Everything was strange. Nothing was making sense and Rebekah was not one to like the unknown. She didn’t even know who to go to for answers nor did she know what this moment called for. She was tempted to track her sister down and figure something out but something deep down told her just to wait. Making her way down the street she could feel her lips curl ever so slightly.

     “A bar in need of a new owner?” pausing she leaned against the wall as she looked at the oldest Salvatore. “I don’t know if you’re ready for the rush that New Orleans has to offer, besides isn’t it more fun to observe than to take charge?” she mused softly with a shrug of her shoulders. Truth was she didn’t know of any bar that needed taking over but she was positive that he’d sort himself out. “What brings you to my city Damon?”

he’ll  admit  that  it  had  been  easy  to  find  himself  comfortable  with  the  silences:  that  while  mystic  falls  may  always  remain  a  town  SHROUDED  under  a  veil  of  the  supernatural,  it  certainly  held  nothing  that  he’d  wished  to  hold  onto  (  he  was  no  longer  the  vampire  who  thrived  in  exciting  environments  and  it  killed  him  ). 

there’s  a  conflicting  CONTRADICTION  that  sits  between  him  and  his  human  life:  the  joyful  moments  that  came  unwrapped  once  his  vampirism  was  cured  and  the  sadness  of  loss  --  that  in  the  end  it  cost  him  his  brother  (  he’d  always  believe  stefan  was  stupid  for  deciding  that  he  was  worth  it  ). 

there’s  often  been  a  capacity  for  change  that  the  original  has  dealt  with;  burdened  with  more  than  his  fair  share  of  issues  over  the  long  centuries  but  DEATH  felt  different  --  viable  to  a  suffering  he’d  only  confirm  to  believe  he  deserved  because  how  could  he  not  (  he  with  as  many  demons  in  life  as  in  death  ).  not  so  noble  he’d  recon  but  dared  not  to  admit  such  out  loud. 

&.  →   daniel  gillies  :  TAKE ME TO CHURCH BY HOZIER   ⸻  was  that  elijah  mikaelson  walking  around  new  orleans ?   word  around  the  town  claims  that  the  31/1000+-year-old   original  vampire  was  known  to  be  honorable  when  they  were  alive,  but  have  now  become  evasive.  which  is  why  they  remind  me  of  ink  blots  on  old  letters,  classical  music  &  sad  eyes  that  speak  poetry.  let’s  just  hope  they  can  survive  this  time .  

&.  →   ben  barnes   :   MIDDLE FINGER BY BOHNES   ⸻  was  that  damon  salvatore  walking  around  new  orleans ?  word  around  town  is  that  the  35/178+-year-old  human  is  known  to  be  loyal  +  evasive , which  is  why  they  remind  me  of  empty  bottles  of  bourbon,  classic  cars  &  hidden  motives  laid  beneath  painful  memories .  let’s  just hope  they  have  prepared  themselves  for  what  is  to  come  and  survive . 

𝚑𝚘𝚐𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑. 𝟸𝟶:𝟶𝟶 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜. 𝚜𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟽, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟿. 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜: 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗

The last thing he remembered seeing was his father’s face imposed on unfurling banners.

With a sudden jolt Jamie came to, eyes bursting open onto the dark sky overhead. Lungs burned in desperation for air, and he took a swift gulp. His tongue tasted like smoke and dust, burning his sinuses as he began to slowly register what was going on around him. He couldn’t quite remember where he was, until he had managed to turn his head and take a look around. Was this… the Hogwarts pitch? At the realization, it had slowly came back to him. One second ago he was sitting comfortably in the stands, only mildly paying attention to the debate before him. Now he was… Well, he wasn’t sure where he was, his vision obscured by something. A blink and that obstacle became clear — a spiderweb like crack splintering across his glasses. Nothing a quick repairing charm can’t fix. Even he couldn’t mess that up.

“No matter,” he croaked out to himself, suddenly realizing just how winded he was. “Just grab your wand and fix it.” Easier said than done it would seem. As his brain registered his limbs again, Jamie attempted to lift up his right hand only for a jolt of searing pain to catapult up his arm. He hissed miserably before letting his hand fall pathetically back to his side. “Shite,” he moaned, turning his head to try and get a view of the affected area to little success. I really hope that’s not broken. It was the last thing a professional athlete needed, much less a person in his precarious situation.

