#taaopen

[vntonin]

DATE: 11 September, 1944 LOCATION: The Grounds / The Quidditch Pitch AVAILABILITY: Open to all.

 He had always been quite addicted to the feeling of adrenaline - in all its forms, it was a drug of which he could not get enough. Of course he was indulgent in all things decadent, but there was nothing more so than the feeling of blood pumping, heart racing, head spinning; the thrill of the chase gave him cause - and if not the chase of the hunt, then that of the greatest sport known to wizard-kind. One would not look upon Antonin Dolohov and think of Quidditch, but his father had put him on a broom before he knew to walk - or so he liked to claim. His skill had been apparent upon arriving at Hogwarts; there had never been a question in his mind that he’d be handed a position on the team, nor had there been a question that he would excel. Antonin excelled in all things - his proficiency at the sport was no exception. 

A braggart by nature, he could not help but hold his head a bit higher, shoulders a bit straighter, chest a bit stronger as he emerged from (yet another) successful practice, hair wet and tousled from a quick shower and robes hanging half-undone upon unashamed musculature. The high was something akin to sex - satisfaction tasted quite similar when it was as good as it was with he (and it was always good with Antonin). If ever there was superiority personified, it was here, now, slinging a leather pack over his shoulder and emerging from the Slytherin locker room with smirk upon his face. Each step was propelled by an adrenaline high; the cool fall air did nothing to dampen the flame beneath his ribs, but rather stoked the embers and made him strong. 

All he’d need to complete the trifecta of thrill, adrenaline, and violence would be to hit something, he thought, with the smug satisfaction of assured victory. Were he a Beater, there would be no Gryffindors left come Sunday; perhaps he’d hit something else. 

But, of course, the search for such bloody thrill had been what had damned him to begin with. Conscience, however, had never been his guide. 

His shoulder bumped another as he stepped full into the night air, abandoning the quiet darkness of the locker room, for his mind remained upon the pitch; eyes wheeled, self-indulgent smirk turned to a toothy snarl of a smile. “Come for another show?” he snapped, at present not caring to whom he spoke, “If you wanted to touch, all you had to do was ask.” His tone toed the line between confrontation and seduction, as it so often did - it would take just the slightest touch to give a push.

[reginaserpentes-blog]

DATE: 11 September 1944

LOCATION: Courtyards

STATUS: Open 

She’s been on the team for four years now; but it never fades, the buzz of anticipation that precedes the first match of the year. Red ties and verdant cloaks, broomsticks engraved in gold and new leather gloves, all those jealous, cutting stares and not-so-empty threats -- see you on the pitch, bitch. But then again, the Gryffindors, with their nobility and soft leadership, couldn’t carry through with their talk if they tried. Lions with big maws but tight muzzles, large paws but no claws. Roar all you want. This year’s Slytherin roster was a crowd favourite -- and they were playing for keeps. Victory is an intoxicating thing, and if her father was out chasing it with black cloaks and whipping winds, then she would too. 

Potions is about to start, but the courtyards are still packed, little groups congregating about one another, already donning their colours and support. She has her own legion of admirers, and they proudly wear the brand of the snake as they flutter about her, all Chaser again, Eva? and I heard Gryffindor doesn’t have a Seeker yet, the fools. But her gaze is fixated upon an approaching figure as they ascend the steps towards the stone parapet where she’s perched. She hops off the ledge, and with one hand closed in a fist near her side, blocks their path. “Hey baby,” she says in greeting. Whether it’s mocking or genuine remains indecisive. Then, her own flashing boldly in the morning sunlight -- “Do you want a pin?”

[camillabbott-blog]

DATE : 10 september 1944 LOCATION : the corridors TIME : 9:00 am STATUS : open

Normalcy, how quickly it found them, sweeping away their long-dried tears and dusting fear, remembrance of carnage from their shoulders where it had become burden. Abandoning terror as one did so drop a cloak from one’s back --- with ease, they adopted excitement instead, preoccupied themselves with those insignificant things which had once been marvel to them. First and foremost, in its season, this was Quidditch. Competition nurtured their ignorance, allowed them worriment over simple things: clever pin designs and banners, strategy and freshly marketed broomsticks as opposed to propaganda spilt from their bedside radios.

Fittingly, an Abbott occupied herself just the same, fastening Gryffindor pins to her chest and tying Hufflepuff gold at her neck, allowing talk of the upcoming match to occupy her time --- of the inevitable Gryffindor victory, naturally. Of course she’d never wave a green and silvered banner, wouldn’t mar her robes with a serpent’s sigil; not for so little as some people trusted in her alliances, for all the torment which had been had from the Slytherin house. 

As such, it could surely not have been an Avery or Mulciber pinned at her chest, but radiant Yaxley --- holding fast to her robes as he waved broomstick confidently through the air, a grin sat lop-sided at his lips. The Gryffindor emblem flashed as well when sight of its team captain faded, infamous lion roaring at the crest’s center before the images looped once again.

