Musings

One of my entries for this activity

https://www.hexrpg.com/f/520/20606

The land looked like it had been breathing long before they arrived.

Isabel stood atop one of the strange, earthen humps. She stood on top; her boots crunching softly in the dirt. The ground rolled gently away from her in hues of black and dirty crimson. Something far beneath the soil buzzed lowly. Small pockets of garnet erupted from the earth, blotching it with crimson as they seeped through. A couple solitary pines watched over.

“It feels… wrong,” she murmured, though her voice held more wonder than fear.

Lucanis stepped up beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “Not wrong,” he said softly. “Just honest.”

She turned to him, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You would say that.”

His gaze lingered on her longer than the landscape. “It reminds me of you.”

Isabel laughed under her breath. “I’m not sure if I should be offended.”

“Beautiful,” he clarified, quieter now. “And deeper than it lets on.”

The wind changed directions. Warm earth filled their nostrils, faintly laced with copper.

Isabel laced her fingers with his; at first gently, she had scarcely realized she was doing it. Firmly now, seeking purchase in him instead of the drifting land around them.

Neither said anything for a few moments.

The hills rolled for miles. But here. Now. All there was, was their joined hands.

Isabel leaned slightly into him. “If this place is honest,” she whispered, “then what does it say about us?”

Lucanis did not look away from her. “That we stayed.”

My entry for this activity...

https://www.hexrpg.com/f/248/8062

Change:

What if the story was told entirely through Scorpius Malfoy’s perspective, and instead of trying to fix time, he realizes some things are meant to be endured, not undone? In this version, **Albus Potter briefly becomes trapped in an altered timeline, and Scorpius must decide whether saving him is worth risking the fragile peace their families have built. The story focuses less on changing the past and more on choosing love and loyalty in the present.

Excerpt:

Scorpius had always thought time would feel louder.

If it broke, if it twisted, if it bent into something unnatural, surely there would be a crack. A sound like splintering glass. A warning.

Instead, it was quiet. Too quiet.

He waited there in the hall, hand tight around his wand. He stared at a castle that seemed almost correct. The banners were incorrect. The lighting was incorrect. It felt like even the air had not remembered how to breathe correctly.

And Albus was gone. Not missing. Not late. Gone in a way that left a hollow space behind, like a word erased from a sentence that no longer made sense without it.

Scorpius swallowed hard.

“You could fix this,” whispered a voice in his mind. It sounded a little like hope and a little like fear. “You’ve done it before. Turn back. Change it again. Find him.”

He closed his eyes. He could see it already. The ripple. The damage. Every choice rewriting something else. Every fix creating a fracture somewhere deeper. He had watched it happen. He had felt it.

And yet… Albus. His best friend. The person who had seen him and not thought Malfoy first. Scorpius released a slow breath and tried to calm himself. “No,” he whispered. The word shook slightly on his tongue, but held true. “No more destroying the world to help live in it.”

It was silent around him. Albus would be yelling if he was here. Begging them to try, somehow. Scorpius would chuckle and be stupid and say he didn’t care, they’d make it work.

Scorpius chuckled quietly, humourlessly. “Still working it out with you,” he whispered, though he knew no-one would respond. He gripped his wand tighter, pulling his shoulders back sharply as something locked into place within him. Not confidence. Not resolution.

But choice.

“I’ll find another way,” he said.

And this time, he meant forward.

My entry...

https://www.hexrpg.com/f/109/235771

Dear Diary,

For the record, no leprechaun hunting was on my agenda today. I went outside because I needed some fresh air, to think, and maybe find a snack. That was my whole intention. A simple, sane intention. But what I found instead was a rainbow that seemed too perfect to be real, and an utterly unexpected life event.

The rainbow was wrong from the start. Too bright. Too perfect. It arched like it was showing off, and, most concerning of all, it ended directly behind a bush that was very clearly wobbling like it had something to hide. A normal bush does not wobble. This bush had intentions.

I knew I should leave. I had a full internal conversation about leaving. I even took one step back.

Then I stepped forward again, because apparently my decision-making skills disappear the moment something looks even slightly magical.

