#anna's notebooks

[pekkarolling]

I just posted a fic!!

(Clare @leejordah inspired me to actually post this with her amazing edit because SHE’S amazing)

But this is a Percy Weasley fic! It will be updated pretty consistently, considering the chapters I have left, and feel free to check it out if you’re interested at all in my writing or Percy and his class!

[pekkarolling]

Onions at Midnight: submission for @percyprotectionnet

Percy Weasley was downtrodden.

He wasn't, he reflected as he tapped the fountain pen on his desk, depressed. He was completely fine. Just a bit worse for wear, a bit like a handkerchief crumpled with tears instead of the starched one he'd been before. Yes--downtrodden was the right word. Nothing else. One wash and he'd be good as new.

Why, then, had Audrey Jones given him her card?

It read in simple, bold lettering: AUDREY JONES, THERAPIST. FIRST SESSION FREE. Like he needed a free session; working for the Ministry for eight years with steady promotion had given him galleons to spare, for once in his life. But the latter part of the card bothered him much less than the former.

Why would he need a therapist?

Percy glanced at the sole picture he kept on his desk. Him and Fred, before the war, before death had decided he liked the look of one of them a bit too much. In the photo, one edge of Fred's mouth was curling into a smirk and Percy's head was thrown back, laughing. A reflection of the other's usual expression. They stood in front of the Burrow, and in the corner of the moving photo, a broom and its redheaded, unidentified rider came into view.

That had been the summer Dad got the lottery win and they had wasted the money on something fascinating, yet frivolous. Right before they left for Egypt.

Percy realized he wasn't breathing and forced himself to. A quick swipe under the eyes told him no tears were there, which was unusual, but he still brought out salad ingredients from beneath his desk. He'd come up with the initiative of "create your own food" for him and his employees, which basically meant that his onions could create a stellar excuse for any tears.

Maybe no one would have blamed him for them, but he certainly blamed himself. Percy Weasley let sadness collect like snot in his handkerchief self instead of buying his own hanky. It was a lot easier, he had found, to pretend that sadness didn't exist than to find a way to fix it.

He was very good at pretending things didn't exist. Too good, in fact. If the war had taught him anything, it had taught him that.

Carefully, with practiced fingers, he started to chop an onion. Prewashed and on the cutting board he now kept in his desk, along with an assortment of tea bags. It was habitual. Routine. He hadn't had a lunch--or, as the time now reflected, a very late dinner--without onions in it in three years.

Maybe he was more than just downtrodden.

The chops were slow and rhythmic against the cutting board. He always took extra long chopping the onions because he was always afraid he might cry.

Maybe he would cry, right now. But he was a well gone empty, and for a moment, he wondered where his tears, as ever present as the dark circles under his eyes, had gone.

Maybe Audrey would help him find the tears. Or himself. Or something better than both. She wouldn't have leaned over from her stall on an unknown street and asked him, voice soft, if everything was alright if he had looked like everything was.

Onions forgotten, he fingered the card, glanced at the photo of him and Fred, then smiled.

Fred would want him to be happy. Fred would want him to laugh.

Percy wanted to laugh.

He stood up, a handkerchief unwrinkling. He looked at the card, memorized the number.

And then he called it.

[pekkarolling]

For the @hogwartshousesnet slytherclaw versus gryffinpuff

Luna Lovegood could see thestrals. It didn’t bother her, most of the time, until Ginny Weasley told her she could see them too.

For the girl who had been named after the moon, thestrals were a fact of life. For the girl who had hair the exact shade of phoenix feathers, it had not. Ginny Weasley was a lot of things (fierce, sassy, pretty enough that she made Luna’s stomach dance whenever she saw her) but she was not accustomed to death. 

She explained Colin Creevy’s body, its still, pale form lifeless at the bottom of one of Hogwarts’ many staircases. She explained her mother’s wand movements and the burning hot coals she saw alight in Molly’s eyes as she cursed Bellatrix to oblivion. She explained that some part of her loved the duel, and that she was so--so confused.

They’d both seen Sirius Black fall behind the curtain. But this--this was brutal and a piece of glass that cut everyone with jagged edges. This was war, and this was when Ginny Weasley realized that she could see thestrals, and tears began to shatter the freckled girl’s resolve.