“Nifty, huh? Thought I’d show my support for the upcoming match and all,” she remarked when she caught someone taking notice of her pin, pulling at the badge so as to better display it, as though it were mark of honor. Perhaps, in her case, it was.

[charles-alexander-potter]

Date: September 1st, 1944 Time: 11:00pm Location: East Wing Corridors Open to: All

Ash filtered through the air, sparkling in the light emitting from the tip of Charles’ wand like dust motes in the sunlight. His eyes watered behind cloudy spectacle lenses, and with a ruddy fist he reached up to rub them, heaving a great cough as he did so. The world around him wasn’t entirely dark; the hazy orange glow from several fires illuminated the corridor somewhat, but he still needed assistance from his wand in order to step over debris. As he moved, he tried to remember what Augustus looked like, tried to recall the boy sitting beneath the Sorting Hat as it cried, “Gryffindor!” The boy was a half-blood, he thought, so there was a good chance he was familiar with air raids, with bombs; as such, Charles would have thought he’d have known what to do. But, as it turned out, young Augustus hadn’t made it to the boat house, and against what might have been his better judgment Charles volunteered to search for him. 

As he picked his way along the corridor, Charles tugged the collar of his robes up over his nose and mouth, squinting through the grit. It was the epitome of privilege to berate others for their mistakes, ascertaining that, because they were part muggle, they should have known how to deal with death falling from the sky. Guilt gnawed at his insides. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘no child should be expected to be ‘used to’ something like this.’ Rounding a corner, he freed his mouth from his collar. 

“Augustus!” he called, holding his wand a bit higher as he peered over the rubble. A large fire was raging off to his right, and several suits of armor hurried past him, dragging a melting comrade between them. Merlin knew he hadn’t acted completely stoic when the castle shook that evening, goblets tipping and chandeliers coming loose above them. He knew plenty about bombs, but despite all of that knowledge filling his head to the brim he never thought Hogwarts would fall prey. It couldn’t. It was impregnable. 

Foolish fantasies. 

Smoke clogged his lungs, and his brown eyes filled with tears amidst the coughing and wheezing. When he’d somewhat recovered, his watery vision revealed a figure standing not far off, and his voice echoed off the patchy stone walls.

“Hello?”  

[druella-rosier-blog]

DATE: September 1st, 1944. TIME: 20:55. LOCATION: Great Hall OPEN TO: Any

           There is chaos in the Great Hall, and for a moment, all Druella hears is noise. One moment she’s mulling pumpkin juice on her tongue, the next disaster strikes, dusting the tables with bits of stone and glass. Professor Dumbledore has his wand out, and she watches, eyes wide and unable to grasp what’s going on as he halts the beautiful chandeliers in the air. Mayhem has erupted, and there’s something about Prefects, but lambs were not meant to understand slaughter; Druella is lost, confused and upset as she searches for a familiar face. 

           In the crowd, many acquaintances have become strangers. She knows from her drills that she should head toward Tom Riddle, and maybe if she could see him, she would. Maybe not. In truth, she doesn’t feel safe with Tom, even with all his beauty and charisma -- she doesn’t know him well enough. She feels safe with Corvus, and it’s Corvus she calls out to, her gentle voice not quite breaching the din. Her brother, always near her side, supposed to protect her, is nowhere to be found, though her hands reach out and her fretful voice calls high. 

           Druella was not made for commotion. She was born for gentle hands pulling her toward success, and in the terror, it’s not long before a shoulder bumps hers a little too hard, an elbow in her stomach hard enough to bruise. She cries, then, because pain is unfamiliar to her and for the first time in her life, she feels alone. Her breathing is heavy as her lungs seem to reel from the strike, probably a first year terrified out of their mind, but she hurts. Druella is now stumbling against the crowd, desperate to find Corvus or even Electra, anyone she feels protected with. She trips, and her hands bump into someone else, someone solid. 

           Her tear-streaked face tilts upward. ❝ Have you seen Corvus? I really -- I need him, I’m scared and I don’t know where he is -- ❞

[marsavery-blog]

DATE | September 1st, 1994. TIME | 20:00. LOCATION | an empty corridor. STATUS | open to all.

           The echoing of his footfalls reminds Mars of the echo-chamber in his head, where all his desperate thoughts go to die. He thought, as he gathered the floo powder in his hand and avoided the gaze of everyone but Aoife, that he could play the game just as well as he had before. He could hold his head high at the mention of filthy mudblood muck and not recall the way Mercury’s nose would bleed in the cold ( and the blood was red like his, even when his father said he must have been filled with dust and dirt instead ) or just before it rained. Hogwarts was the place he went to forget his sickly reflection, and being back made his stomach swell with shame and terrible longing. It was a cycle; wishing the guilt would go away, then feeling guilty for wanting to go back to the way things were.

