#antem:task

[rodolphvslestrange]

RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE, PIECES OF HOME. 

when rodolphus got married there were a few things that he had promised himself when he got his own house, the first one being, there would be warmth. windows overlooking the garden, hallways with enough windows to cast the shadows out and a fireplace in as many rooms as he could get them. 

that first year in the house that he shared with bella was a slow start of nesting, paintings that he had commissioned from wixen’s that he had admired his entire life, and the piano room that he had dreamed of as a kid because it was no longer a chore but a hobby in his older age. 

that first year in the new house rod didn’t know what to do with himself, the room that he had in the lestrange manor had always been barren of things, his parents had hated clutter, get rid of the things that you don’t need, and keep the necessities. the day he brings home his first painting, setting it up in a hall that was too dark, is a happy one. he remembers holding bella’s hand and showing her his vision of this house, looking over at her for the small confirmation wondering if she liked it, if this had felt different from the last home that she lived in, the one that she had also grown up in. but bellatrix and rodolphus had come from different homes and it was obvious when he had claimed one of the empty room as his—the place where he could paint on his canvases, and look out at the greenhouse that he was just getting started on; working for the ministry and being the head of your department came with it’s personal losses, it had sometimes felt like rodolphus had gone on from one fire to another, but home? home was solace and comfort. he cared for things on his own time, played piano in the piano room that had a window behind it to give him warmth on his back or the moon bouncing off the walls. 

the reading room had slowly become his favourite place, what used to be a necessity back at the lestrange manor had become thing that he had begin to love overtime, there were books that he hadn’t been allowed to read because they weren’t necessary at the time that he had found himself enjoying on the couch with the plants that he had loved and help bloom surrounding him. 

but the best part of the house were the rooms created specifically for the people that rodolphus had loved, the room with special magic that tailored to whatever guest that laid their head there for the night and a fireplace so they could come and go as they please. 

rodolphus after a few years, had made the home that he had always wanted, and he likes to think, that when the time comes, it’ll be an even more warmer and safer place to raise a future child. 

he had created it so that one day it would be. 

[macdonthavealamb-blog]

where’s home, mary mac?

is it carrownaboll, dromard, knocknahur with your mammy and your dead papa and da and jen, with your sheep and goats and pigs, the gate that never quite closes properly and the barn door you have to kick hard to shut it enough to lock it? or is it ghandruk, with the people who share your papa’s face, high up in the clouds, the place your parents ran from the first chance they got, the first in their family, and the last in their family? or is it your little flat, on wing street off diagon alley, with your flatmate and your cat, with your moving posters and battered books and too-many-teacups and your ink stained dining table? where’s home, mary mac?

one. carrownaboll, dromard, knocknahur. 

jenny’s bedroom and her old dresses. mammy’s kitchen, her sturdy wooden table. da’s favorite spot in the whole house, in front of the fire. mammy and da’s room. the front of the house, the shabby front door and further down, the shopfront. the bathroom, with the mirror nobody can move. mary’s bedroom, her striped pillows and the beams and flower pot art. hambone, in the alley between the outbuildings. pickles and onion, in the new brick barn.

two. ghandruk, nepal. 

ghandruk from above.

three. wing street, diagon alley, london.

the shared bathroom, their a blue bath and a bronze mirror. mary’s wall of books. the green sofa in the living room with the potted plants. half of mary’s closet and a surprise appearance by her cat, pepper. the kitchen and the rag tag, thrifted kitchen appliance collection. the light green velvet armchair. mary’s bed, her sun blanket over her flower duvet set and her wall of photos and reminders and posters. the ink-stained kitchen table. her flatmate’s room.

[lovencharity]

Nomadic or Not

Travel, just like her friends always spoke of. She slept in train cars, with a bag of essentials. She wandered through villages with the belief anywhere could be home. That’s what made the decision to go back so easy.

It was home then.

However, now ‘home’ was different. It was not a shared space. No friends, no family. The solitude was like that on her little train car. She wanted to keep a home like her mother’s. Warm in color, free with air - of course to her own tastes and not that of a nurse who matured in 1950. Hogwarts felt less personable now, perhaps because her welcome in the space had changed. No lamp bought from a street vendor at the market, but a chandelier above head enchanted to light on command. Convenient, but without meaning. 