When I peeked behind the bush, I found a leprechaun.

I'd envisioned him taller, but he was only about two feet from head to toe. His beard resembled fur that had surrendered to many battles with scissors. He wore green clothes. Not just green. Green that judged you. Muddy boots, a crooked hat, and sitting at the end of the rainbow, he looked way too comfortable.

Also, and this is important, he was eating the rainbow.

Not metaphorically. Not in a poetic way. He had a fork. He was actively cutting pieces off the rainbow and chewing like this was a completely normal part of his day.

Naturally, I asked about it.

He seemed annoyed that I interrupted him, which feels unfair, because watching someone eat weather gives me the right to ask at least one question. He told me the rainbow was “condensed spectral sugar” and that it was dessert.

I asked what he normally eats. He proudly pointed at the bush.

The bush was smaller.

He had eaten it.

When I asked how, he said it was “seasoned with confidence,” which I still don’t understand, but he seemed very sure of himself, so I just nodded like that was normal.

Then, because I am predictable, I asked about the gold. The pot of gold. He got immediately defensive and told me pots are impractical and terrible for running, which… honestly, fair. I can barely run with my own thoughts, let alone a pot of anything.

He insisted he still has gold, but it’s not in a pot, and that he “invested” it. When I asked what he invested in, he said “shiny things” and refused to elaborate, which somehow made it worse.

At that point, I figured I might as well try for a riddle. So I asked him if he does them.

He said yes.

I got excited.

He then said no, and that he just tells people that and leaves.

And that is exactly what he did.

He snapped his fingers, the rainbow flickered, and he vanished. Just gone. No gold, no riddle, no explanation. The bush stopped wobbling, the sky looked normal again, and I was left standing there, slightly covered in something that felt like pudding but definitely was not pudding.

So, to summarize: leprechauns are real, they eat weather, they invest in shiny things, and they are deeply committed to being unhelpful.

Also, I didn’t even get dessert, which feels like the real injustice here.

Irritated!

Allyx

This was my entry for this contest. It was judged 1st. :)

https://www.hexrpg.com/f/50/64440

Victoria had never been one for theatrics. She liked confidence; just not loud confidence. But as she sat in the salon chair that morning, she looked in the mirror and realized that subtlety would not suffice.

Her hair had always been safe. Long, dark, predictable. The perfect hair. The hair that met expectations and never defied them. It tucked neatly behind her ears. It disappeared into the background when she entered a room. Hair that had never been challenged. And neither had she, she realized.

“Are you sure?” the stylist asked gently, fingers hovering as if afraid to touch something that might shatter.

Victoria met her own gaze in the mirror. For once, she did not look away. “Yes.”

The first cut hurt more than she thought it would. Clean. Final. She heard her hair fall, thick and heavy into her lap before dropping to the floor. Something inside her shifted. Not regret. Relief.

She had spent years smoothing herself down. At work, she softened her opinions. At home, she avoided conflict. In conversations, she adjusted her tone, her words, and her reactions until they were palatable. Acceptable. Invisible.

The scissors moved again.

By the time she stopped cutting, her hair just grazed her jaw. Short. Choppy. Purposefully mismatched. But still unfinished.

The color came next.

Deep black was stripped away, replaced piece by piece with stark, unapologetic white. Not blended. Not softened. A bold contrast split down the center of her head, one side dark, the other light. No gradient. No compromise.

It looked almost confrontational.

Victoria studied it in silence.

“What does it mean?” the stylist asked, quieter this time.

Victoria gave a small shake of her head, noticing how the two colors actively pushed against each other. "It means I'm done trying to force a neat explanation for it all."

She went on no further explanation, yet explanation was unnecessary. It hung there for all to see, concrete.

When she stepped outside, the world did not stop. Cars passed. People walked. But eyes lingered. Some curious. Some confused. Some disapproving.

At the office, the reactions were less subtle.

“You changed your hair,” someone said, as though it were an observation that needed no further thought.

Victoria smiled faintly. “I did.”

Another coworker hesitated. “It’s… bold.”

