#ficra

[leaguerpg]

🔸

name: delete this contactringtone: who are you? – the who

alternatively

name: fiora brown (hufflepuff | 5)ringtone: pretty young thing – michael jackson

[ravencalla]

🍹 for a headcanon! < 3

🍹 ( a short fanfic/headcanon of our muses )

Calla was in Ollivander’s the day Fiora was given her wand, rifling through the extensive books Ollivander kept tucked in all corners of his shop in search of the name of the dragon that was at the core of her wand. (She didn’t find it, not for several years, and then it only told her what she already knew: her wand was more than unnecessary. Her wand was useless.) She was a small thing, and Calla was a tall thing who lifted her chin as per always and walked past her to leave without what she had came for. Clearly, Fiora was another first year buying her first wand; there were so many people at Ollivander’s in the days before classes began that she could hardly move, and breathe, let alone take notice of anyone stood at the counter. Calla didn’t see her, not really, but Fiora was written in her diary in blue ink before she went to sleep, the record of their first meeting far more permanent than those of the few people Calla cared for, ‘Ollivander’s. Five people spoken to. Four acquaintances. Ollivander. One who did not speak and was undoubtedly enamoured with her new toy.’, and stood across from her with their wands raised, she did remember, from the depths of that frighteningly long memory of hers, little first year in the wand shop who had lit up as though having a wand meant having the entire world. 

They’ve crossed paths in Diagon Alley, or, once, Hogsmeade— outside of the Three Broomsticks, Calla carrying Silas’ quill, Silas carrying their books, Fiora alone until she reached the tea shop at the end of the street — and Calla always holds her head high and never sees the girl. She can’t be bothered to. She doesn’t have to. 

[leaguerpg]

lilac

                            Send me a color and I’ll write a drabble

                         f i o r a       &         a b r a x a s

He sees her as a barefoot dancing thing though, inactuality, she is neither.

In his mind’s eye, she walks into that riverbank with herarms full of flowers, weighs herself down with her dress, fills her pocketswith stones. In his mind’s eye, she is carried out into the world, singing a songthat only the river knows.

In his mind’s eye, she drowns.

Do you knowthat naïve nymphet with her hair so wild? He whispers to the emptygrass, watches the words drift on the breeze.

Do you knowOphelia, he wonders to the wind, doyou know that gentle girl?

Apollo must have loved her so, the way the sunlight dapplesoff her dewy skin. Pan must have chased her once, seeing her wildness andloving it for all that it was. When pressed, she would burst into bloom, he wassure of it. She was on the precipice of potential, that indigent ingenuousthing—she was smeared with roaring violet, that loud and unforgiving color, butdulled by the dawn, painted over with gray and sealed in with innocence.

Lilac, in bloom.

She is still pink in youth, still dusky in dreaming. When shetouches the sky, it turns into twilight, shatters into a million lovelylavender pieces.

The world is crueler than what she imagines, he wants to tell her. The world will turn her hollow, trample her to pieces, pull her underneaththe tide, pull those iridescent bubbles of breath from her lungs. He is certain to take part when it happens.  

But in this light, as the sun kisses the waterwith open lips, he can wish her only the best.

“May I?”

His hands had found those heart-shaped leaves by the bank, hadplucked that not-quite open bud from its stem. The plant had bent when he pulledit, it clung like a child to its parent, had wanted nothing more than to spare itself fromhis abuse.

He paid it no mind. 

Without another warning, he leans in and tucks the flower in her hair.

Perhaps it is a bud of compassion, a burst of kindness— buthis hands are so careful not to touch her skin, his fingertips are so purposefuland calculated that it feels impersonal. At once, she realizes how closehis face is to hers and she flinches backwards, cups her hand over her hair wherehe barely grazed her, protects that immature little blossom from the world.  

That splash of color in her messy hair looks like a haphazard crown.She looks like a goddess who never found her way. 

“Keep it there for me,” he whispers, “do not let them takeit.”

And then, he is gone.

Her shoes feel too tight to her, her coat is pulled too close. She longs to run, to tell someone what has happened, to make sense of his strangeness, but it is too late. The lark warbles, morning has come. Her mouthis dry. The world looks a little grayer now that he has come and gone.