#adlucemstarter

“You can stare, if you want. I don’t mind.” Macey tossed her hair behind her shoulder, her chin coming to rest on the palm of her hand. She leaned forward, elbow on the table as an eyebrow raised. “I’m a damn masterpiece.”

Arthur Weasley wasn’t one for fancy attire or black tie affairs. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Molly asking him to come he would’ve stated far away from the Gala. He wasn’t even sure how welcome he’d be after his mother was essentially erased from the Black family for marrying his mother. But that didn’t make him any less ‘pureblood’. A word he wasn’t too fond of honestly, not liking how it set him apart from others due to no reason of his own. 

As if the entire practice isn’t sadistic enough, Cas has to do more rounds just because he was late. So by the time he escapes the torture, the absolute best he can do is dropping down on the grass in the paved grounds and watching his broom roll away, refusing to lift a single finger. He huffs, attempting to stare it into submission. No luck.

This disgusting excuse of a textbook is nothing but a waste of time.

Octavius spent most of his morning in the prefect bathroom locked. The sign outside hung said maintenance, and as far as anyone could know it’s under repair. Which is strange in the wizarding world, but Dumbledore needed him to talk to the mermaid portrait after the latest complaint from one of the fifth year prefects. It wasn’t any of his business, but there he stood locked in a verbal conflict. The words in his native tongue made perfect sense to him, but anyone outside would have heard something along the lines of "ksjdlkjsaldkjsalkdjlsakjdlskajdlskajdlksjad *gurgle* slakjdlksajdlksjdsd" Some students assumed he had mastered a jibberish language on his own. He grins to the mermaid portrait as it swims around and seems to answer him in agreement. I can’t come in here again. I’m not even a prefect. You’re going to get us caught. The golden hair boy stood well over six feet tall, and he pulled a Harlequin toad from the sink. ”You are ..cause of the problem.” The thick accent something many couldn’t pinpoint, but how his dialect breaks it’s easy to assume that English wasn’t his first language. There’s what appears to be gills tattooed on the side of his neck by water colors or some impermanent paint. He normally doesn’t let anyone touch them to notice that they’re real and hides them behind his shaggy blonde mane. His skin holds a grey tint to it, just seeming like he’s one of the Albino kids that don’t leave their house ever. He waits until he believes the coast is clear and exist the prefect bathroom. Removing the sign, and keeping the toad atop of his hand. ” Ah kay. That was not so bad.” He comforts the toad as it croaks in response. Whistling he closes another door to the corridor and notes that he’s not alone now. Shit. What was the custom? Hello. It’s to say Hello. ”Hello. Is it break time?”

Hogwarts was number four in her list of wizarding schools. Dumbledore was convinced Hogwarts could fix her. Where Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Ilvermony didn’t. Abraxas had made that known, and of course he placed a considerable donation. Dumbledore didn’t know at the time the monetary contribution was for the things Spring would break in her tantrums. The sorting hat may have given her Gryffindor, but Spring was already mutilating the colors of her jacket and the pins. Also finding her own abandoned room to call her own “house common room”.  Spring Weed would not conform. Her fiery temper is well known. It radiates from the stomping motion her feet make instead of the light steps. It flourishes from her angry banshee shrieks at everyone.

It was too damn cold. The minute she walked out of the castle and felt the chill of the November evening she nearly regretted her decision to sneak out , debating whether or not she should just turn around, go back to bed and leave her planned alone time as a distant utopia for another night.

Avianna’s legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, as she sat in an under-populated corridor. She was painting her nails, the only time she would ever sit on these grimy floors. Some of the girls in her dormitory didn’t like the smell of the nail polish, and the common room was much too loud, so here she was. She didn’t mind all that much. It was sort of nice, actually.