#crimsonlorcan

[maxinewood]

crimsonlorcan

Lorcan?

[maxinewood]

[ Max was lying in one of the windowsills, probably dangerously so, one of her legs swinging on the outside of the wall while the other anchored her to the ground inside. She wasn't in a particularly good mood--but she wasn't a bad one either. It was one of cold indifference, at best, the parchment of the letter fluttering against her chest in the breeze. ] 

[jamesxsiriusxpotter]

Oh, great.

[ It was just James' luck that, as he was trying to go out of the portrait, who should be coming in than Lorcan Scamander? After his argument with Lysander, he was in no mood to see Lorcan and hear about his perfect little life. He groaned softly, looking down as he tried to duck past the other. ] 

[gideonyaxley]

crimsonlorcan

[ Gideon had grown used to this by now--the way that his things would be flung across the corridor, the way that they would grab him by his clothes and throw him against the wall, the way that they would kick him as he crumpled to the floor. He curled up in a ball, trying to protect himself from the blows, but soon, he could feel a small trickle of blood running down from his nose. ] 

[maxinewood]

chasing pavements {max and lorcan}

Max had practiced cello until her fingers went numb.

She didn't realize it at first. Nimble, slender fingers had flown up and down her ebony fingerboard for literally hours, as she didn't have any classes that afternoon. Having found an empty classroom, she had kept playing and playing until her sonata was perfect. After all, a good musician practices until they get it right: a great musician practices until they never get it wrong.

Once she had actually taken a break from playing, and realized she had torn one of her calluses off, she decided that she needed a break--shredding her fingers wasn't going to help anyone feel any better.

Not even herself.

Max instead packed up her cello carefully, picking it up before walking down to the dungeons, leaving her instrument safely tucked away in her room and emerging again, running her fingers through her messy waves. She had changed into street clothes--her pajamas, essentially, seeing as it was already fairly late at night, and she always made her rounds in her pajamas anyway. Barefoot, she wandered the castle for what felt like hours, trying her best to see every portrait that was on the walls and ignore the blaring red paint that was splattered over the stone of the beloved building that had come to be her home. 

She was filled with an insurmountable rage at the sight of the threats on the wall. Arms clad in an oversized shirt crossed over her chest, her weight distributed evenly between her two legs as she stared down the angry red words on the wall. She gave it her best glare, her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she could force the charm away with her mind, as if she could wash away the paint and the pain all at once with just a look from her icy blue irises, as if she could erase the worry and disquiet that was sending ripples through the castle just with a thought.

After a good five minutes of staring, she turned away in disgust. Fuck this. 

Things were already bad, and they were getting worse. The seeker from Puddlemere wouldn't stop sending her owls. She slept with Pierce once and now he was attached. Her parents were splitting up, but both still fighting over her without caring about anything that she wanted. And, on top of all of that, there was Lorcan.

Lorcan, who had filled her mind, Lorcan, who had tended to her wounds, Lorcan who had made her smile, Lorcan, Lorcan, Lorcan...

It was almost too much to bear.

And now, to make things even worse, as she turned away from the corridor wall, who else would she run into than Lorcan Scamander?

Just. My. Luck.

[maxinewood]

crimsonlorcan 

[ Max was sitting by the lake, the breeze flapping through her shirt, which honestly looked like it didn't have anything holding it together--the sides were completely cut out, exposing her bare body. Perhaps she should cover up more, considering the season, but the fact that her parents could probably sense their daughter's inappropriate dress was what made her keep wearing it. Her parent were the most poisonous part of her life--she didn't want to see them, she didn't want to think about them, and she certainly didn't want to receive letters from them. That was why, sitting out by the lake, she was flicking her lighter, trying to make the parchment catch fire, but it looked like her lighter was out of fluid--and that was why, with a sigh of frustration, she crumpled the parchment up into a ball, through it in the air and thought, "incendio." ]