thine own self be true

BRENT NOTT. HE/HIM. TWENTY-FOUR. GRYFFINDOR ALUMNUS. PHILOSOPHER, THEORIST & MASTERMIND. ❝i am the language that cannot be come to terms with. ❞

[tothineownself-blog1]

gavnce:

Gavin was on the home stretch after another dreary day’s work. The job of a wandmaker’s assistant was simple and boring, yet he left every evening feeling just as drained as the previous night. In order to reach his home, he took a shortcut through the heart of London – or what used to be the heart of London. His hands tucked in his jacket pockets – one gripping his wand in case of attack – he kept his eyes peeled for any disturbances besides the rats. He passed by the dingy window of a long-abandoned library when movement caught his eye. Stopping immediately, he eyed the figure in the window and slowly inched his way toward the library entrance. One could never tell a friend from foe in these times, but Gavin was certainly trying his best to gauge the stranger’s intent. After a few moments of silence, he whistled to catch the man’s attention from his place at the doorway. “Oi, I don’t think you’re supposed to be in these parts,” he remarked, his voice low as though speaking too loudly would send what was left of the library tumbling down upon them. His eyes never stayed focused and he could feel his own paranoia growing. “Abandoned or not, this could still be considered trespassing.”

Being whistled at to catch his attention left Brent’s face grim, twisting unpleasantly as the sound reminded him too much of a dog being ordered about. Considering his current predicament, it was far from Brent’s preferred method of being beckoned. Turning his attention to the wide entryway, the younger man closed the book, puffs of dust cascading to the floor. He recognized the other from his days at Hogwarts, when he had been Professor Vance, before the potions teacher’s tenure had been cut abruptly short. “As I understand it, Muggle libraries were meant for public use. If the establishment were still standing, I imagine that my patronage would be welcomed.” Brent did not fear what might be left of any existing muggle authorities. It wasn’t as if he was about to loot the place and take the books for his own. Pureblood estates tended to burn Muggle writings rather than add them to their collections. Brent had only ever gotten his hands on them through sly acquirement. The existing world didn’t want any of them thinking too much on their own. “Do is it that you no longer encourage learning, Mr. Vance?” The older man looked like a cornered animal with his pupils dilated as they were. Yet he had been the one to engage Brent in conversation first. He had no intent of dueling anyone that evening. 

[tothineownself-blog1]

mariarosier:

it wasn’t like her to want to lean on others. maria was fine counting on herself and only on herself. after the events of the past weeks, she found herself seeking solace in the form of her older cousin. she’d followed him as close as he allowed, happy that both of their places of comfort always seemed to involve books. maria scanned the books her self, peeking over at brent every once in a while gathering the courage to break the silence. “ 오빠, what do you think of this?” she cleared her throat, pretending to read read the book in her hands for a moment before continuing. “do you think that a person who, while trying to help them, let someone die is a murderer? even if they weren’t the ones to actually….attack them?’

Human behaviors were an oddity: they could simultaneously have a pattern and be unpredictable, but of this Brent was certain: Maria quietly insisting on being around him was a note of concern. His cousin relied on no one to be her crutch and while that remained true in this situation, she did seem to be seeking support of some kind. Patiently waiting for her to bring it up, when she began, Brent paid little mind to the book she was carrying. It was the latter question that she was wanting him to spend more time in considering and answering. Closing the book reverently, Brent indicated silently that Maria had his complete attention. Her behavioral ticks that had displayed how at unease she was were beginning to piece themselves together. He didn’t know what Maria had experienced or witness quite yet; more details on the circumstances would add clarification, but he would keep his questions in the hypothetical scenario. “Murderer? No. That responsibility lays solely with the one who held the intent. If someone was trying to help the victim, being unable to prevent their death is not indicative of guilt. I do suppose, however, that the scenario alters slightly depending on how the individual ‘let’ the victim die. If they merely passed on as a result of their wounds, there was only so much that could’ve been done, even with magic as part of the equation.”

[florizels]

to know is like a hunger: it destroys peace.

Louise Glück, Against Sincerity (via florizels)

[tothineownself-blog1]

Decades of war had left Muggle library archives in shreds. A pity, really, when considering what they once offered. Brent had kept his own collections tucked away, his volumes of Shakespeare and Henry David Thoreau and John Dewey gathering dust. They were kept under lock and key, in a compartment where all of his ideas lay idle. Discontentment clawing at Brent’s skin, he had sought momentary refuge at an abandoned library in the heart of London where the war had created demolition where booming businesses once stood. Fingers brushing over the spine of a book that was on the floor, one of the few who’s pages weren’t completely scattered or torn, he opened the book and began to skim over its contents. The condition of man is a condition of war of everyone against everyone. Without turning his attention to the cover, Brent recognized the words of Thomas Hobbes. Power, and the struggles for it, was rooted in every civilization that had eventually seen itself to its own ruin. What a shame that they were all subjected to the whims of Voldemort who’s story would undoubtedly end similarly, and they would become less than even footnotes in the telling of history. That was a far cry from the legacy Brent had intended to leave behind.