#kosmogramm

                     TIME STOPS FOR NO ONE  (except for those it does), && no one knows that better than scorpius malfoy && albus potter. at the time, their misadventure had seemed like the worst thing in the world, the most difficult challenge they would ever have to face. && perhaps that’s true, or perhaps not. 

but no one else knows, && the world keeps on turning.

“thanks for waiting.” scorpius appears from the entrance to the hospital wing, relieved to see albus still there. “that took longer than i thought, madam pomfrey was dealing with a first-year hufflepuff girl who had an allergic reaction to her dormmate’s cat...” he rubs the back of his neck, flashing albus a someone sheepish && shy smile. “um, but i’m okay, by the way!” he shakes his arms out, sleeves billowing. “she says it’s just phantom pains, that she already healed the damage so...” 

        “albus,”  she groans as she drags herself back to the table,   a scowl settling on her features.  “i can’t exactly tell you why i don’t know when i don’t know.  if i did know, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”  it wasn’t the time for her to act all mulish but it was a situation that she wanted to get out of at the moment.  lily knows it wasn’t unheard of for seventh years to feel a bit lost as they inched closer and closer to employment; it was probably concerning if seventh years displayed nonchalance about their future, unless it was already set for them like the wealthy families had for their children.  but her parents sending albus, of all people, to give her advice didn’t seem like the brightest idea.

lily loved her brother but last time she checked, he was just as undecided as she was.  and he was already a graduate, which didn’t exactly help his case.  “i’m certain it’s something you can take a guess at — i’m terrified about the future, i’m not sure i’m particularly good at anything, i don’t like change.”  all of which she thought held some truth, unfortunately.  “now that i’ve listed down some options for you to tell mum and dad, can i go?  they’ve probably been waiting on your report long enough.”

      𝘈𝘚  𝘛𝘏𝘌   potion  finally  turns  the  right  shade  of  purple  ,  nessarose  can’t  help  but  flash  a  wide  grin  at  her  partner  next  to  her  .  they  had  been  working  for  nearly  the  entire  class  ,  and  had  begun  to  get  discouraged  as  more  and  more  groups  finished  their  wit - sharpening  potions  .      maybe  for  others  ,  it  wouldn’t  be  such  an  achievement  to  have  simply  finished  a  potions  assignment  ,  but  for  nessa  it  was  a  huge  deal  .  ordinarily  ,  she  was  awful  at  potions  and  often  had  to  rush  near  the  end  of  class  .  perhaps  she  could’ve  used  a  swig  of  the  potion  before  they  began  to  brew  it  .       ❛  do  you  suppose  it’s  actually  done  ?  ❜  she  asks  excitedly  ,  checking  back  in  the  textbook  that  was  splayed  across  the  bench  to  be  sure  that  it  matched  the  picture  .  ❛  i  think  it  is  --  we  did  it  !  ❜

      to say it’s been...  difficult to make friends in her first few weeks in this new school would be an understatement.  it isn’t that yelena doesn’t  WANT  to at least try to make a few friends  --  she’s going to be here for a whole year, she might as well try to get one person on side with her  --  but she’s heard the rumors swirling around  durmstrang,  its reputation for producing  dark arts  proficient wizards and witches,  and what exactly that meant for the exchange student that had been dropped into slytherin house for the year. 

      it didn’t help that yelena would admit that she could sometimes come off as...  frigid.

          his  heart  is  still  in  his  throat,  and  the  brim  of  his  hat  graciously  hides  the  beads  of  sweat  still  forming  on  his  brow  and  temple.  calm  yourself,  leonard,  he  tells  himself,  and  adjusts  his  step  to  be  a  smidge  less  hectic,  a  little  more  springy.  he’s  seen  nobody  he  knows,  but  just  in  case,  he  takes  the  smaller  alleys  home,  hurrying  without  seeming  hurried,  just  a  man  happy  to  get  off  work  and  to  get  to  see  his  wife.  after  all,  if  nobody  can  see  the  numb  feeling  in  his  fingers  that  has  not  started  to  subside,  nor  the  electrical  buzzing  in  his  ears  from  the  panic  and  adrenaline  of  the  moment,  then  nobody  can  know  the  things  he  has  just  done,  the  things  that  he  is  capable  of.  