Luna Lovegood didn’t like to see Ginny cry. It was as unnatural as the sun being snuffed out. So she wrapped her arms around Ginny and wiped away her tears with fingers as gentle as thestral fur, and they fell asleep together, holding on so tight that it was impossible to let go.

That was the first time Luna Lovegood ever kissed her girlfriend, another girl who had looked death straight in the face. It tasted like chocolate frogs and tears, like a beginning mixed with an end.

They were a new phoenix that rose from the ashes of the old, and they were a beginning within an end.

[pekkarolling]

Prompt for @hpwritersnet: Minerva Mcgonagall

Minerva Mcgonagall was nervous.

She didn’t show it, of course, keeping her spine straight and her expression neutral. Her father, a pastor, had taught her at least that much: when you’re a flurry of emotions, keep the storm inside until later, and let your best face show. Minerva didn’t know how well this had worked for her father, seeing as she hadn’t attended church for some odd ten years out of her eleven.  But it seemed sound advice. So she kept the nervousness inside her as she listened to the giggles and whispers of her Hogwarts class. More than a few had made quite a few friends on the train and were eager to share their thoughts and fears for the sorting ahead with their peers.

But Minerva, or Minnie, as she liked to be called, had only made a single friend on the train ride–if he could even be called that. He had already gone up at the sound of his name (which was rather whimsical, Minerva thought, though her own name had caused quite the stir up in Scotland). A tattered hat had been perched atop his head for five long minutes before it roared a hearty “Ravenclaw!” and sent him to his appropriate table. She was happy for him; Filius Flitwick hadn’t wanted much, but he had wanted blue and bronze for house colors.

Minnie didn’t have her heart set on anything. She was too sensible for that. Although Ravenclaw was looking far friendlier now that the boy who had the same thoughts on Quidditch as her was seated at their table….

“McGonagall, Minerva.”

She stepped forwards, heart thrumming. This was it. 

The hat was warm–possibly because it was sentient, possibly because it had been atop quite a few heads before hers. All of which were turned towards her, like she was on a funeral pyre, or in a casket, or–

She decided to close her eyes. It helped.

“Hmmmm,” whispered the Sorting Hat, as though it was like a cat curled right next to her brain. Minnie shivered involuntarily. “I see you are quite the responsible girl, Minerva.”

Her lips tugged downwards. She was sick of being the responsible girl, the girl who cleaned up everyone’s messes. It would be much better to be valiant, and brave–like her mother, when she stood up to the pastor’s wishes–or intelligent and wise, like the one girl in the village who found a way to get all her chores done in twice the time so she could study to become a nurse to better the world. 

Minnie was sick of being the older sister.

“Ah, so you tend towards Ravenclaw and Gryffindor, then?” the hat mused. 

Minnie pressed her lips together. “Yes,” she thought back. “I’d rather be a hero or a scholar than a stand in for Ma.”

“Why can’t you be both?”

Minnie thought about it, and sighed. The hat had a point, as strange as it sounded. “I can’t be both. How can knowledge be heroic? How can being a hero be smart?”

The hat chuckled, which screamed condescension. “You will find out.”

“Can you not be confusing?”

Another laugh. Minnie crossed her arms, putting on the expression that she used when her brothers were acting up and she was having none of it.

“You’re plenty wise enough to make this choice, and plenty brave enough to pick the right one for you.”

There it was: the truth. She thought about it long and hard, exchanging more words with the Sorting Hat before whispering what she wanted. 

Minerva McGonagall wasn’t always a legend, or a strong witch, or the best in her year. Once upon a time she had been a small little girl who was forced to grow up too soon with a penchant for magic and following her father’s advice. Once upon a time, she had just been “Minnie”. 

Once upon a time, she had a choice, and that choice would shape her life forever.

[pekkarolling]

The Truths and Lies of Marietta Edgecombe

for @hogwartshousesnet​ gryffinpuff vs slytherclaw challenge

Marietta Edgecombe liked to separate her world into truths and lies. She did so every day with a brutal candor that would have impressed the best of lawyers.

Truth: She was her mother’s daughter, having inherited the witch’s critical mind, frizzy hair that looked best in a braid, and genetics. This was too be noted as she had followed her mother to work whenever possible, asking loud questions to her mother’s coworkers and learning to play a dangerous game of politics. This was to be noted as Marietta and her mother became better friends than 

Lie: She liked Harry Potter. Like she would like the boy at all, with his too-green eyes and faked modesty and the way he played games with her best friend’s heart. But he was a good teacher, and apparently able to fill whatever hole Cedric had left in her best friend’s life.