It was not a compliment. It was not an insult. It was uncertainty.

Victoria nodded anyway. “That’s the point.”

The discussions that ensued were unlike those she was accustomed to. Questions were asked she had never heard asked before. Not only about her hair but her thoughts, her opinions. As if the interruption sanctioned them to ask for more than pleasant silence.

And Victoria gave it to them.

She spoke without softening her words. She disagreed without apology. She allowed pauses to sit without rushing to fill them.

The hairstyle became a boundary.

One side of her head carried the past, the version of herself that had blended in so well she had nearly disappeared. The other side held everything she had been holding back. There was no line smoothing them together.

Because it was not comfortable.

That was the statement.

Not everything needed to be reconciled into something easy. Not every person needed to be reduced into something digestible.

When she caught her reflection later that evening, the split in her hair no longer felt jarring. It felt honest.

For the first time, Victoria did not look like someone trying to fit into the frame.

She looked like someone who had decided to redraw it.

This was my entry...

https://www.hexrpg.com/f/137/235779

Prompt 3 - The sun was setting

Willy opened the old wooden door, a cold breeze grazing his arms. He paused at the threshold, rubbing his hands together as though that would convince his body it wasn't suddenly ten degrees colder. "Yeah." He sighed, peering down the dark hallway before him. "This is cozy. Homey, even."

He went in anyways. Making stupid decisions was apparently part of his daily life. The door slammed behind him, loudly and dramatically. Willy jumped. "Nope. Not ominous." He cleared his throat.

Echoing louder than they ought to, his footsteps resounded like the floor was demanding attention. Portraits lining the walls watched him pass by. One shot what appeared to be a judgmental squint in his direction. Willy paused. “If you're gonna glare," he grumbled, "at least make it look like I'm heroic.”

He kept moving, faster now, the cold breeze following just close enough to feel like it was winning.

And then, after seemingly way too many hallways for one establishment, there appeared a dim light at the end of the tunnel. Willy paused, before forging ahead, hand near the door. "Okay," Willy breathed, "best case scenario we get snacks. Worst case… more hallway.”

He pulled the door open. Warmth replaced the cold instantly. The world around Willy opened up into a field. The sun was setting behind them in a rush of gold and orange. Willy blinked, shoulders sagging as the stress left him.

“Okay...” Willy stepped outside “I forgive you haunted hallway.” This is nice.”

This is a 2-part. One Graphic and One Written - This is my entry for my character. https://www.hexrpg.com/f/37/64290

Fandom: Dragon Age: Veilguard

Isabel Dellamorte is known among the Antivan Crows as precise, dangerous, and utterly unshakeable. What no one knows is that she keeps something alive.

Buried deep in an unkempt courtyard in Treviso behind a rusted gate that no one bothers to unlock sits Isabel's secret garden. Not for beauty, not entirely. At first it was necessity. She started growing rare herbs for poisons, antidotes, and spell ingredients. Quiet work. Controlled. Predictable.

But over time, something changed.

She started planting things that had no use in assassination. Soft lavender. Climbing roses. A stubborn little orange tree that took years to bear fruit. Plants that required patience instead of precision. Care instead of control.

It became the only place where she was not a Crow.

She visits at odd hours, usually after contracts, when her hands are still steady but her thoughts are not. Sometimes Lucanis Dellamorte finds her there, sleeves rolled, dirt under her nails, looking far too at peace for someone who kills for a living. He never comments. Just leans against the wall, watching.

The garden is not spoken of. Not to the Crows. Not even to their closest allies.

Because if anyone knew that Isabel nurtured life as carefully as she ended it, it would ruin the myth of her.

And she is not ready to give that up.

My entry was judged 2nd Place! https://www.hexrpg.com/f/520/20568

Ron Weasley stood in line outside the Auror Office trying very hard to look like a man who had not, five minutes earlier, walked directly into the Ministry of Magic fountain in front of a small but deeply judgmental crowd.

This was not easy.