❛ i want to experience why we’re here on earth. ❜

                    "    getting    deep    already?    "

                    last    december,    sienna    was    visting    him    in    a    psych    ward.    this    year,    they're    sitting    on    her    fire    escape    with    mugs    of    hot    chocolate,    cheeks    and    noses    stung    red    by    the    cold,    the    sky    above    bright    with    the    promise    of    snow.    later,    they'll    go    up    the    other    side    of    the    fire    escape    and    catch    up    with    adam    and    his    boyfriend,    decorate    a    tree    and    cook    dinner    together,    maybe    watch    a    christmas    movie    around    the    fireplace.    

                    it's    a    nice    overtone    to    the    underlying    hollowness    at    his    core,    a    streak    of    color    on    a    gray    canvas    —    and    that's    exactly    the    problem.    he    can    see    the    rays    of    sunlight    reaching    toward    him,    but    he's    stuck    in    the    dark    and    the    cold    all    the    same.    at    least    like    this    —    seventeen    and    sleepless    and    desperate    for    love    and    void    of    any    real    purpose    —    there    is    hope    that    finding    the    things    people    devote    their    lives    to    chasing    might    fix    his    broken    spark    plugs.    

                                                                           what    if    that's    all    there    is?    

                    nikolai    looks    at    sienna    over    his    cup,    the    edge    hovering    near    his    mouth    for    the    warmth    of    the    steam    against    his    face.    "    what's    the    reason,    then?    why    are    we    here?    "    

elise    is    an    ugly    crier,    so    easily    triggered        ;        every    emotion    feels    too    big    for    her    body        &        usually    becomes    tears    before    it    can    tear    screams    from    her    throat            /            the    whole    village    knows    her    as    an    easily    bothered    child        ;        they    call    her    wounded    animal        &        when    bigger,    more    bitter    children    try    to    capture    those    tears,    she    offers    them    with    thrown    stones        &        spit    curses            /            but    then    elise    dreams    of    anabelle's    body    dragged    away    by    skeletal    hands,    the    dream    becoming    truth    with    thunder    marking    her    skin    before    she    has    any    chance    to    understand    what    it    means        /        the    village's    children    no    longer    bother    her    after    that        :        she    is    free    to    cry,    oh    so    lonely,    the    newly    born    boogeyman    of    her    own    town            /            sent    away    with    a    well-meaning    noble    woman,    terror    dreamt    becomes    terror    lived.        anabelle    dies    by    the    end    of    monsters-men    that    should    have    been    dead,    had    a    rogue    sorcerer    not    decided    to    experiment            /            there    is    no    time    for    tears,    then,    only    fear            /            grief    sits    heavy    in    the    throat    but    it    does    not    come    out.        some,    it    seems,    are    made    to    carry    rather    let    go.    

the    next    time    she    truly,    really    cries    is    within    the    cell    she    is    left    with    at    saint    agathe's,    dimeritium    shackles    around    her    wrists    and    her    hair    cut    so    short    she    wonders    if    they    haven't    digged    directly    into    her    skull            /            blood    sliding    down    the    nape    of    her    neck,    small    cuts    that    hurt    more    than    any    punch    to    the    face            /            she    is    bare,    naked    without    hair    nor    magic,    left    to    rot            /            there    is    silence,    then,    no    buzzing    electricity,    no    wonderful    power,    chaos    like    a    flame    blown    out.        as    easily    as    that,    girl    no    longer    dangerous    monster,    no    longer    lethal    legend.        just    girl,    just    child,    nothing            /            and    so    she    cries.        she    cries        &        screams        &        throws    herself    against    the    walls    of    her    cell            /            she    asks,    what    for?        what    for?        and    the    echo    of    it    comes    back,    as    broken    as    a    little    child's    begging    tune,    what    for?            /            the    hair    she    never    thought    to    brush,    all    tangled,    full    of    leaves,    harshly    attached    into    a    pony    tail,    that    hair    she    did    not    know    how    to    care    for.        that    same    hair    her    mother    used    to    lovingly    brush    for    her,    saying,    it    reminds    me    of    my    mother,    i    am    glad    you    have    that    of    her,    that    you    have    that    of    me.        that    hair,    lost.        irreverently    cut.        a    heap    of    blonde    locks    on    the    groud.    

she    loses    herself,    then.        no    longer    girl        &        no    longer    special            /            a    bruised    animal    that    refuses    to    be    peach        &        rotten            /            but    crying    only    feels    good    in    the    dark,    when    there    is    no    one    but    the    gods    to    hear    her    delirious    anger            /            she    stops    weeping    the    second    they    are    back    to    witness    her    weakness            /            soon,    she    realizes        :        they    will    hate    her    silence    much    more    than    they    will    abhor    the    noises    they    pull    from    her    throat            /            and    so    this    is    what    she    does        :        elise    becomes    walls        &        silence.        her    very    haunted    house,    the    echo    of    herself    hitting    the    stones        &        coming    back    weakened,    each    time,    until    there    is    no    more    echo,    until    there    are    no    more    tears,    until    the    pain    is    a    memory    swallowed    by    the    walls    of    her    own    sorrow.        /        the    salt    from    her    tears    shall    become    a    forgotten    taste.    

