#tls points

[dvisychainss]

.✦☾ Daisy Hookum ;; Moodboard [ 1/? ]

❝ The price of success is hard work, dedication to the job at hand, and the determination that whether we win or lose, we have applied the best of ourselves to the task at hand. ❞

[rarcturusblacks]

r e g u l u s   a.   b l a c k ;  a moodboard

days have turned into a chaotic blend of lost moments and an overbearing awareness.

[macdonaldx-blog]

Mary MacDonald ; a moodboard

                          “ i am afraid that if i open myself i will not stop pouring.”

[macdonaldx-blog]

Mary MacDonald ; an edit

[macdonaldx-blog]

Order of the Phoenix ; a moodboard

[glenchittocks]

glenda chittock; a moodboard

“ lying in the forest and hoping the roots grow over you, stargazing; lying on your bedroom floor and hoping the music from the vynil swallows you whole, daydreaming. “

[dakotalmitchell]

Rationally, a boggart was unlikely to hurt you. Would they turn into your worst fear and let your own mind take its toll on you? Yes. But physically, from what Remus knew, they wouldn't actually attack or hurt you. He'd done his reading, of course.

However, this knowledge did very little to relief the nervous energy vibrating in his veins. Remus had read a lot about boggarts, but he had very little experience actually dealing with them. And yet, here one was. It was unmistakeable.

The desk jumped forward, as the boggart tried to escape its temporary prison. Remus jumped back at the same time, incredibly reluctant to do anything about this problem. He tried to run through all the events that led up to this moment, to this boggart being Remus's problem, and groaned. It was really his fault, wasn't it?

Damn reputation for being clever or something. Of course, there were better people for this job. There would always be someone better than Remus. Yet, it was often Remus who found himself in binds such as this.

Sighing a very heavy sigh, Remus readied his wand. He knew the spell, of course he did. A spell that would turn whatever was in that desk to be funny, something he could laugh away. That was the entire premise of boggart eradication, after all, even if Remus found nothing about this situation to be remotely humorous.

"Okay. Let it loose, then," he commanded of the poor fourth year who had come to find him. The boy was practically quaking in his boots, obviously terrified. Probably what went wrong here, Remus thought. He was always a pushover when it came to the younger students who needed help. 

The boy nodded, opening the desk drawer and then promptly running away. Remus rolled his eyes at his retreating back, but stood his ground.

The boggart seemed to be thinking of its form, which should be a compliment to Remus's bravado, but just made the moment more nerve wracking. A bead of sweat trickled its way down his temple as he waited on the boggart to choose what form it would take.

An eternity later (but was probably only a few seconds to moments), the boggart took the form of... James? Only, it wasn't James. Not the James Remus knows, anyway. This James was pulling a face, as if he had smelled something particularly disgusting. Looking straight at Remus, James's disembodied voice echoed around the room, "Why did we ever spend time with him? He's a monster, and we're better off with out him."

As soon as boggart-James was finished talking, the creature took the form of Sirius, who held a very similar facial expression. He seemed to be agreeing with the boggart James, and added, "He really wasn't even a good friend. Always expecting stuff from us, and trying to get us to follow the rules. It was the worst."  

In the blink of an eye, the boggart shifted into Peter, meek Peter who seemed to need friends just as much as Remus did. Boggart-Peter looked around, happily at first, but then took sight of Remus, and his entire countenance shifted. His lip raised in a sneer, and he crossed his arms. "He was only good for copying homework from, but even that was bad most of the time. Really, could he do anything at all?"

His face screwed up as Remus struggled with not taking this situation to heart. In a small part of his brain, he knew this was just a ruse, created by the boggart to get a rise out of him, to feed off his fears. Knowing that, however, didn't mean it didn't hurt, didn't mean that he could separate reality from the boggart-created loss.

Shaking his head, Remus raised his wand. His voice was faint as he muttered, "riddikulus," waving his wand in the accompanying motion.