Truth: Cho Chang was her best friend. This was a fact of life, like that clouds carried water and Marietta would undoubtedly make a fantastic Minister of Magic if she ever wanted to be one. The two were inseparable since they had met, and they were perfect together. One to feel, one to think, with a bit of even ground between them. 

Lie: Marrietta wasn’t rebelling. Not at all.

Truth: She was, and she couldn’t help it. Patronus charms were easy and important, and her patronus was a lynx while Cho’s was a sad, sweet swan. It was beautiful. They were beautiful, as the lynx leaped around the perfect swan and the two pieces of spellwork became friends just as fast as their casters had.

Lie: Her signature on paper that Hermione Granger charmed with too much efficiency for any Gryffindor.

Truth: What she told the Ministry. What she didn’t want to tell the Ministry, but what she had to. Did Harry Potter know what it was like to have parents that loved you, that worried about your infrequent letters and grades and activities, that made you worry about them? Did Hermione Granger understand that Marietta was the precursor to a a much bigger battle, and that she cried herself to sleep for nights thinking about the right decision? Did Ron Weasley give a damn if she completed her patronus charm? Was she even important if she was just one of many?

Lie: What they told her about the latter question: yes, yes you are.

Truth: She wasn’t. None of them cared about her charms and spellwork outside of a group; none of them cared about her outside of Cho. Which was fine. They just didn’t have to pretend they did.

Lie: She was fine having SNEAK emblazoned across her faces in the pimples she tried so hard to combat, was fine having that be her legacy. She was okay. 

Truth: She tried to be a good person, she really did. But she was splitting in two, and when you’re sixteen, it was hard to see anything but the shreds of your life before you before they even exist. And her mother had held her when she cried, had told her jokes, had sent her her favorite Muggle chocolate that she couldn’t get in Hogsmeade. Her mother loved her job and wanted Marietta to love it, too. None of these people, except Cho, could ever forgive her for the truths she told.

Sometimes you had to choose who loved you, not who held the wand.

[pekkarolling]

@sixofcrowsnet creation event: The Staying and the Leaving

[creation 1]

There were a few reasons people came to Ketterdam, and money, escape, and opportunity were most of them.

Pekka Rollins reflected this as he stood under a leaky awning in the Barrel, water dripping onto his balding head. It wasn't terribly noticable, but he'd have to get some dye later to conceal it. Not that dye would be hard to find; you could sell anything in the Barrel. One of the reasons so many people came: with the aid of Ghezen's hand, you could sell anything here.

It, surely, was one of the reasons Big Bolliger had come to Ketterdam. The brute would confess as much after a drink or two: he wanted to be a salesperson when his ship had first arrived. A salesperson? Even now, Pekka chuckled at it. Big Bolliger had been meant to work for him. 

After all, Kaz Brekker always needed more mercenaries, and Pekka Rollins had always needed more spies.

Kaz Brekker. At the thought of the prodigy, Pekka's thin lip curled. He'd be getting what came to him soon, he and that Wraith that ghosted the city with her every step. He already had contacts telling him there was an assassin who could beat that silly, stupid girl.

No. Not stupid. There was brains behind their operation, and that was the whole reason the Dime Lions were falling behind. Once, when the Dregs were on the rise, Pekka had thought to kill Per Haskell, the doddering old fool, and cut off the Dregs' supply source. 

He had then realized that it wasn't Per Haskell at all, but a beady-eyed boy with an undercut. 

With a click of his tongue, he began to stroll the cobblestone streets. Big Bolliger clearly wasn't coming today. How unfortunate. He'd skipped out on breakfast with his son for nothing.

Money, opportunity, and escape. He could provide two, but no one ever escaped from Pekka Rollins. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was one reason Marya Hendricks was at an asylum, and Jan Van Eck was it. But there were many after that; his boredom, her love for Wylan, and the list went on. Jan had yanked her hand onto the ship and forced her on the island himself. He had given no toxic goodbye kiss, no love: just a blank gesture. He had slammed the door and it was a song she played every night, over and over, until she stopped crying along to it and became the blank slate he wanted her to be.