His robes were technically dry now, thanks to Harry, but Ron was fairly certain dignity did not respond to drying charms. There was also a lingering suspicion that something aquatic had briefly bonded with his soul and refused to fully let go. He could still hear the splash in his head. It echoed. It judged.

Beside him, Harry looked calm. Ron had known Harry long enough to recognize this as a lie.

Around them, the other trainees stood in small clusters, all pretending not to be nervous. Everyone wore the same expression people had before exams, duels, or Molly Weasley entering a room and asking, “What’s all this, then?”

At precisely eight o’clock, the doors opened.

Auror Savage stepped out.

Ron immediately wished to be anywhere else. Preferably somewhere with fewer witnesses and no reflective surfaces.

Savage was large in every possible way. Large shoulders, large boots, large voice. He looked like the physical embodiment of disappointment. “Alright, scrubs, listen up,” Savage barked.

Everyone snapped to attention.

“Today is your first stealth assessment. That means no stomping, no shouting, no dramatic heroics. If I hear one of you cast a spell loud enough to wake the dead, I will personally wake the dead and have them file complaints against you.”

Ron swallowed.

Savage paced in front of them. “You will enter a simulated environment. Your objective is to retrieve a marked case file from a secured office and return it here without being detected. More than three alerts, you fail. Harm a civilian, you fail. Break anything important, you fail. If you panic, I will know. If you cry, I will write it down.”

He stopped directly in front of Ron.

Ron stared somewhere near Savage’s left ear.

“You,” Savage said.

“Yes, sir?”

“Try not to fall into anything today.”

A few trainees snorted.

Ron turned a color usually associated with tomatoes in distress. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“Potter and Weasley,” Savage continued, “you’re together. Chamber Two.”

“Brilliant,” Ron muttered under his breath as they moved. “Nothing like being paired with Harry Potter to ensure maximum public embarrassment.”

Harry gave him a sideways look. “We’ll be fine.”

Ron nodded solemnly. “That’s what people say right before things go terribly wrong.”

The simulation chamber looked like a perfectly normal Ministry corridor.

Ron did not trust it for a second.

Savage’s voice followed them in. “Office 2B. Retrieve the Peridot file. Twenty minutes. Begin.”

The moment they crossed the threshold, the air shifted. Not visibly, but enough that Ron felt it in his teeth. The lighting dimmed slightly, not darker, just… flatter. The polished floor reflected a fraction too clearly, like it was trying too hard to be convincing.

“Right,” Harry whispered. “Slow and quiet.”

Ron nodded. “I can do slow. Quiet is more… situational.”

They began creeping forward.

Ron focused intensely on placing each foot carefully, rolling from heel to toe the way they had been taught. He even held his arms slightly out for balance, which made him feel like an awkward flamingo attempting espionage.

This worked for exactly twelve seconds.

Then he stepped on a tile that produced a loud, unmistakable chicken squawk. They both froze. The sound echoed down the corridor with horrifying enthusiasm.

Somewhere ahead, footsteps stopped. “Did you hear that?” a guard called.

Ron stared at the floor in betrayal. “Why would it do that?” he whispered.

Harry grabbed his sleeve and yanked him behind a large potted fern just as the guard appeared.

Ron crouched awkwardly, knees protesting, a leaf immediately lodging itself in his nose. The fern smelled faintly of peppermint and something aggressively floral, like it had opinions.

The guard frowned at the plant.

Ron fought for his life.

Harry whispered a soft gust charm. Papers fluttered at the far end of the hall, one even slipping under a door.

The guard turned. “Hm.” He walked away, muttering something about drafts.

Ron exhaled so hard the fern trembled again, scattering a few loose leaves onto his shoulder.

“You nearly sneezed,” Harry whispered.

“I was attacked by vegetation,” Ron hissed, plucking a leaf from his collar.

They moved on. At the next doorway, Harry paused. “Ward.”

Ron squinted. “I don’t see anything.”

“It’s there. Look at the air. It bends slightly.”

Ron leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.

Ping.

A bell appeared above his head and rang once, bright and cheerful, like it was delighted to ruin his life.

Harry closed his eyes.

From behind them, footsteps started again.

