#timeturnerchallenge

[ravenrosalind-blog]

Think Happy Thoughts

Word Count; 260

part one

An Owl is what Ros’ patronus forms itself as.

The main reason why is the most obvious. The owl has the symbol of wisdom since back to Ancient Greece and the goddess Athena. Above all, Ros prides herself on her mind and her intelligence. She’s insanely smart, so much so that she does not even know what to do with herself sometimes. Her biggest fear is losing her own mind. People with owl patronuses have a strong intuition and can access information and wisdom that’s usually hidden to most and owls also have extremely acute senses. Though Ros may have her nose in a book most of the time, her eyes see more than other people may realize. She’s extremely observant and notices details that other people may not.  Owls are solitary creatures, mostly coming out at night. Ros has plenty of friends but can tend to keep to herself, getting lost in her own head and whatever world of hers that she is currently occupied in. Ros is also definitely a night person, staying up into the wee hours reading or cramming in her homework last minute. Her soul takes the form of an animal with wings because she wishes that she herself had some. If Ros had wings, she would let them take her to wherever she wished. The world is full of opportunities and possibilities and things to learn and do and see and Ros wants to experience it all, if she could. Her head is constantly in the clouds, soaring amongst the clouds and the stars.

[larawinter]

word count: 522

There is something horribly, terribly comforting in being lost; and, for someone like Evan Rosier, it is those moments of chaos, moments absent, that he favours. There are many. Too many. There are minutes, hours, nights in the rain staring up at the night sky and smoking through an entire pack of cigarettes. There are moments of sheer madness where he is screaming, yelling to oblivion. Yet most startlingly of all, there is silence. Complete and utter silence. There is nothing. Chaos. Absent chaos. But there is one moment, one instance, one memory that he favours over most, and arguably, he might admit it to be his favourite of all.

No one knew where he was. He was meant to be en route to Italy right now. Or was it Sweden? Evan could not, would not recall-- at least, not in this moment. Not here in the rain, not in the cold wintry air that he could scarcely feel. Had it been minutes, or hours yet that he had been lying there, swathed in a thick jacket and lying upon a rain-soaked blanket in the middle of the Palace of Versailles’ outdoor ballroom? 

His skin was too pale, hands trembling too violently, and limbs achingly numb. Evan can’t move his facial expression, too cold, too frozen to shift from that deranged smirk that graces his lips. He could catch his death out in such weather. But so long as it rained, he would not move from his place. 

He felt light. Lighter than air despite the circumstances. One might argue that he couldn’t feel a damn thing at all. But he was so happy. Staring up at the night sky, insensate and unseen, he was happy. For once, he was alone without expectation, without worry. Pureblood elitist, princely mad man Evan Rosier was alone; and, while in normal circumstances, he could never bear such a thought, he was elated. There were no expectations, no rules to follow. He was a stranger, not Evan Rosier. He could be dying, and nobody would know. He could be freezing, and no one that passed him from beyond his disillusionment charm could tell. He was floating. He was everything, nothing. Grounded but soaring, he was the entire universe.

But blinking slowly, he felt something creep up on him. It was there, lurking in the back of his mind, and he could feel its threatening presence gripping at his bones with a hunger. 

“Not yet. By god, please, not yet.” His first words, uttered from frozen lips in Merlin knew how long. 

And the moment, the completely wonderful and perfect moment there in the rain was broken.

No one could tell where the broken, shrieking laughter was coming from, bewildering Muggles and wizards alike in the palace grounds. Not one could say when exactly the laughter had turned to screams of terror and suffering. But was that blood in the snow?

Shattered, miserable young man. Your perfect moment is over. 

Evan was found in the Rosier vacation home in Venice the next day, prattling on about tea and the sinking city. No one has the slightest idea what is favourite memory is, or what gruesome details are truly involved. He himself can hardly remember the details. And, no. Evan can not produce a corporeal Patronus.

[ravenrosalind-blog]

Think Happy Thoughts

Word Count; 1053

part two

Ros had first learned about patronuses in her fifth year.

