IN THE WOODS.

hey yall, cami here. i’m really tired but take this please ily k bye

THE CARROWS

" we are the children of magic itself. " her mother used to put it all in quite a poetic manner. the small house, gloomy and damp, had a floating candle under each painting and photograph of long-forgotten carrows, once the ministers and headmasters of entire generations. blunders happened along the way, as it happened to every other pureblood family, and the paintings were thrown in the fireplace or into the creek running behind the property - the carrows had a deeply ingrained culture of glorifying their legacy, but ruthlessly turning it to ash should it not benefit them.

the great fortune of old was wasted by lavish living, and by the time achos carrow married to an insignificant selwyn, the debt ran deep - certainly aided by the heavy involvement of the family in the first wizarding war. in the stories flora was told, they were martyrs, sacrificing their kin and gold for a greater purpose, mourning the injustice of her uncle amycus and aunt alecto, behind bars. of course, it was easy to let stories fester in the minds of children, miles away from the truth - achos and ellaine had moved to a plot of land hidden between the welsh mounds shortly before their children arrived, and for far too many years, they lived mostly in their own forgotten country, where north was down, south was up, history was a puzzle they would rearrange.

their marriage is a happy one, the product of two lifelong friends with their minds set on one cause only, with the same trains of thought. after giving birth to twin girls, the couple saw in them the tabua rasa they so yearned for at work, in the department of magical education. try as they might, children had entire lives before going to hogwarts, and their efforts, even if the rest of the department wasn't in the way most times, was purely too little too late. hestia and flora would change that, becoming their personal experiments.

CHILDHOOD

given how well little flora took to stories, the carrows would spend endless hours sitting down with her, spewing all thoughts they saw fit, and she'd stare, deep in concentration, quiet end still, what an exemplary student. the image they so carefully curated of a small, charming and polite family was spreading.

soon, however, the well-screened tutors and especially the words of her parents were not enough. flora took to reading as soon as she learned how, and in books she could find new subjects, different people they'd never mentioned, fantasy that sounded much more real than the hollow concept of the dark lord. magic was all around her, but in those pages and in the dusty illustrations she felt every spell. once a little girl who did not ask questions, flora became a fountain of confusions, mostly met with 'who told you that?'.

the frustration towards the younger twin only grew over time. flora's favourite game became a sort of hide and seek, where she'd hide somewhere in the house or the rest of the property, telling no soul or perhaps hestia, at times, and waiting until the screams with her name began. it was fascinating to count how long it took for her little world to notice her absence, how they'd react, how sometimes her mother would begin crying after some hours, how a relative or family friend might be called in to help scour the fields for the little girl. there was something powerful in observing annoyance, anger, and above all fear, yet control when it all starts, when it all ends. in a place strictly manipulated by the two gods of the house, this was when she turned the tables, even if just for a bit. eventually, however, concern faded away. by twelve, she could disappear for the longest stretches, as long as she returned without a speck of dirt and in time for lessons or dinner - and of course, if she didn't meet with anyone but the household.

as a sidenote, someone bring hestia, lets plot more then, cmON

HOGWARTS

before going to hogwarts, flora and hestia had gone to the usual parties and celebrations the purebloods so fancied, and some ministry events where they could be shown off like school projects. they hadn't, however, seen much more than that. the prospect of getting wands, robes, boarding on a train - all little things that identified them as beings, individuals who were more than just a name and affiliation - it meant the world for flora. she relished in the way the shop owner told her father he couldn't keep giving flora the wands the man suggested until the exact one he envisioned worked. she held her ticket with the care one touches thin glass. she walked around the train with a smile thrown at every other first year kid, even began conversations with some. some people in her year still tease her about how much she's changed since that day.

the hat placed on her head took a minute or so to decide, being pulled in the directions of slytherin and ravenclaw, but flora knew which answer would make her parents, two slytherin alumni, the most satisfied. now she wonders if the opposite choice would have positioned her in any way farther away from the heart of the conflict.

flora grew quite happy at hogwarts. the library was the stuff of dreams, the classes a fresh new world, and she'd been lucky enough (or so she'd thought) to have gone to school the same year as the boy who lived, a story that she could never quite believe, even with the boy sitting in class right in front of her. in many ways, flora saw herself as the observer of the perfect spectacle throughout the years, her journals serving as the proof that she'd been the face in the crowd of the myths. flora read other points of view at the library, and heard them in her common room, creating in her mind her own narrative of harry potter, of the war, of the carrows.

her personal library grew even more during school. the easy access to other kids and to hogsmeade resulted in trunks getting heavier and heavier every summer, even sometimes with muggle names she couldn't dare let her family see. to her, none of that ever mattered. words were words, no matter who wrote them, and all she cared about was what incredible tales they told and how they made her feel.

her studious nature thrived at hogwarts, and her grades, while not beyond impressive, were rather good. flora always loved potions above all. she did quite well at all subjects, but she got into the slughorn club not only because of her name, but because of her talent. it was the one thing that felt precise and rational when everything else wasn’t.

