#thqopen

He was still in a strange sort of haze from hearing his name called, hearing Fleur’s name called, and out of nowhere hearing Harry’s name called. It was a lot like being kissed square on the lips and then immediately being punched in the face by the same person, twice. The shock of it all was enough that he was doing a brilliant thing he liked to call shutting down, which really just meant he was ignoring all of the internal feelings he was having, in favor of putting on a good face for the world. But at least his da was proud, if not a little off put by Harry’s sudden and unfair entry into the competition.

What all of it meant, besides the inevitable breakdown he could feel brewing, was that it was hard for him to go anywhere without being bombarded by people wanting to ask him too-personal questions, congratulate him, or tell him a Hufflepuff getting chosen was even worse than a fourteen year old. Which basically meant he had been late to every single class the past few days. Including today, all thanks to the crowd in the entrance hall. “I’m sorry, ah just need tae get through, I’m going tae be late to Herbology again, and ah really cannae miss anything else. Ah promise I’ll be around tae talk at dinner,” Cedric said offering up a smile, trying to get through with as little eye contact as possible.

“I don’t know why everyone’s so crazy about the bloody thing. You put y’name there, you are chosen, and you probably die eaten by a hell creature. Who even wants that?” Millicent huffed, talking to the person next to her even if she wasn’t sure who it was. Her gaze was fixed into the strange goblet that seemed to catch everyone’s attention. Not that she planned on telling anyone, but later that day when she was sure no one was around, she had put her name in it. It was a hopeless thought, of course, but there was really nothing to lose after all. “So, are you here to put your name in there, or what?”

he’s not sure why the thought crosses his mind, here in the wardroom of all places--the atmosphere is lively, warm and golden in the way that rooms of people all having a good time at the same time always are, and the laughter of men firing off continuous terrible impressions of their superior officers is infectious--and yet, it lingers at the back of his throat like bad ship’s grog, like blood on the back teeth that his tongue can’t quite reach.

the greeks played games at their funerals. they honored their dead with singing and dancing, they wrestled and laughed in the same way that they are now--only, there are no dead here. not yet, anyways.

what is to be said of men who honor ghosts that have not even come to pass? in these lower decks of the ship, a kind of underworld in and of itself, it is difficult to determine exactly who is alive and dead to begin with, who is ghost and who still lays claim to flesh and blood, to breath.

he shakes his head and gets to his feet in an effort to shake the darkness from the corners of this room, of his own mind--he makes it about as far as a few feet in front of him when he’s presented with an armful of crewman and a thick scottish brogue, and robbed of them in equally succinct fashion. he laughs, shakes his head, and spares a glance at the nearest person. “the scotsmen are at it again, then? it’ll be a miracle if the ship is still standing at the end of this. the ship’s cat is still scared of the wardroom because of them, i'll have you know.” 

“Next week we’re going to cover the three main principles of numerology. Let me know what Professor Vector says about that essay you have to write. Remember, she might be an Arirthmancy teacher but she pays attention to grammar as well.” Penelope smiled fondly at the fourth year boy who was already closing his book and standing up to leave. “Best of luck, Zac!”, she added, and the student looked back to wave at her a little too eagerly - so much that he actually hit one of the shelves on his way out. She giggled as she herself started gathering her things. That was when she heard someone approaching her. “I’m afraid tutoring hours are over, but I can walk you to dinner if you want.”

Marcus Flint despised other people, he despised having to wrap his head around their conversations, despised the expectation for a genuine response, and loathed the notion of empathy. Countless reasons added up, he spent his early mornings working out by the lake that is before he went to steal the quidditch pitch from the insane Gryffindor captain or this year some new student who clearly didn’t understand the rules. As he’s preparing to start another set of push-ups he hears rustling and immediately falls into an eye roll. 

“I swear to Merlin --Wood if that’s you I’m going to strangle you with my bare hands.”

Oliver’s on his way back from his pre-breakfast Quidditch practice (not that it matters anymore), hoping to get a bit of studying in before breakfast. It’s hard for him, trying not to find himself too disappointed in how this years turned out for him, between the cancellation of Quidditch and the tournament results, but he’s trying not to let the sadness break his spirit or routine (since it’s virtually all he has to show for the year).

 Whistling a quiet tune to himself as he wanders, he pauses, hearing something. Readjusting his bag on his shoulder, he lazily blinks and peers around the corner, admittedly curious at who else is awake at what most consider to be an ungodly hour of the morning.

“You have to level with me here --I seriously still don’t understand how this happened. Are you telling me that a fourteen year old, and a sub-par Hufflepuff are the best Hogwarts has to offer? There’s ‘gotta be something wrong with the bloody goblet.”