Slowly, and with mighty effort, Jamie began to sit up, now registering the blurry landscape around him. He was still in the stands, and a throbbing at the back of his head seemed to signify that he’d fallen over and hit his head on the seat. Must have been after the demonstrations… Duh, he thought. The memories began to come back to him in quick spurts. The debate. The student stepping up. The banners bearing Kingsley and his father’s faces. That maniacal voice. Was it some kind of terrorist attack? He wasn’t sure, but he remembered the frenzy that filled the stands as everyone began running for the closest exits. That’s when I must have been knocked over.

Whatever was going on, Jamie needed to get out of there, rather quickly, and so far it felt like most of his other bones were intact. He could make it to safety on foot, of that he was certain. “Get up, Jamie boy, c’mon now,” he grunted, “You need to get to… to the castle, of course!” What place was safer than Hogwarts (or really, in a comfortable proximity to the pitch)? He couldn’t just apparate, and Hogsmeade was a bit far… Surely everyone was regrouping at the school and it was a safe point in all this mayhem. Yes, Jamie Potter was sure of it, and he was determined to make his way there and hopefully find a healer to tend to his wounded wrist. All will be just fine.

A stupidly optimistic thought.

As he slowly began to sit up, he heard a sound coming from the darkness just a few feet away. Oh no! Instantly Jamie fell into a panic, his heart wildly thumping against his chest. Without a thought, he flopped down and tried to roll between the benches in the stands, squeezing his eyes shut as he attempted to slow his breathing. Play dead! Dear lord, look unconscious! A simple thought, but in that harrowing moment it felt his safest bet. His wand hand was hurt, and he was already poor at magic when it was perfectly fine. If danger lurked in the shadows, then he would be a goner. Harry Potter’s eldest son, alone and wounded, the perfect victim. He swallowed and attempted to bury the thought. You can’t see me! I’m dead, you won’t notice me! He kept repeating the thoughts in his head as he willed his body to be incredibly still, hoping and praying that whoever was about to stumble upon him either had good intentions or would believe him not worth injuring further.

your  actions  were  so  weak,  your  heart  can’t  have  been  in  them  --  two  months  ago  was  the  first  time  he  recalled  words  spoken  by  the  greatest  professor  hogwarts  had  EVER  known:  the  very  first  moment  his  body  felt  the  same  aches  of  pain  and  fear  that  had  been  present  when  he  was  seventeen.  of  all  the  demons  that  had  once  buried  themselves  so  deep  in  his  skin,  he  could  now  feel  them  crawling  around  again. 

dumbledore  had  been  right  all  along.

he’d  stood  there  for  moments;  even  with  foreknowledge  of  what  was  to  come,  he’d  admit  that  he  found  himself  silenced.  gasping  -  at  least  in  spirit  -  with  a  crowd  of  people  who  missed  the  men,  who  missed  former  colleagues  and  school  friends  because  their  grief  remained  endless. while  he  knew  little  of  such  connections,  he  felt  a  sadness  of  his  own  weaving  away...

had  he  not  been  a  coward  all  those  years  ago,  maybe  the  civil  glances  of  appreciation  could’ve  turned  into  friendship  (  that  maybe  he  could’ve  been  far  more  than  the  son  of  a  death  eater  ).  

he  tucks  himself  away,  aware  of  the  role  he’s  to  play  if  success  is  on  the  table.  honouring  the  very  malice  and  discontent  of  what  it  means  to  be  a  death  eater,  as  not  to  arouse  suspicion  in  those  whose  minds  had  already  been  tainted  with  the  darkness  of  paranoia.  

their  eyes  were  too  similar:  the  same  oracles  of  truth  that  spoke  only  earnestly.  this  was  harry  potter’s  son,  one  of  the  many  children  draco  recalled  reading  about  in  the  prophet  and  left...well,  he’d  be  the  perfect  victim  to  arouse  even  more  tension. 

(  draco  couldn’t  have  that  )