“Oh, come on,” Ron whispered. “A bell? That’s just rude. That’s malicious design.”

They darted into the nearest office and shut the door. Ron leaned against a cabinet.

The cabinet betrayed him. An entire stand of umbrellas toppled over with a noise that could have summoned dragons. One even bounced twice, just for emphasis.

Ron lunged to catch them. This made it worse. One umbrella sprang open in his face, nearly poking his eye out. Another smacked him on the ear. A third, decorated with aggressively cheerful ducks wearing top hats, bounced across the room and wedged itself under a chair.

Harry folded in half, shaking with silent laughter, one hand pressed over his mouth.

“Not a word,” Ron hissed, wrestling the duck umbrella like it had personally insulted his family.

The door flew open. A witch stood there, unimpressed and armed with a clipboard. Her glasses slid slightly down her nose as she looked them over like they were particularly disappointing paperwork.

Harry stepped forward instantly. “Routine inspection.”

“Of umbrellas?” she asked flatly.

Ron blurted, “Dangerous umbrellas.”

Harry looked like he might faint.

The witch stared at them for a long moment. “You look useless.”

“Thank you,” Ron said automatically, because apparently his brain had given up.

She sniffed. “Guard patrol in twelve seconds. They check left first, then right.”

She left.

Ron blinked. “Was that… helpful?”

“I think she pitied us.”

“That feels worse somehow.”

They slipped out just in time, hugging the wall as two guards passed, their boots clicking in perfect rhythm.

At last, Office 2B. The door shimmered with faint golden lines, crisscrossing like a spiderweb of light.

Harry crouched. “Layered wards. Detection and alert.”

Ron hesitated, then pointed. “What if we distract it?”

Harry glanced up. “Explain.”

“Fred and George used to do this thing with fake charms. If you give it something else to focus on first, it sort of… commits to that.”

Harry grinned. “Decoy.”

He charmed a coin and flicked it down the corridor. It clicked softly against the wall. The ward shifted, the golden lines bending toward the disturbance like curious snakes.

“Now,” Ron whispered.

“Finite.”

The ward dissolved with a soft sigh.

Harry looked impressed. “That was brilliant.”

Ron beamed. “Please repeat that loudly in front of Savage.”

They slipped inside.

The office was cluttered with shelves stacked to the ceiling, files sorted by color in neat, slightly obsessive rows. A faint ticking came from somewhere, like a clock that didn’t quite trust time.

“Peridot,” Harry muttered, scanning.

“Why are they all colors?” Ron whispered, squinting at labels like “Mauve” and “Chartreuse.”

“Because someone hates efficiency.”

They found it just as the door handle rattled.

Ron panicked immediately.

Harry grabbed the file. Ron looked around wildly. There was nowhere to hide except a large decorative suit of armor that looked far too dignified to be involved in this.

Ron pointed.

Harry stared at him like he’d suggested they hide inside a teacup.

Ron mouthed, Trust me.

This was not reassuring.

The handle turned.

They squeezed inside. Everything about it was terrible. No space. No air. Too many elbows and not enough agreement about where those elbows should go.

A guard entered.

Ron’s nose began to itch.

No. Absolutely not.

The itch intensified, as if every speck of dust in the armor had unionized against him.

The guard sneezed.

Ron’s body betrayed him. He sneezed too.

It echoed inside the armor like a haunted kettle being kicked down a staircase. The entire suit rattled, one gauntlet twitching ominously.

The guard froze. Turned. Stared. Then said, “Creepy.” And went back to his paperwork.

Harry shook with silent laughter, his shoulder knocking into Ron’s repeatedly.

Ron glared at him in the darkness, which accomplished nothing.

When the guard finally left, Ron tried to move. He got stuck. He tugged. His sleeve caught.

The armor collapsed around him in a catastrophic metallic avalanche that echoed like a marching band falling down stairs.

Harry lost all restraint.

“Help me!” Ron hissed from beneath a breastplate.

“You look like you’re being born out of cookware!”

“HELP ME!”

They scrambled free, knocking a helmet aside, and bolted.