while she was a quiet figure, either lurking in some forgotten couch in the common room, on her bed, or beneath a tree, flora showed to the people at hogwarts something her parents only got inklings of. her words often carried venom, and her words an edge as sharp as a cut - a few people even got frontstage to what happened when flora carrow held too much of that poison in herself and it spilled out, the burning flame of anger, the way her voice would at last raise above a whisper.

her parents feared that spark they sometimes saw. she was becoming a volatile little thing, a disgrace upon their projects and a threat to the legacy they'd been so carefully building. a few months ago a discussion began over what to do, a very public one, as a way to instill fear in the girl: perhaps flora needed a proper marriage plan, just like her grandparents and just like far too many of her peers - someone who'd control her, who'd bring some much-needed coin to the family, someone to DISTRACT her. they did, after all, always know of her affection for hopelessly romantic tales, even if they'd never heard of any boy she'd daydream of (and they never would). perhaps flora needed a goal, a purpose like the oath other people from her school had taken upon, like her uncle and aunt before her. a good potioneer like her could become a valuable investment for the dark lord.

HEADCANONS

as much as flora hates to admit it, there’s this hunger for power in the back of her mind that she can’t shut down. she enjoys feeling important, like the name she carries or the blood in her veins places her higher in a contest for worthiness.

umbridge was a personal friend of her parents, and flora saw her as the intrusion of the manipulating hand she knew all summer in the few months she had of freedom. resenting it, she did the most to fail the class, being called to her office often to discuss how her parents would be embarrassed and how dolores believed she could do much better. she just barely finished it.

how does flora feel about the whole muggleborn ‘debate’? she never really cared about it. it was too removed from her. it never personally affected her. she didn’t go out of her way to bully and attack muggleborns or ‘blood traitors’, but she wouldn’t exactly tell others to stop. perhaps insist that she was bored and they should just leave. she never stopped to analyze why she did that sometimes. she just doesn’t care. in fact, all of the events of late seem to barely make an impression upon her, except when they come with the threat of her having to actively participate in it. flora sees the entire conflict as the mighty pureblooded families losing relevancy and trying their hardest to gain it back; a petty little thing - she doesn't, however, grasp the reality that people have died for it, and innocents have been murdered. the details require emotional introspect she does not possess.

she is !! practically mute but if u get her to talk u see bitch is actually very angry?? all the time?? hulk whomst.  angry and annoyed and detached

flora has a hard time grasping the emotional weight of events unless she's writing about them. ever since she can remember, flora has kept journals, parts of it accounts of her days, most of it short stories and poems that serve as practice writing and as a fictionalization of the harsh reality around her. reading dumbledore's murder or the murder of ministry officials little stories about the fragility of mankind and the shortcomings of magic simply makes it easier to understand and cope with.

she loves potions and books. her dream is to just be an old witch living in a forest cottage in wales with ten cats and an equally as quiet girlfriend, brewing the potions that take weeks to complete, writing poems she forgets to put away, the scent of lavender in the air almost sickening.

flora has a little garden at home which she loves with all her heart. she truly cares for her plants, despite how much on the nose that is with her name. at hogwarts she keeps a couple of small pots hidden in the greenhouse.

doesn't own a single pair of jeans or pants. will live her entire life in dresses and skirts and is just fine like that.

she thinks the people fighting against the death eaters are also stupid and cruel. literally takes the term neutral and turns it into apathy and will openly speak about it with that specific dosage of venom should she trust you enough.

your back hurts? your hair needs to grow faster? want to poison someone? flora will gladly brew little batches of potions in her spare time and sell them within school grounds.

lowkey needs a hug and someone who'll take the time to really listen to hER

she also likes to walk around at night, trying her best not to get caught at home by her parents and by prefects at school. it freaks people out when at 3am they hear footsteps and the light from a wand, even if just around the room or the common area. she likes the creepy factor, completely embraces it, people sometimes find her reading with her back to their front doors or doing homework behind some plants in the greenhouse. dark forgotten places are her places.

she has a cat, he’s old and ugly and his name is moros like the greek god of doom. he hates everyone, most times including flora. he's not a nice cat and she'd tear a man limb by limb for him.

flor is constantly writing. unfinished projects are her thing. poetry, prose, plays, journaling. poetry is what she usually dedicates herself most. she has an eye for rhythm in words, and feelings. everything she writes is always either too hopeful and naive, or pessimistic and sad. she doesn’t know an in-between. that goes to say for her life as well. flora dreams of all the pretty perfect pure things she knows aren’t real. all the well-intentioned kisses and soft pink flowery dresses flowing in the wind, and small cottages in the middle of a field and delicate generations old tea sets. this pristine romanticized aesthetic

on the other hand, when her writing is sad, it’s not just sad. it’s miserable. it’s worrying. she talks about that even less. all the scary intrusive thoughts that come to her mind. all the holes she can’t explain why she could never fill. all the numbness that attacks her some days and she can’t fight it back. this loneliness that makes no sense.