And after class had ended, she was more than excited to dive into every book that she could find on the spell. She poured through history, information, theories and wand movements until she felt that she was ready to cast her patronus. But when she tried…she could not do it. Despite the fact that she had memorized everything that there was to know about the patronus charm, it did not mean that she had been able to cast it. It had been another instance where Ros had realized that some magic didn’t come from knowledge or facts but instead came from feeling.  

So finally, after a couple of years and a lot of trying, Ros was able to cast her patronus. After Honeywhistle dismissed the meeting, other students mingled together, whispering excitedly about what form their patronus could take but after a quick goodbye to her friends, Ros was breaking off from the crowd.

She didn’t stop until she reached one of the castle’s open towers. High up and in solitude was where Ros found her peace.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes as a breeze blew by, billowing her loose hair and her cloak around. Ros opened her eyes, raised her wand and swirled in a circle “Expecto patronum,” she said as her memory came to her.

She was 11 years old and had just finished her first semester at Hogwarts. The Hogwarts Express rolled into Kings Cross Station and into its usual place at Platform 9 and ¾. Students piled off the train and said goodbyes to friends with promises to write letters over the Christmas break before rushing off to their parents. Rita gave her a big hug before she joined her parents with a smile and Ros was left standing there on the platform all alone. Her father had sent her an owl saying that he would be picking her up from the train but when her eyes searched the crowd, Ros saw no sight him. Fear that she had been forgotten filled her. After all, he had only known about his daughter for not even a year now, she was probably easy for him to forget…he probably wanted to forget about her…

“Rosie!” Her name being called out brought her about of her thoughts but it was not her father’s name voice that she heard. Ros’ head snapped up and she met a pair of deep brown eyes that were the same as hers and a warm smile that made her heart want to explode out of her chest because she had not seen it since the summertime. “Mum!” she cried out and ran into her mother’s outstretched arms.

Since she was still pretty small, her mother was able to scoop her up and lift her off the ground in a crushing hug. “Hello my love,” she cooed into her hair and Ros wrapped her arms tightly around her neck. The scent of the crook of her mother’s neck was still the same, like pine trees and warm blankets, like home.

“I thought Father was picking me up. You told me I was spending Christmas with him,” Ros said as her mother set her back down onto the ground.

“Yes that was the original plan but I was able to leave work for a few days,” she explained as she tucked a messy lock of hair back behind Ros’ ear, “So you and I shall Christmas together and then you shall go back to your fathers for the rest of the holiday.”

Ros didn’t even care about the rest of the sentence after her mother had told her that they were going to spend Christmas together. She had been dreading a holiday with her father and his pureblood family. For a little under a year she had been living with them while her mother went off and did dangerous Auror work and still she had not found a home with her newfound relatives. So to have her mother there, to be able to spend Christmas together, made Ros happier than she had ever been before.  

A flick of her mother’s wand brought Ros’ things over to them and she stretched her hand out to her daughter. “So darling, tell me all about school.”

Ros beamed as she reached up and took her hand and then the two of them walked through the platform with Ros talking her mother’s ear off as she told her all about what she had learned.

It had been a wonderful holiday. The two of them had spent time in the cottage where Ros had lived in for the first ten years of her life, never apart for even a moment. They had gone out and played in the snow, took walks through the village to look at the shop windows, made hot chocolate and cookies and snuggled under blankets together, falling asleep to old movies. It was that Christmas that Ros had opened up a basket to reveal Freya curled up and purring inside. It had been terrible when their time together had ended and Ros had to once again say goodbye to her mother at the step’s of the MacDougal manor.

She and her mother had had many wonderful times and memories since that day on the train platform, but still none of them compared to the joy Ros had felt over her surprise. After finding a home in Hogwarts like she had not been able to do with her father and then leaving it only to be reunited with her mother, even if only for a few days, had brought her a happiness that only childhood innocence and real love could do.