“Time?” Ron panted.

“Four minutes.”

“Plenty—”

The corridor lights turned red.

A siren blared, loud and deeply judgmental.

Ron looked down.

He was holding the helmet. A tag read PROPERTY MONITOR CHARM.

“Oh, brilliant.”

“Run,” Harry said.

They ran. Stealth was officially over.

Ron slipped on the polished floor, windmilled his arms, recovered, and accidentally threw the helmet into a coat rack.

The rack collapsed dramatically, taking a small table with it. A bowl of floating sweets exploded across the floor, fizzing faintly. A guard rounded the corner, stepped on one, and immediately fell with a shout.

Harry dragged Ron around a corner. “Hide!”

“Behind the plant again?!”

“It worked!”

“It barely worked!”

They crouched, the fern once again judging Ron personally, until the guards rushed past toward the chaos.

Then they sprinted for the exit. Ron dove through first. Harry followed.

Silence.

The simulation ended.

Savage stood waiting, clipboard in hand, expression carved from stone.

Harry handed over the file.

Savage checked it slowly. Then looked at them. “Atrocious,” he said.

Ron’s soul packed its bags.

“Footwork sloppy. Noise discipline catastrophic. Weasley, you have the stealth of a festive trombone.”

Ron stared at the floor.

“However,” Savage continued, “you adapted. You completed the objective. You did not quit.”

He fixed them with a stare. “You passed.”

Ron blinked. “We passed?” he said.

“You passed,” Savage snapped. “Do not make me regret it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Savage moved on.

Ron turned to Harry slowly. “We passed.”

Harry grinned. “We passed.”

Ron let out a shaky laugh. “I set off a chicken floor.”

“You also got us in.”

“I got stuck in armor.”

“You sneezed in armor.”

“You laughed in armor.”

“Fair.”

They headed for the lifts, adrenaline fading, legs slightly wobbly.

As they waited, one trainee leaned over. “Was that… a chicken?”

Ron sighed. “Yes. The floor has opinions.”

The trainee nodded like that made sense.

The lift doors opened. They stepped inside.

Someone said, “The armor bit was impressive.”

Ron straightened. “Yes. Advanced technique.”

Harry made a choking sound.

Ron elbowed him.

The lift descended.

“We really passed,” Ron said quietly.

“We did.”

The doors opened onto the Atrium.

Ron stepped out, feeling almost triumphant. He walked directly into a bronze statue.

Clang.

Harry doubled over laughing.

Ron rubbed his forehead. “I hate this place.”

A witch passing by smiled. “First day?”

Ron sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

She nodded.

Ron glanced at the fountain.

It gleamed. Waiting.

“Don’t,” Harry said immediately.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“I was not.” Ron turned away, tripped slightly on a tile, caught himself, and straightened with forced dignity. “Right,” he said. “Tomorrow we’re being subtle.”

Harry grinned. “Absolutely.”

Ron nodded. Then paused. “What if the floor makes sheep noises next time?”

Harry considered. “Then we resign.”

Ron thought about it. “Fair.”

They started toward the Floo fireplaces, but Ron slowed slightly, glancing back toward the lifts as if half-expecting Savage to reappear and declare the entire thing a clerical error.

“You know,” Ron said, lowering his voice, “I think the worst part wasn’t even the guards.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“It was the building,” Ron said firmly. “The building has it out for me. First the fountain. Then the chicken tile. Then the bell. Then the armor. That wasn’t a test, Harry. That was personal.”

Harry snorted. “You think the Ministry designed an entire training simulation just to mess with you?”

Ron pointed vaguely upward. “Have you met this place?”

Harry considered that. “Fair point.”

They passed a pair of older Aurors, one of whom gave Ron a brief, assessing glance.

Ron straightened instinctively.

“First test?” the Auror asked.

Ron nodded.

The Auror smirked. “Heard a rumor about a chicken.”

Ron closed his eyes briefly. “Of course you did.”

“Don’t worry,” the Auror added. “My first test, I got stuck in a filing cabinet for ten minutes.”

Ron blinked. “Really?”

