#bysstarter

The fireplace roared to life once she muttered the Incendio spell along with a little movement of her wand, adding more light to the already dimly lit common room. There was only a handful of students in the room, most of them must be in their dorms or someplace else. A few of the students were chatting amongst themselves while the rest were simply reading a book or doing homework on the few study desks provided to their needs.

Walking over to one of the armchairs, she sat down and began to pick up from where she left of in Nineteen Eighty Four by George Orwell, a muggle author. Mafalda always preferred to read literary works from notable muggle authors and would often get looks from some students if they were to notice what she read on an almost daily basis. Not that she could care, after all, she was probably just as judgemental as they are when it came to other situations.

As an hour before curfew began to dawn, most packed up their books and left to their dormitories, leaving only Mafalda and a few students in the room to themselves. 

A sudden series of knocks on the door to the room caused her to break from her train of thought and she looked at the other students, as if asking them whether they were going to see who was there. When there was no response, she put down her book, making sure to fold the corner of her page and got up. It was strange to find someone so late at night bothering to walk all the way up the Ravenclaw tower. Perhaps it was another housemate that couldn't solve the riddle. She hesitantly pulled open the door and stared at the student before her with an unsure expression.

"Can I help you?"

She'd achieved what had once been nothing short of an impossibility. N u m b n e s s without the influence of a l c o h o l.

A blanket of snow coated the courtyard, and her boots trudged through mush on her way to the nearest bench. One muttered incantation later and she had seated herself against the now balmy surface, knees pulled up to her chest and eyes scouring the area with mild interest. There didn't appear to be anyone else around. The memorial had started a few minutes ago and, naturally, most were in attendance. ... But she couldn't do it. She couldn't go.

She'd dressed up, written a few words for the occasion, walked towards the damn entrance -- but she couldn't do it. She couldn't wholly accept the new state of things -- the progressive worsening of everything they knew. The knowledge that there was no stopping the impending storm. She couldn't yet resign herself to such a truth.

                                          mudblood, mudblood, m u d b l o o d

It was the real reason he'd been killed, had it not? The one no professor would concede to? The one their faltering expressions would betray nonetheless? Bertram Aubrey had met his end because of a willingness to fight -- and for the supposed filth inhabiting his veins. Mary pressed her forehead against her arm.

 You say that because of who you are. How could a t h i e f ever understand?

She'd talked to him before, once or twice in the library. No friendship of any sort had been formed ( too much c o n t r a s t there), nothing but an exchange of understanding looks as a pair of Slytherins has traipsed by them, spewing slurs and insults. Then the eye contact had been broken, the brief connection shattered, and they had both gone about their day. She hadn't known Bertram Aubrey. Not really. That shared moment of understanding hadn't acted as the basis for anything of consequence.

But she knew he hadn't deserved this. Nor had the girl at the Christmas feast. Or the man at the Ministry.

                                                             M U D B L O O D

For once Mary sought no comfort in the loud and brash, the wild or reckless. She just wanted things to be q u i e t.

He had been his housemate, a year younger. Muggleborn. Bitter. Worthless. Aristocratic. Muggleborn. Muggleborn. Mudblood. Augustus would spot him in the corner of the library, in the corner of the common room. He would usually be alone, hidden away, but still so proud. 

He was strange. He had been strange.

And now he was making Augustus have strange thoughts. He wanted to go to the memorial because he probably should, out of decency, out of respect he did not have for the boy, out of respect for the dead, perhaps. He did not go. Why should he mourn a fool who died for all the wrong things -- Aubrey died to defend his rights and principles, but his mere existence was a wrong thing. Augustus supposed. But...he was not sure of anything. Nothing was set in stone, so he had to out what to do when there was nothing solid to lead him.

He had to act on the feeling in that exact moment combined with calculations about what would turn out to be useful for him. As he quietly made his way down the wide, empty corridor, he concluded that the side with zero victims so far was the one hidden away in the dungeons. So. He would prefer to remain there, and not going to the memorial -- was it perhaps a statement of his opinions? That had not been his intention, but he was not certain what was his intention.

To survive.

Slowing down his pace, he realised that subconsciously he had made his way towards the Great Hall. He stopped, and hoped it was not his mind trying to send him a message about what he perhaps should have done. Heaving a sigh, he closed his eyes and lowered himself to the bench in the corridor. Faintly, he could hear the words from behind the closed doors. Bertram Aubrey. Could you have lived? Should you have lived?

          It was dark inside Marlene McKinnon’s mind, a place that she          never allowed herself to go to. She was the party girl, the wild            one, what would they say if they saw her now. With her hands            clasped around her knees as if to contain her melancholy from            pouring out of her. She had been so fervently ready to battle           the werewolves and save the school. She had been - – - excited.

