his flaws, patient, logical, able to read other people
because everyone knows by now i’m an asshole who tries to bring sorrow wherever i go, i accept my chaotic evil alignment
warnings: this piece deals with all that shit that i put in my writing for shock value because i can’t make decent content without it but this isn’t decent content
It began when you were five - touches that never quite seemed real enough since your parents didn’t believe you when you showed them the light bruising - strangers calling out names but never yours in the back of your mind when you listened. Ghostly, haunting, terrifying - keeping you up in the night while the rest of the family slept soundly. Angry, they got angry at times, and no one was able to protect you from those moments, not even Jacob, who had tried to comfort you by covering your ears and telling jokes. No one ever believed you when you told them you heard voices.
You tried to understand it when you were nine - when a new voice popped into your mind, finally familiar. Father, his low volume and hoarse throat, echoing with the rest of the people in your head - sometimes singing sad songs that he once sung to you and sometimes cursing out names. You had started to recognize some of those names - James and Lily Potter were married and brave, Evan Rosier constantly muttered about taking someone’s nose during battle, Regulus Black prayed for his younger brother. And you had started to figure out what the truth was when a letter came telling you that your father was gone. You had almost protested(he had just been telling a goodnight story), but one dark glare from mother had shut you up right away. That day was when Lily had spoken your name and left the feeling of a kiss on your cheek instead of the bruises cast by the restless, nameless.
When Jacob had left in his storm of rebellion and broken hearts, you wondered if you would hear him too, if his lively chatter would drown out the ‘mudbloods’ and ‘traitors’ tossed around like he did when you were younger, but no such thing happened, even when you waited. Your father had to explain to you that his leaving was different. That was when you started to learn of the difference between death and leaving. Infinite and temporary. Their world and your world.
Harry Potter was the name you had heard at eleven, spoken outside your voices - and then crying, weeping, happiness and you wanted to pat a dead couple’s shoulder when they cheered for their son’s survival. You wonder how it would feel if you heard a child’s voice with the symphony of adults - you wonder if you would ever hear your friends’ voice or if they would hear yours. You wonder if anyone else thinks of the same things you do. You hope they don’t.
The voices and pain had almost faded out into normalcy by twelve - that was when you heard him. Not cheerful, not lively, but you heard him. Everyone wrote it off as divination, but you knew better. He didn’t speak to you after that brief moment, but you knew that he had crossed the line between leaving and dying. It scared you when you realized that you had no tears to cry for him - no mourning - just a calm acceptance of the fact that he was no longer alive. After all, you had rationalized, he was still with you among the other ghosts. That apathy was terrifying.
But it only grew, til you no longer flinched whenever a new voice entered, confused or turbulent - til you could no longer distinguish the difference that you had learned, blurring together like the cacophony in your head. When the second war became a threat, more of them came in, scared and desperate as if they didn’t know that they were safe in the arms of death. Then you cared not.
It remained that way when an old classmate’s stutter came in with a dose of darkness, when Regulus spoke to his brother(and James and Lily greeted their old friend) and when one of your prefects turned out to be Evan’s cousin. A younger, more aware you would’ve cried - an older and lost one did not. It remained that way when fifty new voices arrived in the span of one day, it remained when friends found their ends.
It’s too late now, when you are tired and weary, to wake up from the stupor of grief that you have put yourself in - the only choice being to slip through the difference and to rise on the other side. You wonder if you will meet up with friends there, or if death would be a blank slate that you had drawn on to make more appealing. You close your eyes and finally listen to the goodbyes sung by your voices, remembering the divide that you had learned and then forgotten.
@barnabybotts posted something about this and because it makes people upset, it falls into my alley. (see, when you start saying things like this, you have problems)
Barnaby’s kindness was unmatched, tender and child-like - always ready to defend you with no ulterior motive. His smile was gentle, his laugh was pure - you found him far more naive than the rest of your friends and kept your wing over him the best that you could. He wasn’t stupid like everyone said, no, he displayed remarkable intelligence at times - but the majority of the words coming out of his mouth was pure nonesense, from conspiracies about paper to questioning the names of Bowtruckles. For that, you wanted to protect him with everything you had, trusting him almost immediately as you brought the innocent boy into the group.
That... that had been your mistake. Innocence was the furthest thing from what he was. If only you had seen past those honey-coated words and sickly-sweet smile for what he truly was - if only you had pushed your own foolish feelings away to peel away his lies. Your sympathy had been your undoing, even with all your precautions.
Too late now, as you sit on stone, eyes trained on his too-large-to-be-a-fifteen-year-old arm as he traces his dark wand over smooth skin - turning tan into black as a snake and skull begins to appear. It makes you cringe and turn away instinctively - somehow repulsive despite its simple design.
“No one’s that stupid...” He hisses - voice low, lower than Barnaby - no, this is the real Barnaby. It pains you to see such a crooked, sinister smile on his face but you keep listening to the truth - the ugly truth that you failed to recognize. Of course no one could have been as child-like as Barnaby and have survived through so much - those flashes of wisdom, you recall, could not have been just luck.
