#mowstarter

“i might have nicked some of this from the party," susan confessed while pouring some more into the line of plastic cups, "but truly, what is the hufflepuff common room without a constant supply of drinks." for her eighteenth birthday, the girl had decided on an open event, whispered around by the students - anyone who could get into the hufflepuff room was free to have a shot, or some of the cookies she'd last bought during the break, which were definitely not in their peak quality. all around, a pretty good birthday celebration. "you know, if this all goes to shit, i think i might have a future in bartending, right?" on the table she'd been serving drinks, enough to fill a whole bottle puddled up, and the floor definitely smelled like liquor. "oh, wanna see some of my tricks? i can juggle! sort of."

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.” 

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."

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.” 

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’d been a long evening of moonshine-making with Seamus, made even longer by the fact that they drank about as much as they made; they’d decided that testing the product was of the utmost importance---they wouldn’t want to put a low quality product on the market, now would they? Lisa had found herself staying behind in Myrtles bathroom, not yet ready to make the trek back to the tower, and knowing that Myrtle was, thankfully, as good a Carrow deterrent as there was in this castle.

Which is why when someone decidedly not a Carrow walked  through the door, Lisa raised the bottle to them in a mock salute, “If you’re here thinking I’m going to share, it’s going to cost you.”

    seamus had been shivering the entire walk from charms to care of magical creatures.  it was fucking freezing out, and the castle seemed to be doing a shit job at keeping the cold at bay.  maybe because it had bigger threats to contest.  he had just settled on the fact that he would spent the class with his teeth chattering so loudly he wouldn’t even be able to hear hagrid.  it wouldn’t be the first time.  however, the sight of snape stopped him dead in his tracks.  they locked eyes, and seamus’s blood began boiling.  suddenly the cold was the least of his worries.  he spent the entire lesson watching their so-called headmaster, barely able to pull his focus even when hagrid has asked seamus to help demonstrate with the lesson.  just a routine observation, he assured the boy, clearly able to see the all-too-common mix of emotions etched across his face.  seamus wanted to believe him.  

    the moment class let out, though, seamus allowed his feet to carry him far away from hagrid’s hut.  they didn’t stop until he reached the owlery — one of the only places seamus thought he might be alone.  who would be sending letters when they were all being filtered anyway?  seamus let out a scream — frustration, rage, sadness, fear, confusion all combined into one anguished cry.  “i hate it here, i hate it here, i hate it here,” he repeated to himself as he stomped around, stopping only when he saw a body silhouetted in the entrance.  “what the fuck do you want?”  he spat out, unable to contain his embarrassed anger.

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?”