“Really.”

Ron brightened slightly. “Did you pass?”

“Barely,” the Auror said cheerfully, and walked on.

Ron looked at Harry. “Right. That makes me feel better.”

“See?” Harry said. “We’re practically ahead.”

Ron nodded, reassured. Then immediately walked into the edge of a nearby bench. Not a full collision this time. Just enough. Just enough to prove the Ministry was still watching.

Ron stared at the bench. The bench said nothing. But Ron knew. “Tomorrow,” Ron said firmly, pointing at it, “we are enemies.”

Harry lost it again, laughing all the way to the Floo.

My submission for this contest. https://www.hexrpg.com/f/44/64293

Allyx Howard had always considered herself reasonably intelligent. She attended Hogwarts, after all. She could make potions, do most charms without blowing anything up, and once wrote a twelve inch essay the night before it was due. But that qualified as high level magical problem solving in her book.

So when she saw the notice posted in the Gryffindor common room, she did not question it for a second.

“Pi Day Celebration! Courtyard at noon!”

Allyx grinned. “A pie celebration?” she said to herself. “Finally, an event that makes sense.” Naturally, she took it very seriously.

Noon approached when Allyx strutted into the courtyard, three colossal pies dangling from her hands. Apple. Cherry. And a slightly lopsided pumpkin pie she had nagged the kitchens into allowing her to top. Powdered sugar rimmed the last, an addition meant to make it trendy artsy.

Something about the courtyard though... felt wrong.

Students shuffled about aimlessly in groups of three or four scrolls and ink bottles underarm. Someone had rolled out a massive chalkboard and placed it by the fountain. Mathematical equations filled it row after row.

Lots of numbers.

3.1415926535…

Allyx slowed to a stop. “Why,” she said slowly, “are people doing math?”

Just then Professor Vector clapped her hands for attention. “Welcome, everyone, to our annual Pi Day celebration! Today we explore the fascinating mathematical constant pi.”

Allyx stared down at the pies in her arms. Then back at the chalkboard. Then back at the pies. “Oh no.”

Unfortunately, the smell of warm pastry had already begun drifting across the courtyard.

A nearby Hufflepuff sniffed the air and turned. “Is… is that pie?”

Within seconds, several students abandoned their calculations and gathered around Allyx like very polite but extremely determined vultures.

“Where did you get those?” someone asked.

“Are we allowed to eat them?”

“Please tell me this is part of the lesson.”

Professor Vector looked up just in time to watch the pumpkin pie vanish atop a table covered in cheering students. She rubbed her nose bridge.

Allyx lifted the remaining pie sheepishly. “In my defense… the poster was extremely misleading.”

There was a pause. Then Professor Vector sighed and reached for a slice. “Well,” she explained. “If we split it into equal shares… I guess you could call that learning.”

The chalkboard stayed blank. The pies did not last 5 minutes.

And Allyx decided that next year, she would definitely volunteer to “misread” the poster again.

This entry is one of 2 that I did for this picture prompt (https://www.hexrpg.com/f/520/20515)

Cassidy Morgan did not at all intend to find herself running down a street illuminated by bright lights after a tram as if it had just made fun of her great-grandfather. But there she was, pinkish-rose hair illuminated like a floating lantern from a festival, kicking her heels down the pavement as if she had never been more sure that cardio was a lie.

The tram glided ahead, smug and teal and definitely aware it was winning.

“Slow down,” Cassidy panted, pointing her wand accusingly at the reflective side panel. The deaf tram rolled on.

Sliding to a halt in front of a metal railing, she hunched over and glared at herself, distorted across the glass. Violet eyes, dramatic, and betrayed. This was supposed to be a simple task. Pop in. Pop out. Not some kinda last minute endurance test courtesy of public transit.

A car honked. Lights blurred. Cassidy straightened and smoothed her jacket. Act natural, she thought, pretending that this was part of the plan. Of course, she'd been gauging the speed of the tram. For research. Auror-adjacent research.

When the tram finally halted at the next stop, Cassidy approached with dignity restored and lungs still filing a formal complaint. She stepped aboard, chin high, as if she hadn’t just lost a footrace to a vehicle powered by rails and spite.