She hated him. She hated him with a force that could have drowned, a force that could have destroyed. She hated him until she didn't know how to hate anymore.

There were no reasons to stay, but she couldn't remember any of them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was one reason Alys had married Jan Van Eck, and money was it.

She had stood by the altar, its wood simple to save coin, and felt meaningless vows pass from her lips to get cash flowing into her coffers. Yes, she had been excited; it was her wedding day, after all, and she was about to become very, very rich. Plus, she had the most beautiful gown, all lace and ribbons and fanciful things, which was rather like her. She had also been allowed to hear her beloved voice teacher sing at the wedding, and oh, how exquisite his voice was!

But the thing that mattered in the morning was that she had more money in her bank account and a voice teacher with eyes like stars. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There were two reasons Alys had left Jan Van Eck, and they came in the form of love and destruction.

She had stood with Adem, hands held in his, and felt love sing through her soul like a perfect harmony of complexity and simplicity. Yes, she had been very afraid; it was against her husband, after all, a man made of steel and blood like that Kaz Brekker was made of dirty deeds and crow feathers, and no one had ever made her feel so fragile an strong all at once. But she had the most beautiful person holding her and completing her, and it did not matter, it did not matter. Oh, how exquisite love could truly be!

But the thing that mattered the most was that she had money from her marriage stashed under her pillow so she and Adem could sneak away into the dawn as her husband faced his darkest hour. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Marya Hendricks didn't need a reason to leave the asylum; she already had too many. But if she had to pick one, it would have been her son, Wylan, and everything that came with that.

Wylan had taken her hand and led her off the island. He had pressed her lips against her forehead and begged for her to get better. He had played the flute until she was ready to sing along, leaving his lips chapped but his eyes bright. 

She loved her son. She loved who he loved, a boy who could coax laughter out of kruje, who was quickly becoming her second son. 

There were too many reasons Marya had to stay with them, and love was all of them. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- There were three reasons Pekka Rollins was leaving Ketterdam, and they were money, escape, and opportunity.

Pekka Rollins reflected this as he stood on a dock, rain drizzling on to his and his son's heads. The cold wasn't terribly noticeable, but his son was shivering. One of the reasons he should have thought to leave to begin with: this wasn't an environment he wanted for his redheaded boy, not with its thugs and thieves and gray weather. With the aid of a mercenary's hand, anyone could die here, and with the aid of the weather, anyone could mask it. It, surely, was one of the reasons he had come to Ketterdam in the first place. He had wanted to be an assassin when his ship had arrived. An assassin? Even now, Pekka shivered at it. He had never been meant to dirty his hands in such a way...and still, he had gotten caught. Still, death had dug her knife into his chest and told him he had to leave.

After all, Kaz Brekker always needed less enemies, and Pekka Rollins had never wanted to leave more.

Kaz Brekker. At the thought of the prodigy, Pekka's thin lip curled. One day, Kaz would be getting what came to him, but it couldn't be from him. Death had made her choice, and he had been made a marked man.

There was brains behind their operation, even now, and that was the whole reason Pekka Rollins was leaving the Dime Lions. Once, he had thought to kill Kaz Brekker and be done with it. Once, he had been less of a doddering old fool in severe need of hair dye.

He realized the ship was here. A big, wooden barge. Maybe his son would get the chance to sleep, if it rocked him like a lullaby.

With a click of his tongue, he gripped his son's hand and waited for the gangplank. 

Money, opportunity, and escape. He was looking for two and constantly, constantly, doing another.

[pekkarolling]

So I saw a post about how James Potter would never grow old and had an overwhelming feeling of “FIGHT ME”, and then I realized that the fandom never talks about what it would be like if he grew old, they just say they’re sad he didn’t...so here are elderly James Potter headcanons.

He’s super, super vivacious. It’s like he never ages except he clearly does because hair is gray and he has a cane and has some back problems. But he never loses his zest for life.

He goes to equality protests with the rest of the Marauders (which DOES include Lily) all the time, and tells the leaders that “he’ll hit anyone with a cane”.

Which he would, because he has

He fantasized about getting a sword installed in the cane. He once spent twenty minutes looking up places to do that, only to have Lily confront him later with a “please get me a sword, too”

So he did, and sometimes they do battles in the front yard until something happens to someone’s back.

