lisa turpin

spring used to be the time of the year that tempest felt themself open up to the world again – quidditch practices became more frequent and far more pleasant, the sun would light them up from the outside inwards and the opportunities to frequent pub gardens would bring a pep to their step. now, they've found themselves retreating to the bittersweet comfort of tattered covers more and more often, getting over the initial sorrow that permenated simply being in its presence and instead feeling less at home whenever they weren't there. it's been a morning of hanging out in the dusty shelves, perching on the in-built window-sill that penelope had crafted with her wand and scowling out at the world.

tilting her head, a small smirk makes its way into the corners of lisa's mouth. she looks as if she's mulling over tempest’s words, like she's giving it some serious philosophical weight. “yeah, you’re right. who needs nice things? or joy. or you know a single fleeting moment of pleasure in this bleak existence.” she gestures vaguely at the robes in the display, as if they were the last beacon of hope to ever exist in the world they live in. “tragic, really! we almost had something to live for.”