Meaning was found in trips down narrow streets, appearing a darling friend’s door when she had time. Most of all, saving her time to pick where she wanted to call her space. The flat was chosen carefully, slowly, and filled with pieces of her just the same. 

[georgettexollivander]

the only home georgette has known;;

tw: drug abuse & child neglect references.

she wasn’t born in ollivander’s wand shop, but the drug house of which georgette had brief young childhood memories of wasn’t home. glen and shirley were not her parents, no matter what bodily fluids they contributed to georgette‘s being. the best — the only — thing she got from them was handing her over to glen’s brother, garrick. it took no time at all for the small four year old to be given the responsibility and opportunity to be moved into the loft above ollivander’s wand shop. she couldn’t have been happier.

georgette thrived among the woods, the various cores floating in the breeze waiting to meet their match, the warm colors brought warmth to her little bones as she laid in bed. she was never scared of being there by herself. in fact, it was the first and only time she had felt a sense of safety. no questionable guests to come through the doors at all hours of the night, no yelling and screaming or smoke filling her tiny room as she shoved her face into a limp pillow. she finally felt safe. she felt safe in solitary because it meant she was free. by four she had seen enough to know what she didn’t want and was handed the space to create what she did want.

once she started going to hogwarts, georgette longed for her loft that shrunk the bigger she got. the summer before sixth year it was in the beautiful building she called home where she made her first wand. her wand. she begged to stay home but continued to be sent to hogwarts until she graduated. she couldn’t imagine what life must’ve been like for the overwhelming number of students who considered hogwarts a type of home. surely they didn’t know a secure living situation when they had it. sharing a room with three others and getting no sleep for fear of what would happen if she slept was only one consolation prize from her time at hogwarts. home. sure. she could’ve done without.

georgette could have moved from the shop after graduation but she wouldn’t have it. the building was more than a place to lay her head each night. it was her savior from a life that would otherwise likely have destroyed her. she never asked for much but felt that staying there was a blessing. she had a job during the day and could do as she wished at night. she could read. she could gaze out the windows. she could organize wands. she could dance down the stairs. best of all: she could put her magic into wandmaking. it was time solely for herself. there were no expectations from anyone outside of georgette. she terribly wanted to share and sell her wands but for the time being, she kept them stored in a trunk beneath her sinking bed.

the scents and creaking of the shop lulled georgette to sleep each night while unicorns, dragons and phoenixes danced in her dreams keeping her just as safe and content as the first night the four year old entered her loft.

[sirius-blaxx]

The Black Manor 

Although Sirius no longer resides here, it’s probably the place he spent the most time knowing as a home. Mind you, It certainly never felt like a home to him, infact the only room he actually enjoyed being in, was his own bedroom.  His parents relegated him to the smallest room, which was located in the attic space of the house, Sirius actually quite liked it up there, despite how cold it got during the winter months.   He liked having somewhere that felt almost separate from the rest of the house, it was only his.  It meant though, that every night he had to walk past many of the grand rooms, including the one which housed his family tree, on his nightly journey up to the top of the house.  When he was a child, he felt like his family members who were no longer alive, were somehow watching him from that family tree.  Especially one of the many enchanted portraits that Orion had hanging, a great, great grandmother.  Her eyes would move with Sirius as he passed her every night.   He sometimes viewed the Black Manor as some kind of twisted house of horrors, eyes always on you, always someone lurking around in the shadows making sure he wasn’t getting up to anything. 

When he was around fifteen, he had taken to keeping the window open, it aided to dissipate his cigarette smoke, but it also helped him feel less like a prisoner.  It was also around this time, that he realised, during a nightly smoke, that he would be able to scale down the ivy plant which had grown up the side of the house, if he ever needed to. 