This was my entry for this debate (https://www.hexrpg.com/f/37/64235).

Lucius Malfoy almost certainly knew more than he ever admitted and chose to quietly allow Dobby’s interference. Dobby’s knowledge goes far beyond vague fear. He knows how dangerous the diary is, that Hogwarts is about to become unsafe, and that Harry Potter specifically is at risk.. That is a lot of knowledge that heavily implies time spent with Lucius, listening to conversations, plots, and motives. House-elves are observant by nature, and Lucius was never subtle inside his own home. Dobby did not just sense danger. He understood timing, consequences, and targets.

Allowing Dobby to act indirectly gave Lucius a perfect shield. If Harry was injured, expelled, or frightened away from Hogwarts, Lucius benefits without being traceable to the outcome. The school falls into disarray, Dumbledore appears weak and feckless, and Lucius faces increased pressure from the Ministry that he loathed already. Perfect. An elf as a pawn advances his plans while he stays above reproach.

What truly stands out is Lucius’s reaction, or lack of one. He punishes failure harshly and publicly. Lucius never truly punished Dobby for creating public scenes at King's Cross station, bothering famous wizards, and embarrassing Malfoy repeatedly. No magical restraint. No reassignment. No escalation. That silence is loud. Lucius clearly knew Dobby was acting against his interests on the surface, but still allowed it to continue.

Turning a blind eye is not neutrality. For someone like Lucius, inaction is a calculated choice. He did not need to order Dobby to interfere. He only needed to not stop him. Dobby’s self-punishment suggests internal conflict, not innocence on Lucius’s part. The elf believed he was disobeying, while Lucius quietly let events play out.

This was my entry for Platform Panic - which was judged as 1st Place (https://www.hexrpg.com/f/351/116629)

The holiday season ended not with relief, but with chaos. King’s Cross Station was crowded with commuters. Commuters who all seemed hellbent on obstructing Celène Walton’s exact path through the terminal. She breezed through anyway, regal as always despite the throng. Graceful and tall, scarf swathed expertly, already mentally maneuvering past everyone.

Then her hand brushed her shoulder.

Empty.

Celène stopped dead. She checked again, fingers patting the strap of her bag with growing precision. No familiar weight. No soft metallic tap. Her expression remained calm, but her stomach dropped straight through the tiled floor.

Her crescent-moon charm was gone.

"That is... unfortunate." she murmured to herself in her flat voice that she always used when terrible things happened.

Dodging out of line right before an impatient businessman stepped on her she started briskly walking backwards. The charm was not flashy. It was not valuable. But it was hers. A gift from her younger sister after a particularly rough year, given with a grin and the declaration that it was “for luck and bravery and not losing your head under pressure.”

Celène bent down to look behind the bench where she had untied her boots. Nothing. She knelt down to see if she dropped it there. A station employee gave her a worried look while a child who believed she was playing hide and seek gave her a thumbs up.

She swept her eyes across the floor searching. Eyes narrowed. Perfect posture even when bending over a public terminal. Still nothing.

Her composure wavered just a fraction. She straightened, took a steady breath, and closed her eyes. Think logically. She replayed the morning like a checklist. Trunk packed. Ticket secured. Scarf adjusted. Bag slung over her shoulder. Charm clipped on.

Bag.

Celène spun gracefully back to the seat beside her suitcase where her bag rested innocently. She unzipped it slowly like it could protest and pulled things out one by one. Gloves. Notebook. Sunglasses. A folded sketch she did not remember putting in there.

Then she lifted a spare sock. The charm slipped free and bounced gently against the inside of the bag.

Celène stared at it silently for a few long seconds. Then she gave a small laugh that surprised herself. "Must have known that," she whispered, snapping it shut again.

She returned to the line when it began moving once more, stiff as a board, her expression calm. To anyone watching, nothing unusual had happened. Only the small, private smile at the corner of her mouth suggested otherwise.

Some things, she decided, did not get lost.

They just wanted to be found properly.