His spell was all but useless, as the boggart flickered, and turned back into James. Remus tightened his grip, and tried again. His voice was a bit more confident this time. "Riddikulus!"

This time, the boggart flickered into Sirius, but wearing really funny clothing instead of his usual robes or leather jacket. Remus chuckled a bit, and the boggart stumbled. 

Laughter! He suddenly remembered that he didn't need just the spell--he needed laughter, too. Remus, with his confidence fully intact this time, raised his wand once more.

"Riddikulus!" 

This time, the boggart flickered between the other Marauders, a weird balloon-like orb, and settled on a tap dancing version of James, in full swing costume. Remus burst out laughing, vowing that he would get the real James to do this at some point in time, and the boggart flickered once more before retreating back into the desk, a puff of smoke following it.

Remus tucked his wand away, pleased with himself. The boggart shouldn't cause any more trouble, and would probably move on, especially if someone else decided to practice with it today. His heart was thudding in his chest, but a thrill of victory still ran through him as he turned back to the door, to see the fourth year standing there, mouth agape.

"I don't think it'll be bothering you, anymore," he said. 

"Th-thank you," the boy stuttered, still in a kind of awe. Remus chuckled, and patted the kid's back as he walked passed him. 

"If you have any more trouble, just let me know," he offered, gathering his things, and heading back towards Gryffindor Tower.

That might've been a bit terrifying, but it was liberating, as well. Now he knew what would happen if he were to face off with a boggart somewhere out side of school. Of course, he also was going to seek out James, Sirius, and Peter and make them reassure him that they don't secretly hate him, but eh. He was only human, after all.

Well, sometimes human, anyway.

[rarcturusblacks]

Known in England before the 9th century, the Greyhound was bred and raised by the aristocracy. The Greyhound is said to denote majesty, courage, vigilance, swiftness and loyalty, and they were emblematic of nobility. 

The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black; its roots go back to the Middle Ages, its name proudly sits on the list of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and not one undeserving person can be found on the family tree. When Regulus Black looks at said family tree, however, it is not glory he first notices. No, his eyes fly to the burn marks marring the tapestry and then - then his eyes move on to one particular burn mark sitting right next to his name. The name Black, grand and royal, is now his own solitary destiny. The last living male heir.

As his gaze travels across the branch with his name and his brother’s memory he sees the emblem. Two stars above a short sword, and two greyhounds shielding them. Noble animals, as he had been told. In the middle ages, it had been illegal for commonmen to have them, or even breed them - they were bred either by royalty or by clergymen, but owned solely by royalty. And do not forget, son, royalty is what we are. You are aware of the importance of history, of our heritage. The future of this ancient house lays on your shoulders now.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place is a grand house, imposing both in style and its spirit; it is almost sentient in the darkest way, nearly as cruel and tricky as its residents. So Regulus is not particularly surprised when he hears the attic cabinet behind him start creaking and banging - but when he turns around and the cabinet doors almost fly off its hinges, his breath hitches in his throat.

If he were not absolutely frozen in silent terror, he would feel ridiculous for the impact the scene in front of him has. It’s but a wimpering dog. A greyhound, not noble or majestic; it’s thin, ribs almost jumping out of its skin and the fur is not sleek or elegant, it’s just filthy, clumps falling out. But god, the way its wails attack Regulus’ ears makes his skin crawl and only then does he sees the dog’s feet - caught in a leg-hold trap in a way that causes Regulus’ stomach to turn. He knows what it all means. Because he has spent his share of hours in the tapestry room, he has let his gaze linger on the heraldic shield laying just above the words toujours pur and his lungs still have a hard time functioning at the scene in front of him because the weight of his name on his shoulders feels like his spine is going to crumble any second now.

What stands in front of him, shivering and dying and pathetic, is his own family. And he has decided long ago, but he restates his future to himself now; he will rather die the worst death than fail them. He will rather betray his future than his history.