[frvnklongbcttom]

FRANK LONGBOTTOM, HOME. 

when his dad died it had felt like his father had taken all the warmth of the house that he had grew up in with it. and he told himself that if he ever got a place on his own he would put some warmth back into it—but frank never made it a promise. he knows the weight that promises hold and he didn’t want to let himself down. it’s after a hard breakup that he rents his first flat, it’s close enough to the ministry and the rent is about as cheap as it can be, the warmth that his father gave the rooms doesn’t quite touch frank’s apartment but he hangs up his father’s pictures on the walls, he goes to muggle thrift stores and grabs the happiest, most well loved looking pieces and buys their books and stacks them up in hopes that one day he’ll get the courage to build that bookcase he bought ages ago. (frank doesn’t know why he doesn’t fully unpack everything, he’s been in this flat for years now). 

the kitchen may be small, it may sometimes get too dark because he hasn’t had the time to replace the lightbulb but there’s one big open window to let his plants, both muggle and magical to breathe. he still keeps the note his professor had sent all those years ago sitting next to his plants that said, if becoming an auror doesn’t work out then he would make an excellent herbologist. 

his bed is up against the window that overlooks his street, he likes keeping it open at night to listen to the nightlife, sometimes he dreams of whisking himself away somewhere and starting over again. he tries his best to romanticise the city he’s in because it will make him stay. most days you will find his cat looking out the window for frank to return home, life may not always breathe in every step you walk in this flat but there is something special about having a tiny creature to return home to. 

it’s not the flat of his dreams, but it’s seen more things than the manor that he grew up in did. it’s held frank together by it’s cracked foundation and still standing from the weight of all the grief that frank held. there used to be stories his mother would tell him about house magic, and if those stories his mother told were true, then it’s keeping itself together for frank when he so many times let himself down. he wants to believe there’s a reason why frank never really gets too cold in the winter, how when he wakes up in the morning in the summers the window is already open and blowing the morning cold air in, or how the oven will turn itself off if frank forgets to or how there’s always just enough water in the kettle for another cup of tea. 

it may not be the warmth that he misses, but it’s everything that frank needs, walls that are sturdy with paintings hanging, trinkets scattered across the floor and the empty spaces, tiny splashes of frank’s personality litter the walls and halls—it’s everything that frank needed at the time that he had rented it. 

and if he ever does leave it, he would have known, that at some point, this was home. it was the first home that he had created for himself, and despite all the things that it missed and lacked, there was love there—love that he had to create for himself that it had given back to him just by caring for it once upon a time. 

[corruptedbartemiscrouch]

The Crouch Manor 

Barty, for the most part still lives in the manor owned by his parents.  Although it bears his father’s name, it has been Victoria, Barty’s mother who has kept the manor looking the way it does.  And due to the fact that Barty Crouch Sr is often away on business, it is more often than not, just Barty and his mother there. Another reason he so happily spends time there, even now.

The rooms he spends the most time in are his bedroom located at the top of the manor, and the grand living room which overlooks the acres of grounds which also belong to his family.  There is also a library just off the living room, which he usually studies in, finding it the most calm and peaceful room in the house. The manor looks deceptively small from the outside, somehow managing to have many rooms inside.  When Barty was a child, he spent alot of his time playing in the waterfall just outside at the front of the house, admiring the architecture from outside .  However as an adult, he hardly spends any time on the grounds.  

[alicemacmillan]

alice macmillan’s humble abode.

a work of art that was located on the outskirts of London, from the second she had been accepted into the auror training program at the age of nineteen -- as temporary as her time seemed to be in London, she had been adamant of creating the same warmth that she had in Upper Flagley, Yorkshire with the Macmillan clan. it was a space littered with colour - as bright as her closet and her love for her greens truly peeked through- a true testament to her love for herbology blossomed throughout the apartment. there was no crevice or corner that wasn’t filled - it was the embodiment of busy. every room had a different plant and as alice graduated from the program, fully ready to spread her wings and get lost in the world - she struggled to let go of her masterpiece -- one she had put her heart and soul into, with every wall that was either the soothing cream or the result of a paintbrush gone wild, she was relieved when she found new wizarding graduates willing to rent -- perhaps she was being underpaid and she had a few more tenants than she’d like but it was a small price to pay to keep her home. her only condition was to keep her plants alive and to leave a mark that represented you --whether it was an interesting painting in the bedroom, a new shelf with topics she had yet to read or a bright teal kettle to replace the one that was a bit too worn for wear, alice wanted her masterpiece to keep growing --she only hoped to be able to come back and truly live in it. 

by the time she returned -- truly returned, it was almost like she hadn’t left and yet she could see the changes, the blue rug that decorated her living room was no longer the bright blue cobalt she remembered, there was more orange than she could recall and perhaps her kitchen was a questionable pink, but she was home -- her plants were thriving, she might be in the market for a roommate, but her colourful flat was her solace.