#mowstarter

     this fuckin’ blew.  something seamus thought  ( and said )  all too often recently.  but he genuinely, truly meant it.  something had been gnawing at his gut in that almost-familiar way all day.  he’d tried to push it down, deal with it later  ( maybe someday that strategy would work )  but it kept resurfacing.  it finally dawned on him during dinner, and it sent him spinning.  suddenly he was back in the dorm — his food barely touched, a strange sight indeed — digging through the depths of his trunk.  he had to have it, it had to be there, there was no way he hadn’t kept it.  it had to be somewhere — he had only read it every night the first two weeks of this term.  and there it was.  seamus’s hands were suddenly trembling as he held the parchment between his fingers once more.  dated 21 august, 1997.  he really didn’t think he had it in him to read it again, not right now, but whether he could or not had little to do with the fact that he needed to.  

     now?  he was on prefect rounds again, damn it all.  of course it was his night.  the only way he could even force himself to leave the dormitory again was by taking a rather large swig from his bottle of firewhiskey.  he tried to stay away from it, keeping it only for dire situations — and this sure felt like one.  the letter, the last letter he’d gotten from dean — three months ago, officially the longest time they’d gone without communicating since they met  ( but it wasn’t like seamus kept track of those things )  — folded in his pocket, afraid that he might crumple it beyond recognition in his hands.  

     his hands.  his hand hurt.  seamus thought he’d hit the wall in a fit after one of the ghosts flew past him and scared him shitless, but honestly he wasn’t sure.  since dinner, he felt more like he was sleep walking than actually in control of his actions.  his eyes were red and puffy, though if tonight went well nobody would be the wiser — so naturally, it didn’t.  no sooner did he round another corner did he see someone ahead in his peripheral.  “you shouldn’t be out this late,"  he said.  christ, what a mess.  ( merlin?  he’d had never quite decided which was a stronger exclamation. )  seamus could hardly take himself seriously, how could he expect anyone else to?  he quickly wiped his eyes clear before lumos betrayed him to the other and showed off how emotionally wrecked he was.  some prefect he was.

Every time Hannah listened to Potterwatch, she ended up with a stomach full of mixed feelings. There was relief, for the absence of her father’s name, as well as those of other family members, but also grief and anger at all those that had been named. And then there was the feeling of selfishness, because she felt relief in the first place. She often ended up without an appetite, with a constant throbbing in her throat that begged her to let go and cry, with an ache in her stomach.

She couldn’t eat. She kept looking at Melinda Bobbin, who wore Irene’s prefect’s badge now. Had she heard the news of her predecessor? Hannah didn’t want to be the one to tell her, but she vowed to herself that she would, later in the common room, where the Carrows weren’t keeping a watchful eye. She tried to look at her dinner in stead, but all she could do was think of Irene. And Michael’s parents. And Justin. And how cold Azkaban had to be, and how terrified they had to be and ---- she got up, dropped her cutlery on the table and moved out of the Great Hall, her head throbbing. She felt the first tears falling before she was out and she pushed away the memory of telling Irene about the perks of being a prefect and how she’d been nervous, too, her first year of being one. Once out of the Great Hall, she sunk down on a set of nearby stairs, letting her head sink into her hands, sobs leaving her chest. 

She was so tired. She didn’t want to move ever again. She fiddled through her bag, found her flask and screwed it open, taking a swig. “Oh god oh god oh god.” 

Parvati stepped back, admiring her handiwork. The DA’s practice of vandalism was one she always quite enjoyed partaking in, being both an artist and, as of this year, a rebel. She was proud of the way they’d painted the names all over the walls, but in her opinion, it was all in need of just a bit of flair. So she’d taken advantage of everyone being at dinner to bring her painting supplies up to the fifth floor, where there was a stretch of blank wall, and painted a simple yet unmistakable portrait of none other than the missing Chosen One himself, lightning scar shining bright red, with the word HOPE emblazoned above him. Parvati was now cleaning up, quite satisfied with the permanent sticking charm she’d cast on her work, when she was suddenly startled by the sound of footsteps rounding the corner. 