“Honestly, I can’t believe you fell for my sob story about Slytherins beating each other up in the morning - anyone could have proven me wrong and yet you fell for it.” You can see his face light up, emerald eyes glitter in the candlelight with a coldness that had never been present before. He was right, the moment you had heard his words, you hadn’t considered the possibility of lies that could be unraveled - too concerned with the mere idea of him being injured. “The Dark Lord would be pleased to know that both you and your brother are now gone and that stupid old man pretending to be Headmaster wouldn’t know what hit him, he didn’t even catch me infiltrating his ranks.”
You stare, wondering if there was any regret in him as he turned the lights off and left you at the mercy of death.
based on @theterriblytiredravenclaw‘s AU, in which Penny becomes a potion master but with a twist because I hate myself
The Three Broomsticks was filled with the chattering of your friends as butterbeer got passed around for the third or fourth time that night. The only people who looked remotely sober were Andre and Charlie, with the former now trying to straighten up everyone’s clothing(a relatively futile task considering Rowan still hasn’t learned how to tie a proper tie) while Charlie swayed back and forth chanting dragon names under his breath. Bill cheers merrily, the golden band glittering on his finger as he raises another glass - much to the chagrin of his wife, Fleur, who had come to make sure all of you didn’t wind up stumbling through the streets into Aberforth’s goat yard(apparently veelas could hold their drinks better than the normal wizard or witch).
Ben, Rowan, and Barnaby crowd around Penny, congratulating her enthusiastically(or, as enthusiastic as Ben could get for about anything) - while you hold Tulip to stop her from slipping out of her seat(the prankster hadn’t bothered to warn you of her low tolerance). It reminds you of the old days, where there wasn’t a need to speak in a hoarse whisper all the time and when dreams were able to become reality. For a long period in your life after you left the school, those thoughts had all but disappeared from your mind.
Now they were rekindled by the scroll that Penny clutched, Mcgonagall’s large signature standing proudly on thick paper - the words Potions Professor written in the same elegant print. Pride, that was the word, though it was strange to feel pride for an accomplishment that wasn’t your own. However, you could not dwell on that when Penny pulls you into a hug, her blonde hair let down from its usual braids smelling of valerian and rose. Intoxicating, you think, patting her back with more soft words of congratulations as she beams at you.
You do not miss Snape for all of the pain he had caused you, but, looking at your friend and seeing her with the same title as the former professor, there is a deep sorrow that fills you, more than the butterbeer can numb. You do not wish to bring the evening down by voicing those feelings and yet - while the rest of the crew starts singing the Hogwarts’ theme with the typical lack of coordination - you feel more sober than you have ever been. Fleur’s voice is as beautiful as she is(even with her thick accent), but you cannot pay attention to that.
She’s sitting where Tonks sat. She’s so graceful - ethereal. Tonks was humble, clumsy. Fleur isn’t Tonks. Fleur doesn’t have to be Tonks. But Tonks should be there. Should be here.
There’s no bright pink hair to make you wince, no butterbeer being spilled on other peoples’ cloaks when she’s not here. You wonder if she, too, would’ve worn a golden ring like Fleur.
Penny’s arms around you no longer feel solid - your mind flashes with images of screams and blood as you fail to breath in her floral scent but instead inhale smog.
Remus - fallen. Tonks - broken. You - running. Her body.
But you cannot mourn any longer - and you raise another glass with a cheer(genuine or not, you cannot tell), hoping that you can rise from the darkness of your thoughts. Penny smiles and leans into your arms further, whispering something before falling into her dreams - accomplished and proud.
It would take time for you to feel content - but you can at least rest easy knowing one of you can sleep happy.
is this actually completely happy for once??? ha. you thought.
prompt courtesy of: @xxskyhd-blog
merula x reader but not really because that wouldn’t be angsty enough
I wanted to hold their hand, to have them smile at me the way they smile at their friends, instead of being glared at. I wanted to sit next to them during lunch and listen to their stories for hours on end just to listen to their beautiful voice speaking, without the bite that they usually hold just for me. I wanted to carry a conversation without it ending up with them in tears or me storming off alone.
They were perfect, beautiful, untouchable and I’m a mess - undeserving of the completion of those fantasies in my head. I know that I’m destructive, bitter, unloved for a reason - even those who were closest to me left(I doubt my parents regret it, even if they have to sit in on the stone floor of Azkaban to get away from me).
Still, I wanted to be able to approach them in the hallway and not have them flinch in fear or anger.
I didn’t mean to be such a pathetic bully - for nasty words to spill out of my ugly, deformed mouth and for bruises to form on their neck after my dirty, tainted hands pushed them to a possible death. I never meant to become the boggart that they had to face(though the stained purple eyes and torn up cloak and monstrous appearance matched the demented little devil inside me).