Ros opened her eyes and watched as silver mist shot out of the end of her wand and formed into the shape of an owl. The bird flew itself around her head a few times and Ros shivered when a wing brushed against her cheek.  

“You’ll protect me from all the dark things won’t you?” she said to the silver creature but of course she got no response. So she put her wand away and the Owl disappeared into the air, making her wish that she wings so that she could fly along with it.

[benjyafenwick-blog]

aztec meaning of eagle: the eagle carries the veil of night and dark over our existence and awareness. it’s affiliated with the dawning sun, and is a magnificent power, able to shine light into our world.

The eagle has the possibility of many meanings, among them being protection, guardianship, freedom, determination, and inspiration. Native wisdom about the eagle teaches us a lesson to work smarter, not harder, evidenced in the fact that eagles do what is most efficient when doing things. Some plains tribes refer to the eagle as an earthly incarnation of the great Thunderbird spirit. The Thunderbird itself can represent expansiveness, transformation, and unquestioned authority. For some tribes, seeing the Thunderbird was an omen of war. Thunderstorms were seen as spirits warring in the skies, and this was often seen as a foretelling of victory. Aside from their connection to Thunderbirds, eagle feather’s were tribal tools of healing. The eagle is often invoked for reviatlisation, creationg, and healing purposes. In alchemy, the eagle is a representation of prime matter. The eagle spreads its wings over the step into creation and fans the fire, encouraging growth of new matter. For the Celts, the eagle was associated with the symbolism of water, and with the intuitive oracle water serves as. This also ties into some Native beliefs, as it was said that eagles wings flapping can conjure rain. If you subscribe to the idea that all energy is interconnected, the average wingspan of 5-7 feet for an eagle could cause a massive amount of energetic ripples into the cosmos, even prompting rain. The Celts observed eagles, and came to the conclusion that they could see into waters with miraculous clarity, something they associated with the act of scrying. The Ancient Greeks saw eagles as a solar animal, symbolic of authority, rulership, and virility. This is evidenced in the fact that eagles were Zeus’ animal, and he often transformed into them in the myths. Interestingly enough, while Native myth associated eagles with the great power of Thunderbirds, eagles in Ancient Greek myths were depicted as carrying thunderbolts in each talon. It seems that the great power of thunder is often associated with eagles. The eagle is also seen as having great wisdom. This may be way the eagle was chosen as Ravenclaw’s animal. Eagle eyes are keen are often symbolised with perspicacity, courage, strength, and immortality. Eagles are often themselves considered king of the skies, and are considered a messenger of the highest gods. Because of these things, the Ancient Romans saw them as symbolising power and strength. In Germanic traditions, the eagle was associated with Odin. The eagle also has an important in heraldry. Even the United States sees the eagle as important, as the Bald Eagle is the nation’s animal. With eagles being associated with wisdom, power, and freedom, it’s no surprise this is the animal Benjy’s Patronus shows. This biggest part of why the eagle is his Patronus may just be that the first constellation he recognised in the sky was Aquila the eagle. This first recognition of the astronomical eagle may just be why this animal imprinted on Benjy in the first place. To understand the eagle’s symbolism in many cultures is to understand why this animal would represent Benjy in a charm designed to protect you from evil. With all of this information, I think the Aztec meaning of eagle is most important. Benjy’s mother herself is of Aztec descent, having grown up speaking the Aztec language of Nahuatl. Benjy is from Puebla, the city in Mexico with the second highest number of Nahuatl speakers, just after Mexico City. The area in which Benjy is from, where both Puebla and Mexico City are found, was an area the Aztecs had situated themselves in. One of the famous cities in Aztec history is Tenochtitlan, where sat on an in island in Lake Texcoco in the Valley of Mexico. Tenochtitlan was an altepetl, an Aztec city-state. The ruins of Tenochtitlan today are found in downtown Mexico City. The Aztecs saw the eagle as something that brought night, but also saw it in the dawning sun, as the first light in the morning. Benjy is a kind, helpful person who loves to bring light into people’s lives. The fact that eagle chose him shows this animal is as much a part of him as anything else in his life. That is why the eagle chose him.