Preferring to bury her head in work (or, some might contest, the sand), Mandy had secured her favourite table (the rear of the library, besides the fire, far far far away from where first years might settle) at ten, working around the clock since then. Ancient Runes. Potions. Anything that demanded focus and precision. Anything that could be scientifically counted and measured. Anything that had a logical answer. That could not be disputed. Wasn’t it the very definition of perfection? A precision. A point. Pushing aside any thought of Dumbledore’s Armies antics, or the response from the Carrows (honestly, grown adults ought to know better than to respond to such pettiness), Mandy browsed the shelves, reaching for a book the exact moment someone on the other side of the shelf did. Tugging hard, Mandy arched an eyebrow, smiling softly. “Finders keepers?”

it’s been over a day since the news about oliver had been leaked, and his head is still reeling. it feels like a dream of sorts, that he’s going to wake up and it’ll all be some sort of joke. this can’t be happening, oliver is someone he’s known since the first day at hogwarts, oliver is someone he considers a friend.

past tense, his thoughts darkly remind him - oliver was someone he considered a friend.

he doesn’t know what the right response to this is - anger, hopelessness, sadness, fear. somehow they all seem accurate, and yet all terry really feels is numb. out of the corner of his eye, he sees a retreating figure, who he instantly recognizes as amycus carrow. and he realizes that it’d be easier to deal with this if there was someone to blame for it, rather than an unnamed person who killed oliver. terry’s not thinking at all as he slowly steps forward - the only thing on his mind is the unrelenting reminder that oliver is dead, and whoever did it can’t get away with it. when he raises his wand to aim at amycus’ back, there’s a strange sense of satisfaction at the thought of what he could do. 

nothing ends up happening, however, as someone knocks his wand out of his hand. “the fuck are you doing?” he spat, before moving to pick his wand back up. “you ruined it.” 

Michael slammed the Headmaster’s door shut with far more force than necessary. His nerves were on fire, and he was sure if he stopped moving, even for a moment, he’d stop breathing entirely. Their conversation was brief, but Michael was already forgetting the details. A lot of no sir, no sir, no sir. Snape asking if he was lying – absolutely not, sir. And despite the fact Snape looked no less dour on the way out than he had going in, Michael felt little satisfaction. 

He should’ve gone with them, was his first thought. If they’d all left together before Christmas none of this would’ve happened. Michael knew, in his heart, it was never really an option, but it didn’t stop the guilt from soiling ever thought that popped into his mind. He didn’t even realise he’d put his hand through an empty painting, until he pulled out his closed fist. It was another beat before he registered the witness a few steps away.

“Let’s, uh, not tell our Headmaster about this, yeah? What d’you think?”

it’s been hours since the sun has set, but it feels like it has been years. there is a chill to tracey’s spine that hasn’t left since she fell to her knees, calling for her mother, her father. a flutter of bird wings and a collective grumble of hooting is her background symphony as tracey takes a drag out of her cigarette, leaning against the edge of the tower, the entirety of hogwarts splayed out before her. there is no meaning to this. she hasn’t been to any of her classes since she came back, three days ago, pieces of herself thrown across the scene of the crime. it feels as if someone has replaced what was hope in her with anger, constant, burning whatever is near.

she lets the cold ground her. reminds herself that she has miles of skin stretching across a body that still has its needs, that still exists. she hasn’t felt like herself since the crucio hit her bones like a tsunami of pain. she hasn’t felt like herself since her father left, a pile of ash in the fireplace in his place. she hasn’t felt like herself       --       footsteps near. she takes another drag. feels the need to disappear, again and again, ringing in her head like a terrible melody. who sends owls at this hour, anyway? 

when: january 22nd, 1998; 05:10pm

where: the great hall

no one would see susan bones on a broomstick, she'd sworn that to herself and the world as soon as flying classes in first year were over. however, as terrible in them as she was, quidditch always held one particularly fun prospect: the euphory of her house during their matches. as an avid muggle football fan, the spirit was similar enough, as were the tactics of support - while susan showed up to no game but those of her housemates, when she came, with her was a merch store's worth of banners and cards, embellished t-shirts and, of course, the occasional (moderate) face paint. this year should be no different or, if anything, it should be bigger, louder and in a much brighter shade of yellow. the table on the great hall was nearly covered by a long strip of white fabric in which the girl had already done some light sketching and now came the time to pain the words of cheer for her house and the simplistic illustrations of badgers eating lions. right in front of students from every house. just a couple of tables from the gryffindors and their own arts and crafts. "do you think the badgers are a little too much? no, right? first year boy thought so and i told him that in my first year three students dressed up as badgers during our final game of the season. they looked bloody ridiculous."