SHE DISGUSTED HERSELF, any sensible thought was intercepted by                                        the thought that she had been THRILLED        to hear of the werewolves. What kind of person was    s  h  e  ?                                  a     m  o  n  s  t  e  r      a        b  e  a  s  t                          merlin, SOMEONE HAD DIED

Someone's speech could be heard over hushed whispers and shameless tears inside the Hall, but the words were inconsequential to her. Her attention was focused solely on the candle in her hands, watching closely as the flame danced back and forth.                She'd never realized how quickly a flame could be snuffed out —         not until now. Death had always been a part of the plan, a necessary means to a desired end, but she'd never had to look it in the eye. Death had been her fear those nights she'd spent curled up on the floor of the Great Hall, anxiously awaiting the return of whoever would make it back alive — and it had come, just as she'd thought; but thankfully, not to her. She, unlike that foolish mudblood, had chosen the right side; if her pristine blood wasn't enough to keep her safe, her allegiance would be — which was why she couldn't allow herself to stay inside the memorial service for longer than it took to show her face to the professors whose opinions of her still mattered. She paid her visits to the teachers she respected — commending them for their bravery, and expressing faux condolence for the school's loss; her t r u e sentiment was far from what she chose to feed to them, but that could be saved for circles of t r u s t. All that mattered was that those of importance saw her with a memorial flame in hand, just for a mere moment; even on the cusp of war, appearance was still everything. Once her rounds had been complete, there was nothing left to keep her there.  Though shaken by the reality of death, Narcissa did not mourn — she simply couldn't find the sympathy within herself to grieve the loss of a mudblood, especially not one stupid enough to put his own life on the line. If anything, it was all a test for her, to see just how quickly she could numb herself to the idea of inconsequential lives lost; she needed no seer to tell her that her future would consist of many more casualties, not by her own hand, but fatalities nonetheless. The faster she could harden herself to them, the better. She slipped out of the doors as inconspicuously as she could, resting herself against the wall. Lips pursed, she blew out the candle's flame, entirely indifferent to the lost life it represented.               "If you're heading in there, take this," she hummed,               handing the candle to the one who approached her.               "I have no use for it."

    Pandora was b o r e d. She was beyond bored, her mind being enclosed to the devices in the great hall was not something she found particularly enjoyable. No, she did not find it enjoyable at all. It was almost as if she were like an eagle being cages ( she knew the saying was a caged Lion but she didn't think of herself as a Gryffindor by any means ) so she sat off to the side out of the way of others staring into a cup of water.  This was driving her insane indeed-- as if others didn't already think that of her.     Letting out a sigh, Pandora flipped through the book she had been reading under her desk during class in hopes of the Professor not noticing she hadn't been paying attention. The class hadn't lasted quite long enough for her to test that... but being stuck around so many people in the great hall... perhaps she'd rather be in class. At least then she could do something, even if practicing the same old spells and studying the same old things weren't the top things that she wanted to do it was better than being stuck.      Finally, in defeat, she let her head rest on the table in front of her. There was no cure to boredom at a time like this, as much as she wished there to be. 

"On you go!" Dorcas called, and in the midst of her sprint she bent down to grip a pair of shoulders and pull the older boy back up to his feet whom had fallen due to the mass crowd. She pushed throughout the sea of students, her legs moving in only one direction; towards the back exit of the castle.

She skillfully maneuvered throughout the halls, ducking and diving at any chance she got. Her hand lifted her shirt slightly as she wielded her wand. Rounding a corner she came to a sudden halt at the sight of two girls curled up behind a suit of armor statue.

"Aye, what’re you doing? Up, get up!"

The first year girl reached for her, and Dorcas immediately clutched her tightly and awaited her friend. Pushing their backs in the direction of the Great Hall, she shouted, “Go!”

Never in all her years had she experienced the castle as crowded as it was in that moment. She pushed and fought, determined to make it out. As she did so, she remembered the vow she made with Marlene McKinnon — her best friend. They sat in Marlene's bed, eating snacks they'd swiped from the kitchens, and both swore to each other that if there was a fight to be fought they'd be in the frontline. No sense of nervousness ran through her core. Actually, no sense of anything ran through her ( which was perhaps why she and Marlene would l i t e r a l l y be running in the wolves' den ).

Running out those wide open doors and having her face be slapped with the harsh wind she practically stumbled backwards, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath as she awaited Marlene in their designated spot. Footsteps echoed, and she knew her best friend too well to know that they didn't belong to her. Dorcas pressed her back to the castle, praying she would go unnoticed. As Professor Flitwick and Slughorn's walk turned into a run they made their way across the lawn and then disappeared on the downward climb to Hagrid's hut. 

"Darling, I know that you’re hungry. I’ll find something and be back —  alright?”

The redhead nodded and Daisy Hookum rose from her crouched position and onto the next crisis. As a prefect, she’d taken up her rightful responsibilities in aiding her housemates and making them feel as comfortable as possible despite the blood being shed outside the thick walls.

Without her scarf and jacket ( both of which had been donated to students complaining they were cold ), the blonde shoveled her hair into a ponytail and stepped around the rows of cots.

Even though she was a prefect for the students of Hufflepuff this didn’t stop her in assisting those who needed help; this became especially prominent as she lead Pomfrey to a Slytherin complaining of abdominal pains. Daisy looked like a blind Hippogriff as she stumbled about the hall, making her rounds and carrying loads of requested items as she did so.

After delivering a textbook to a displeased Ravenclaw and crackers to the ginger, she allowed herself a minuscule moment to simply breathe. Upon standing still for the first time in hours, a thick wool scarf was draped over her shoulders.

Turning her body, she lifted her cheeks into a somber grin, “Thanks.”