[vanitatxm-blog]

Patronus : Arctic Fox (x) ( word count: 280 )

Cunning. The fox is a creature of tricks and graceful nature; laughing in his mirth of simply getting away with what he wants one way or another. In nature, Emma loves mind games - knowing the exact moves and the sweeter words to meet her ends. Her laughter is composed, collected, and calculated, as is the glint on her eyes and the demure mask on her face.

Stealth. Each bat of eyes and each voiced request is taken with extreme caution, silent in her true nature. Like the fox, they amble the world with sly intentions and secrecy in their actions, never quite showing what hides beneath the face they show to the world.

Fun. Mischievous creatures with a desire to taste the world and die with laughter in their faces, the fox tends to do its tricks as Emma tends to do her own little charms simply in the name of her own joy. They are always looking to entertain and be entertained; to admire and be admired - to call the attention at the most opportune moment and do as they will out of the mere simple fact that they can.

Persistent. The arctic fox, however, is different from its cousins - it has survived the coldest nights and adapt to the most frigid winds in order to keep being who they are. So is Emma in her ability to detect obstacles and analyze the scene, and put all her resources to use in order to achieve her ends. They are creatures that developed a thick fur, making something work out of thin air and always tenacious in their quest to find what they truly want in life.

[vanitatxm-blog]

H a p p i n e s s ; such a pretty word for such an unreachable task. ( word count: 1068 )

Emma stepped out of the room the moment Professor Honeywhistle finished her speech; calm steps guiding her out into the empty halls and towards the open courtyard. If she was to cast a spell that required pure, simple joy, she’d never be able to cast it surrounded by people - people who saw her one way, and one way only. Even in mirth and delight, you become vulnerable to that sole minute memory that’s supposed to bring you strength.

Her eyes close and she breathes in the moist in the air, searching into her memory for that one time she felt true happiness - the moment she made Captain? No, that was simple satisfaction, not happiness and the spell only came with a meek wisp of white light. The first moment on a broom? With her brothers, that was happiness, but it was also pride, and so it was more potent but there was still no form to her charm.

She breathed in, and suddenly she wished she was at home. Home, home, home - up in the mountains and hills full of life, wide open spaces and infinity in the horizon. Home, where the air was filled with musk and rain and the sun kisses your face with tender compassion. Home, where she ran barefooted through the meadows and into the forest, only to be sanctioned for staining her sparkly dress with mud and losing her shoes; that was only once, however. A chill morning of December after Christmas and before the New Year, dressed in frilly skirts, white tights and a pink bow on her hair. Pretty, tiny witch just turned seven years of age, mother had ordered the cooks to bake her favorite dessert and create her favorite meal - peaches, strawberries, and chocolate adorning the long mahogany table on their dining room. Velvety shoes on her feet, they were slightly tighter than they were meant to but Emma said nothing, for they were for big girls and her father loved them. Her brothers, Damian and Jackson, walked into the hall by the front door, hands stretching out to welcome the guests into their lovely, regal residence - charming smiles and enchanting eyes glinting with delight, for this was a joyful celebration worthy of every noble member of their kind. And the only thing she heard above the buzz and the harps playing soft, dulcet music was the boastful voice of her father, cigar in mouth as he spoke of his only daughter, the apple of his eye.

Crystal and rose gold decorations floated atop of their heads; delicacies with cherubim wings cast a charm into the main hall - this was a young lady, turned seven years of age, with bright eyes and a brighter future ahead. Her fingers tapped against the window, nose nearly touching its cold surface - snow flakes dancing on the air, shiny and beautiful icy flakes against the bright eastern sun. Polished nails rest on her shoulder, and she looks up to see her mother - blue eyes like hers and a tender, composed smile on her lips.

“What is it, love? Are you not happy with your birthday party? Look at how many presents you have!”

“Yes - no. I want to go outside and play. Why can’t we go outside?”