it    takes    months    for    her    to    cry    again.        to    really,    really    cry.        she    has    left    saint    agathe    by    then            /            with    the    elves,    life    is    slow    and    meaningful,    an    adventure    that    demands    patience            /            the    child    knows    perseverance    but    does    not    understand    moderation            /            and    there,    it    is    hard    to    be    anything    but    a    foreigner            /            so    they    leave    her    be,    alone    &    away.        they    give    her    food    and    give    her    space,    willing    to    accept    her    within    their    forest    for    the    forest    itself    has    claimed    the    girl,    but    unwilling    to    fit    her    into    their    life        :        elise,    forever    a    stranger        /            the    walls    stand    still,    she    gives    the    elves    no    name    to    call    her    and    they    demand    none            /            they    nickname    her    dynan,    little    woman    (or    wretch,    when    they    murmur    it)            /            malborne    wants    her    to    perform    miracles    but    all    she    does    is    orchestrate    destruction        :        she    breaks    their    tents        &        destroys    their    shrubs        /        no    matter    how    hard    she    tries,    she    never    quite    manages    to    do    what    is    right            /            and    so    life    goes    on,    difficult,    shame    a    weight    that    keeps    her    away    from    the    camp    fire    at    night,    when    someone    gets    out    a    lute    and    starts    singing    about    quieter    times,    when    there    were    no    humans    to    worry    about            &            no    young    thunder    maidens    amongst    their    cohort.            the    laughing    is    so    strong,    that    time    they    sing    about    her    coming    to    eryri,    that    ishtar    simply    disappears    into    the    woods    for    days            /            the    tears    do    not    come    from    the    shame            /            they    stay    lodged    in    her    ribcage    for    as    long    as    she    walks.        and    as    the    stars    sing    above    her    head    sing,    she    hears    the    warning        :        the    scaled    monster    shall    destroy    what    ought    to    be    home,    hurry    child,    gwneud    hast    wedd!            /            royal    wyvern,    name    that    she    doesn't    know    yet    but    utters    with    eyes    full    of    the    thunder    that    is    her    own,    in    front    of    a    camp    full    of    elves,    all    wondering    why    the    small    human    child    is    floating    above    the    ground,    demanding    their    attention,    the    wind    around    her    like    a    crown            /            and    when    the    elves    chase    away    the    creature    before    it    can    do    any    damage,    when    the    children    are    hidden    away,    when    no    blood    is    spilled    and    no    tents    crumbled,    the    blind    priestess    comes    forth.            she    signs    the    human    child    that    has    no    name,    fingers    following    the    scars    on    her    cheeks    with    praise            /            ishtar,    she    calls    her.    ishtar    atta    isil        ;        sorceress    from    the    heavens            /            named,    her    hair    braided    by    dilshad's    agile    fingers,    crowned    with    flowers            /            she    cries,    that    night,    in    the    flickering    shades    of    the    campfire,    as    they    sing    of    the    young    mage    that    saved    them    from    a    wyvern    the    size    of    the    oldest    tree    of    eryri            /            it    is    joy    that    captures    her    throat,    joy    that    erupts    in    hiccups            /            yaereene,    the    blind    priestess,    gathers    her    in    her    arms        ;        and    in    the    human    child's    newly    braided    hair,    away    from    praying    ears,    she    murmurs        :        ceádmil    addef,    ishtar    bach.    (welcome    home,    little    ishtar)    

the    times    that    come    after    follow    the    same    pattern        :        there    is    no    crying    if    she    is    not    safe.            the    walls    must    stand    between    her    and    the    world,    her    tears    a    weakness    she    has    never    felt    she    could    afford.            it    is    only    among    family        (but    they    are    all    dead)        or    friends        (and    they    are    all    lost)        that    she    thinks    herself    able    to    feel    pity    for    herself.        for    what    she    has    lost    and    what    she    has    yet    to    lose.            /            more    often    than    not,    it    is    in    a    place    with    no    human    land    for    miles,    where    only    the    howling    wind    and    khairos'    soft    warmth    that    she    screams    and    cries    and    wails.            it    does    not    happen    often,    nor    does    she    feel    the    need    to    do    so    as    many    times    as    she    used    to.            /            but    it    still    happens.        /        no    longer    the    child    whose    body    couldn't    contain    her,    and    yet    still    endless.    so    is    her    grief,    but    so    is    her    strength.    

the    sacrifice    of    tears    happens    with    the    wind    to    wipe    them    away,    miles    away    from    the    ground,    with    khairos'    low    rumble    to    reassure    her    that    grief,    as    everything    else,    will    fade    away.