           Perhaps that’s what death did to a twin. Left them bereft and unfinished, somehow. It would be two months tomorrow, and not a single person mentioned it. No one remembered to care. After all, the gossip about that Avery squib was old news. There was no obituary for someone everyone he knew had already considered worse off than dead. Memorials popped up everywhere, soaking in war-time sentimentality, but Mercury had been fighting his whole life and no one was left to remember him.

           No one but Mars.

           He picked up his pace, trying to get to the common room without really paying attention. First he was at a brisk jog, which quickly escalated to a run, but his feet couldn’t catch his harried breaths. He had to stop halfway there, lungs shallow and eyes squeezed tightly shut. Hogwarts had always meant running away, filling himself with magic so he could forget that he didn’t understand love. There was nowhere to run from this. Nowhere to run from the animal inside him, this ravaging, savage beast that wanted his own heart’s blood.

           Mars finally leaned his head against the wall, caught between failure to breathe and near-hysterical laughter. If only his father could see him now. A frightened rabbit, his heart beating just as fast, eyes low, head bowed in defeat. His hand curled into a fist, thinking not for the first time about what Adrian would do. Confrontational and utterly unashamed. His hand curled into a fist, and he slammed the side against the wall. It felt good. Maybe Adrian had been right all along.

           Footsteps around the corner caused him to hold his breath, waiting for them to turn the other way or pass him by entirely. People were self-absorbed – they generally saw what they wanted to see, or what would least affect them. He held his breath and held onto his vulnerability, too, tugging at its leash until it curled around his feet. After a while, he let out a low, shaky breath. The footsteps stopped. ❝ Something interesting? ❞ His voice was rough with strain and dangerous enough to scare off any lost kid, though he doubted it would work on one of his fellow knights, if he were unfortunate enough to be beneath their gaze. Mars didn’t turn. That would give them the idea that they’d affected him.

[kharmalibhatia-blog]

DATE : September 5th 1944 LOCATION : The Library TIME : 9:01 PM STATUS : Open

Fill your work with the breathings of your heart.

She sat alone in the library, books sprawling across every corner of the table at which she sat. The savor of fresh ink and parchment intertwined with the scent of ancient books and unknown knowledge settled around her, filling her every breath with familiarity, as if she never left her second home. In truth, Kharmali gave little regard to the notion that classes had just begun; she had never truly stopped working during her summer, hence the official start of classes did little to change her routine. 

Her eyes dragged over the series textbooks surrounding her working station, each leather-bound cover capturing her gaze just long enough to skim the title. She had purchased the books second-hand from a graduating 7th year just days before her 6th year had ended, spending much of her summertime pouring over the new information, familiarizing herself with foreign concepts and reviewing the old ones. It was routine. 

But her comfort had not lasted long. The repose which came with returning to school was destroyed in that matter of mere minutes. She had blinked and the illusion of safety and solace had shattered around her.

Kharmali had returned to Hogwarts for but not a week and the chaos had begun, rising with the tide of bleakness and crashing against the shores of her school, her safe-haven. School ought to have been her escape from the terrors and uncertainties which ravished her home but the vow of protection the school had promised had been fractured. 

No amount of magic or classes could ever return her certainty.

But she worked away, her only goal to return her frame of mind to normalcy she found comfort in. Submerged in her studies, she was only partially aware of her surroundings, thus when her ears were met with the sounds of slight rustling and shuffling, she didn’t take it upon herself to look up from her book but rather muttered, “If you wish to take a seat, then do so, but do it quietly, if you could be so kind...”

[goldenyaxley-blog]

DATE: 1 september LOCATION: hogwarts grounds OPEN TO: all

          The house had been quiet when he left, no warmth or wrath to be had as Leo left the manor which he had been forced to refer to as home for the past years. It is this that sets his mood alight, that this day and all of the ones in the near future will leave him free from the prying eyes and vicious hands of Rafael and Isabel. He had left ( or he had fled, like a prisoner finding the key to his cell ) in the small, quiet hours of the morning, just as the sun had begun to dawn and the golden light of day began to shine upon him. 

          It’s glorious, the way a child of Apollo radiates in the late summer sun. Only a few wisps of silver clouds dare to make their way across the sky, as though they know how Leo needs this day to be perfect, to be radiant, to be his saving grace. 

          It is this excitement, this sheer glowing, that distracts Leo from all of the people around him ( it doesn’t help how he stands taller than most -- his eyes peer right over them all as he searches for friends, for family ), and he doesn’t realize but one moment he is standing and then he is falling and then he is down, and he is l a u g h i n g.

          ❝ Blimey, mate. Apologies -- bit too excited for the day, s’pose. ❞              he is still laughing and fuck is it beautiful.