“Because you’ll ruin your dress, dear.” Her mother laughs, but it’s not a shrill sound but an amused one, as she calls to her older brother without Emma noticing. “It’s proper decorum that you stay at your own party, Emma - oh, Jackson, love, have you gone out to gather the rest of the portkeys? Make sure to do so while Damian and I greet the crowd...I believe your father is all but ready to begin the feast, so you’ll have perhaps a few minutes.”

Turning on her heels, her mother left the scene; and so, of course, her brother leaned in closer - a finger to his lip with a hush and took her hand, whisking her away from the crowd and out into the grounds through the back door.

“But - but I’m not supposed to leave.” Emma whispered, fighting back the tilt in her voice, she didn’t want to not leave.

“You are never supposed to do the things you want, Emmy - but ‘till you learn how to go about that, you have a big brother who can make it happen for you.”

Emma closes her eyes and flakes of white, pure snow drench blonde, curly hair - cheeks rosy with smiles and the frigid wind, as she runs into the meadows barefooted because her shoes hurt too much and she just happened to lose them. Her name echoes into the wide space, her brother a few steps behind, warning her of the time - just a few minutes, she says, just a bit more, I want to dance in the snow and skate on the ice.

You spotted your dress, mother will die! He says half in laughter and half in worry as he looks over his shoulder, for dinner will start soon and the guest of honor is not inside. I have others, the tiny witches shouts back, gloved hands throwing the piles of snow into the air, and she twirls around on the same spot, frill skirt billowing and for a second - for one tiny, breathe of moment, a twinkling light flights above her head - small, human like creature with flimsy wings lands on her open hand and leans to look at her with curious wide eyes. Emma smiles at her, before the fairy opens her mouth - a high pitch ring and then she sets flight, making the witch look up; fairy lights glittering high, high above among the purple skies.

"Expecto Patronus.”

Bright white light emitted from the tip of her wand, glowing and wafting on the air ‘till it rapidly began to gather on the floor- an arctic fox lowering his head before it hopped on the bench bellow the arched window to her side, bouncing then around her to land on a spot on the cobblestone ground at her feet.

“Why, look at that...” Emma kneels down, as if to pet the top of its head. “I guess I'm not as empty as I thought.”

[thebaneofstagnation]

expecto

wordcount: 615

part two.

Bertram Joel Aubrey doesn’t do memories.

Okay, sure, he remembers things. He remembers his father’s birthday (barely), that time when Professor Goldenray got so angry with him that he thought she would skewer him, and the names of the towns and cities he’s been to.

But he doesn’t make memories for the sake of “preserving” the moment.

No, the things that stick with him aren’t memories, but the sort of things that stand out sharply to him, the sort of things that catch his interest. Memories are long, and memories are often tainted. Feelings on the other hand, instantaneous moments of noticing, they are pure and real and absolutely untouchable.

Most importantly, they make him happy. It’s no wonder really. For a boy always on the move, the things that make him stop and notice (even if it’s for just a split second of time) are the things he wants to think about when everything else falls through.

So Bertie remembers the smell of the rain when he was six years old, as his father sped through a sleepy town in Massachusetts.

He remembers the glitter gathering on the tips of Caradoc Dearborn’s eyelashes at a party in their fourth year.

He remembers dazedly listening to the occasional shifting sounds of his mother in a creaky wooden chair while he laid in a hard bed with a 103 degree fever in a beat-up Wyoming hotel room.

He remembers the soft, supple feeling of Bertha Jorkins’ hand clasped with his own, as they battled through the chilly, snowy Hogsmeade streets.

He remembers the mac and cheese his father bought him from a gas station after an uncomfortable meal with his grandparents. They sat on the marble floor of his room at his grandparents’ place, and he remembers feeling the warm cheese reach every part of him.

He remembers putting his hand on the small of Rosalind MacDougal’s back, and even though they were separated by layers of clothing, he remembers feeling like they’d never been closer.

He remembers Lucinda Talkalot’s 2 am laugh: loud, unrestrained, and happy.