James is that old guy that goes to quidditch matches all the time. The Chudley Cannons are in town? Whup, let’s go. He has this thing where he screams at the teams and waves his cane and the players never mind because it’s just like “it’s that Potter fellow again”

Whenever he sees teams, he’ll make them sign two things: his apparel for them and a shirt that he will intentionally buy the week before and keep the receipt so he can prove he saw them recently. 

He and Sirius have a thing where they’re in contest for “coolest grandparents”, and he wants to prove that he really is the coolest by having a shirt he bought “last week, my clone, see?

He always calls James his clone because the two of them find it hilarious, and then he asks James about the Marauders and James will tell him stories

He has inside jokes with all his grandkids.

Him and Lily Luna have a contest to see who can unintentionally wreck the Potters’ front yard the most because they both kill every growing thing (but they try!), so whenever he greets her, he says, “wreck any yards recently?”

Albus Severus is almost done memorizing the key sections of Hogwarts: A History so James and Albus have battles with memorized sections of Hogwarts: A History against Quidditch Through the Ages. They always have some joking talk about it when Albus arrives so they can both get their game up.

They like to do weird accents as they do them, as well.

Harry records all of these and sends them to Hermione and Ron because “hey look, Hermione, someone’s actually reading Hogwarts: A History”

James’ messy hair never balds, it only goes gray. 

Although he HAS suggested to Lily that he follow in his father’s footsteps an make a magical hair dye: one for Lily and him to share, because she’s graying too. It’s very visible since she almost never puts her hair up.

She laughs and says she’d rather him share with Sirius.

The people at the Muggle grocery store love him, because he sits there and tells all his wizarding stories for hours and no one can tell if he’s serious or not, but he’s such a good storyteller that it doesn’t matter.

Whenever Harry and his kids come over he tries to help Lily bake something. It always turns out to be a disaster, but it always means he has a new story to tell them.

He gives the grandkids gifts every time they visit. The real question is who will get a prank gift and who gets a real gift. 

He does a similar thing with candy dishes by filling all of them with Bertie Botts. 

He still rides out on his broom whenever he can.

He has an old leather recliner. Because yes, of course he does.

The Marauders meet up every week. They talk and they do projects and basically are an entourage at this point.

Remus decided to grow a beard, which ends up looking like a few silly little wisps on his chin that bother all of them. Peter one day comments about how easy it would be to get rid of it in his sleep and so Sirius and James create a plan to hack it off

(a plan that never works, because Lily tells him the next day and Remus decides to cut it off before Sirius and James can)

James and Lily talk every single night and spend time together every single day. They never, ever run out of things to talk about.

They have a chore rotation.

Every night, before they go to sleep, he makes tea for Lily and himself (she likes chamomile with honey, his favorite changes every week). It’s the one thing he can cook besides Indian food, they food he grew up with, without entirely messing it up.

He goes to sleep at nine thirty so he can get sleep and have a great day tomorrow, too, because he learned that you CAN be too tired to enjoy life, and he doesn’t want to waste a minute of it.

He focuses a lot on experiences and friendships and relationships now, and he feels so lucky to be surrounded by so many amazing people that he loves, especially after the war.

He went to treatment for PTSD after it was over. Harry had to, too, but there are nights when Harry wakes up screaming and James and Lily are there to comfort him and calm him down because they know what it’s like and they love him more than anything else in the world.

James Potter lives a beautiful life as an older man and no one can tell me otherwise.

[pekkarolling]

Prompt by the @hpwritersnet

Every time James had asked her to go on a date with him, it had been big and dramatic, like standing atop the astronomy tower or hiring an elf to follow her around on Valentine’s Day and sing couplets about her eyes that he said he loved to get lost in. 

That was why Lily asked him to marry her when it was quiet and lilac was painting the Cokeworth evening a shade of sweet calm. That was why she did it before he could, with both of them staring at the sky, their hair tangled together on their blanket like ashes and flames. She was not his eleven year old conquest. She was the girl who read Jane Austen novels and paired sundresses with leather jackets and maybe, just maybe, had written a few couplets about her boyfriend’s messy hair and the way he made her smile and laugh before she even realized that she was doing it. The James and Lily of childhood were long gone, and they were now entirely different, entirely beautiful people that made each other better, that spelled out an equal sign with their souls. She never wanted them to change.