#magic is real

[daughterofthesunlands]

I was looking for a suiting track for a very important scene, like the second most important scene in Amartëa Melmë,

and when I least expected it, there it appeared.

Like magic.

[prettyboi-jpeg]

i subbed real hard for my dom last night and the euphoria is carrying me throooouuuugh work today

i love it i love it i love it

[per-aspera-ad-tenebrae]

Going to jump out and to the right, tonight. It’s flight night. See you on the mountain.

[birgerjones]

#MagicIsReal

Full story: "Harry Potter and the Two Worlds, " by Birger, ao3

Chapter 1

The summer of 2019 had been unusually fine in Scotland. The weather was perfect for Quidditch, and for the first time in history, the World Cup had come to the shadow of Hogsmeade.

Tens of thousands of witches and wizards filled the enormous new stadium, its stands soaring higher than the towers of Hogwarts in the distance. Banners flashed and rippled with charmed light: SCOTLAND VS. USA. Below, the emerald pitch gleamed like a jewel.

A low roar swept through the stands as Oliver Wood, captain of the Scottish national team, soared onto the field in his blue robes, a lion rampant emblazoned on the chest. The crowd thundered its approval. Behind him flew the rest of the Scottish squad, circling the field in tight formation.

Across the pitch, the United States team emerged. Robes of deep red and white stripes, stars shimmered faintly as they took to the air. Their captain, Samantha Cole, lifted her hand in salute before wheeling her broom into a dive that drew an appreciative “Oooooh!” from the stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards of all nations!” boomed a magically amplified voice. British Minister for Magic Hermione Granger-Weasley, standing beside her husband Ron, raised her wand to her throat. “Welcome to the 2019 Quidditch World Cup Final!”

The crowd erupted, flashes of light and confetti bursting from wands all around.

“And now,” Hermione continued, “please welcome our mascots: symbols of unity, power, and good sportsmanship!”

A massive shadow passed over the pitch. A Hebridean Black dragon, Scotland’s chosen mascot, beat its mighty wings and let out a roar that made the enchanted barriers tremble. Across from it, materializing from a swirl of cloud and lightning, came the Thunderbird, the great North American spirit bird, wings flashing with stormlight.

The crowd gasped in awe as the two creatures circled one another in the sky.

High above in the VIP box, Harry and Ginny Potter watched with their children. James and Lily were on their feet, shouting encouragement, while Albus Severus sat beside Scorpius Malfoy, the two boys deep in conversation about something that was most certainly not Quidditch.

The whistle blew, and the game started. It was fast, brilliant Quidditch. Oliver diving through Bludgers, Cole weaving like smoke around her Chasers. Scotland scored once, then twice; the stands shook with the roar of approval.

Then everything changed as a blinding green light flashed over the arena. A gigantic Dark Mark blazed above the stadium: the skull and serpent combined with two massive wings sprouting out from behind the cranium.

The crowd’s scream rose like a wave.

Masked figures, former Death Eaters, appeared in bursts of dark smoke. Spells arced through the air, exploding against the stands. Aurors in scarlet robes rushed forward.

“Protego Maxima!” shouted one Auror, forming a shimmering barrier, but it shattered under a volley of curses.

“Dad! What?” Scorpius gasped, but Draco shoved him toward Ginny.

“Go! Both of you! Take them!”

Ginny seized her children’s hands. “Ron!”

“I’ve got them!” Ron bellowed. He grabbed Albus’s arm. “Hold on tight!”

With a thunderous crack, they vanished.

Hermione and Harry were already vaulting the barrier, ready to fight. Wizards and witches apparated away in panic, ending up in public places all over the UK. The dragon, freed by a burst of shattered wards, screamed and ascended, trailing fire. The Thunderbird, panicked, beat its wings, calling down a storm. Lightning split the air, igniting the treetops of the Forbidden Forest. Centaurs, unicorns, wolves, and Acromantula fled the flames and ran out on a highway and crashed into cars.

Aurors and Death Eaters clashed as red, blue, and green jets of light filled the air.

“Stupefy!” “Petrificus Totalus!” “Protego!” “Avada Kedavra!”