He remembers the Bertie Bott’s that Remus Lupin had handed him, a funny little grey bean that turned out to be Dirty Dish Water flavored.

He remembers the putrid stench of rotting tomatoes after their truck had broken down on the side of the road, his mother telling his father not to worry as she pulled out a ukulele and started up on Taylor Swift’s “Mean”.

He remembers Ariel MacKay’s gleaming red hair glistening in the Great Lake, as he marveled to himself about how she’d actually gone through with the dare.

He remembers Daisy Hookum’s giggle, so startlingly genuine as she asked him to repeat the name “George”.

He remembers Ted Tonks’ eyes meeting his own across the common room, as they shared a private thought with each other.

He remembers the strange off-ness of Evan Rosier’s wand, borrowing it for a day or two because he’d gotten bored of his own and Evan had been the only one to nod with him as if he understood.

He remembers the crunchy, crispness of a granola bar, and Andromeda Black’s glare as he sat with his feet propped on the desk.

He remembers brownies baking while he and Amelia Bones waited in Hogwarts’ kitchen, house-elves flowing past them like a stream.

Each of these details is really just a sensation, each sensation is really just a moment, and each moment is important.

One alone won’t produce a corporeal patronus, but with all of them, all combined together and swirling around his head at the same time, Bertie knows he could keep all the dementors in the world at bay.

[benjyafenwick-blog]

        Reykjavik is beautiful any time of year, but it was only during the summer that I could actually stand it. Being from México, I’m not exactly used to cold weather. I’ve lived in Paris and I’ve been here in the UK for awhile now, but I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how cold it can be. I do love the snow, though, which may be why we went to Iceland in the first place, but it ended up being something completely different.

        Iceland’s summer are gorgeous, even without the snow. Like most of our travels, it had started out because my father was doing a job there. While he worked diligently, my mother and I would explore where we were. The locals asked us if we’d seen the stars from there yet, and after hearing what a treasure it would be, we decided to drive outside of Reykjavik to look at the stars.         I was too young then to be as invested in the science behind astronomy as I am now. All I knew then was how I happy stars made me, and that’s all I needed at ten. Because I wasn’t as into the science then, I had no idea we’d be passing through a solar flare. When we started stargazing, we were looking towards the south, where the constellations were always changing throughout the year. My father sat on his own, writing a message to someone while my mother pointed out some constellations.         Almost immediately, my eyes locked with the eagle Aquila. The constellation was named for the bird that carried Jupiter’s thunderbolts. Its brightest star, Altair, forms one point of the Summer Triangle, and from there, I could see Cygnus the swan and Lyra the vulture. This triangle of constellations was the first thing I could recognise in the summer sky, and because of that, I was immensely proud whenever I saw it.         As my mother pointed out other constellations, we slowly started looking north, where I spotted Cassiopeia and Draco. But those were not the most beautiful things in the northern sky that night. At first I thought my eyes were playing a trick on me, but my mother gasped. I turned to her, worried, but she looked excited. “It’s the aurora borealis, hijo,” she explained, her hands painting over the moving structure across the sky. It was green and purple and pulsed in an odd way, but it was utterly beautiful.         I remember desperately wanting to get a picture of it, but as I stared at the aurora, I couldn’t manage to get those words out. I just stared at it, completely in awe. My mother got my father’s attention, and he dropped the letter he was in the middle of writing when he saw the aurora. “Oh my, God,” he whispered, all three of us staring at it with wonder sparkling in our eyes.         That’s the memory I pull on whenever I need a Patronus. There’s something utterly magical about that memory that always fills me with joy. I don’t know if it’s my happiest memory, but it’s a memory I can always count on when I need a strong Patronus. And, if I were being honest, it’s the last memory I have where my family felt whole. The aurora has a way of doing that, though, of bringing people together. I haven’t seen something that beautiful since then. Sure, I’ve seen auroras since, like when I went to Norway a few summers ago, but nothing beats that memory, of the first time I laid my eyes on it.