#circeschild

wishful  thinking ,  of  course .  there  is  still  a  war  going  on ;  there  are  still  countless  witches ,  wizards ,  muggles  whose  names  get  read  out  on  potterwatch  every  week .  harry’s  palms  sting  with  the  blisters  from  digging  dobby’s  grave ,  the  mound  of  freshly  overturned ,  red  earth  just  near  the  edge  of  the  garden .  

how  many  ?  

how  many  more  ?  

harry  washes  his  hands  in  the  kitchen .  as  blood  &  grime  swirl  down  the  drain ,  the  window  above  the  sink  holds  a  view  of  the  sea ,  glittering  with  the  gold  of  the  sunrise .  at  the  kitchen  table  sits  hermione ,  with  a  mug  of  tea  that  has  undoubtedly  long  since  gone  cold .  bandages  are  wrapped  tight  around  her  forearm .  

harry  winces  involuntarily ,  his  heart  shredding  itself  in  his  chest .  hermione  had  almost  been  one  of  the  names  ---  part  of  a  number  that  grew  every  week .  there  is  nothing  harry  hates  more  than  being  powerless  ;  whether  bellatrix  intended  to  torture  him  that  way  or  not  is  anyone’s  guess .  

harry  wipes  his  hands  on  a  dish  towel .  

After some scouting of the Grand Ballroom, he had seen both his mother and father speaking to a few members of the Rowle family. They seemed perfectly preoccupied.  “Let’s go now,”  Draco prompted. He took a few steps forward before checking back over his shoulder, his parents still distracted, and at his friends. Oh those stupid smug looks on Blaise and Theo’s face. He’ll get them some damn wine, maybe just so he could throw a glass of it on each of their expressions. Clean their smirks right off.

Out of the Ballroom and down the corridor towards the kitchen.  “My dad’s going to kill me if he notices,”  he murmured more to himself than Daphne, but she was right beside him; Surely she heard.  “Not just mine, but all of yours! If we get caught, I’m not going down alone, I hope you all know that.”  Draco’s brows furrowed together as he shot Daphne a warning look.  “... We can sneak out to the garden, drink there. I don’t think much of anyone is going outside right now.”

“You’re a prat.”

Marlene said it with a smile on her face. Granted, it was a weak smile that didn’t stretch too far past her red cheeks. No, the Slytherin Quidditch team were jerks and Marlene knew that. It upset her greatly when she thought about, how if things had been different, she would have been part of that ill mannered and hate filled crowd. They just upset her in general.

Their words had been about her mother and she had punched one of them in the face, a good Muggle punch. James had saved her from the ensuring fight. Marlene let out a sigh as she brought up her knee to her chest, holding her right hand to her chest. It was sore, red, bruised from colliding with that idiot Rosier’s face.

“I’m okay, thank you though. Can’t imagine what they would have done if you hadn’t shown up. I couldn’t punch all of them…how many house points do you imagine that will cost us?”

“I know,” James grinned back down at her, raising a wry eyebrow. Not the first time she’d accused him of that ( or worse ) and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last, either. He wasn’t about to be hurt about it now. Anyhow, sometimes a bit of a prat wasn’t such a terrible thing to be.

“Figure if you really put your mind to it, you could’ve.” He nudged her shoulder, the smile an increasingly transparent effort to cheer her up. “I’d’ve liked to see that, too.”

“Open up, McKinnon! It’s me.” It wasn’t exactly polite, kicking the door with his heel instead of knocking —his mum would have a fit,— but James had his hands full with the teeming pot he’d carefully packaged and brought over.

He’d had to search around for a recipe, but once he’d worked out what he was doing, it had been half-familiar enough it was almost homey; ginger, garlic, and chicken were long favorite staples in the Potter house, even if they’d never been much for soups.

Followed you for __, stayed because __. // ACCEPTING .

╰   🧹    from  ﹕ @circeschild​​