Oliver Wood, furious at his big moment ruined, hexed a Bludger, making it fly into a Death Eater’s back, sending him spiraling into the pitch, screaming in agony.

Hermione was dueling two masked attackers at once, moving with fierce precision. Draco fought beside her, deflecting curses with a grim determination.

A young woman hovered in the air, above the broken pitch. She held no broom, no wings. She flew, carried by sheer will alone.

Draco went rigid. “No. No, it can’t be...”

Harry turned sharply. “Who is she?”

Draco’s voice was barely a whisper. “Delphini.”

Harry blinked. “Who?”

“The daughter,” Draco said, “of Voldemort. And Bellatrix.”

"Impossible, " Hermione responded, terrified.

The woman lifted her hand, and a pulse of power radiated outward. Witches and wizards were thrown backward like leaves in a gale.

Above the burning pitch, Delphini drifted down like a ghost. Curses flew toward her. They fizzled, bent, and dissolved in the air.

“Expelliarmus!” Harry shouted, sending a jet of red light. She deflected it lazily with her hand.

“Potter,” her voice echoed. “Still fighting battles that aren’t yours.”

Hermione’s voice cut through the wind. “Who are you?”

Delphini smiled. “The end you all postponed.”

She lifted her arms, and a shockwave of raw magic rippled outward, flinging Aurors, wreckage, and flame into the air. Delphini smiled and then shot into the clouds, vanishing with a crack like thunder.

Hermione lowered her wand. “What in Merlin’s name... have we just seen?”

Harry turned to Draco. “Tell me everything you know.”

“When The Dark Lord found out you were destroying his Horcruxes, he got paranoid and decided to have a baby with Bellatrix. He hoped that in case he would be killed, their child would find a way to resurrect him in the future.” Draco explained. “I swear to you, Potter. I’ve had nothing to do with her. Not since the war. I’ve renounced it all.”

Hermione pulled a small device from her robes, a Muggle smartphone. Its screen was already flashing with notifications. She tapped it and began scrolling.

“They’re seeing everything,” she said faintly. “Muggles have filmed it all.”

She held up the phone. Across the screen, images scrolled by: The dragon and thunderbird flying in the sky, centaurs and giant spiders crashing into cars on a highway, wizards Disapparating away from public places. At the bottom, a bold white line of text pulsed over the chaos.

#MagicIsReal

[per-aspera-ad-tenebrae]

I feel like I had twelve lessons since my last one. The biggest take away from Friday’s lesson is this: shielding and sensing. Turns out I’m better at sensing than I thought, but shielding needs some work. I’ve been experimenting and so far they yield some interesting results (some better than others)! I don’t shield or cleanse on a consistent or regular basis (read: at all) so both skills need to be practiced. Sensing, however, that was easy. I can do colors, motion, living thing vs living thing, and I’m learning concepts such as male vs female, friend vs neutral, etc.

Can’t wait to see what skills I don’t have so I can learn them, too.

[birgerjones]

The Great Unveiling (Wizarding World Exposed)

It was a sweltering summer evening in Washington, D.C. The lawns before the White House gleamed under floodlights, packed with a crowd of thousands waving red banners and camera phones. American flags whipped in the hot wind, and a stage had been erected beneath the portico, decorated with a golden seal that looked suspiciously enchanted.

Behind the podium stood President Donald Trump, his hair luminous in the spotlights like spun gold leaf. Beside him, stiff and uncomfortable, was the President of MACUSA, Celestia Picquery, dressed in purple robes.

“This,” she muttered, “is undignified.”

Trump was already speaking, or at least, talking.

“Folks,” he began, hands sweeping dramatically, “we’ve got something tremendous tonight. People, great people, have told me there’s been… magic in America. Real magic. Not the kind with fake wands and, you know, rabbits and hats, though those are fantastic, by the way, great industry, lots of jobs, but the real deal.”

He grinned at the cameras. “They tell me we’ve got witches! Wizards! We love wizards, don’t we, folks? Always have, always will.”

The crowd, mostly MAGA hats, flags, and confusion, cheered uncertainly. A man shouted, “Make America Magical Again!” to scattered applause.

Picquery closed her eyes briefly. “Merlin preserve me,” she whispered.

Trump beamed at her. “Now, I’m going to introduce someone, a very powerful lady. People say she’s the most magical woman in the world, maybe ever. Tremendous lady. The best. Please welcome Celery… Piquet!”

Picquery inhaled sharply through her nose but stepped forward with poise. “Celestia Picquery,” she corrected through a forced smile, her voice amplified by both microphone and charm. “President of the Magical Congress of the United States of America.”

The crowd murmured, half skeptical, half intrigued.

“My fellow Americans,” Picquery began, “for centuries, our worlds have lived apart. Hidden, yet intertwined. But the time has come, at the urging of our allies abroad, to reveal the truth. Magic is real. Witches are real.”

There was a ripple of laughter and disbelief. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Prove it!”

Picquery’s lips tightened. “Very well.”

She raised her wand. A silver spark burst from its tip. Then, with a graceful flick, a flock of bright bluebirds exploded into the air, wheeling above the stage in a glittering cloud.

Gasps rose from the crowd. Cameras flashed wildly. Children squealed in delight.

But a voice shouted from the back: “It’s CGI! Fake!”

Another: “Smoke and mirrors!”

Picquery’s eyes narrowed. “You doubt?”

She pointed her wand toward a nearby limousine parked by the gates. A stream of light arced through the air, and the car lifted clean off the ground, rising ten, twenty feet, hanging there as if weightless.

The crowd screamed. Phones flew up to record. Reporters shouted questions over one another.

Trump turned toward her. “That’s, that’s very impressive. I could use that at my rallies.”

Before Picquery could respond, a deafening gunshot changed everything.

A member of the audience wearing a MAGA cap lowered his gun.

Picquery staggered backward, clutching her arm as blood blossomed across her sleeve. The crowd erupted into chaos, screams, and shouting.

Trump ducked behind the podium, yelling something about “a witch hunt” that was lost in the noise.

Two Aurors appeared instantly, wands drawn, one disarming a man in the front rows, his pistol spinning from his grasp. Another grabbed Picquery by the shoulder.

“Hold on, Madam President!” he shouted.

With a sound like a thunderclap, both of them Disapparated, vanishing in a swirl of light. The remaining Auror stunned the attacker where he stood, then vanished as well, leaving behind only confusion, smoke, and panic.

The levitated limousine dropped back to earth with a crash, setting off its alarm. The bluebirds dissolved into sparks.

Above the stage, the giant American flag still rippled proudly, but the cheers had turned to screams, the music to sirens, and the moment meant to unite the world had ended in blood and disbelief.

Somewhere across the ocean, Hermione Granger’s voice was being broadcast live from Buckingham Palace. But in Washington, D.C., all anyone could talk about was the witch who’d appeared beside the President, and vanished in a burst of fire and thunder.

-

Paris glittered under twilight, the Seine glimmering like molten gold, the air heavy with anticipation and the murmuring hum of thousands gathered in the Place de la Concorde. At the center of it all stood a grand stage draped in blue velvet and the French tricolour, flanked by banners bearing both the crest of the French Republic and the Sigil of the Ministère de la Magie Française.

High above the crowd, magical wards shimmered faintly in the dusky sky, invisible to most, but clear to the handful of witches and wizards scattered among the spectators.

Near the front, Bill and Fleur Weasley stood with their three children, Victoire, Dominique, and Louis, their blond hair shining like halos in the evening light. Fleur held Louis’s hand tightly.

“I don’t like this,” she murmured in French. “Too many people. Too much noise.”

Bill squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. This is history.”

Onstage, President Emmanuel Macron stepped forward to the podium, dressed in formal black, looking only faintly uneasy. Beside him stood Minister of Magic Armande Dupont, an austere woman with silver streaks in her dark hair and a wand hanging visibly from her belt.

The crowd quieted.

“Mesdames et Messieurs,” Macron began, his voice carrying over the sea of faces, “tonight, I speak to you not merely as President, but as a witness to something extraordinary. Something—”

He hesitated, searching for words.

“—that challenges everything we thought we knew of the world.”

He turned slightly to Dupont. “Madame la Ministre?”

Dupont nodded and stepped forward. “For over three centuries,” she said, “the magical and Moldu communities of France have lived apart — bound by an ancient law known as the Statut du Secret. But tonight, that veil is lifted. I, and many like me, am a witch.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some laughed. Others shouted, disbelief, denial, excitement. Cameras flashed like lightning.

Fleur’s heart swelled. “At last,” she whispered. “After all these years...”

Dupont raised her wand. “To demonstrate,” she said calmly.

A spray of golden light burst from the tip, swirling into the air before forming a great glittering fleur-de-lis above the square. The crowd gasped, cheering, clapping.

From somewhere in the throng, a voice screamed a curse in a Slavic language that Bill recognized from the war. A streak of purple fire, tore through the air toward the stage. Dupont reacted instantly, flicking her wand, and the curse ricocheted, slamming into a nearby gendarme.

The policeman screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground as violet lightning danced over his body.

Above the square, the sky darkened unnaturally. Smoke curled and twisted, forming a monstrous shape: a skull with wings not of bone but of spectral feathers. It was the Dark Mark, now fused with the symbol of the Auguery.

Panic erupted, and the elegant square dissolved into chaos.

“Bill!” Fleur cried. “The children!”

Onstage, Dupont seized Macron’s arm. “We must go, vite!”

With a crack, both vanished.

Masked figures appeared in the smoke and began to fire curses at any wizard and Moldu in sight. Aurors countered the masked attackers immediately, and the square became a battlefield. A fountain exploded. Fire and water cascaded together. Moldu ran screaming toward the Champs-Élysées as police drew guns, firing blindly into the smoke.

“Bill!” Fleur cried as her children became lost in the chaos. “The children!”

Bill pulled out his wand. “Victoire! Dominique!”

“Papa!” Louis cried, then was yanked from Fleur’s grip by the surge of fleeing bodies.

Fleur screamed. “LOUIS!”

Bill forced his way forward, casting shields left and right as stray spells shattered stone and glass. A Death Eater’s curse struck a statue beside him, blowing it apart in a shower of marble shards.

“Protego!” he roared, blocking a hex and firing one back, stunning the attacker into a café wall.

Fleur’s hair was flying, her eyes glowing faintly with Veela rage. “Find the children!” she shouted over the chaos.

But they were gone, swallowed by the tide of terrified Parisians, the screams, the crack of gunfire, and the echo of dark laughter.

Above it all, the Dark Mark with Augury wings pulsed and shimmered, casting its eerie light over the City of Light now plunged into shadow

-

The summer night in Beijing shimmered like molten glass. Lanterns swayed in the warm breeze, red and gold banners fluttered across Tiananmen Square, and the air pulsed with the hum of both magic and electricity.

On the balcony above Mao’s portrait, which was now moving, stood President Bo Xilai, immaculate in his dark Mao suit, and beside him, Madam Zhang Mei-Lin, the Chinese Minister for Magic. Her robes were embroidered with dragons and phoenixes that moved faintly when she breathed. Beneath them on the ground stood rows of Aurors in emerald robes, shoulder-to-shoulder with uniformed police. Thousands of citizens crowded behind barriers, craning to see.

Among the crowd stood Cho Chang, once Seeker for Ravenclaw and veteran of the Battle of Hogwarts, now living quietly in Hong Kong. Beside her was her husband, Liang Wei, a Muggle with a scholar’s frown and a small lapel pin shaped like a white dove, a symbol known to those who still whispered of democracy. Their daughter Olivia, seventeen and bright-eyed, held her mother’s hand tightly.

“It’s really happening,” Olivia said in a breath. “The whole world’s finally seeing us. Witches and non-magicals no longer separated.”

Her husband made a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff. “A new world built on the same old foundation. Do you truly think they’d share power with magicians any more than they share it with ordinary people?”

Cho shot him a look. “Liang. Please. Not now.”

A fanfare of horns cut through the air. President Bo began his speech, his voice magnified across the square and a thousand broadcast charms.

“Citizens of China, and citizens of the world!” he began. “Tonight, we reveal a truth long hidden. Among us live those blessed with ancient power a magic that has shaped our myths, our arts, our nation itself!”

Polite applause followed, but real excitement rippled only when Madam Zhang lifted her wand. Her voice, clear as glass, rang out:

“For three centuries, the Statute of Secrecy bound our world apart. No longer. The Ministry of Magic and the Communist Party of China now stand as one. Harmony between the magical and the non-magical is China’s new destiny.”

She pointed her wand skyward. A streak of golden light burst into the night. The clouds parted and from their midst emerged two colossal dragons, wingless, sinuous, their scales gleaming like molten jade and ivory.

Gasps and cries filled the air.

The dragons twined together, roaring silently as fireworks exploded around them in bursts of lotus-shaped flame. Their dance filled the heavens, graceful and terrible, as though the old spirits of the ancient Middle Kingdom had awoken at last.

Olivia’s face glowed with wonder. “Mum, it’s beautiful! You fought in a war so that things like this could happen, didn’t you? So we could all be together.”

Cho’s heart swelled and broke all at once. “Something like that.” She had been waiting for this day since she rescued her husband from a black jail in Chongqing 19 years ago when she first moved back to her home country.

Liang’s gaze stayed fixed on the stage. “Or so they could put magic under the same flag that already owns every thought in this square.”

Olivia turned on him. “Why do you have to ruin everything? For once, can’t you just see the good?”

“Because, Olivia,” he said quietly, “I know what happens when the government tells you a miracle is for your own good.”

Above them, the dragons curved into the shape of a great red heart, showering sparks over the square. The crowd roared its approval, chanting, “Héxié! Héxié!” Harmony, harmony!

Cho squeezed her husband’s arm. “Please,” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes were on the Aurors at the perimeter, dozens of them now, speaking urgently into communication charms, scanning the crowd. Something about their stance chilled him.

Madam Zhang and President Bo raised their joined hands to signal the finale. “Let magic and reason walk together forever!” she proclaimed.

The dragons roared, their voices vibrating through the square and then, with an elegant bow, they dissolved into a thousand sparks. Fireworks erupted in perfect synchrony, painting the sky in gold, crimson, and violet.

The crowd cheered wildly. Olivia wiped tears from her eyes. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

However, Cho, watching the wards shimmer faintly around the perimeter and the anxious faces of the Aurors, felt a prickling dread she couldn’t name.

Liang leaned close, voice low. “Beauty,” he murmured, “is the easiest mask for control.”

Cho said nothing. She only stared at the empty sky where the dragons had vanished and wondered if, somewhere beyond the smoke and cheers, the world’s magic had just chained itself to the seats of Muggle authority.

-

The night of the Revelation fell over India like the birth of a new god and the death of the old world.

In New Delhi, the streets overflowed with people. Millions had gathered under banners of saffron and green to witness what the news called “The Great Unveiling.” Cameras flashed. Drones hovered above the crowd. On a glittering stage in front of the Red Fort, Prime Minister Narendra Modi stood beside a tall woman in deep blue robes, Diya Sobhraj, the Indian Minister for Magic.

“Tonight,” Modi announced, his voice echoing through every radio and holo-screen in the nation, “we reveal the truth that has lived among us for centuries. Magic is real, and it belongs to all of India.”

The crowd gasped as wizards and witches levitated on flying carpets above the dais, conjuring shimmering lotus blossoms and flaming peacocks that danced across the sky. The spectacle left most speechless.

Far away in a modest Mumbai apartment, Padma and Parvati Patil watched the broadcast with their husbands.

“They’ve gone mad,” Padma murmured.

“No secrecy left,” Parvati exclaimed. “No protection either.”

Their husbands, Rajesh and Amrit, both wizards who worked at the Mumbai branch of the Indian Ministry of Magic, looked uncertain but hopeful.

“Maybe it’s time,” Rajesh said. “Maybe peace is possible now.”

Parvati shook her head. “You think the muggles will understand? They’ll see us as gods or monsters.”

Padma turned off the television. “I don’t like the feeling in the air,” she said. “It feels like the day before a storm.”

Story: "Harry Potter and the Two Worlds" by Birger, ao3

[searedwithwitchyscars]

i keep fucking saying that spells work!

one day after my work shift and money spell my job has hit me up with a shit tonne of shifts.