They were imperfect too, but nothing like me - with their grace and power and cool confidence that allowed them to brush off my insults balancing out the bad parts - and they were wonderful with those faults. Even if I could, I didn’t deserve them. That didn’t stop me from staring at them through the years, wondering what it would be like to be able to be close to someone so kind and unique.
They never stared back - those brilliant eyes trained on another(bright red hair in a stupid ponytail).
Unrequited love, I had learned, was worse when doubled, because you would see the pain and want to heal it all the while knowing that there was no chance for you to do so, to soothe the shattered heart.
But maybe I could’ve been there - could’ve held them when they cried and tell myself that I had done good.
Maybe my words could’ve redeemed the trash that had left me before.
...
Maybe doesn’t change what I have done.
Maybe doesn’t mean I could take back the jealous insults and physical scars I gifted them.
Maybe doesn’t set things right.
I still remember the cold night and burning skin as I spoke those terrible words of allegiance. I still remember their bright eyes and beautiful voice contorting into pure hatred when they saw the black on my arm. I still remember the sound of my heartbeat in my ears as I gave up all hope of someone, anyone, caring for me ever again - I still remember how they turned away from my pointed wand when I challenged them to one last duel.
One last duel.
One last dance.
They looked so stunning in those formal robes as they dazzled under the candlelight. I was pure darkness in velvet, dressed as if for a funeral.
I wanted to walk up to them and repent for the evil I have created(they would forgive me in this dream) - instead I walk up to stone and sit under the stars(wondering of a life that can’t be).
desc: if mc doesn’t die before the war, what happens to them after?
forgive me.
...
Forgive me.
You sit next to him, pushing back the strands of hair that had fallen into disarray, rearranging them into the iconic spiked style he had always worn. It’s a half-hearted attempt - the gesture falls flat - but you cannot bring yourself to leave him like he was found. His eyes, brilliant green like you remembered, now are unfocused, gazing up behind and above you(you wonder if he dreams of paradise). You can fix up his face to bring a little bit of comfort, wipe off the blood that had trickled from his battered lips and close those glazed eyes, but, as you turn to look at the rest of him, you know you cannot salvage all of his body.
Deep cuts decorate his chest and bruises in the shape of boots stain his exposed limbs - acts of violence that you hadn’t thought possible when you were younger(oh, the naivety). They struck him down when he, the beautiful, sweet, wonderful idiot, had intervened to protect the younger students of Hogwarts, leaving his broken body under the rubble after they were satisfied with his pain. You should have been there, you know. You should have been there to save them but you were not, and now they lie in stretchers, waiting to be lowered into the cold earth.
You trace over his face one last time - trying to remember every feature to save for the future. He’s still smiling, but it’s not the same as the goofy grin he wore when the two of you took lessons from Professor Kettleburn and is now tinged with sorrow and regret(if only childhood could be an eternity).
“Orchideous.”
Many people murmur those words under their breath, the other most common phrases being ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘Rest in peace’ - and you add your voice to the mix as you produce a bouquet of purple hyacinths to place in his hands. They meant sorrow, you were sure, and were a stark contrast to the green and black that he wore(he was always there, a constant even after you had left the halls of the castle).
You get up and start to walk away, glancing back only once to remind yourself that it was the truth: Barnaby Lee was forever gone and there was nothing you could do.
...
You cannot bring yourself to search for Tonks and the man you know would’ve been her love, but you spot her signature bright pink hair on one of the bodies in stretchers. Too young, she was too young and yet you know that there are children waiting to be buried too. Innocent, little children who were like you when you were younger(but you never suffered this consequence).
Her last words to you was a warning - your last words to her was a goodbye. You wonder what would’ve happened if it was the other way around.
They had also found Professor Snape, silenced in a boat and missing a chunk from his neck, and had told you the truth of his allegiance. Not that it mattered anymore, you think as you stare at the black cloak of a man you once considered your worst tormentor - he now lies stiff and powerless, dead while you still live. Wrong. It does not feel right to see your former teacher fallen.
It does not feel right to see any of this.
To look about and see Charlie and Bill sobbing into each other’s shoulder as almost the entire Weasley family gathers to mourn someone you can’t identify - to see Merula somberly take the wand from a Death Eater’s hand and hold on to it like a lifeline. School had been a long time gone and yet the memories made there attempts to cover up the carnage that your facing, reminding you of butterbeer and warm candlelight.
There is no butterbeer and warm candlelight. Only stone and dust and the silence that comes before the break, only the quivering lips and shaking legs and stony faces. Only your bundle of flowers and the melody of regrets that spill from your mouth(you keep quiet because the others cry too).
Barnaby was only one of the casualties, you know. Tonks was only one of those who had died young. Images of blonde hair in braids and blue eyes filled with tears were only one of the scars that would be left.
The sun doesn’t peek through the grey cloud of ashes - Filch’s endeavor to clean the gateway is, in your eyes, fruitless, and the world does not seem to move from the carnage. It stays, watching, as if waiting for someone to rally the aimless souls that have lost too much, and you wait with it, breathing in smoke and the scent of blood.
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
jbbartram-illu
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto