#i wonder how many scholars' heads exploded when they first read it

[the-music-keeper]

Objective #3 is done. The more articles I read and the more I consider what I'm interested in, the more convinced I am that my musicological research will lean heavily on the historical side.

#amy rambles #amy's to do list #schumann seminar #catholic university of america #cua #musicology #music major #okay but this article was fantastic #it connected a song from the eichendorff liederkreis that was giving analysts a lot of trouble to this archaic german legend #which explained the effectiveness of the setting #but then she went further and explained the song's structural placement in the cycle by comparing it to a lyric insert in a german novella #like........ #that makes SO MUCH SENSE #i mean the article is over thirty years old at this point but WOW #i wonder how many scholars' heads exploded when they first read it

[givemeweasley]

First Things First pt. 1

Fred Weasley x Reader

Word count: 8k

Warnings: Fluff, hella slow burn (there is no romance in this first part, the next part will definitely have it though)

A/N: This is the second fic I have! I’m super excited for you to read! I’m also taking requests! Also I haven’t seen the movies so everything in this series is completely based off the books. I did a lot of research for this to make sure it was as perfect as possible so give it a like and let me know what you think :)

First Things First pt. 2, First Things First pt. 3

-----

You remembered the first day you met him.

It was unnaturally cold outside. The English air was chill and unforgiving, something you weren’t used to. Your parents had moved you halfway across the world because they believed Ilvermorny was no longer the best wizarding education. Your grandmother went to Hogwarts and was one of the best witches in your family. She expressed the most excitement at the complete upheaval of your life to a new country, new school, and hopefully new friends. She raved and raved about how Ravenclaw was the best house. The best scholars and most successful wizards and witches stemmed from her house. Repeatedly, she told you how proud she would be if you were a Ravenclaw too. I’m a Wampus, is what you wanted to say but held your tongue. You knew your family loved you. However, it was a little much sometimes. 

As you boarded the Hogwarts Express, your parents and grandmother's ecstatic faces at the prospect of your success at Hogwarts made you nauseous. You waved back at their frantic hands before finding a deserted train car and sitting next to the window. It was only a minute before the train pulled away and a field, more vibrant than it ought to be in the English cold, came into view. Your eyes flickered across the scenery as tears built up in your eyes and bitterness built up in your heart. You had devoted four years, four damn years, to Ilvermorny. You had a life there. Friends there. A home there. Of course your friends promised to write, but you didn’t know how an owl would make it across the ocean. 

“Oh sorry! I didn’t realize this compartment was-” You had been so caught up in your thoughts you hadn’t heard the door open. Quickly wiping your tears, you turned to face the intruder. Or intruders.

Standing before you were three boys. A pair of identical twins with red hair so stark you were surprised it wasn’t fire and a smiling boy with dark skin and even darker eyes. The redhead in the front tilted his head as he studied your appearance. You groaned internally knowing your eyes must’ve been red from crying. Great first impression. But he just smiled and stuck his hand out.

“Fred Weasley and this is my brother George. That back there,” nodding his head at the boy behind them, “is Lee Jordan our best friend. Mind if we join you?”

You bit your lip, their British accents were so...so... British. It caught you off guard despite being in England.

You then realized he was still waiting for an answer, hand extended. He started to lower his hand and grimace. Immediately, your hand shot forward grabbing his.

“I don’t mind at all.” You shook his hand firmly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

All the boys stood there frozen for a moment looking at you with wide eyes. You slowly pulled your hand back as silence reigned in the compartment. Tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, you opened your mouth to speak. But Lee Jordan laughed before shoving his way past the twins and plopping in the seat right across from you.

“A bloody American!!” He choked out past his laughs. You barely noticed Fred and George sit themselves down in the compartment, one next to you and the other beside Lee. “I’ve got so many questions!” He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

You let out a nervous laugh as you leaned back slightly. “Um…”

“How about we start with her name first, you git.” You turned, seeing the twin beside you shaking his head at his friend.

“My name’s Y/N Y/L/N.” You responded still looking at the twin beside you who had finally met your eyes.

After that bit of information, Lee didn’t hesitate. “So what year are you?”

“Fifth.”

“Why are you here?”

“My parents wanted me to come to Hogwarts-”

“Is there a wizarding school in America?”

“Yeah it’s called Ilvermorny-”

“Are there houses?”

“There’s Wampus, Pukwudgie, Thunderbird, and Horned Serpent-”

“You have a Slytherin too?”

“What’s Slytherin-”

At that it was like a bomb exploded in the compartment. Lee, Fred, and George all took turns explaining to you the ‘disgusting, evil ways of the Slytherins.’ A direct quote from Lee. In detail they proceeded to explain how Hogwarts worked, the houses (the best being Gryffindor), Peeves, Filch, Severus Snape, etc. By the time the train began to slow down as it reached Hogwarts, you felt like you’d been there for years.

As the train finally pulled to a stop you opened your mouth. “So what if I’m sorted into Slytherin?” You asked the boys.

All of them looked at you with gaping mouths, not really knowing what to say. But the twin to your right, spoke first.

“You won’t be.” He stood up, pulling your suitcase from the shelf above you handing it into your arms.

“How do you know?” You countered as he handed you another suitcase.

He narrowed his eyes at you, tilting his head back and forth and rubbing his chin dramatically before smiling broadly and winking. “I just do.”

He finally pulled down the last thing up on the shelf, being a brown leather ball tied with white string. He furrowed his brows at it and turned to presumably ask you what it was. You snatched it out of his hands and tucked it under your arm.

“It’s a football.”

He opened his mouth to ask, but you had already squeezed past him and the other twin who was gaping at the ball too. You followed the hoard of students towards the door and outside.

“First years this way!!” A deep voice called one side of the platform while another voice directed students into carriages. This presented your dilemma. You weren’t technically a first year but it was your first year at Hogwarts. Would that mean they wanted you with the first years or were you supposed to ride the carriages with the other older students.

Fear started to creep up your spine as you internally panicked and everyone raced around you carrying their luggage, confidently making their way to where they belonged.

But you belonged in America. Thousands of miles away.

“Ms. Y/L/N!!” A shrill voice called. You lifted your head from where you had been zoning out. A small womanly hand waved over the heads of the students. She had a tall witch's hat on and a wrinkled face with deep eyes. You shifted your suitcases in your hands before making your way over to her. The area was near empty as most students had already gotten on a carriage or a boat. “Ms. Y/L/N, my name is Professor McGonagall. I will be escorting you tonight to the Great Hall and answering any questions you might have before you get sorted.” She shook your hand before waving you into a carriage beside her. It was at the front of the line of carriages. You stepped inside with your suitcases and football still clutched under your arm. Professor Mcgonagall stepped in behind you, shutting the door.

The carriage took off, rumbling down the path despite nothing driving it.

“Excuse me, professor.” She looked up smiling. “What’s driving these carriages?”

“Ah, well they’re being driven by Thestrals. Magical creatures that you can only see when you witness death.”

Your eyes widened as you nodded.

“Are there any questions you have about Hogwarts or any worries you’re harboring?” She folded her hands neatly over her robes, kindly smiling at you. It eased the worry in your heart a fraction.

“Actually, not really. Fred, George, and Lee-”

“Oh my! My dear, whatever they have told you is likely to be exaggerated due to their more… exuberant nature. Those boys, while good smart boys, can be quite the troublemakers.” Professor McGonagall smiled fondly while shaking her head. It reminded you of a tired mother.

“Well, I was wondering…” Your eyes looked directly up into the professors, “how do you tell the twins apart?”

A hearty laugh left her lips as she clutched her chest. “My dear, I’m afraid that is the one question I am unable to answer.”

You smiled, looking out of the window of the carriage. The rest of the ride passed quietly until the carriage pulled up to Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall instructed you to leave your things where they were before directing you through the doors of Hogwarts. She pulled you into the Great Hall, but instead of letting you sit she pulled you off to the side.

“We have to wait for the first years so everyone can get sorted at the same time.”

You nodded thinking back to your sorting in Ilvermorny. The way the Wampus roared and the Pukwudgie raised its arrow. You chose Wampus for a simple reason, it was your favorite animal. Based on the friends you made, you had never had a reason to regret your decision. But those friends were now thousands of miles away.

You’d been so wrapped up in your thoughts you missed Professor McGonagall lightly pushing you behind a small first year.

“Just follow him, dear” She nodded before turning and making her way up the hall. You did what she asked, feeling the embarrassment of being a fifteen year old following an eleven year old. Eventually you ended up in front of the entire hall. Your eyes were finally able to scan the entirety of the school. You studied the Slytherins in green, the Gryffindors in red, the Hufflepluffs in yellow, and finally the Ravenclaws in blue. Your future house. There seemed to be friendly faces throughout the entire table.

“Y/N Y/L/N!” Shit. You had missed the entirety of what had been said. You had no idea what you were supposed to do. You stumbled over to where Professor McGonagall pointed to a hat sitting on a stool. As you made your way to the stool, she turned to the crowd. “Students this is Y/N, she is a former Ilvermorny student which for those of you who don’t know, is located in America.” You heard several gasps throughout the crowd and barely resisted the temptation to roll your eyes. Oh look! A foreigner! “I expect you to treat her with the utmost kindness as she is not only new to this school, but new to England.” The murmurs in the hall had gained volume as people whispered about the American girl.

You grabbed the hat from the stool before sitting down and looking at the hat. It winked at you. You almost dropped it right then, before realizing the entire school was watching your every move.

You placed the hat on your head, nervously glancing up at Professor McGonagall before the hat sank over your eyes.

“Ah, well this is new!” The hat spoke. The hat spoke. “Well, yes I can speak. I can also sing. But alas my job is to decide what house you belong to, American girl. Hm. It appears you were chosen by both Wampus the warrior and Pukwudgie the healer when at Ilvermorny. However, your grandmother was a Ravenclaw when at Hogwarts… but what do you want, Y/N?”

The hat asked you a question.

“Yes, the hat asked you a question!”

“Um, I suppose…” It was a no to Slytherin, the boys had made that much clear. Oddly enough, you didn’t know if you wanted to be a Ravenclaw either. If you were going to be hauled across the world to go to a school you didn’t want to go to, you were going to make your own path.

“I knew it.” The hat laughed joyfully before shouting. “GRYFFINDOR!”

You assumed that was your cue as you pulled the hat off. Cheers were ringing through the hall as groans left the lips of a few others. You stood placing the hat back on the stool, looking to Professor McGonagall for further instructions.

“Well, go join your new house!” She smiled happily before waving you over to the table. You nodded, walking down a few stairs before making your way over to the long table.

“Hey! ‘Merica! Down here!” A familiar voice shouted. You looked over seeing one of the twins waving. Feeling a sense of relief you hurriedly made your way over to him.

He slid over making space for you between himself and his twin.

“Welcome to the best house, ‘Merica!” He laughed slinging an arm over your shoulder.

You couldn’t help the smile that formed. “That’s not my name.”

“It is now.” Lee winked from across the table.

You turned to the twin with his arm over your shoulder narrowing your eyes. “So are you Fred or George?” His other hand not slung around your shoulders slapped against his chest dramatically.

“I’m offended, woman! You should know that I am the great Fred and he” Fred said pointing behind you, “is the great George.”

“You’ll figure it out eventually.” A girl responded from next to Lee. “I’m Angelina, by the way. And I, unlike these gits, will call you by your name.”

“Thank you.”

As food finally appeared on the golden plates before you and everyone dug in, you felt...good. Safe. Normal. Like perhaps Hogwarts wasn’t going to be hell on Earth. Maybe you could actually enjoy going here. You couldn’t change the fact that you were here, but, maybe, you could enjoy it a little.

-----

You remembered the first time you both had class together.

“What do you have today?” Fred or George (you still couldn’t tell) mumbled with a mouth full of food. It was the first day of classes. You pulled out your schedule that had been handed to you earlier that morning.

The other twin snatched it out of your hands. “Arithmancy, Runes, and- George!” The twin, now identified as Fred, elbowed his brother. “She’s got Double Potions with us!”

“Looks like you're stuck with us everyday for the semester, love.” George said pointing to a few classes you shared with them the following days.

“Can’t wait.” You hid your smile behind the piece of toast you shoved in your mouth.

“You know, you never did explain to me what that- that ball was.” Fred said leaning forward with an apple in his hand.

Lee leaned in from beside you, interested. “Yeah, we were all talking about what it could be last night.”

“It’s just a ball. It’s used for a popular Muggle sport in America. My moms a muggle and she taught me how to play.” You nervously tucked a piece of hair behind your ear. “It’s the same ball she taught me with.”

“A Muggle sport?” Fred leaned back, seemingly unsatisfied. He glanced at George, then at Lee. “Wanna teach us?”

You laughed. “Maybe. I’ll have to see how well you play Quadpot first before I trust you with my football.”

The boys all looked at each other with confused looks on their faces. But, of course, it was Lee who spoke up first.

“Bloody hell is Quadpot?”

For a moment, you wondered if this was going to a common occurrence. You saying something about American wizardry, everyone looking at you weird and then subsequently asking questions. Probably.

“It’s a game with a qu-”

“A quaffle? Yeah that’s Quidditch!” Fred shouted.

“What I was going to say, was it’s a quod.”

“Bloody hell is a-”

“I would answer your questions if you would stop interrupting me for Pete’s sake!”

Silence reigned over the table.

George raised a hand.

“Yes, George?” You sighed.

“Who’s Pete?”

You blinked. Then blinked again. Took a deep breath in. Then breathed out.

“It’s just a saying. Now can I explain Quadpot or not?”

The boys solemnly nodded. Fred even went as far to zip his lips and throw away the key.

“I’ll do my best to summarize. Two teams of eleven, one quod. A quod is basically an exploding quaffle from the little I know about Quidditch. The goal is for your team to get the quod in the cauldron in the center of the field. If you have the quod when it explodes you’re out. Whenever a team runs out of players the game ends. Most points win. Make sense?”

All three of them sat in silence with their jaws wide open. “That’s brilliant!” Fred and George shouted simultaneously.

“Still not better than Quidditch.” Lee shrugged, shoving some oatmeal in his mouth.

“I mean I suppose. Do you guys play?” You asked.

Lee suddenly slapped his hands on the table. “I can’t believe we didn’t tell her!” Staring straight at Fred and George.

“We’re pretty damn good at Quidditch.” Fred smirked.

“We’ll see.” You winked, grabbing another piece of toast from the center of the table, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You shoved the toast in your mouth before standing and waving to the boys over your shoulder as you strolled out of the Great Hall. “See you boys in Double Potions!”

Luckily, Arithmancy and Runes went smoothly. Angelina was in both classes with you which made everything a little more comforting. Especially, when the professors went over the importance of OWLs at the end of the year. Angelina also introduced you to a few other Gryffindors in your year before classes started.

Finally, you were making your way to Potions in the Dungeons.

“Hey, look it’s the American. I heard she’s a halfblood.” You heard a sneer from behind you. You turned to see what appeared to be a second year Slytherin laughing and pointing at you. He flinched a fraction when he noticed your steely gaze on him. He had blonde hair and a mousy looking face that reminded you of the rats in Boston.

You broke out into laughter before strolling over to him.

“What are you laughing at?” He spat.

You gave him a once over. “A child who thinks he’s cool and witty by throwing some half assed attempt at an insult. If you’re gonna insult someone, maybe say something that’s actually, I don’t know, insulting?” You patted his cheek before turning on your heel and strolling into the Potions classroom, not realizing half the hall was staring at you while the blonde child fumed.

You dropped your bag on the desk closest to the back, knowing this class was with the feared Severus Snape. Suddenly two bags dropped on your left side. You looked up and knew you would see the smiling faces of Fred and George. You were still none the wiser of who was who though.

“I think I’m in love with you.” One of them said. Your eyes widened.

“Oh bugger off, I called dibs.” The other one hit the others shoulder.

You opened your mouth to respond.

“While you boys may think it is attractive for a girl to humiliate a boy younger than her, I cannot share those same sentiments and therefore,” A man pale as a sheet with greasy black hair and a hooked nose appeared over the shoulder of the twins while glaring straight at you, “five points from Gryffindor.” He made his way until he was in front of you. “I’m not surprised the American has decided to align herself with the riff raff. I can’t say I expected more from Americans. Wild eccentrics, the lot of them.” He looked down at you from over his long unseemly nose. It took you a moment for your brain to catch up with all he said. He turned to return to the front of the class.

“Hold on a sec.” You held your hand up. Snape whipped around with fire in his eyes.

“You dare ask me to-”

“You took five points from me because I had the gall to stand up for myself against someone younger than me instead of taking points from the child that you obviously heard insult me first?”

Snape opened his mouth but you decided you weren’t done.

“Also, it’s only humiliation if he’s embarrassed by his actions after I’ve called him out rightfully so. And as far as I’m concerned he should be-”

Snape had rounded back to standing in front of your table. “It is not up to you to question my judgement-”

“Your biased judgement-”

“Ten points from Gryffindor!” He shouted.

Your jaw dropped while your anger seized you. “You can’t do that!”

Snape smirked then. “Actually, Y/L/N, I can do that. I can also give you detention, which you will be serving tonight.”

“Bloody arse.” One of the twins muttered.

“Ten more points and detention for you, whichever Weasley spawn you are!” Snape snarled before whisking away to the front of the classroom. “And if anyone else has a problem with the way I handle my classroom, now is the time to speak up.” His beady eyed gaze met every eye in the class before turning to the board.

“Told you he was a git.” The twin next to you whispered.

You slumped in your seat as a small smile made its way onto your face. “Yeah. You did.”

-----

You remembered your first detention together.

“If I come back and a single speck is out of place, it will be your heads.” Snape growled.

“So we shouldn’t clean, then?” One of the twins tried his hardest not to smile.

Snape narrowed his eyes, your wands clenched tightly in his grasp. Before sweeping out of the classroom, his robes billowing behind him as the door slammed and locked.

“He’s one for dramatics.” You muttered.

The twin chuckled before nodding. “That he is.”

You turned to him. “I’m sorry you’re here. It’s my fault. I should’ve-”

“You were bloody brilliant, ‘Merica!” The twin laughed. “I’ll be dreaming about Snape and Malfoys faces for weeks!”

Heat rose to your cheeks as a smile tugged at your lips. “Thanks, I guess?” You grabbed the rag and spray left on Snape’s desk as you set out to clean the desks.

“Oh, you can put that stuff up.”

You turned, furrowing your brow.

He pulled out a wand from his pant pocket. He waved it triumphantly. “It’s Georges. He let me borrow it so we wouldn’t have to clean. Genius, he is.” He turned pointing the wand at the classroom. “Scourgify!”

Smart.

However, you still sprayed the rag before lifting your shoe and wiping the bottom of it doing the same with the other rag. You then poured out half of the bottle of spray down the drain in the middle of the classroom.

The twin furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you doing? I just said-”

“And Snape’s going to be awfully suspicious if the classroom is clean and none of the cleaning supplies are dirty or look used.”

He looked mildly impressed.

“Also, can you please tell me which one you are…”

He started to look offended but then smiled. “Fred.” He said sliding onto one of the desks.

You smacked your forehead before hopping on the desk opposite of the one he was sitting on. “You just said that was George's wand! I should’ve known. I’ll get it eventually, I promise.”

The rest of the night was spent learning things about each other. Talking about everything and nothing. You learned he was a beater for the Gryffindor Quidditch team with George being the other beater. That he had three older brothers and two younger brothers and one younger sister. His dad worked for the Ministry, which he explained was the British equivalent of MACUSA. He was obsessed with muggles and would probably love nothing more than to hear all about your football.

You told him about how you were an only child, how your grandmother went to Hogwarts and was a Ravenclaw. How you grew up in Texas before moving to Massachusetts when you were eleven. That your parents wanted to be close to you despite only seeing you on breaks. He had a lot of questions about Ilvermorny and America which you described in the best detail you could. He was especially fascinated by the size of Ilvermorny compared to Hogwarts. Which made Hogwarts seem bitesize, considering Ilvermorny was the biggest wizarding school in North America (and North America was huge).

You talked for hours until finally, you heard the quick sharp footsteps of Snape quickly approaching the door. Quickly you both jumped off the desks and grabbed rags before dropping to the floor and cleaning non existent spots right as Snape burst through the doors.

His eyes narrowed, searching the room for what you assumed was the slightest speck. Slowly, he strolled through the room wiping his fingers on random surfaces scrutinizing every inch of the classroom. He finally walked past where Fred and you were still kneeling on the ground into the store room. You frantically looked over at Fred.

“We forgot to scourgify the store room!” You whisper-shouted.

Fred smiled widely before winking and grabbing your forearm. Before you could blink, you were being hauled across the classroom. “Accio Wands!” Fred shouted as you made it to the door of the Potions classroom. The wands came flying at you from Snape's pocket as he turned, his eyes livid.

“Goodnight, Snape!” Fred called as he shut the door behind you and tugged you quickly up the nearest staircase. Your laughs following you both all the way to the Fat Lady. “Fortuna Major.” Fred whispered.

The Fat Lady smiled knowingly. “Little late to be out on a date, is it?”

Before you could respond, Fred had beat you to the punch as the picture frame swung open. “You know I would never cheat on you, my love.”

Both of you climbed inside seeing the common room was dead empty.

“Well that was…” You started.

“Fun? Thrilling?” Fred spread his arms almost as wide as his smile.

You crossed yours, tilting your head as you smiled at him. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Finally, you turned towards the girls dorm staircase stopping at the base. Fred was still standing in the same place, his arms by his side, when you glanced back.

“Something like that.” You finally responded.

“G’night, ‘Merica.” Fred called as you ascended the stairs.

Your smile followed you all the way to your bed.

-----

You remembered your first trip to Hogsmeade together.

That morning you were having a specifically hard time. Which was odd considering you’d been in Hogwarts for over a month now. Sitting in the Great Hall half a dozen owls had brought you a few letters and packages. You opened the one from your parents first.

Dear Y/N,

Hope you’re doing well! Dad got a promotion at his Ministry job (which is great news!). The International Magical Cooperation Department has really taken a liking to him! Anyway, I think I’ve finally gotten everything unpacked here and I can’t wait until Christmas for you to see your room! Grandma did tell me she was sorry you weren’t in Ravenclaw, but was glad you at least weren’t a “ooey gooey Hufflepuff.” Or something like that. I’m rambling now, but please tell me how classes have been and your friends are!

Speaking of friends, consider this an early early Christmas present. Some of your friends from Ilvermorny managed to send a few letters and packages using the mailing system (I had to explain it to your father). Anyway! Enjoy them!

Love you bunches! XOXO

Mom

A smile broke out on your face as you grabbed a random letter and ripped it open.

Hey kid,

I’m not sure how reliable this No-Maj mail thing is but here goes. Everyone misses you here. Wampus isn’t the same without our resident defender. Iris really misses you but won’t say it. She’s determined you’ll be back before the year ends. Honestly, I think we’re all hoping that. It seriously bites that you’re stuck in England with all those snob-nosed Brits. Plus, who the hell calls em Muggles? Fucking Brits…

Anyway, we won this year's first Quadpot game against the Thunderbird. It may have been the quickest game I’ve ever witnessed. Mary and Louisa were on their game, making perfect tosses to get it into the cauldron. They got new brooms this year too which were really helpful. I wish you could’ve seen it! Although, the funniest part was when Olivia caught the quod (we broke up by the way, but that’s another letter for another time) and she froze! It was hilarious. She was the last one out on the Thunderbird team. It exploded about five seconds after she caught it. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. We still had six players on our team and we were up by 28. There was no way Olivia was going to make those points back. We definitely felt your absence at the party afterwards though. We had a moment of silence for our best Quadpot player before we partied hard like we knew you would’ve wanted us too.

Well, I’m sure you have plenty of English tea to drink and boys to snog just don’t forget about lil ole Danny back here in the states. I think Iris is writing you a letter. She’s writing in her book and practically hisses at anyone who tries to see what it is. Anyway we miss you and can’t wait till you come back to America.

Best,

Danny

There were tears in your eyes by the time you finished reading the letter. You had forgotten how much you missed Quadpot. How much you missed the Wampus dorms. Gossiping with Louisa, pranking first years with Danny, practicing spells with Iris, talking about No-Maj things with Thomas. Everything you’d gotten used to for four years. You put down Danny’s letter and reached for the next one.

You looked up as Fred slid in front of you.

Fred. Oh my god. I know it’s Fred.

“Fred?” You cautiously asked. Secretly hoping you were right.

He winked. “I knew you’d get it eventually.” He nodded at the letters and packages scattered across the table. “Who did all these come from?” He picked up one of the packages. “Iris Capace.” He raised a brow looking at you.

“Friends from Ilvermorny.” You bit your lip scanning the letters in front of you, trying not to cry.

You heard Fred set the package down.

“I bet you miss ‘em.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. He was usually joking, sarcastic, and goofy. But rarely gentle.

You nodded, clearing your throat. “I do.”

Fred didn’t respond for a moment. You looked up to see him glancing around the table at the numerous letters and packages. He seemed to feel your gaze on him because he looked up to meet your eyes. His smile seemed much brighter and warmer than it had ever before. It made your heart stutter.

“Well then, it’s a good thing we’re going to Hogsmeade today so we can buy them a couple of souvenirs to send back.” He stood holding his hand out after grabbing a few of the heavier looking packages. “Come on. Let’s go drop these off at the dorm so we can make it in time to Hogsmeade.”

You gathered the left over letters and packages under your arm before grabbing his hand. You realized how impractical it was to hold his hand as you walked down the table, your hands clasped together over the table. He refused to let go, though, even as you passed a few Gryffindors. They just had to duck under your outstretched hands.

After depositing your letters and packages in your room and grabbing your money, Fred walked with you to the carriages.

George, Lee, and Angelina were all waiting by one of the carriages.

“It’s about time!” Angelina shook her head despite the smile on her lips. “Thought you two got lost.”

“I bet they did.” Lee whispered under his breath as you stepped in the carriage, Fred getting in behind you.

“In eachothers eyes.” You heard George whisper back laughing quietly as he climbed in.

You ended up sitting next to Angelina. She wanted to ask you all about Adrian Pucey who had cornered you after Potions the other day to flirt with you. That conversation topic lasted you all the way into Hogsmeade, while you occasionally heard bits and pieces of the boys talking about the next Quidditch match.

When the carriages pulled up to Hogsmeade at last, Angelina grabbed your arm excitedly.

“I forgot this is your first time here!” She dragged you out of the carriage immediately pulling you towards a pub called The Three Broomsticks. “First things first, you have to try butterbeer!!”

You refrained from telling her you were from America and not another planet and you had had butterbeer before. But her excitement rubbed off and you couldn’t break her heart. So you kept that fact to yourself.

The inside of The Three Broomsticks was rustic and charming. It was warm and felt incredible coming in from the brisk cold that always seemed to linger no matter where you went. Angelina ordered two butterbeers and found a spot for you both off to the side. The table was small but perfect to fit the two of you.

“So how’s Quidditch going? I vaguely heard the boys talking about it on the way here.” You asked, taking a sip of the butterbeer. You almost forgot it was supposed to be your first time tasting it, so you made a shocked face. “This is really good!!”

Angelina narrowed her eyes at you before taking a sip of her own butterbeer. “You can lay off it now. I should’ve figured you’d had it before. My fault.” She was still smiling though, which was a good sign. “But, Quidditch has been...good. Practice is hell though. Don’t get me wrong I love being up on my broom, but Wood can talk for hours. Which means I’m exhausted by the time we end up getting up in the air.”

“That bad?” You grimaced taking another long sip.

“Especially when we have Slytherin games upcoming. I think he forgets sometimes that we want to win as much as he does. He just really wants the Quidditch cup this year.” Angelina glanced around before lowering her voice. “After losing to Hufflepuff due to the Dementor, he’s just really on edge. None of us blame Harry, of course, but it’s Woods last year and we would need to beat both Slytherin and Ravenclaw to have a shot. Not only that, but we’d have to beat them by a decent amount…” She rubbed her forehead before downing more butterbeer.

You laid your hand on the table close to her. “Angelina, you guys played really well from what I saw. You’ve got it in the bag. But there’s no sense in stressing about it now when you can’t do anything about it.”

“She’s right, you know?” You glanced up to see George pulling up a chair next to you.

“We did play well.” Fred slid another chair on Angelina’s side. It took you only a moment to spot Lee leaning against the wall nodding his head.

“But what do you say we finish our drinks and go get some of those souvenirs.” Fred nodded at you.

“Souvenirs?” Angelina asked looking at you. “For who?”

“Friends back in America. Or The States as you Brits call it.” That surprisingly caused a peal of laughter to ring from everyone.

“I reckon she’s learning!” George laughed, elbowing your side.

“We’ll make a proper Brit of you yet!” Lee chimed in.

You raised your Butterbeer. “Not a chance,” and tossed back what was left in your glass.

The rest of the day was spent (literally) on buying weird must-haves from Zonko’s and candy from Honeydukes. You were mainly excited about getting new cards from all the chocolate frogs you bought. America’s cards had famous American wizards, so being able to get dozens of new ones was exciting.

Before you knew it, you were back on the carriage to Hogwarts. Back in the Gryffindor common room examining a few of the presents you had gotten for your friends.

“I promise they work. The dungbombs are personally my favorite and if your friend Danny is half the man you say he is, he’ll love them.” Fred said as he plopped into the chair next to you in the back of the common room.

You looked up. “Danny with the three of you guys would honestly be a dangerous combination.” You held the dungbomb up in front of your face. “I know he’s gonna love these.” You peeked over the top of it. “Thanks.”

Fred smiled another one of his award winning smiles. The one that made all the girls' knees weak. “Anything for you, ‘Merica.” Then he frowned suddenly before digging in his pocket. When he lifted out a small bag, he laughed softly. “Almost forgot.” He tossed the bag at you.

You caught it midair and raised a brow.

“Saw it and thought of you.” He shrugged. With that he stood and bowed dramatically. “Well I must be off to bed, my lady. It was an honor to assist you today, I am your humble servant.” He grabbed your hand and planted a kiss on it before winking and whisking himself away up the stairs of the boys dorm. Your hand was still stuck in midair slightly tingling.

You glanced down at the bag before pulling the strings that held it closed. You turned it over and watched as a silver necklace tumbled out. The chain was thin and long, but it was the pendant that your eyes were focused on.

It was a tiny glass ball, within it was exploding fireworks.

Fred Weasley. Your heart skipped a beat as the red firework held his name before dissolving in the glass as another firework shot off.

It was stunning. You pulled the chain over your head and tucked it underneath your shirt. The pendant fell in the center of your chest. It felt warm against your heart. You pressed it closer.

At that, it was time for bed.

But you couldn’t keep the smile off your face.

-----

You remembered your first goodbye.

The Great Feast had been spectacular. Also a god send considering how insane the year had been. You were honestly tired and ready to see your parents. Yet, you also were sad to leave the friends you had made. The deep friendships you had made. Something about the fear of dying has an odd way of making anyone feel closer.

You were sitting between Fred and Alicia Spinnet. Listening as Dumbledore finished awarding Gryffindor the House Cup and Quidditch Cup. Everyone around you, including yourself, exploded in cheers. Jumping from their seats, hugging each other, shouting about how Gryffindor was the best house.

Eventually you all sat down and began eating after Dumbledore sat down. The energy at your table was incomparable. You scanned your eyes over all the friends you had made. Angelina laughing from across you at some dumb joke George said from beside her. Lee on her other side flirting with Katie and Alicia. Wood on the other side of Fred raving about how excited he was about the Quidditch cup win. Harry, Ron and Hermione further down laughing like they deserved. Fred beside you, looking right at you.

“You’re not eating.” He nodded at your plate.

You shrugged. “I was just observing everyone. I’m gonna miss it, I guess.”

Fred’s eyes widened.

“You’re not coming back next semester?” He shouted. It attracted the attention of everyone around you whose smiles suddenly dropped as they stared at you.

You raised your hands. “Hold on! I never said that!”

“So...are you coming back?” Lee pointed his fork at you. “Cause if you’re not, we’ll just outright kidnap you.”

“Guys. I’m coming back! Don’t worry. Everyone can proceed to their regularly scheduled programming.”

“Regularly scheduled-” Angelina began to ask.

“Don’t ask.” You held up your hand before turning back to Fred. It seemed that after that, everyone slowly went back to their own conversations. “But what I was saying is that it’s weird living with you guys for so long and then just...not.” You shrugged now not wanting to meet his eyes. Nervous that he would think you were too clingy or weird for saying that.

But instead he nudged your shoulder with his own. “I get it. But I’m sure you’re more than welcome to visit the Burrow.”

Your face fell. He was offering you to visit his home? During the summer. It sent a warm feeling through your whole body. It was only then that you realized you hadn’t responded and Fred had misinterpreted that silence.

His hand lifted to rub his neck. “Or not. It’s not really a big deal, it’s small anyway…” He trailed off.

Your face broke out into a big grin before you laid your hand on his arm that was still wrapped behind his neck. “I’d love to.” His nervous frown widened into that familiar smile you loved so much. “My family’s going to visit America for the two months of summer but if the offer still stands when I come back, I’d love to.”

Fred slung his arm over your shoulder, pulling you into his side. “Trust me, that offer isn’t going anywhere.”

The rest of the meal passed in just as much joy and happiness as you could have hoped. Not a single Gryffindor had a frown or left the table hungry.

What seemed like the blink of an eye, the lot of you were crammed into one train car on the way back home. You had the window seat again with Angelina beside you. She insisted on sitting next to you on the way back.

Despite Angelina's addition, it reminded you of the first train ride to Hogwarts. The fear you felt, the longing you had for Ilvermorny, for America. Your nerves at knowing next to nothing about the people here or how the school differed from the one you were used to. But it was the knowledge of how much you had grown and the friends that had been a part of that that made you smile.

The people in the train car were your new home. Your new school mates as they drilled into your head.

“Thinking hard over there, ‘Merica? Schools over now, you don’t have to do that.” Lee said tossing the football your way.

You caught it without thinking and tossed it to George. “Some of us like to use our brains year round, Jordan.”

Angelina snickered as she caught the ball from George and tossed it back to Lee.

“Hey! Am I chopped liver?” Fred shouted, raising his hands.

“Sorry Fred!” Angelina winced, although you saw the hint of a smile lingering on her lips.

Your friends were batshit. But you loved them.

You tossed the football back and forth, while talking about your summer plans until the train pulled in the station. Everyone stood up and began grabbing their suitcases (or trunks as they insisted calling them) from the shelves above.

You tucked the football under your arm as you followed Angelina out with your suitcases in hand. You could hear Fred and George laughing about something from behind you. Finally you made it on the platform and spotted your parents' kind faces. You raced towards them and dropped your suitcases at their feet along with the ball as you threw your arms around their necks.

“I missed you guys!” You smiled as you pulled back to see their smiling faces.

“We missed you too, sweetheart.” Your mother cupped your cheek with her hand. She glanced behind you. “And who are these lovely people?”

You turned seeing Fred, George, Angelina, and Lee all standing there smiling at you. Your heart melted a little.

“Mom, Dad, these are the people I’ve been telling you about.”

“Oh, so you’ve been writing about me to your parents, have you?” Fred winked. A blush rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Your mom laughed before outstretching her hand. “Well, it’s nice to officially meet you bunch. I’m Mrs.Y/L/N and this is Mr. Y/L/N.” They each took turns shaking her hand before she spoke up again. “I do believe you’re Angelina, you must be Lee, and I would have to be stupid not to think you were the identical twins George and Fred?”

At that everyone's eyes widened, including yours. George and Fred? That sounded so… so… wrong.

Fred said, “It’s Fred and George,” the same time George said, “Right you are!”

You shook your head before stepping away from your parents to give each of your friends a hug and saying goodbye.

Angelina promised she’d write before she slipped away to leave with her parents. Lee made eyes at the football as he hugged you, and it took a promise that you would buy him one in America that finally satisfied him before he left as well. Fred and George were a little different. George hugged you tightly and messed your hair up a bit.

“We’ll see you at the Burrow later this summer I hear?”

“That’s the plan.” You glanced over at Fred. You felt George’s eyes follow your own before he laughed quietly.

“I get it. I know who your favorite Weasley is.” He winked before letting you go.

You grabbed his arm. “It’s you. Don’t tell Fred.” You winked back as he laughed all the way back to his family.

Finally, Fred pulled you into a tight hug. Your best friend.

“I’ll miss you.” You mumbled into his chest.

“Oh and here I was thinking George was your favorite Weasley.” He pulled back enough to look at you. You bit your lip to withhold the smile creeping in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes narrowed. “Mhm. Sure you don’t.” Fred shook his head before pressing a kiss into your hair. “I’ll miss you too, ‘Merica. But I’ll see you at the Burrow later this summer. Might even have a surprise for you.” Just like his brother, he sent you a wink, and turned to return to his family.

You stood staring after him for a minute before you realized your parents were a couple yards behind you. You turned, the blush still hot on your cheeks.

Your dad had your luggage in his hands with a smirk on his face, one of his brows raised. You reached down grabbing your football before following your family to the brick wall.

“So I’m assuming that one was Fred?” Your dad chuckled. If your blush could get deeper it would’ve.

“Oh hush! She’s embarrassed already at her parents seeing her crush!” Your mom slapped your dad's arm. Your parents started bickering then like young lovers. You tuned it out the closer you got to the wall. Your dad was the first to walk through, followed by your mom.

A slight tug pulled in your gut before you stepped in the brick wall. You glanced back looking for those familiar brown eyes. It took you only a moment before you found them. Already looking at you. His lips tugged up into a smile as he lifted his hand.

If there was a fraction of anxiety going into the summer, it was gone then. That safe comforting smile of Fred Weasley always did you in. You lifted your hand and smiled back before confidently turning and walking through the wall.

As excited as you were to see your friends in America again, you secretly knew your heart would be thousands of miles across the sea in a small house in the country.

#fred weasley x reader #Fred Weasley fic #Fred Weasley #George weasley #Angelina Johnson #harry potter #Hogwarts #Harry Potter fic #imagine #Fred Weasley imagine #fw #x reader #First Things First

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Hell is For Children: Animorphs as Children’s Lit

[Guest post from Cates!]

So a couple of months ago Bug asked me to write a post about why Animorphs is Middle Grade/Children’s Fiction, not Young Adult. Since she asked, I’ve read several wonderful posts from other people questioning or explaining what the difference is between Middle Grade and Young Adult, where Animorphs fits, and why it matters. Here’s my two cents as a children’s literature scholar.

To start, Animorphs’ 20,000-30,000 word count per book is a big hint it’s not YA fiction. Obviously, a book with a low word count is not automatically a children’s book, and a book with a high word count is not automatically a book for adults. But if Animorphs was aimed at teens, Applegate would likely have been expected to make the books longer. While there are a lot of great YA novels that are as short as or shorter than your average Animorphs book (check out BookRiot’s list of 100 YA novels under 250 pages,) most YA series, and especially fantasy or scifi YA series, are expected to top 100,000 words. (The three books in the Diviners series by Libba Bray have a total wordcount of 520,000 words; Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy tops 400,000 words, for example.)

Animorphs’ word count isn’t enough on its own to exclude the series from YA classification, but Animorphs’ short word count also fits the trend of children’s—not YA—series fiction in the 1990s. In order to understand this trend, and why it produced books specifically for children, not teens, we need to jump back in time to WWII. Because so many American men were drafted into the military, women took over jobs that had been almost exclusively done by men, like mechanics, sales, electricians, etc. When WWII ended, thousands of men returned home, but women didn’t leave the workforce. Realizing they had an excess of young men and not enough jobs, the US government created the GI Bill, allowing soldiers to attend college for free or at a steeply reduced cost, thus stemming the influx of workers and giving the economy and industry room to grow.

At the same time, families were having children (and those children were surviving) at an unprecedented rate. Thanks to the GI Bill, college was no longer something reserved for wealthy white men, but something available to the middle and even lower class. A college education offered social and economic mobility, and the Baby Boomers, children of the GI Bill recipients, became the first generation to grow up with the idea that college was something that could and should be pursued by all.

Then, the Baby Boomers began having children in the late 1970s through early 1990s, meaning a large chunk of those children (including Bug and I) were in elementary school in mid 1990s to early 2000s. Thanks to their parents, a higher percentage of American adults than ever before had attended college. Thanks to advancements in women’s medicine, psychology, sociology, and education, among other fields, people understood as never before the importance of instilling a love of reading in children at a young age. The huge middle class was willing to invest lots of time and money in their children’s educations, because at this point not having a college education was seen as a barrier to success.

I’m sure you can see where this is going. (Kidding).

Children’s publishing exploded in the 1990s because children—or, more accurately, their parents—were seen as a huge, untapped market. Previously, children’s publishing didn’t receive as much money or attention because, the logic went, children did not have money and therefore couldn’t buy books. But then the publishing industry realized that there were literally millions of parents willing to spend money on their children’s education, and publishers like Scholastic, Dutton, Dial, Penguin, Random House, and others rushed to take advantage of this new customer demographic.

Of the ten books featured on this Scholastic bookfair poster from 2000, seven are series fiction.

Serialized fiction—ie, stories that took place over the course of several books about the same characters and/or in the same setting—was the perfect way for publishing houses to capitalize on this new market. And hoo boy was it successful. From 1993 to 1995, Goosebumps books were being sold at a rate of approximately 4 million books a month. That means roughly 130,000 books were sold every day.

Here’s a few names to bring you back: Bailey School Kids, The Magic Treehouse, Babysitter’s Club, Junie B. Jones, Encyclopedia Brown, Cam Jansen, Horrible Harry, Secrets of Droon, The Magic Attic Club, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Bunnicula, The Boxcar Children, The American Girls, Amelia’s Notebook, Dear America, Wayside School, Choose Your Own Adventure…we could keep going for days. All of those series have two things in common: one, they were either published between 1985 and 2005 and/or experienced a huge resurgence in the 90s, and two, they’re all middle grade novels. Some are aimed at younger children, like Junie B. Jones and The Magic Treehouse, and some are aimed at older children, like the Dear America series and A Series of Unfortunate Events.

The point is, Animorphs is so clearly a product of its time (and not just because of the Hansen Brothers references,) it slots perfectly into the trend of series fiction for children. If you want to claim Animorphs is YA, you also need to claim all of the series I just listed above.

Now, let’s talk about the main argument I see in favor Animorphs being YA: the dark content.

This is my personal wheelhouse. I’m planning on someday doing my PhD dissertation on trauma, violence, war, and trauma recovery in Middle Grade—not YA—fiction. I always find it funny when people use descriptors like cute, sweet, innocent, silly, light, and simple to describe children’s books. While there are certainly plenty of children’s books that are one or more of those things, there are also dozens that are the polar opposite—dark, complex, serious, violent, and deep. I once read a review of The Golden Compass which said “it’s not like other children’s books with a clear cut good guy and bad guy and a simple message.” I don’t know how many children’s books the author of the article had read, but I’m guessing not a lot. Let’s just do a blunt reality check with a few of my favorites—including some picture books which are typically for an even younger audience than Middle Grade. Spoilers for all of the books I’m about to mention.

Baseball Saved Us by Ken Mochizuki This book follows a little boy who is sent to a Japanese interment camp during WWII. He and his family deal with abuse, starvation, and sickness. Suggested reading age*? Kindergarten and up.

*(For this and all subsequent books I used reviews from Kirkus, the Horn Book, and School Library Journal to determine suggested reading age.)

Check out this picture of Shorty playing baseball while an armed soldier watches him from a guard tower. Isn’t it cute, sweet, and innocent?

Pink and Say by Patricia Polacco Pink and Say are 15-year-old boys serving as Union Soldiers during the Civil War. Confederate Soldiers kill Pink’s mother, Pink and Say become POWs, and Pink is hanged because he is African American. Suggested reading age? First grade and up.

Fox by Margaret Wild This book starts grim and just gets grimmer. Dog and Magpie have been burned in a wildfire. Dog loses an eye, Magpie a wing. Magpie rides on Dog’s head—she is his eyes, he is her wings. Fox comes and convinces Magpie to leave Dog and come with him. There are definite sexual undertones. The book ends with the possibility that Dog and Magpie will be reunited, but no certainty. Suggested reading age? Six and up.

[The text says “He stops, scarcely panting./ There is silence between them/ Neither moves, neither speaks./ Then Fox shakes Magpie off his back/ as he would a flea,/ and pads away./ He turns and looks at Magpie, and he says,/ ‘Now you and Dog will know what it is like/ to be truly alone.’/ Then he is gone./ In the stillness, Magpie hears a faraway scream./ She cannot tell if it is a scream of triumph/ or despair.”]

Tell me this isn’t a total punch in the gut.

The Rabbits by Shaun Tan The introduction of rabbits to Australia is used as an allegory for European colonization and the casual destruction of the Aboriginals’ lives and cultures. Suggested reading age? Six and up.

The Scarlet Stockings Spy by Trinka Hakes Noble A girl spies on the British during the Revolutionary War while her brother fights. He’s killed and there’s actually a description of her finding the “bloodstained hole” in his coat where the bullet struck him. How cute and silly! Suggested reading age? Second grade and up.

Meet Addy: An American Girl by Connie Rose Porter I think this works as a nice comparison to Animorphs because it’s another long-running, popular series aimed at kids just starting to read chapter books. Among other incidents, there’s a graphic description of Addy watching her brother get whipped by an overseer and a passage where another overseer forces Addy to eat worms. I actually give American Girls a lot of points for not shying away from the uglier parts of history. They don’t always get it right (*cough* Kaya *cough*) but those books are more complex than I think most people realize. Suggested reading age? Second grade and up.

My Teacher Flunked the Planet by Bruce Coville From the sight of a child starving to death to homeless children freezing in the streets, Coville certainly doesn’t avoid the darker side of human nature. Pretty sure most adults only noticed the funny green alien on the cover. Suggested reading age? Fourth grade and up.

“That was the day we crept, invisible, into a prison where men and women were being tortured for disagreeing with their government. What had already been done to those people was so ugly I cannot bring myself to describe it, even though the memory of it remains like a scar burned into my brain with a hot iron.

“Even worse was the moment when it was about to start again. When I saw what the uniformed man was going to do to the woman strapped to the table, I pressed myself against the wall and closed my eyes. But even with my hands clamped over my ears I couldn’t shut out her scream.”

Inside Out and Back Again by Thanhha Lai The Vietnam War, migrants drowning in the ocean, refugee camps, racism…this book is a bit like Animorphs in that it’s got a surprisingly dry sense of humor even as awful events take place. Suggested reading age? Fourth grade and up.

The Great Gilly Hopkins by Katherine Patterson A pretty harsh look at the realities of America’s foster care system as told by a girl who could give Rachel Berenson a run for her money. It’s not afraid to show that parents aren’t automatically good people. Suggested reading age? Third grade and up.

Stepping on the Cracks and Wait Til Helen Comes by Mary Downing Hahn If WWII, bullying, dead siblings, draft dodging, and parental abuse are too light and fluffy for you, you can always read about a child consumed with survivor’s guilt because she started the fire that killed her mother. Suggested reading age? Fifth grade and up.

“‘How do you think Jimmy would feel if he knew his own sister was helping a deserter while he lay dying in Belgium?’

‘It wasn’t like that!’ I said, stung by the unfairness of her question. ‘Stuart was sick, he needed me! I wish Jimmy had been down there in the woods, too! Then he’d be alive, not dead!’

Mother slapped me then, hard as she could, right in the face. ‘Never say anything like that again!’ she cried. ‘Never!’”

I could go on (and on and on and on) about trauma narratives for children, but suffice to say while I think Animorphs is probably the most brilliant one I’ve ever read, it’s far from the only one. Kids’ books can be dark, which is good, because if we only tell stories about white, able-bodied children living in big houses with two loving parents then we’re excluding the majority of real children’s lived experiences from our narratives.

There’s one more point I’d like to address: without sounding overly accusatory, I think a lot of the compulsion to consider Animorphs YA instead of children’s fiction is born of the adult bias against children. I’ve mentioned this before on the podcast, but Children’s Literature scholar Maria Nikolajeva created the term aetonormativity to describe society’s tendency to value the adult over the child. Like I discussed above, we have this idea that children’s books are somehow sweet and innocent, while YA fiction is darker and grittier because it addresses so-called ‘adult’ topics like sex, drugs, suicide, violence, and death.

As I hope I’ve established above, just because a book addresses these topics that doesn’t automatically mean it’s for teens. Books about heavy subjects can, are, and should be written for children. I think most of us are fans of Animorphs because it’s a series that sticks with us long after we close the neon-cloud covers. It’s a series that strongly disputes the notion of a clear right and wrong, and doesn’t shy away from the atrocities of war. And it was written for children. It was sold to children. It was read by children.

Some of us adults are just cool enough to read children’s books that treat child readers with the respect they deserve.

— Cates

#animorphs #children's literature #children's books #literature #lit crit #childhood #young adult literature #ya sf #genre fiction #violence mention #slavery mention #imperialism #internment #beta post #long post #picture books #publishing #censorship #literary history #animorphs meta #war

[uncloseted]

Hey Christina!!!!!!!!!! Sorry I’m hyped. I was wondering if you could do a “50 things about yourself” idk if you’ve done it before but I’d like to know about you cause you’re so cool! 😎 and we love you

Hi!  I haven’t done one before but I’m happy to.  And of course, if there’s anything you guys want to know about me I’m an open book.  This particular “50 Things” tag is old school Tumblr, so it’s sort of random, but hopefully something in there is interesting for you guys.

1. What takes up too much of your time?

Reddit.  I’m an information junkie and most of the stuff on there has very little use in my life, but once in a while I come across a gem and it’s what keeps me scrolling.

2.       What makes your day better?

Iced coffee.  There’s a coffee shop near my house that I really like, and I also bought a bunch of the fancy flavored syrups so I can make it at home.

3.       What’s the best thing that happened to you today?

I’ve been having a pretty chill day so far, but spending the day with my boyfriend has been really nice.

4.       What fictional place would you like to go?

The Night Circus!  It’s one of my secret ambitions in life to actually build it.

5.       Are you good at giving advice?

I sure hope so, otherwise I’m running some of your lives 😂. But seriously, I do my best.1.

6.       Do you have any mental illness?

Let’s say I know my way around a therapist’s office and leave it at that.

7.       Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis?

Yes!  I used to get a combination of sleep paralysis and exploding head syndrome semi-regularly, but that hasn’t happened in years.

8.       What musician inspired you the most?

I don’t know about “inspired” but I think The Velvet Underground had a big hand in shaping who I am.  Also Patti Smith, she’s great.  I highly recommend her book “Just Kids” to all of you.  There’s something about it that feels Skinsy even though on paper they’re nothing alike.

9.       Have you ever fallen in love?

Absolutely.  I’ve been with my boyfriend for four years now and I couldn’t be happier. 

10.   What’s your dream date?

I love driving to a new city and checking out what there is to do there.  I think having a place that you share just with that one person is really romantic. 

11.   What do other people notice about you?

My hair, my clothes, or my “intimidating” face are the ones I hear the most often.

12.  What is the annoying habit you have?

My boyfriend really hates it when I do “active listening” (where you nod or make noises to let people know you’re still paying attention to them).

13.  Do you still talk to your first love?

No, but I hope they’re doing well.

14.  How many ex’s do you have?

6ish would be my guess?  I’d be interested to know if all of those people would say that I’m their ex, though.

15.  How many songs are on your playlist?

I don’t really make playlists, so I guess none.  I’m sorry that’s a super boring answer. 

16.  What instruments can you play?

Piano and bass guitar pretty well and tuba badly (and I can’t actually carry the instrument anymore).  I could play the flute when I was younger but I imagine I can’t anymore.

17.  Who do you have the most pictures of?

My boyfriend, I think.  I have a Polaroid camera and I like taking pictures of him when he’s not paying attention. 

18.  Where would you like to go before you die?

Argentina, Scandinavia, Japan, South Korea, Hong Kong, Russia, Vietnam, South Africa, Morocco, Australia, Antarctica, and the moon.

19.  What is your zodiac?

Libra!  My birthday is coming up on the 17th. 

20.  Do you relate to it?

I do!  And I feel sort of badly about that because I know that zodiac is just the Barnum Effect in action, but the Libra desire for balance, idealism, and love of aesthetics is me. 

21.  What is happiness to you?

Being free of expectations from myself and other people.

22.  Are you going through anything right now?

In my experience, adulthood is just going through different things for the rest of your life, so yes. Pretty much always.  But right now I’m looking for a new job and that’s been a lot.

23.  What is the worst decision you’ve ever made?

How much time do you have?  I did a lot of things in my teenage years that I’m not particularly proud of.

24.  What is your favourite store?

I love really giant department stores like Harrod’s, or covered markets with tons of different random stalls.  I like the idea that you don’t know what you’re going to find.  I also love antique stores for the same reason.

25.  What is your opinion on abortion?

It should be available and accessible to anyone who wants or needs it.  But so should birth control.  And I think it’s important that people understand all of their options before making a decision and are given mental health support if they need it as well. 

26.  Do you have a bucket list?

Not really.  I had basically one thing that I’d always wanted to accomplish and that happened way earlier than I expected, so now I’m trying to figure out what my next thing will be.

27.  Do you have a favourite album at the moment?

Blue Scholar’s Cinematropolis or Belle & Sebastian’s Dear Catastrophe Waitress.  And Velvet Underground’s Loaded, always. 

28.  What do you want for your birthday?

I’m hoping my boyfriend and I will go away for the weekend.  Fingers crossed that our schedules work out!

29.  What are most people’s first impression of you?

I think people find me to be intimidating (when they’re being generous) or mean (when they’re not).  Like I said before, I have a bit of a bitchy face and so I have to make a conscious effort to smile at people.

30.  What age do you seem according to most people?

I’m not sure.  I’ve gotten to the point where I’m just sort of “in my 20s” and people don’t care what the exact number is.  But in general, I think people assume I am however old they are, so anywhere from like 18-30.

31.  Where do you keep your phone while you’re sleeping?

Right next to my bed, which you shouldn’t do.  But I read on my phone before I go to sleep and I use it as an alarm clock, so it ends up on my bedside table.

32.  What word do you say the most?

It’s probably “but”.  I spend a lot of time considering all the possibilities in a given situation so I spend a lot of time being like, “but what about this? But what if that? Things could be this way, but on the other hand they’re like that”.  I don’t think I really have a catchphrase, though.

33.  What’s the oldest age you would date?

Thirty, probably?  I feel like anyone older than that is probably in a different stage of their life than I am.

34.  What’s the youngest age you would date?

Twenty three or so?  They would have to be out of college.

35.  What job/career do most people say would suit you?

Other than the job I do now, I get a lot of people saying that I should be an art curator or a museum curator.  And I get people telling me I should be a therapist, obviously.

36.  What’s your favourite music genre?

Like most people I like your general pop/rock situation.  I really like baroque pop, which is pop music but that includes orchestral instruments.  And then I also love electroswing, I think it’s such a fun blend of genres.

37.  If you could live in any country in the world, where would it be?

Either the Netherlands or Denmark.  But I would also like to spend some time in France and more time in Italy, where I did study abroad.  I also really love the UK, but given the current political situation I’m not sure I’ll be moving there any time soon, especially since I’d need a visa.

38.  What is your current favourite song?

I don’t know if I really have one.  I do enjoy when I hear Billie Eilish’s “Bad Guy” on the radio, though, does that count?

39.  How long have you had this blog for?

Since October, 2013!  I’m coming up on my six year anniversary.  I think I have something like 30,000 posts.

40.  What are you excited for?

The future! I think no matter how the present seems, the future is always an exciting prospect. 

41.  Are you a better talker or listener?

I think this might surprise some people, but I think I’m a better talker than listener.

42.  What is the last productive thing you did?

The last really productive thing I did was to film a pitch video for a project I’m working on, but the most recent is doing some work for this blog.

43.  What do you want for Christmas?

The impeachment of Donald Trump? Can Santa do that?  I would also take “people taking climate crisis seriously”.

44.  What class do you get the best grades in?

In high school, philosophy/religion and psychology. At university I did very well in “Iconic Figures of Popular Music: Simon and Garfunkel”.

45.  On a scale of 1-10, how are you feeling?

Around a 7.  I need to get dressed and leave the house, but I don’t have anywhere in particular I need to be so I’ve been putting it off.

46.  What can you see yourself doing in 10 years?

I’d like to be living in a different country than the one I do now with my boyfriend.  I’d like to be self employed or remotely employed, so that I have flexibility in when and where I do work.  I want to be doing something where I’m bettering other people’s lives or the world at large. But mostly what I’d like to be doing is traveling and learning.  But really my priority is that by that time, I want to be content with myself.  I think what you’re doing and where you’re doing it is so much less important than how you feel while doing it, and in 10 years I hope I can say that I’m living a happy and worthwhile life, whatever that ends up being.

47.  When did you get your first heart broken?

I think I was 14.  What I’ll say about it is this- in the moment it mattered so, so much to me.  My parents were the first person that each other dated and I assumed that was how all relationships worked, so when that wasn’t how this one worked out, I was devastated.  But now I barely remember that person, and  I live with someone else who’s completely different and totally awesome and I couldn’t be happier.  I know it sounds like a lie but with time and perspective all wounds can heal.

48.  At what age do you want to get married?

I didn’t think I wanted to get married at all.  I don’t like the idea of having a big wedding where you’re the center of attention and everyone is starting at you.  But in the long run being legally married is practical, so my boyfriend and I will probably do it at some point when we feel like it makes logistic sense.

49.  What career did you want to have as a child?

I wanted to be an Imagineer at Disney.  They’re the people who design the theme parks.  I also wanted to be the president of the moon.

50.  What do you crave right now?

Excitement!  Nothing is going on in my day right now and I’m starting to get bored.  I have a very low tolerance for boredom so days like this really get to me.

[hopebliss]

A DRUMMING OF ASPHALT

SUMMARY: It’s routine - a short walk for a Ventrue bureaucrat and the Anarch leader. (hinted!gretel x nines rodriguez, 1.6k words)

“You won’t compromise.”

A statement, not framed as a question. A statement strung out, vowel and consonants clicking, in a manner that suggested Gretel had said this before, time and time again.

Defeated repetition. Nines Rodriguez supplied his usual answer, as expected. “No.”

They had found - through a similar kind of repetition -  the quiet routes in L.A, the streets that were easy for two Kindred to meander through, lined with empty warehouses and the occasional rumble of midnight traffic. Pavements well-mapped by a pair of clicking Ventrue heels and well-worn Brujah boots under hazy city lights.

“That makes life difficult, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Difficult for you and the LaCroix. The Camarilla.”

“For the city, too.” Her side-glances during these nights were sparing, still, she used up one of her quota then, slate grey hewn sharp behind dark-rimmed glasses. “It cannot carry on like this.”

Familiar sentences; as if they hadn’t already circled around this topic, night after night, long after she had first entered the Last Round bar, spine rim-rod straight and refusing to move five feet away from her Toreador friend. As if their hissed arguments hadn’t eventually dragged them onto the street, pacing around L.A like tempestuous animals in a cage.

“It doesn’t have to be.” Nines voice, caught between a drawl and a snap. Impatience coupled with resignation. They would be here again, in a couple of nights, when Gretel would return with another set of negotiations - the same as ever before, but glossy-laminated and presented with slick new titles, a new barbed wire cage around old stories. “Listen, Rushforth, you’re the ones who chose to stampede back here as if nothing ever happened. You’re the ones trying to push against us and failing.”

“Failing? Your Anarchs aren’t exactly standing steady on two feet.”

“They’re not mine. They don’t belong to anyone. That’s the whole point.”

Tremere theorists and scholars often talked around the houses when it came to a Kindred’s state of unlife. Kindred biology was a point of fascination, a series of contradictions within itself: they were alive and yet they weren’t. Not exactly changed but transformed into something else entirely, human and monster coalescent in the same form. 

Breathing was one of those funny things: lungs that should be dormant twitched. A mimic of a sigh and Nines reached inside his shirt pocket.

It was mildly concerning when Gretel realised her first instinct wasn’t to think gun. Either the past few weeks had dulled her, or she had learned to recognise when Nines was reaching for his cigarettes.

Oh.

“Don’t pretend to care for the city either.” He continued, splintering the two-second silence with a flick of the cardboard carton lid. “Can’t be here two seconds and pretend to give a shit.” And, absurdly, he gestured the carton in an offering.

“No thank you, I’m trying to quit.” She caught his look. “It’s a bad habit.”

“I’m pretty sure there are worse things in your line of work, Cammy.”

“Still bad.” She reached over and took one. “Just because I haven’t lived here all my life does not mean I’m not invested.”

A lighter was soon procured and the two naturally slowed down on the sidewalk. The sharp lines of Nines’ face grew deeper in the darkness. “Invested. Provin’ my point there Rushforth - you Ventrue putting all your stock into who you think is useful and when they’re not? You don’t want to know anymore. Cut your losses and head to the next big thing. L.A is just another kind of Camarilla project to you all. A conquest we’re paying for.”

“And it’s not to you?” She shouldn’t have bristled. Shouldn’t have let the hound dig his claws under her skin. Flint to the flame, like the one she balanced between her fingers. Ironic, considering the danger of fire to the Kindred. Since when had she been so drawn to self-sabotage? “The great last ‘free’ state. The Anarch playground. It’s chaos, it’s not sustainable, you’ll burn out before the year is over.”

His answer arrived after a plume of smoke. “We won’t. Even if we do, ‘least we keep our pride. ‘Least we don’t treat everyone around us as expendable.”

“They’re not-” Too quick, too hasty, she wanted to curse it, “- expendable.”

“No?” Nines looked at her, then. Gretel wondered how many could stand that gaze: Nines Rodriguez did nothing in halves, nothing without the fullest push of intensity. It was different than the Prince she served, having long weathered the shifting of clinical disinterest to scathing hyperfocus of Sebastian LaCroix. It made her feel too solid. Too heavy. Too present.

But the Ventrue can take the heat. And she did. She met him, eye-for-eye, grey-for-bright-blue. “No.”

They had stopped again: another empty side-street caught in a gasp of forgotten industry, grey brick and glass interrupted by the slick outlines of graffiti. Modernism claiming old ground, just as it had every decade, looking different every time. The twenty-first century was colour and nihilism in one unholy package.

His cigarette was fading out, fingers curling tight.

It had been part of Gretel’s training - as a Kindred, as a Ventrue, most importantly as the childe of the new Camarilla protege - to predict the question before it arrived. To be clever and duck against the verbal blade of politicians, the simpering placating of diplomats. To read the weighted curve of a mouth, the flick of a tongue against fangs.

She knew, with certainty, what Nines was going to say.

“Who?”

There was a stone lodged in her throat, in her chest, in her stomach. An inevitability in the sudden knowledge that Nines knew. 

That he knew about capricious Cassandra and how close Gretel followed her into the Last Round, echoing a familiarity with every movement. 

That he knew about the rainbow reflections of Becca, neon lights glinting off the edge of the pier as they sat, shoulder-to-shoulder. 

That he knew about Hester, drawing in Gretel’s pride with her talent and obstinance towards conformity. 

That he knew about Katya and her blood-soaked, ichor-lined brilliance and Gretel’s worry for her, and her awe for how far she could reach - if she wanted.

She couldn’t give them to him. To anyone. Not yet.

“It doesn’t matter.” It does, they both agreed silently, but Nines didn’t push. Thankfully. “The Camarilla will not stop, will not cease. The Prince has never strayed from his goals. I’ll keep coming back, and if nothing changes then it doesn’t matter who’s expendable or not, the whole city will burn.”

“You’re the ones rolling in, pushing for war-”

“It wouldn’t be war.” A room exploded outward, her Sire blackened and charred, melting into the wind. Her scalp bleeding, hands slick and slippery, ducking her body against a hail of bullets. 

Gretel knew war. 

Had he ever served, or had he been tucked away in L.A, ducking from the jaws of gangs and cops alike? “It would be a slaughter. It would be needless.”

“Is that a threat?” His voice was quiet, pulled tight. The wolf prince raising his hackles.

“No.” The edging night was draining something out of her. A blanket of darkness, unperturbed by the absence of street lines ringing the roads from the Last Round. A smear of grey against a broad shoulder and Gretel was automatically reaching out. “Yes, perhaps. You have ash on-”

A hand grabbed her wrist just as her fingertips brushed the indent of bone and muscle. Nines was suddenly there, cold as all Kindred tended to be, but her arm burned all the same.

For a moment, there was nothing but the pressure of his thumb pressing the dip of her palm. Her elbow locked, the flat of the  arm pressed against the inward curve of his chest

It didn’t hurt. Her sensibilities dictated that somehow, somewhere, that must be wrong. Enough space for her fingers to uncurl, for nails to scrape against the thread of a worn shirt, to collect and fix the irregularity how she wanted.

“Doesn’t matter.” He parroted back. She could almost feel the sound - the deepness - coming from inside of him. “You’re not gonna protect them like this, you know that. LaCroix’s got you playing for the wrong side. For the one that’ll get them killed.”

“What side is the right one then?” Her shoe slid closer despite herself. “Yours? A revolution clinging on? Rebels without a plan?”

“The side that doesn’t treat its people like playthings. The side that looks after their own.”

“Is that what you want, Rodriguez?” Words that weren’t laden in spite, words that ran away from her, tempered down by the gravity emanating from him. This is how you get caught in his orbit, his momentum. It’d be easy, too easy- “To look after me?”

She had meant it as a joke, deprecation - to him, to her, either way, she expected him to reel back.

He tightened his grip instead, looked like he didn’t even realise he was doing it.

 “I could. Them too.”

A beat.

Somewhere, a broken exhaust pepper the air like a gunshot. Gretel’s arm was suddenly at her own side - when had she torn it away? - and she was turning and she was walking, quickly, a jaw slack, slamming shut. Cold air burned the arch of her cheeks, seared her eyes hidden by her glasses.

Ash, still collected under her nails. She wiped them against her coat, but it was resolute in clinging to her cuticles. Stubborn. Damn him -

“I’ll tell the Prince that you don’t accept.” Sentences, hewn,  meticulous once again. She felt the weight of him, his stare, even when he was behind her, even when she was walking away so quickly. That’s what it was - the peturbing nature of it - of being flayed open so nonchalantly. It wasn’t the meticulous unravelling of a Ventrue Prince, it was the Brujah who could burn you open immediately.

“I’ll see you in a couple of days then.” Nines called after her.

To her utter fury, he sounded like he was smiling.

A grin stitched into the night.

#bats writing #vampire the masquerade: bloodlines #what is this bats?? writing???? #ok so i wrote this awhile ago don't @ me #its rusty as heck and i'm still figuring out nines because what a Tough Mother to write dialogue for #sh: dogs of war #ch: gretel

[tsunderin]

My heart tells me 13 or 18 for Aubrey and Itr, if you're up for either.

((Sorry this took so long! I ended up needing to re-write the whole thing, so the prompt kind of became irrelevant, haha))

Youth was a time for making as many mistakes as possible so one wouldn’t repeat them in their older age. So if the four teens were to get into trouble, well, that was to be expected even given their position. (Perhaps especially because of their position: nobility could be so restricting.) Trouble Itr could accept. Sacrilege on the other hand…

The cool air within the temple clung to every hair follicle, every lingering drop of sweat that remained on her body. It made the space feel otherworldly–moreso than normal. Just outside of the gaping stone mouth of an entryway stood the city of Bomé, whose walls still vibrated with the buzz of commerce and conversation. Even that wasn’t as it usually was, however. The oasis of a city had been subjected to a sweltering summer this year drawing the city’s buzz to more of a hum. And now in this cold? If Itr didn’t know better, she would have thought she had stepped through a portal to a completely different place. She couldn’t ignore the small part of her that wished that she had.

Just as she couldn’t ignore her wounded pride, her embarrassment sparking within that it had been the heat’s fault in the first place. If it hadn’t been so oppressively hot, if she didn’t have to play host to a couple of boys whose family reacted as though taking off their heavy velvet overcoats was a transgression against them personally, surely they wouldn’t have committed this transgression.

The spark caught no flame, however. There was no fuel for it to feed upon; there only remained the lingering heat of Itr’s own shame.

Is there something you want to tell me. The woman, leathered with age and sun, had asked. And Itr had the nerve to tell her ‘no’. The words could have come easily. The four of them–not that Zumurrd would admit it–snuck into the ritual pool long after the sun had set. They had enjoyed the cool, non-alligator infested waters, taken refuge in the privacy granted by the sanctuary, and in their revelry had accidentally knocked the offering urn from its altar, cracking it. It was a simple explanation, so easy, and yet Itr decided that things would be much better if she’d just… not tell S’ehs’eh Razeen?

Her knees tingled with oncoming numbness, pressed into the stone tiled floor as she knelt, the carving in front of her lit only by the dull flickering group of candles she’d brought. She couldn’t ask for forgiveness here–forgiveness ran through the blood of those you had wronged, and Bẹjẹ had spread their blood among all of them. But she could take responsibility.

From within the bronze bowl sat beneath the carving, she retrieved a dagger, sharpened to the point where even a reflection felt as though it may slice through skin. It felt right, the weight in her hands. She raised it, eyes shut in thought, and then…

“Wait!”

The familiar voice echoed off the rounded walls, granting it more presence than was perhaps intended. Mixed in with it was Itr’s unintentional yelp of surprise, creating something akin to a cacophony.

She swiveled around, not knowing exactly what to feel when her guess was proven to be right. “Aubrey?!” Smile and scolding fought for dominance on her face, leaving her with an awkward half-grimace. “What are you doing here,” she whispered, fully aware that the acoustics of the room ruined any chance of the whispers actually being anything close to ‘quiet’ or ‘subtle’. “You should be in bed.”

He seemed to deflate a little under the puncturing of her question, but took a moment to straighten himself back up. “I’m not going back without you.”  The line was entirely too over-dramatic for the situation from where Itr stood, but there was something about it… Suddenly, she was thankful for the low lighting and how it was unable to show off the color rising to her cheeks. Was this her punishment for doing this so late at night? When her emotions weren’t so easily controlled? “And it’s not like I can…” he paused, reframing his words. “What are you doing with that knife, anyway?”

She remained silent while he walked closer, his footsteps light, but still purposeful. “It’s not a knife, it’s a dagger.” As he took a seat next to her, Itr looked him over, letting out a puff of air. “This is entirely unfair. You don’t look cold at all.”

Aubrey let out a chuckle, nerves still hanging on, then tugged at the hem of his outerwear, offering it to her.

“Ah,” she declined, “it is probably better if… I don’t.”

More intrigued by her comment then worried Itr watched as he began to take in his surroundings. While his eyes swept across the intricately carved stonework and the paraphernalia, Itr couldn’t help but wonder where his thoughts were taking him. They’d never really spoken about the spiritual beliefs of her people outside of short, off-handed comments of oh, that’s just a religious thing. Was he interested? Was he scared? She’d heard some tales of what others thought of their practices, and hoped that Aubrey didn’t think they were quite so barbaric. After a moment, he seemed to comment to himself. “It’s cleaner than I’d thought…”

Itr squinted, looking down into the bowl that had had his attention last. “Why would it be dirty?”

He seemed to realize he’d actually said that out loud to another person. “Oh, uh, you know.” He fumbled, bashfulness spreading through his entire body as he realized that she didn’t ‘know’. “The… blood, and all that.”

“The… blood…” she repeated, keeping her eyes on him. Then, it hit her. “Aubrey. You realize we don’t do blood offerings, right?”

The progression of emotion that journeyed across his face made his intrusion worth it. From shock, to embarrassment, to a stiff look that threatened to tell her about the customs of her own people, Aubrey eventually settled on confusion as his eyes remained focused on the dagger in her hand. “That’s… it’s what the “Bloodless One” wants, though. Isn’t it?”

Itr couldn’t help it, a laugh exploded out of her. “You read too many stories!” At that, he seemed to take offense, but she couldn’t help that it was true. “It would be a pretty stupid name, then. Why wouldn’t they be called the Bloody One, or the Bloodseeker if that’s all they wanted?” Consternation set deeper into his expression causing her to tone down her jabs. It was obvious to her, of course, but Banteve was… ignorant? They were very set in their ways, in any case. And if Aubrey were to become her husband in the future, it wouldn’t do either of them any good if she laughed him out of a desire to understand.  

“I am not sure what exactly you have been told, but blood isn’t really a part–” She could feel him keeping his eyes from looking back at the space where the cracked urn was, the image of blood and the scent of the rotting meat within still fresh in both their minds. That would have to wait; she needed to keep it simple for the time being. “There’s only two times when blood is important in our lives,” she counted them out on her fingers, “When we are born and when we die.”

“It is a cycle: Bẹjẹ reclaims the blood that is lost when we die and gives it to us when we are born. That is why some of us can remember our past lives.” Not that she, herself, was entirely convinced that was something that could legitimately happen, or something to be happy about, but she couldn’t discount the swarths of her people who believed in it. “To spill blood frivolously at other times is an insult.” She backpedaled, “Well, it’s not like Bẹjẹ is going to be angry if you get a cut or something like that, but you know what I mean.”

Itr swallowed back the compulsion to keep rambling, letting a quiet fall between them as Aubrey nodded along. Was it a process, she wondered. Was him nodding a subtle act of accepting that what the scholars and such of his land had been wrong? Or was he just processing the information that she’d admittedly forced on him?

“So,” he began again in a tone she couldn’t immediately place, “what’s the knife, er, dagger for, then?”

A fair question that she’d been avoiding, and somehow she figured he knew she’d been avoiding, too. “Um, I suppose you were not entirely wrong about the sacrifice part. Good job.” She wanted more time to think about how to explain it without sacrificing any more of her pride, but the alarm that filled him pressed her to continue with no plan. “It’s not– I’m not going to be hurt,” she tried to calm him, but the words only seemed to concern him further.

Without a conscious thought, her free hand found a way to his leg, resting there as if it always belonged there holding back his anxieties. “Okay, so.” But why couldn’t she sound cool and in control when she wanted to the most? “Yes, as you probably guessed breaking that thing was… bad. I do not want your family, “ to be cursed? That was a bad way to put that, right? That would just make him more nervous. “To be looked upon poorly by the, uh, seers. And I, too, need to take responsibility for what I have done.”

“You weren’t the one who knocked it over,” Aubrey argued, knowing that Jocelyn had taken that clandestined stumble.

“But I was the one who brought you all here. I should have been more careful.” Itr smiled gently at him, “And it serves no one to force the blame onto someone else when I am here to accept it openly.” She sighed, removing her hand from him and picking up the blade once more. “I will miss it…”

“Wait!” He called out again the moment she slipped the blade behind her head. She paused, stilling the what now that rested behind her lips. “You’re… you’re just cutting off your hair, then?”

She didn’t understand why he sounded so perplexed. Him, the one that was expecting her to carve her own flesh as if that was a normal thing people did. “Yes?”

“Let me do it, then.” He offered, resolute. “Please.”

Slowly, she removed the blade from beneath her waves of dark brown hair. Her eyes focused on him, pressing the no longer chilled metal into his palm. “Why?”

He held her gaze; a reminder that soon they would no longer be children and the leniency of youth would be beyond their reach. “I bear responsibility, too, for what happened. So I can’t stand for you to shoulder this burden alone.”

Curse him.

Curse him for sounding like the king he should be. The king he would be one day if Itr had anything to say about it, even if she wasn’t the queen he chose.

Caging the butterflies fluttering around in her chest, she smirked. “Is this your way of saying you like my hair long?” He faltered, sputtering at her cheekiness which even after all this time he never seemed prepared for. She patted his cheek. “Don’t worry. It will grow back soon.”

Letting her fingers linger as she drew them from his face Itr turned around, facing the carving once more. There was probably some rule that defined this as another sacreligious action, but as a more purposeful silence fell around them once more she couldn’t find this anything less than a holy experience. His fingers were gentle, making sure not to pull at the unexplored curls as he gathered them in his hand. One by one, strands of hair separated from her head. Each severing serving not to prove the weight of what had been done, but freeing her from the weight of her own judgment. Like her hair, she could grow. She could learn. She could be better. She could restart the process as many times as it took. And as she clasped Aubrey’s hands in her own, leading them over to the copper bowl to deposit the hair into, she knew she wanted to have no one but him see how it was done. Only he could cut her hair, and then they could watch together as it burned as they both started the next step on their journey.

With the dagger back in its proper place and the candles extinguished, the embers of her hair were all that remained to light their way back into the city. “If it is all the same to you, I would appreciate it if we did not break anymore religious items while you were here.” Itr wrinkled her nose, the scent of burning hair much more unpleasant than what she was expecting.

Aubrey laughed, his hand resting against her now exposed neck, shielding it from the elements as best he could. “I think we can handle that.”

#Rin's Magenta Prose #timidkoala #OC Parade #The Dungeoning

[carlylexwheeler-blog]

The Chaser I Seek

Summary: Muggle-born Anne Wheeler is thrilled when she receives her Head Girl badge in the mail the summer before her final year at Hogwarts, and so is Pureblooded Phillip Carlyle when he discovers he is to be Head Boy. Neither Phillip or Anne knows much about the other, except for what they have learned from afar. Phillip has been watching from the Slytherin side of the stands for years as Anne leads the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team to victory after victory. Anne, on the other hand, has listened to the whispers about the Carlyle family and their obsession with Pureblood lineage, and she knows along with the rest of the school that the Carlyles are instrumental in Voldemort's slowly gaining success.

Neither is prepared to be jarringly thrown together their very first day by a food-fight blown out of proportion.

As both students struggle to balance new responsibilities, they will begin to see new sides to one another-- sides that Phillip has been taught never to look for, and sides that Anne is not ready to explore. But with the wizarding world taking new steps every day towards war, Hogwarts must cling to unity stronger than ever... Especially the two students who are the face of it all.

Word Count: 3,084

Warnings: Language, Food Fights

Chapter: 1 of ?

Read it on Wattpad or AO3.

Playlist

Song of the Chapter: "Start a War" by Klergy and Valerie Broussard

Chapter One: The Battlefield

Anne had been hoping for a memorable first day as Head Girl, but now she was wondering if she should have been a tad more specific.

Things had started out fine. Perfect, even, which is probably why the universe decided to deal Anne the disastrous scenario that followed. On the train, she had arrived early enough to meet all of the prefects, and so she had begun to divide the job of monitoring the various cars among everyone. By the time everybody was there, there was a set plan on how they were going to approach it, and it was being carried out perfectly. Phillip Carlyle, the Head Boy, had arrived about ten minutes into the planning. This had been slightly concerning for Anne, who had only communicated with her partner in stiff, unsure letters of congratulations over the summer. Neither seemed able to find the right words all summer. She supposed it was natural, seeing as they had never interacted before. The two of them had classes together, yes, being two of the brightest students in the school. But with advanced classes focused heavily on independent study and neither knew the other well enough to pair up for the few projects they were assigned.

That was the least of her worries, though she tried not to think about it. The Carlyle family had a reputation, and it was not one that painted a hopeful picture of Phillip's respect for a Muggle-born. The past few years had seen a palpable increase in the tension between Muggle-borns and Pureblooded wizards as You-Know-Who grew more and more powerful. Not all Purebloods held the supremacist attitude towards Muggles, of course. But the Carlyles were one of the most notorious families for this attitude and had been for generations, and Phillip Carlyle was the only heir to this legacy of hatred in a time when such superiority was thriving. The thought of what might happen while they were forced to work side-by-side had caused her more sleepless nights than she cared to admit.

However, Phillip's arrival on the train had brought no ominous thunder or sudden chill, so that had been a plus.

Really, Phillip was nothing but supportive of the orders Anne had given. He assumed the role of enforcing her plans rather than trying to make his own, which Anne discovered when she heard him instructing some of the new Fifth Year Prefects.

"She's the one running the show right now," he had informed them, and there was no malice or sarcasm in his voice as he said it. "That's good for you, because she's going to give you a little part of the plan to work with. If you do your job well, then everyone else will be able to do theirs, and we'll be able to get this train to the station without burning it down."

The two Fifth Year girls he had been speaking to had burst into giggles at that, but Anne had found herself feeling just the slightest bit flattered. She had considered going over to greet him, maybe thank him in a professional manner, but it was at that moment that a Third Year boy burst into the compartment, saying, "Umm... So, we were just sitting there, right, and then the seat started smoking, and we don't know how it happened, but there's a small hole burned in-"

"How small is 'small?'"

"I dunno, I mean, most of the seat is gone, but-"

Neither had spoken to the other after that, for as the Prefects began to do their jobs, various situations arose that demanded each of their separate attentions. This was a development that Anne did not mind, and she was happy to keep busy on the ride to the castle. By the time that the Hogwarts Express had pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Anne had successfully handled a game of Exploding Snap gone wrong, a misfired charm that caused the snack trolley to overturn, and a mess made of a pair of robes during a game of Gobstones. As she watched the students leave the Express, Anne was aware of the fact that her face was flushed and her curls were escaping her buns in wisps. But she also felt proud, like she was beginning to live up to the shiny badge pinned to the front of her worn Ravenclaw robes that were a few inches too short.

It did irk her slightly that Phillip Carlyle looked as unruffled as ever from where he stood across from her, making sure that all of the students made their way out.

After that, things were a blur. Anne and the Carlyle boy were tasked with making sure that students knew where to assume their seats since Professor Lutz was unable to do so while she was tending to the First Years. After the majority of the students were seated, Anne made her way to the Head Table to ask any of the professors what they should be doing next.

"Excuse me," she called to the nearest teacher, the blonde Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Professor Barnum glanced over at Anne with a kind eyebrow raised. "Is there anything else that we can do, Professor?" Anne queried, hopeful. She needed something to busy herself with, or else she was fairly sure her energy would fall flat.

Professor Barnum hummed softly, appearing to think. "Erm... I don't think so, no," she replied, smiling apologetically as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "But I am sure that Phineas said something about the Sorting starting soon. You two have done more than enough for now, I think, so you can go enjoy the festivities with the rest of us."

Anne nodded, offering the professor a polite smile that hid her disappointment. "Thank you, Ma'am," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully. She was fairly sure that she felt Professor Barnum's motherly gaze upon her back as she weaved between students on the way back to the Ravenclaw side of the Great Hall.

As Anne left the table, she saw that Carlyle had already taken this advice. He was seated in the middle of a group of affluent Slytherin students, and he was laughing at something the brunette girl across from him had said. It did not set in until that moment that Anne did not have anyone to sit with now that W.D. had graduated.

Her brother was working in the Three Broomsticks in order to support them, and Anne knew about the second job that he was hiding. She had noticed the owls coming at odd hours of the night to their tiny flat in Hogsmeade, and she had even managed to sneak one out of the trash, from which she deduced that he was doing some translation of Runes for scholars in Albania. Anne's heart ached that her brother, a brilliant Runes translator who could have found a prestigious job anywhere in the world, was slaving away at a pub for her sake every day. When she graduated, Anne was determined to pick up and leave to start a new life with W.D. They would go somewhere, anywhere, and Anne would get a job researching advanced potions until she was accepted by some major Quidditch team. But until then, Anne no longer had anyone to sit with.

She took a spot at the very end of the Ravenclaw table where no one else sat, fiddling with the napkin on the table absently. She could feel eyes on her, now that she was Head Girl... And she knew those eyes came along with whispers. They did not linger too long, as people had better things to talk about, but she still looked down at the hem of her threadbare sleeve to avoid seeing the brief glances. Anne had never been particularly popular. People knew she was brilliant, they knew that she was one of the best Chasers that Hogwarts had seen for decades, maybe even a century. But for as many acquaintances as Anne had, her dedication to her schoolwork and Quidditch performance did not leave much room for any real friends.

A few moments later, an ample distraction came to turn any unwanted attention away from Anne. Headmaster Barnum rose, and with a wave of his wand, he magicked away the tables. The Headmaster's skinny, slightly mousy appearance was deceiving, for this man was a master of the classes of illusion and enchantment. He was renowned for it in many circles, and Anne was fascinated by the slight flair for the dramatic the man had. She had always been attentive to his words, respecting the air of mystery that clung to him like cobwebs.

The Sorting commenced thereafter. It was a short one, with a particularly small incoming Year. However, there was a noticeable disturbance throughout the ceremony. Anne noticed almost immediately that whenever a surname that was well-known and respected in the magical community was announced, it was greeted with full applause. There were several surnames, however, that were known to be traditionally common in Muggle communities. The cheering following these names was weakened as if at least a third of the students had dropped out. Anne's eyes narrowed, and as soon as any student with a name such as her own was announced, she could be observed to be cheering twice as loud as normal. Several of the teachers picked up on the incident as well, and Anne was fairly sure she caught a glimpse of Professor Barnum and her husband murmuring sonorous charms so that the cheering of the teachers was magnified.

By the time that Zabel, Francine had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Headmaster Barnum had summoned the tables again out of thin air. Gasps filled the room from the First year students who had not been there to see it the first time, and Anne felt a little smile play with her lips. The Headmaster gave a quick speech, and then with a flourish of his wand, the platters before the students all became filled with enough food to feed a small army. Chatter rose to mingle with the cozy sounds of clattering forks and knives, and Anne felt herself visibly relax. Maybe she wasn't exactly a part of it, but this was the part of Hogwarts that she loved. Moments like these, where so many students just existed together, made it feel like home.

Of course, the day chose that moment to turn for the worse.

Anne had only just begun to pour a goblet of pumpkin juice when she first noticed the disturbance, coming from one end of the Slytherin table. Three boys, Fourth Year students, Anne guessed, were using their wands to send little chunks of candied carrots flying to hit a pair of Muggle-born twins across the aisle. Anne set down her goblet, preparing to rise to call the students out. Before she had managed to extricate herself from the table, however, one of the twins had turned and fixed the Fourth Years with a smirk. Anne hastened her efforts to reach the students, but it was much too late. An entire bowl of steak and kidney pudding flew across the aisle to splatter the three students and anyone in the immediate vicinity. For a moment, all conversation fell silent, and there was a moment of hollow space.

And then, the shouting began.

Wands flew out, and Anne fumbled to keep her own in her hand as she desperately scanned the room, trying to see where she was most needed. Anne's ears were overloaded with a tangle of layering spells, most of which sent various trays and plates of food zooming through the air. At first, Anne struggled to appeal to the casters of the spells, but there were far too many. She cursed under her breath as she began to nonverbally cast as many shield charms as she physically could. Invisible barriers sprung up between the attackers and their intended victims, and they effectively stopped the food from flying any further. Unfortunately, this mostly resulted in whatever was being thrown being propelled back towards the attacker, spreading still more food everywhere.

A plate of treacle tart whizzed past Anne's head, and she narrowly dodged it only to be met with a full tureen of chowder. The soup drenched her and a pair of First Years from head to toe, and a shocked gasp left the lips of the children behind her. Anne winced and quickly darted back, gripping them by the hands and pulling them under the table. "Stay here until it's over," she instructed the shell-shocked girls before sliding out from underneath again, leaving them gaping at her retreating form.

Anne fought to move forward, doing as much damage control as she possibly could. Dodging food became completely impossible at this point. What might have been an entire ham narrowly missed Anne's head, shoving her hair out of her bun and getting the soaked curls everywhere. Several pastries were hurled at Anne and smashed into her shoulder, her arm, and her chest, smearing all down the front of her robes. A bowl of lukewarm porridge dumped over her head, and the Head Girl fought to wipe it out of her eyes as she forged forward. All she could do, at the moment, was vanish whatever flying food she could hit. Luckily, Anne had fairly decent aim, and she managed to completely remove several large platters of turkey, ham, and chicken from the air before they could actually hurt someone. Through all of the fighting, she could barely tell who was who, until she stumbled into a form slightly taller than her. Anne whirled around with her wand out, ready to stun the perpetrator if need be.

Instead, she found herself coming face-to-face with a thoroughly flustered Phillip Carlyle.

He looked absolutely ridiculous, with what must have been half of a pudding plastered to his hair and the side of his face. What Anne guessed was chocolate syrup dripped down the side of his face, and what had been his pristine, brand-new robes were covered with mashed potatoes and pumpkin juice. There was a determination in his eyes that was rather comical, seeing as his normally perfect hair was in a cowlick that looked like something from a cartoon. However, as he raised her wand at her, she did not find it hard to believe that he might stun her.

"Carlyle!" she called, over all the noise. "Stop, it's Anne Wheeler!" He froze for a moment, blinking, and Anne remembered that she probably looked equally ridiculous. But then, relief spread over his food-covered features.

"Thank Merlin," he exclaimed, gripping her by the arm and yanking her to the side to avoid a flying sponge cake. "Are you the one who's been vanishing things?"

"Yes," she called, tugging her arm free from his grip immediately. She did not have time to be flustered by the sudden, unwanted contact. "This needs to stop, now, before it gets out of hand!"

"I think it's a bit late for that, as I think I just saw Headmaster Barnum quite literally pie Professor Barnum in the face."

"Are you certain-"

"I would testify to it before Wizengamot."

Anne gritted her teeth and glared at nothing in particular. "Maybe if we can get to Professor Lutz, then-"

Behind them, there was a massive boom, and Anne cried out. Carylye was touching her again, pulling her to the ground with him. She landed sprawled rather uncomfortably on his solid chest, and quickly Anne moved to haul herself off of him. As if that was not enough, a bowl of tuna salad shot by them, effectively covering the both of them in creamy goop.

"Sorry, sorry," Carlyle panted, looking up at her with blue eyes that were as wide as the saucer that broke against the wall behind them.

"What was-"

Just then, a rancid smell filled the hall, and Anne clapped a hand over her mouth and nose. Carlyle did the same, not before Anne caught a glimpse of a gag.

"Dugbob," Carlyle's muffled voice reached her ears as the disgusted coughing of many students filled the hall. Anne felt her level of frustration skyrocket.

"Dungbombs?" she spat. "For the love of all things holy, who the-"

Another boom, and this time Anne was ready. She ducked her head under the nearest table, but Carlyle was not quick enough. Mud flew through the air, hitting him square in the face. Immediately, the Head Boy turned and began to cough, attempting to get out whatever he could from his mouth. Anne stood, trying to locate where the Dungbombs were being set off. The smell was crippling, but she kept a hand clapped over her mouth as she struggled to make her way forward, leaving Carlyle behind. Another detonated, and Anne felt the mud splatter her, too. But she managed to keep it out of her eyes, and that was all that she needed. She pushed her way forward, and through the cloud of brown smoke, she spotted the Fifth Year who was detonating them crouching over another one.

"Evanesco!" Anne shouted, taking aim at the bomb. The boom still set off, but only a little bit more filth flew through the air like projectiles. The rest vanished, along with the bomb, and Anne aimed a silent 'Petrificus totalus!' at the single figure she could see in the center of all of the smoke. She heard a crack that meant that the charm had met the intended target, and then, in the haze of the smoke and the break in the fight, Carlyle climbed onto the Slytherin table, almost slipping in the spill of soup on top of it.  Anne pointed her wand at him, murmuring a breathless "Sonorous."

And then, above everything, Carlyle's voice boomed, "The next student to use food as a projectile will personally volunteer to work in the kitchens for two weeks, after they clean all of this up!"

The hall was silent, and Anne let out a soft groan as she leaned against the table at his feet. No noise could be heard except for the labored breath of the students and the dripping of food off of robes. Carlyle let out a massive breath of relief as Anne rubbed her temples and stared at the growing pile of porridge and tuna fish chunks at her feet.

Anne was fairly certain she would not be forgetting her first day as Head Girl anytime soon.

#Anne Wheeler #phillip carlyle x anne wheeler #anne wheeler x phillip carlyle #anne wheeler fanfic #anne wheeler fic #phillip carlyle fanfic #phillip carlyle #carwheeler #carlwheeler #carlwheeler fic #carlwheeler au #carwheeler au #hp au #the greatest showman hp au #tgs hp au #the greatest showman #the greatest showman au #the greatest showman fanfic #the greatest showman fic #TGS #tgs fanfic #tgs fic

[fralexrealms-blog]

Spells of Sacred Grove: Schools of Magic and How to Use them

Written by: Arch-Druid Camellia

The Druid Academy has spent years learning and perfecting the art of magic in Sacred Grove. Every spell is kept in duplicate in their libraries, and over time, five schools of magic have emerged. These schools of magic are similar to individual physical skills. Much like strength, agility and speed are each unique skills to be learned and applied in a broad context, the schools of magic are unique in their qualities and application. As such, this text will cover the individual schools of magic, their most common and useful spells, and how to recognize each school. 

A Brief Summary of The Root of Magic:

It should be recalled that the root of all magic comes from the soul. According to Queen Ayani’s scriptures “The Magic In Us All” magic is a spectral force that can be derived from the invisible, raw power of the soul inside all living beings. Thus, all living beings are capable of magic, and all magic comes from a discreetly living being, the only exception being small fragments or remnants of the soul in our world. Ghosts are a notable exception, although their magic is limited by the absence of their souls in our world and the type of object holding the remnants of their soul (whether it be bones, an artifact, or otherwise). 

As souls differ from person to person, so do magical aptitudes. Some may be more skilled at one bit of magic, while others are not. It is important that this distinction be made, as it should be pointed out beforehand that all forms of magic are useful or valuable in some way, and none are objectively better than the other. As such, no mage or wizard or novice should ever be treated as above or below another. This breaks the foundation of all magic in Sacred Grove, as all magic is wonderful and beautiful in its own way. 

Despite the inclination of some to specific schools of magic based on the unique qualities of their souls, the schools of magic can all be mastered by anyone willing to put in the hard work and dedication willing to do so. So try, try and try again!

The School of Elemental Magic

Characterized by the use of the elements: Earth, Fire, Water, Air, and Wood (nature), and many of their iterations or combinations, Elemental Magic is the most openly used magic by non-mages and professionals alike. It involves the direct summoning or usage of Sacred Grove’s elements by the caster. It is very much used by blacksmiths and other non-traditional magic jobs.

Most Common Spells:

Blacksmith Weapon Enchantments: 

Any and all Blacksmith Weapons of any quality enchantment are used with materials provided by Wizards and with spells placed upon them. Weapons imbued with any sort of magic are subject to simple elemental spells that do not require a caster to maintain (as they are relatively simple and work off the power of the wielder). Think of them as training wheels for non-wizards trying to cast spells. The Ninja, or Warrior, or Medic or Archer or Brawer uses their weapon, and the enchantments (casted by a wizard) casts the spell for them without their knowing in line with the weapon. Most weapon skills like this are in the elemental school of magic, but not all. 

Elemental Control: 

“Fire Control, Water Control, Air Control”, simple use of already existent elements, such as causing a fire to blow up into the air, or using a pond of water to splash a friend or foe or build a wall of the element, is a relatively simple spell that requires little energy. This is because the element itself already exists in the world and must not be created. This is commonly called “bending” by novices. This is because the spell can be used to morph or manipulate the element to any form. Creativity is the key to success when using elemental spells. 

Common Elemental Forms: 

Fire-Bend (for fire) 

Water-Bend (for water) 

Spring Life (for nature and plants)

Air-Bend (for air)

Earthquake (for earth)

Elemental Summons: 

Elemental control by summoning the required element is known as an Elemental Summons, and requires a bit more focus and energy to form. This is particularly true for fire magic, and pyromages must go through particularly more training before they can effectively control and summon fire at will. The more powerful the mage, the more powerful the spell and the more of an element one can summon. 

Common Elemental Forms: 

Summon Fire 

Fountain Blast

Call of Ayani

Call Winds

(note: you cannot summon land) 

The School of Spectral Magic

The School of Spectral Magic, also known as “Space Magic” or “Energy Magic” by novices and unprofessionals, is the magic that involves the usage of raw soul-energy. Such magic is a bit more temperamental and prone to error than elemental magic, as most forms of spectral magic aren’t meant to be sustained in Sacred Grove for long periods of time. As such, users should proceed with extreme caution when performing Spectral Magic, otherwise it could literally explode in their face. 

Most Common Spells: 

Lightning Bolt: 

Summon a bolt of lightning, or field of raw energy, to wipe over your opponents with extreme shock damage. Stronger spells can bounce between targets to cause even more electrical damage. (this is also somewhat used on some weapons) 

Teleportation: 

Warpstones take advantage of Spectral magic to teleport Sacred Grove inhabitants from place to place. Spectral magic can also be used to simply teleport without the use of the warpstone, should the user be strong enough to cast such a spell. 

Vortex: Summon a Vortex of pure destructive magic, warping everything inside. 

The School of Illusion Magic

Illusion Magic is magic that changes the form of anything and everything. The changes are typically temporary, but very powerful illusion magic can permanently change the form of whatever the spell may be cast on. This sort of defeats the name of illusion magic, causing some scholars to speculate that the name should be rehashed into “transformative magic”, but we at the Druid Academy have found that the new scholars have trouble pronouncing “transformative” and spelling it correctly on term papers. For this reason, and for the sake of position, we will continue to call it “illusion magic”. 

Most Common Spells: 

Transform: 

Change the form of any physical object or being into that of something else. It should be noted that it is unwise to transform nonliving things into living things and vice versa. A novice wizard once helped a furniture company in Snowhill by transforming a fake moose head into a live one. The Moose would not stop screaming and singing, much to the dismay of those who had bought it thinking it was an interesting furniture piece. In addition to casted spells, “mask” objects take advantage of the transform spell, and are imbued with a simple illusion spell to transform them into the object of whatever mask they wear. 

Project: 

Summon an illusion without transforming an other object, such as a fake wall, or person. These are most often used for springing traps. It should be noted that Ninjas are particularly skilled at projections and transformations to disguise themselves. Be wary of their magic, as it is very unrefined and rudimentary. The simplest of Druid Academy attendees should be able to point out a hoax. 

Summon Light: 

Much like project, magic lights are a form of illusion magic, and are much safer than mages who prefer to summon lightning or fire to illuminate an area. It causes much less burns and shocks.

The School of Gleam Magic

The school of Gleam Magic was founded by Queen Ayani after the unbinding, and involves the restorative and cleansing energies of a pure and kind soul. Gleam magic takes advantage of the good in a person and, unlike the other schools of magic mentioned before, do have prerequisites. A truly evil person cannot perform Gleam Magic, just as a truly good person cannot perform good Gloam Magic. Seeing as most people have small mixes of both good and bad, this is not a problem, but to perform truly great Gleam Magic (on the scale of Queen Ayani herself), it takes a mage of pure heart and soul. Still, many Gleam Spells can be casted with ease so long as you are not Gloam-infected nor inherently evil. Considering you are a member of the Druid Academy reading this book, I doubt you are evil. 

Most Common Spells

Heal: 

All healing magic stems from Gleam Magic. Medics, although they are highly skilled at physical forms of first aid, are mostly taught the fundamentals of Gleam Magic as a part of their medical training. Gleam magic can restore flesh and plants and souls torn asunder. It can cleanse sickness, and bring those close to death back from the brink. 

Detect Corruption: 

The best way to detect if someone is Gloam-Infected (though this has not occured in years) is to either cast a Gleam Spell on them. This will undoubtedly cause the Gloam-Infectee harm and rage, at which Gleam Spells should be used immediately to cleanse an infection. 

Light Magic/Cleanse: 

Similar to how Elemental Magic is used to weaponize the elements, Gleam Magic will summon the power of the light in one’s soul to attack and cleanse those of foul intent. A pure beam of light casted from the wand will dispel or knock out any foul creature. But beware, you might expose traitors in your midst as well. 

The School of Gloam Magic

The school of Gloam Magic has been strictly forbidden by the Druid Academy, as the corruption caused through the usage of Gloam Magic is far too dangerous and risky. Many a curious Druid has delved into the realms of Gloam Magic only to be corrupted and had their titles from them stripped. It caused many personal harm, or worse, caused them to be expelled from the Druid Academy. 

Still, one should be aware of the signs of Gloam Magic and its spells, as they can be extremely dangerous and a threat to all living beings in Sacred Grove. 

Most Common Spells: 

Mind Control: 

The most recognizable Gleam Spell is the mind-control spell, as many of the stories of the Gloam’s first rise tell. Purple-eyed minions absent of reason or their own memories. Do not try and speak to those who are under a Mind Control spell, you must cleanse them as soon as possible. 

Necromancy: 

The dark depths of Sacred Grove house those who try to cheat life by bringing the remains of beings back under their control. Necromancy is a dark and difficult magic that has many opportunities to backfire on the user. Should you see an undead zombie approaching you, beware! It should be noted that some fungus infections also cause necromancy. These fungal-zombies are simply infected with Gloam Magic stemmed from foul fungi and Gloam Spores themselves, and Gleam Magic is just as effective against them. 

Dark Magic/Shadow Magic: 

The use of Darkness as a physical element that is particularly potent against living things is one of the most dangerous forms of Gloam Magic. Purple and black-colored sparks and beams of light are telltale signs of powerful Gloam Magic. Avoid this at all costs. 

It should be stressed again that all Gloam Magic is FORBIDDEN in Sacred Grove. The Royal Guard and the Druid Academy alike will deal with culprits and criminals alike. Beware! 

Choosing your School of Magic

The schools of magic themselves are all unique and offer their own costs, benefits, advantages and disadvantages. As an aspiring scholar, one should consider each school (except Gloam Magic) before perhaps choosing one or two to initially focus on. Finding which school of magic is right for you can only be done by experimentation. Learn basic spells, find out what you like and what will help you in life best, and chase your dreams! 

Although it is technically possible to master all schools of magic, such wonderful feats are reserved for only the greatest of wizards. Considering you are at the Druid Academy, you may find yourself pressured to immediately launch yourself into a mastership of all the schools. Do not be foolish! Start small, and build your knowledge of each school of magic up gradually. The more you practice, the easier spells will become to cast. 

Even the greatest of wizards started out as small novices and hedge-wizards struggling to get somewhere in the world. Remember that! 

I wish you the best of luck in your magic adventures, and Ayani be with you! 

-Arch-Druid Camellia

[littlewritingrabbit]

Dear dear @thegrinningone what have you done... XD

Adventure.

Drowning in an overcoat as large as a lake, provisioned with nothing but pocket lint and a copy of King Lear he had been too nostalgic to let go of (it had been his father’s, after all), and adrift in the currents of the Parisian streets, Pierre Etienne du Ponceau was in a desperate state. He had used up all of the pocket money he’d brought along when he left the school, and the quick translations in the marketplace had been enough to provide some food for the first fortnight, at least until this tempest had started. Under the weight of such a downpour and a Sunday that was at least supposed to be spent in pious contemplation (but this was Paris, so the odds of that were not, perhaps, great), the streets had been all too quiet. And now Pierre, clutching his book to his chest, was ready to faint with hunger.

Was this worth it? He asked himself bitterly, wiping the rain from his glasses. Was this worth the pettiness of leaving school, the youthful search for adventure that his straight-laced, religious teachers had so disapproved of? Oh they had praised him enough when he brought back top grades in Greek and Latin, but as soon as he had the nerve to ask one too many questions, or pay a fellow student a compliment they thought too personal, suddenly they spoke in quotes about forbidden fruit and little boys who talk too much, and he felt exasperated. What were they afraid of? That he might admire his classmates? That there might have been a fellow in the second row with the most wonderful curls whose hand he might have bowed to kiss? That he might ask a question that neither they or their myriad quotes could answer?

If Pierre du Ponceau was going to learn about the world, he was not going to do so by being afraid of it.

So he fled to the libraries in Paris, whose tall shelves loomed up like a forest of words. He soaked in the melting-pot accents of the trading ports and translated for passerby who paid small change. There were soldiers with political opinions as varied as the colours of their uniforms, and monuments to long-dead heroes, and everywhere there was brilliant, vulgar, unstifled life. There wasn’t enough to pay admission for the likes of museums and scientific lectures, but perhaps one day. He could live with a loosening coat and a grumbling stomach to finally be on a real adventure.

At least, he could, before it got really bad.

But now, he could tell, he was going to get sick. He was sniffling already. And a groaning hunger in the pit of his stomach was not helping. Hence the desperate state that started to draw his eyes to the pockets of passerby.

You’re not a thief, he told himself. You may be a runaway and an book-loving, insubordinate fool, but you are no criminal.

But as the sun set, the argument wore thin. He started to contemplate the mechanics of it. You’d have to bump into someone, keep your fingers light, keep their eyes away from whatever trinket you pried from their pockets. In theory. And how much of a crime would it be, really, if the person was so well-off they hardly noticed the few coins that needed taking? That businessman by the inn, or the dandy on the street-corner. Either could spare a sou or two.

Or perhaps, he thought, mind and heart racing, that officer making his way towards him. The soldier was tall and broad-shouldered, sauntering in a good-natured way down the sidewalk. A Prussian officer, probably fresh from the ranks of His Majesty. He looked well-fed and sanguine - he would probably never miss the presence of a trinket from those enticing pockets...

Pierre slowed down imperceptibly, just moments before he passed the officer. They were close enough that he could smell the expensive roast he must have eaten for dinner. The boy made a false stumble and bumped shoulders with the officer, letting a hand fall into his pocket in the confusion and walking off with an apology and a handful of... something.

Once he was certain the pilfered Prussian was far enough away, Pierre ducked around a corner and opened his hand, revealing... a poem?

Of course he read it. After all, he had gone to a lot of effort to procure it. It was relatively short, relatively rude, and also written in Ancient Greek. It suggested things about the officer’s character that would have sent his past teachers into a rage of apple-themed quotations. So there was really nothing for it but to laugh, merrily and loud against the rainy drumbeat, before setting off to return the note.

He caught up with the officer a few blocks further on. “Monsieur, I... I believe...”

The man’s stare made him falter. He had a look in his eyes and a quirk to his expression like he was privy to a secret the whole world was anticipating. In any other situation, Pierre would have found it irritating, but at the moment he was far too hungry. Wordlessly, he held out the poem.

The officer looked from the extended paper to his face, and then back once more. Several silent, rain-filled seconds later, he began to chuckle. A laugh rumbled up from inside him and exploded like a cannon in the darkened street. It wasn’t long before du Ponceau was laughing along with him. “Not what you’d expected, eh Monsieur?” roared the officer, wiping his eyes. “Well it’s a good job you got some proper literature for your pains, isn’t it?” he chuckled again. “Tell me, monsieur, can you read Ancient Greek?”

Now it was du Ponceau’s turn to look confusedly at the poem for a moment. “Why... yes. Yes I can.”

“Splendid!” said the officer, giving Pierre a good-natured tug under an awning where he wouldn’t be required to stand gaping in the rain like a fish. “Then you shall translate this poem for me, as it is from a dear admirer of mine, and I shall buy you supper. How does that sound?”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Pierre smiled stiffly, before the officer laughed again and kissed the air on either side of his face.

“Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Stueben, at your service,” he said, with an extravagant bow.

“Pierre Etienne du Ponceau at yours,” Pierre replied, remembering his manners enough to bow until his hair fell into is face. “And...” he inspected the poem once more, “This gentleman certainly has a lot to say about your... friendship.”

“You’ve translated-”

“Everything. It was rather brief after all,” Pierre smiled again at the look of shocked admiration on von Steuben’s face.

“Good Lord monsieur,” said the Baron, “how many languages can you speak?”

“No more than six, certainly. But Greek is, quite honestly, new, so I am perhaps not as well-versed...”

“My friend, that is superb! It’s tremendous! The great schools of the world ought to be clamoring to have your attendance!”

It was only when he became aware that he was blushing that Pierre attempted to stop, but that only made him blush more. “I’m afraid they are doing no such thing... quite yet. I’m more of a... library-scholar.” There were certainly worse ways to say ‘runaway’.

“Would you much prefer being a secretary, then?” Von Steuben seemed to understand what he meant. Something in the officer’s expression had changed, Pierre realized, as it now seemed as if they were both bearers of a secret the rest of the world only hoped to know. Now this felt like the start of an adventure.

“There is not a job I would prefer at this moment,” he smiled.

“Then I am sure we will get along wonderfully, Monsieur le Secretaire,” and for good measure, the baron stooped down and made two air-kisses on either side of du Ponceau’s head.

#History AND writing! #Time for a ficlet! #Pierre du Ponceau #Baron von Steuben #Headcanon ACCEPTED!

[0bsidian5ire]

Resurrect the Art of Allag (Reverse the Curse of Amon): Chapter 1

Summary: All legends start somewhere. Kharagal's starts with a letter from her guild-mistress, a meeting with one of the Sons of Saint Coinach and a five thousand-year-old soul stone. And a curiosity that's likely on par with the Allagan's.

That might come back to bite her sooner rather then later. At least life is never boring...

Or... How the Lvl. 30 Summoner quest went for my WoL. And the unorthodox application of it afterwards.

Originally posted here.

Chapter 1: The Soul Stone

After everything that happened due to helping kill Ifrit, Kharagal was more then happy to get interrupted by a Post-Moogle with a letter from Thubyrgeim asking her to come back to the Arcanists' Guild to discus something. For better or for worse, taking part in killing a primal meant people knew who Kharagal was now and that came with complications. The complications ran from people wondering if she was half-Amalj'aa to wondering if it was possible to catch the diseases that Bio mimicked. Kharagal supposed none of them had put together that the Arcanists' Guild was in a major port city and that if Bio did spread like a normal disease, it wouldn't be a spell the Guild would teach novice mages, if at all. And if Bane was something she forgot to mention, well, no one really had to know.

It didn't help that the people with the Echo had to stay in Ul'dah to fill in the Immortal Flames on what happened with Ifrit. It had been over a week since Ifrit had been banished and Kharagal was starting to go a bit stir-crazy. For the first twenty-odd years of her life, Kharagal had wandered a desert where walls were temporary tents that could easily be torn down when needed. Ul'dah's walls were thick stone and from what Kharagal could gather, had been designed to keep people both in and out of the city. Any excuse to leave Ul'dah for Limsa Lominsa was welcome.

The Arcanists' Guild was it's usual busy self when Kharagal got there; the main level was over-viewing cargo manifests, while the bottom floor echoed with Ruin blasts. On both floors, carbuncles of various colors were lying anywhere they could find a free spot.

Thubyrgeim was on the bottom floor overseeing novice arcanists casting Ruin spells. Kharagal walked over to her and watched beside her for a few minutes. Thubyrgeim smiled at her. "I remember when you first came here, Kharagal; you were fresh off a ship from the Far East and while you had one of the finest heads for geometry I have seen, your spell-book optimization needed some work."

Kharagal laughed. "In my defense, I didn't find out books existed until I was already considered a good mage. It was a lot to get used too."

Thubyrgeim nodded. "Even so, I'm happy I could be the one to teach you how to flip pages and use a quill correctly."

"And I will always be grateful for it; quills handle very differently then brushes do." Both women laughed at that.

"Reminiscing aside," Thubyrgeim said, "an intriguing matter has come up. The Sons of Saint Coinach have asked our guild to pass along a message to you or Kukunji specifically. It appears that their research is in need of an arcanist, specifically one that has defeated the primal Ifrit and not been tempered."

"The Sons of Saint Coinach? Who are they?" Kharagal frowned. Those requirements were very specific. "And why was it me you asked for and not Kukunji?"

"They are some of the finest minds in Eorzea and if the rumors are to be believed are of Sharlayan origin. From what I understand, they are specifically interested in the study of ancient Allag." Thubyrgeim shrugged. "As for why I asked for you... Kukunji is busy with a project with the Muraders' Guild. Something about the Nymian ruins."

Allag. The empire that created Dalamud... Whoever these scholars were, they would probably have more information on what Dalamud was. Or what was in it. "Who do they want me to get in contact with?"

"Y'mhitra, one of their researchers, is stationed in Grindania. She is the one who asked for you."

"I see," Kharagal smiled at Thubyrgeim. "Thanks for passing on the word. I'll have to tell you how it goes."

"I am sure you will. I am highly interested in what research the Sharlayans want to conduct with you. They--" She was interrupted by the sound of a Ruin blast that had imploded instead of exploded. Thubyrgeim turned to correct the caster's technique and waved good-bye to Kharagal. Kharagal waved back and walked up the stairs.

According to Mother Miounne, Y'mhitra liked to spend time around Apkallu Falls. Kharagal found the miqo'te lying on a bench in front of the falls with a book spread out before her and a wand lying next to her. "Y'mhitra?" she asked, "I was told-."

"Ah yes," Y'mhitra said and looked up from her book. "Kharagal Mierqid, I assume? Thank you for coming and yes, I am she. Please, sit down. I think we will be here a while."

Kharagal sat on a bench across from Y'mhitra and got a good look at her. She blinked. Many of Y'mhitra's mannerisms were very familiar. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Y'shtola would you?" she blurted.

Y'mhitra giggled. "Half-sister," she confirmed. "Shtola focused on magic and I focused on archeology. Which is what actually brought my order, the Sons of Saint Coinach, to ask your help."

"I heard they studied the Allagan Empire. What would they need me for? I never even heard of the Allagans until I came to Eorzea."

"Let me back up a bit before I get to that," Y'mhitra said and frowned. "It is true that you weren't here before the Calamity?" At Kharagal's nod, she continued. "Well, north of Thanalan is a region with a huge lake. That region is called Mor Dhona and it is very close to Carteanaeu. When the Calamity happened, Mor Dohna was hit hard and a lot of weird things happened there."

"And by weird are we talking the Burning Wall weird or Bronze Lake being drained weird?" Kharagal asked. Aether flash-crystallizing was weird on a very different level then the aftereffects of an earthquake.

"Ummm... a bit of both really." Y'mhitra shrugged. "On the one hand, the lake in Mor Dhona was partially drained which revealed a lot of Allagan ruins that had never been seen before. On the other... aether erupted out of the Lifestream from an aetherite crystal and a giant tower made out of crystal seemingly grew out of nowhere on the lakeshore. And we are pretty sure the tower is really an energy collector that is mentioned in a lot of Allagan texts."

Kharagal stared at her. "You're kidding."

"Nope!" Y'mhitra grinned. "The Sons managed to get to the ruins on the lakebed first and we have found a lot of things there even we have never read of in the Allagan texts we currently have."

"Like what?" Kharagal grinned too, Y'mhitra's glee was infections.

"Well, one thing we found was some very old texts which described a specific sect of Allagan mages known as "summoners"." Y'mhitral looked slyly at Kharagal. "Apparently these mages could siphon the essences of primals and manifest this stolen energy as a biddable ally known as an "egi"."

"But..." Kharagal started playing with her horn-ring out of habit. "How would someone get the essence of a primal and not be tempered? That's..."

"Yes," Y'mhitra nodded. "That is the sticking point. It seems that when a primal is defeated, its aetheric essence is released into whatever is in the immediate vicinity. And the Allagans learned how to take advantage of that."

"So, that's why you wanted me," Kharagal snickered. "You want to see if these techniques work the way they're supposed to."

Y'mhitra smiled at that. "Guilty. Given what the biggest threat to Eorzea currently is, research into the summoning arts is time well spent, no matter how dangerous some of my colleges think it could be. However, there is a reason I wanted to meet you or Kukunji in particular." Y'mhitra bit her lip. "Everyone knows the Allagans were more advanced then we can imagine. That is true for not just their technologies but also their magical arts. While the beginning techniques of summoning are rather simple, the advanced ones are not." Y'mhitra sighed. "To be honest, looking at those techniques reminded me of the time I got a look at the geometry some of the students back at the Studium were inventing. Only these are even more complicated and are spell geometries. Me and my colleges can read of the effects the spells produce, but none of us have the aether-control needed to even attempt casting them." She glanced at Kharagal. "To be bunt, what we really need is an arcanist who is willing to spend a lot of time learning an untested family of spell geometries in addition to someone who has defeated a primal."

Kharagal laughed. "You should have started with that, I'm always looking for more geometries to study."

"In that case, you can start with this!" Y'mhitra handed Kharagal a faceted green stone that looked like a shard of thick clear glass. "According to the texts we found, that is a Summoner's soul stone and it is needed for the most foundational of the Summoning arts."

Kharagal held up the soul stone to her eye. An isosceles triangle with a curved base was etched on one side. This close, she could see that throughout the stone was an almost invisible regular structure of what looked like hairline fractures. Only when Kharagal poked the stone with her aether, the fractures turned out to be as solid as the rest of the stone and tried to direct the aether that passed though them into some very odd shapes. Kharagal jerked her aether out of the stone with a start and found Y'mhitra looking at her. "Sorry, I just got--"

Y'mhitra giggled. "It's fine. All of us have poked it at least once, including myself. It would be weirder if you did not."

Kharagal smiled. "What were you saying before that?"

"The soul stone is needed for the most foundational summoning ritual, the ritual that creates an egi, called an Austerity. It seems the most important part of the Austerity is not the actual ritual itself, which is so simple it might not be considered a ritual at all, but rather the location the ritual is performed at." At Kharagal's raised eyebrow, Y'mhitra continued, "The texts say that the Austerity must be conducted in a land where the land's naturally dominant element matches that of the egi they wish to call forth. Fortunately for us, Ifrit's element is obviously that of fire and the Sagolii Desert has been known to be dominated by fire aspected aether since time immemorial. I figured the area west of Byregot's Strike would be the perfect place to do it."

Kharagal nodded. It made sense, except for a few major things. "Why does the land have to be the same element as the egi? and what does the summoner actually do?"

Y'mhitra sighed in frustration, though obviously not at Kharagal. "The answer to both those questions is one and the same. The summoner has to shift their aetheric balance as far as they can toward the element of the egi to manifest. Supposedly, the dominant element of the land helps them get a feel for what their aura should feel like when it is shifted far enough." Y'mhira looked at Kharagal. "Unfortunately, the particulars of how this is supposed to bring forth an egi is something we are missing information on. Most of us suspect that this is what the soul stone is needed for as the rest of the ritual does not depend on it."

"In other words, this is where the experiments start," said Kharagal with a grin and she got up from the bench and stretched. "I can't wait!"

"Neither can I," said Y'mhitra. "See you at Byregot's Strike in two weeks?"

Kharagal nodded. She could find some way to get out there. "That sound like it'll work, see you then!" The two woman said their farewells and Kharagal teleported back to Ul'dah.

Author's Notes: It's probably a good thing the Summoner soul stone was discovered before anyone realized exactly how crazy the Allagans were...

The great part about writing FFXIV fan-fiction is that I can personalize my WoL's conversations. The not-so-great part is that my WoL is a total nerd and thinks good conversations mean swapping info dumps with people. Given that most of the people she talks with are also nerds, they're pretty okay with that.

Ch 2: The Ritual →

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #ffxiv fanfiction #fanfiction #warrior of light #y'mhitra rhul #soul stone #summoner #theorycrafting #worldbuilding

[bowerstonepolice-archive]

The Mystery of the Cult of Blades Massacre

“Well, Inspector, what do you make of it?”

Chief Inspector Collin McCready ran his hand over the thin sparsity of hair atop his head, his expression grim as he surveyed the carnage that surrounded him. Torn limbs and severed heads, bodies with their innards spilling out onto the dust-covered ground, and the blood, all the blood painting the walls of the catacombs, mingling with the bones of those long since laid to rest. He cursed softly and shook his head.

“No human could have done all this. At least, not alone,” he said finally. His eyes fell upon the corpse of a young woman slumped haphazardly against the wall, her body crushed by some immense force. She stared back with soulless blue eyes. “These people were killed by something large and powerful.”

“Maybe a balverine?” the officer suggested, his face covered with a handkerchief. He looked a tad green and a sheen of sweat dampened his brow.

“Have you ever seen a balverine attack?” Inspector Felix Darby piped up as he approached them. “There would be claw marks and signs that the bodies have been feasted upon. There is none of that here.”

The officer about wretched. McCready frowned. Perhaps this man wasn't cut out for police work after all. “Why don't you step out for some air, Peter? You look like you could use it.”

As the officer gratefully took his leave, Felix cleared his throat. “I did find something interesting, though.”

It was then that the chief inspector spied the heavy tome firmly grasped in the young man's gloved hands, and he perked up. “What have you got for me?”

“This book is one of seven,” the boy explained, hefting it up and open so that he could thumb through the pages. McCready drew closer. Colorful pictures and diagrams he hardly understood fluttered past, accompanied by strange symbols of an ancient language he had never seen. “It would seem that these people were a part of a cult—the Cult of Blades, specifically. It was open to this page.” The book fell open to a diagram of a human body upon a stone slab, strange runes painted upon the corpse with what the inspector guessed was blood. “They were trying to resurrect someone—or something—that has been dead for a long time.”

“You can read this?” McCready questioned, glancing up to Felix. The boy nodded. “Some of it. Enough to get a rough understanding of what is written here. It's ancient Alban, from before the Old Kingdom. It's a lost language that most scholars don't even know.”

“How do you know it?”

“When I studied at the Academy, I managed to get my hands on some old texts from the Reliquary. Taught myself from them.” He stuck his chest out proudly. “Got into some trouble with Miss Brighton for rooting around where I oughtn't, but--”

“Focus, Felix, Focus. What does this mean?”

“Well, sir, I think they were successful, the consequences being what you see here.”

“Any idea as to what they were trying to bring back to life?”

“I couldn't say for sure, but if it's the Cult of Blades, then it's nothing good.”

McCready considered that. He had heard of the Cult of Blades before, but they had never truly presented a problem prior to this event. The majority of them were nutters, prophesying the return of the Court and the end of days, and doing not much else. He'd never thought they had the power to do something like this.

Gently, he took the book from his assistant, turning it over to gaze at the blood-soaked cover. A symbol was etched there: a planet with four moons, he surmised. Interesting... Where had he seen that before?

“Where did you find this?”

“Over here, sir,” Mr. Darby directed, leading his superior to the spot while carefully stepping over and around corpses and pools of blood. The chamber they soon found themselves in was large and cavernous, a stone slab at its center, candles strewn about on the floor and on candelabras. This room, too, was bathed in blood and littered with gore, but not to the same extent of the outer chambers. The two men approached the slab, boots crunching on scattered bones. McCready knelt to study the fresher remains.

“This is all from just one body,” he said after a moment. “It looks like whoever this was... exploded...” A glinting in the light caught his eye, and his fingers found an amulet amid the flesh. It was gold and heavy, set with rubies to form the same symbol that was on the book's cover.

“That's the medallion of the cult leader,” Felix stated. “He would have been the one leading the ceremony. This book was here... with what's left of him.”

“Or her,” McCready reminded him gently. “I think this person died first.” He nodded to a spot on the floor near the entrance to the chamber, where the dust had been greatly disturbed. “The others ran, but they didn't get far.”

“Do you think anyone got out of this hell alive?”

“Unlikely. This thing was thorough. It didn't want anyone leaving this place.”

Felix shuddered. “I need a drink.”

“Do you know what significance this emblem bore to them?”

“No, sir, only that the Court reportedly wore it, too.”

Collin rolled his lips inward. So that was where he had seen it: depictions of the Jack of Blades and his gold and ruby brooch. He silently wondered what it could mean, which planet it was that was being depicted. It was none that he knew of.

“One has to wonder where this creature went. We need to find it before it does more damage.”

“Further into the crypt, maybe?” Felix suggested, sounding hopeful, though not convinced.

“Maybe.” But the chief inspector knew better to believe in such a scenario. They had to be prepared for the worst, and hope for the best. His job had taught him that much.

“You said that book was one of seven.”

“I did, yes.”

“Where are the other six?” His eyes flicked around in search of them. “They are not here.”

“No, no, the books are scattered about Albion. Most of them have been lost, while some of them, such as the Normanomicon, are kept locked away at the Academy. They are all considered dangerous, and full of powerful magic and rituals. This book deals with soul transference, as far as I can tell. I'll need to study it further before I can tell you more.”

“Is it possible the other books would be able to tell us anything useful?”

“Maybe? I could see about having a look at them at the Academy.”

“That would be a good idea, I think. And we should try to find out exactly how they came by such a tome, too. I don't think they've always had it, or else something like this would have happened sooner.” He didn't know much about the occult, but magic was always dangerous and unpredictable. Unless one was a Hero, one could not hope to control it. It was too bad these poor sods didn't get the memo.

Rising, he spent a little more time observing the room further before deciding there wasn't anything more he could learn. He headed back towards the entrance of the catacombs themselves, eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. Eventually, just short of the way out, he stopped.

“There are no foot prints leading out,” he mused before turning and heading back the way he came, stopping again just before leaving the bloodbath behind to descend further into the darkness. He knelt again, studying the floor. “And none leading further in, either...”

“Are you saying... it's still here?” Felix whispered, his face growing pale.

“That is a distinct possibility, but if so, what is keeping it from attacking? It clearly has the power to annihilate the lot of us in a matter of minutes, maybe even seconds.” He shook his head. “And unless it's hiding in a coffin, we'd have found it by now.”

“Well, what other explanation is there?”

McCready shrugged. “Maybe it flew.”

~<>~

A thorough search of the area and opening coffins proved fruitless. The men grew uneasy disturbing the dead, but no curse befell them, and the departed remained at rest, peacefully shut away again once it was discovered that they harbored no monstrosities. McCready was frustrated. Whatever had done this had left virtually no traces behind, not even a single footprint! How was he going to find something that was as invisible as the wind, and how was he going to catch it when it could rip him in two without so much as batting an eye?

Gone were the Heroes of old. There was no one powerful enough to take on this kind of monster save for the king, and he was busy enough as it was. The chief inspector would have to do this without the help of a Hero... somehow. He'd figure it out later. Right now, he needed to find out just what he was dealing with.

“Felix, how long do you think it will take for you to study that book of yours? I have a feeling that the answers we need are somewhere in there, or in one of its sisters.”

“A few days, a week at most. If I go to the Academy, though, it will take longer. Traveling, and all that.”

“See that it's done as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to know what this thing is, where it is going, and how we can stop it.”

“I'll do my best, sir.”

McCready heaved a great sigh, looking at the devastation once more. Lords above, what a mess! The flash of the camera, and it was preserved forever. A nightmare that would never end.

As the photographer began to set up for the next picture, the inspector signaled to Felix to follow him outside. He needed some air and a good smoke. As soon as they were outside, a cigarette was betwixt his lips, a match in his hand.

“Well,” the younger of the two huffed, “this is officially the weirdest case I've ever seen.”

McCready grunted, taking the first drag of his cigarette. “I don't know what to make of it.”

“Do you think all the missing people are accounted for?”

“We'll see, won't we?” The bodies had yet to be identified, and many were not identifiable. But his gut told him that yes, everyone that had gone missing were here, slaughtered like pigs or worse. There had to have been at least twenty cadavers in there, maybe more.

“You alright?”

McCready looked up to find the boy studying him carefully. There were few things that could shake the chief inspector. He'd seen so many things between the wars and his job. He'd thought he'd seen everything under the sun, every cruelty man or beast had to offer. But today had proved otherwise. He finished his cigarette, stomped it out, and pulled out another.

“I'll live. You?” He was more worried about Felix than himself. The lad was only twenty-two. He hadn't the experience of his superior, had not been hardened to the world's horrors.

“I'll have nightmares, probably, but it's nothing I can't handle.” He might not have looked like much, skinny and gangling as he was, with soft, boyish features and hair hopelessly sticking up in all directions, but Felix was a brave soul. This wasn't the first dark corner he'd found himself in, and it would not be the last, and he bore it all with a shrug and a smile. McCready wondered if he had anyone to talk to about these things, or if he kept it all locked away in a metal chest at the back of his mind.

“Bring the carriage around,” said the older gentleman, smoke streaming from his nostrils like an angry dragon. “There's nothing more we can learn here.”

“Righto.” And the boy was off, leaving his boss alone with his thoughts.

#drabble #willbeshot #bladesqueen #daughterofsol #bloodlament #ancientofaeons #archoncxrrupted #group rp #fable rp #we really need a tag for this group thing

[mamusiq]

The forgotten bard who shaped pop

John Dowland’s songs were massively popular in the Elizabethan era. They played into an idea of English melancholy that continues today, writes Andrea Valentino.

By Andrea Valentino -  3 August 2017

Stumble into any grimy club, or any taxi, or any supermarket in Britain and chances are that you’ll hear the same music: the same songs, the same chords, the same lyrics. Ed Sheeran has been top of the pile lately. His latest album has sold over a million copies in the UK alone, and the quaking sentimentality of Castle On The Hill is almost a new national anthem.

We know surprisingly little of Dowland’s own life

But if Sheeran’s floppy red hair and catchy love songs are obsessing modern Britain, he was hardly the first to grab the national mood. Back in the 16th Century, the composer and lutenist John Dowland was similarly popular – pressing into a vein of moping soppiness that made him famous, and has served English musicians ever since.

This memorial to Dowland stands in the Dalkey suburb of Dublin (Credit: Alamy)

For such an influential musician, we know surprisingly little of Dowland’s own life. He was born about 1563, probably in London. He travelled widely, first working for Queen Elizabeth I, then for the Danish King Christian IV. Scandal chased after Dowland: he left Denmark after ‘unsatisfactory conduct’.

He was also rejected from the English court, probably for being a Catholic. And despite considerable fame, Dowland died in poverty, lamenting the “young professors of the lute” who “vaunt themselves to the disparagement” of old timers like him. This poignant end is dappled with mystery: even now, there are rumours that Dowland was a spy, and a traitor.  

The beauty of sadness

If Dowland’s life remains enigmatic, personality explodes out of his songs. Just their titles – Burst Forth My Tears, Rest A While You Cruel Cares – are stickily evocative. His lyrics, meanwhile, still scrape against the heart of anyone who listens. “Burst forth my tears, assist my forward grief,” starts one, “and show what pain imperious love provokes.”

Dowland’s First Booke of Songs and Ayres from 1597, with sheet music to allow lute players to accompany singers, was one of his many successful songbooks (Credit: Alamy)

Elsewhere, Dowland sang that “down, down, down I fall, and arise I never shall.” The composer himself seemed to paddle happily about in all this. “His motto was semper Dowland, semper dolens. This means ‘always Dowland, always doleful’”, Pierre Huard, an early music performer and researcher, tells BBC Culture. Like Leonard Cohen or Tom Waits, in other words, John Dowland the angsty musician was sometimes indistinguishable from his music.

Elizabethans saw melancholy as fashionable – Olga Hernandez Roldan

Dowland’s distinctive music was not just a personal affectation, though. Sixteenth-Century England was obsessed with “melancholy”, seeing it as. “fashionable”, says Olga Hernandez Roldan, a lecturer in music history at the Madrid Superior School of Singing. Ted Libbey, a music critic, agrees. “Melancholy was the sign of a superior individual,” he wrote, in an article for NPR. It was typical of someone “who was mature and capable of deep feeling.” These ideas seeped into 16th Century life. One scholar wrote a Treatise on Melancholy while Shakespeare cast Hamlet as bubbling with existential worries. Like all the best modern musicians, meanwhile, Dowland tapped into these feelings. If Ed Sheeran’s Galway Girl sates modern teenagers desperate for tipsy nostalgia, Dowland filled his songs with the passions of his time.

English illustrator John Minnion drew this caricature of Dowland – a sign of the songwriter’s enduring impact in the UK (Credit: Alamy)

Dowland’s music was strikingly modern in other ways, too. He was one of the first composers to popularise the lute in England, spreading his music to a mass audience. Like the piano a few centuries later, it could be produced cheaply and made music accessible “to the bourgeoisie,” explains Hernandez Roldan. “The lute allowed people to play printed music at home on their own,” she adds. Dowland’s music soon became wildly popular, and one of his song books was reprinted four times during the late 1500s and early 1600s. Together with his instrument, moreover, Dowland pushed for a new kind of music. Unlike the dense Italian madrigals of the previous century, many of Dowland’s songs were “organised simply” with just an intimate solo lute as accompaniment, says Huard. “They had a big effect on the public” and helped turn English into a “European language.”

‘Shakespeare of songs’

Given all this, it’s little wonder that Dowland is now known by some as the “first modern singer-songwriter,” although not everyone agrees. “We must root Dowland in his musical context to appreciate the whole,” says Hernandez Roldan. “I feel that to speak about him just ripped out of his world makes no sense.” She has a point: scratching a line right from Dowland to modern musicians risks slipping into anachronism.

The lute was a popular instrument in the 16th and 17th Centuries and featured in many paintings such as this one by Valentin de Boulogne (Credit: Alamy)

Still, if Dowland did not wear a black leather jacket, his gushy self-expression – combined with his simple, intense style – are both hallmarks of modern pop. For Huard, Dowland is nothing short of a timeless “Shakespeare of songs” whose vivid delivery jumps down to us as strong as ever.

He is a fool who is not melancholy once a day – English proverb

And if some historians might hesitate to make the comparison between Dowland and contemporary music, artists have happily adapted his passionate songs. Twentieth-Century composers like Benjamin Britten and Parry Grainger have reimagined pieces by Dowland. The Dowland Project elegantly mixes Dowland’s lute pieces with modern jazz. Dowland’s music has even stumbled back to the pop world. Elvis Costello has sung a version of Can She Excuse My Wrongs? and in 2006 Sting covered an album of Dowland’s songs, even sitting in a smoky Tudor cellar to record In Darkness Let Me Dwell.

Sting released an album of Dowland covers through classical label Deutsche Grammophon in 2006 and remains an avid lutenist (Credit: Alamy)

The melancholic twang from John Dowland’s lute has shivered down to generations of English artists indirectly, too. In the early 20th Century, Edward Elgar’s haunting music was called ‘wonderful in its heroic melancholy’. Later, Pink Floyd released trippy songs like Time where they sang that “hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.” Things went into overdrive as the utopianism of the hippie years quivered and died. By 1976, Joy Division were gripping worn-out kids around the country. A decade on, The Smiths went even further. Songs like Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want and How Soon Is Now? are still benchmarks of teenage worry. John Dowland may not have sung that he was “happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I’m miserable now” – that was Morrissey. But he could have.

Naturally, not all these musicians were influenced by Dowland directly. But starting with John Dowland and his shameless self-expression, his melancholy has proved wonderfully durable. But why do the English seem so drawn to misery? Maybe it reminds us of life’s unfairness. An old English proverb remarks that “he is a fool who is not melancholy once a day.” Or perhaps it’s the weather. As Voltaire put it, “these are the dark November days when the English hang themselves.” Whatever the reason, melancholy has surely scrabbled far enough into our national identity to stay firmly put. Hopefully, anyway. It would be a shame to lose musicians like John Dowland, whose “dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine.”

If you would like to comment on this story or anything else you have seen on BBC Culture, head over to our Facebook page or message us on Twitter.

And if you liked this story, sign up for the weekly bbc.com features newsletter, called “If You Only Read 6 Things This Week”. A handpicked selection of stories from BBC Future, Earth, Culture, Capital and Travel, delivered to your inbox every Friday

http://www.bbc.com/culture/story/20170801-the-ed-sheeran-of-16th-century-england

[elevatedvistas]

10 of Our Favorite Verses from Dreamville's Latest Signee, J.I.D (So Far)

So, you're a huge fan of J. Cole, and have recently heard about his label, Dreamville's latest acquisition in Atlanta's J.I.D, but you don't know where to start? We've got you covered. Since following J.I.D (pronounced as spelled, or "Jid") in 2011, not only has he been one of our favorite acts since the first song we heard him on, but we've followed his music very closely and are self-dubbed J.I.D scholars. In no particular order, here are 10 songs and verses from the ATLien that you simply must hear to get a full feel for what you're in for when he releases his Dreamville debut, "The Never Story", whose release date is still pending: OG Maco - Who Came to Party ft. J.I.D (Prod. Archibald Slim) https://soundcloud.com/og-maco/who-came-to-party-ft-j-i-d Probably our favorite pound for pound JID verse. At the time, it was the latest in the start of a string of collaborations for JID. This one hosted by OG Maco, who more than held his own in what we, here at Ev, may credit as the first song that we actually heard OG Maco really float and spit on--the track was featured on Maco's brilliantly titled, I Made This Shit Before You Guessed It. We probably wouldn't appreciate Maco as much as we do now if it weren't for this track that we initially peeped specifically to hear JID. Isn't music amazing? J.I.D - Never (Prod. Christo + Childish Major) https://soundcloud.com/jidsv/never-prod-by-christo-x-childish-major Never could arguably be credited with the distinction of being the song that really took J.I.D into that, "Ok, you GOTTA hear this guy" category. With a beautifully nasty cadence, and witty bars like, "I crept on the steps where the demon sleeps/and yell, belch to my Lord what He means to me. Oh, my God. Don't be mean to me", the first round of Never is a display of pure skill as the Zone 6 spitter rips apart the Christo-produced banger. Don't double back. You read that correct: the first round. The second round of Never features a production switch--this time brought to you by Childish Major--that is so opposite the spectrum of its predecessor, it's sure to catch your ear, and by the first bar--"What you call a chick that don't suck dick?/ Ya don't"--JID is sure to have your attention. There is some debate on which round of Never is the best, but most of us are just glad that these beats and these verses were put together for an epic clash of the titans that is one artist: J.I.D. J.I.D - Letters ft. 6lack, Marian Mereba, & PELL (Prod. ThaOfficials) https://soundcloud.com/jidsv/letters-feat-6lack-marian-mereba-pell Letters is one of JID's furthest strays from his usual lyrical onslaught to deliver an actual record with a concrete message. Assisted by 6lack (who has had maybe the biggest 2017 of any underground artist thus far), Marian Mereba (If you've never heard of her, don't you dare scroll past this name without making note), and the one-of-a-kind PELL, JID delivers a somber ode that is probably the darkest song he has put out to date, but also a possible glimpse into what the Little Dragon fanatic wants to do more of. It's an impressive song that more often than not, goes unmentioned by even the most solid JIDiens. J.I.D - M.O.M ft. Quinten Miller (Prod. Zeon) https://soundcloud.com/spillage-village-am/mom-feat-quentin-miller-prod-by-zeon A recent gem that may be the standout track on a super effort by the Atlanta collective, Spillage Village (Earthgang, J.I.D, Hollywood JB, Jordxn Bryant) that features The WDNGCRSHRS' Quinten Miller. M.O.M is JID's most recent collaboration, and neither he nor Miller let's us down for even a second. With a hook that ends, "Since she started f***ing me, her ass got fatter", it's not hard to notice JID's effortless control and balance of cadence, wit, lyrics, and melodies. MOM was probably a top 3 track from JID in 2016. You'd earn yourself a year long favorite song by simply clicking play on this one. J.I.D - Yellow Snow Freestyle (Prod. Christo) https://soundcloud.com/spillage-village-am/yellow-snow-freestyle-prod-by-christo Another standout track from Spillage Village's Bears Like This Too Much project, this one is more of a flex of lyrical muscle for the 27-year old MC. And, if you've listened to any other cuts on this list, you can understand that songs like Yellow Snow is where JID really thrives. A minimal hook that's catchy as it is different, and usually includes some humorous lyrics wrapped in air tight cadences. "My lil n*ggaz got lil n*ggaz, so I'm a grand n*gga" is one of our favorite JID bars, and he delivers it and many more like it over jazzy production that sounds like James Bond making a clean getaway as the building explodes behind him. One of the most unique songs on our list also may be the most funky JID record to date. Earthgang, 6lack, & J.I.D - BatMan Smells (Prod. Ryan Mellow) https://soundcloud.com/earthganghbt/earthgang-x-6lack-x-jid-batman-smells-prod-by-ryan-mellow BatMan Smells came out in December of 2014, and features JID, 6lack, and Earthgang. As referenced in its title, Batman Smells (a reference to the old Jingle Bells spoof) is a Christmas song. And, it is quite possibly our favorite Hip Hop Christmas song of the last 10 years. One could argue there haven't been enough Christmas themed songs in that time period to compare it to--which is fair--but that's also the beauty of Batman Smells. It's also very subtle in being a Christmas song. Hints include jingle bells at the beginning of the song, references to eggnog, and JID getting drunk with his aunties. If that's not Christmas, what is? J.I.D - UnderWear (Prod. Christo) https://soundcloud.com/jidsv/underwear "Melancholy cool. Matthew McConaughey!" One of the most fun, always relevant lines JID has dropped on wax that we have access to, UnderWear was J.I.D's 'Never' of 2015. Christo's production matched with JID's complex wordplay and playful-but-deadass-serious lyrics is an underrated combo that we fully expect to have more light shed on in the coming months. UnderWear finds J.I.D solo, aside from a couple of The Wolf of Wall Street quotes from the aforementioned McConaughey, and it may very well be his best track, depending on who you talk to. A lyrical trapeze act, UnderWear served its purpose by guaranteeing that the revolution was underwear. I mean, under way. J.I.D - Jiddeth https://vimeo.com/49116270 Jiddeth was the first song we heard JID solo on. And, it was like a tidal wave of vibes. The beat was slow, with a lone, long horn serving as its lead. It's a fairly simplistic beat that is undeniable southern. On Jiddeth, JID boasts about not doing this and not doing that, only to flip the script ten-fold and claim all of his vices, his Zone, and his own position as a flat out monster behind the mic. He does all of this with very little effort, and by the song's end, your head is bobbing, and you're leaning up in your chain, wondering, "How did ppl miss out on this guy for so long?" That's J.I.D. Earthgang - The First Scoop ft. J.I.D https://soundcloud.com/thepromogorilla/the-first-scoop Holding the honorable distinction of being the first record we heard JID on, The First Scoop is as impressive now as it was when it was released in 2012. JID dropped on our Twitter timeline via Earthgang (the song's main artists) like a bomb, and we immediately followed him after hearing his verse, which opens the record. Specifically, the bar that made our timeline lose its mind was a clever use of "Bye, Felicia" popularized by the movie Friday, and the expounding of why, according to JID, she had to go. The opening bars of JID's verse on The First Scoop are still relevant: "I hear a lot of n*ggaz talking about they ballin'/You ain't ballin' if the bill collectors callin'/talkin' about you missed a payment, couple installments/they finna cut your shit off, you should come by the office." Again, that's circa 2011. J.I.D - Bruuuh (Prod. Willie B) https://soundcloud.com/jidsv/bruuuh-prod-by-willie-b JID's most recent release that we were amped to check out, as it features production by The Ichiban Don himself, Willie B. TDE fans may recognize Willie B's name for producing gems such as Kendrick Lamar's Ignorance is Bliss, Poe Man's Dreams, & Rigamortis, and Ab-Soul's Showin' Love. We're huge TDE fans, and particularly were at the height of our fandom when all of those productions dropped. So, Willie has been on our favorite producers list for years. That being the case, when we saw him tweet JID about a finished track, we couldn't help but be fans of the song right then and there. Appropriately titled "Bruuuh" for its ridiculous rhyme patterns and instrumentation (and for the collaboration, itself), the listener can insert a good, "Bruuuh" anywhere in the entire song, and it would be fitting. Once again, JID sprints a marathon and absolutely levels a Willie B production. To lovers of credits, this was probably JID's most important collaboration yet, as it was a sort of cosign that--even if not necessarily needed--aided and continues to aid in what we believe will be a stratospheric take off for one of the most talented MC's we've ever met, covered, or heard. Straight up. If you call yourself a Hip Hop head like we do, here at Elevated Vistas, and haven't heard JID, we're encouraging you to do so--and, soon. Because as with JID's signing to Dreamville, his explosion onto the Hip Hop scene by way of your television and radio is only a matter of time. Congratulations to Dreamville for signing one hell of an artist. And, most importantly, congratulations to JID--the latest example of an elite rapper getting the exposure and rewards that he is justly due. And, the best part? It's only just begun. Congratulations, JID. We're still rooting for you. Honorable Mention: J.I.D - Liverpool ft. Earthgang, J.I.D -October/3 Storms ft. Earthgang J.I.D - Sia, J.I.D - Pro-Verbs, Earthgang x J.I.D - Ten Ten Follow J.I.D on Twitter: @jidsv Follow us on Twitter: @ElevatedVistas Written by Ida Wonyaluv

[carlylexwheeler-blog]

The Chaser I Seek

Summary: Muggle-born Anne Wheeler is thrilled when she receives her Head Girl badge in the mail the summer before her final year at Hogwarts, and so is Pureblooded Phillip Carlyle when he discovers he is to be Head Boy. Neither Phillip or Anne knows much about the other, except for what they have learned from afar. Phillip has been watching from the Slytherin side of the stands for years as Anne leads the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team to victory after victory. Anne has listened to the whispers about the Carlyle family and their obsession with Pureblood lineage, and she knows along with the rest of the school that the Carlyles are instrumental in Voldemort's slowly gaining success.

Neither is prepared to be jarringly thrown together their very first day by a food-fight blown out of proportion.

As both students struggle to balance new responsibilities, they will begin to see new sides to one another-- sides that Phillip has been taught never to look for, and sides that Anne is not ready to explore. But with the wizarding world taking new steps every day towards war, Hogwarts must cling to unity stronger than ever... Especially the two students who are the face of it all.

Characters: Anne Wheeler x Phillip Carlyle

Warnings: Language, Food Fights

Word Count: 3,277

Masterlist

Read it on Wattpad or AO3.

Playlist

Song of the Chapter: "Start a War" by Klergy and Valerie Broussard

Chapter One: The Battlefield

Anne had been hoping for a memorable first day as Head Girl, but now she was wondering if she should have been a tad more specific.

Things had started out fine. Perfect, even, which is probably why the universe decided to deal Anne the disastrous scenario that followed. On the train, she had arrived early enough to meet all of the prefects, and so she had begun to divide the job of monitoring the various cars among everyone. By the time everybody was there, there was a set plan on how they were going to approach it, and it was being carried out perfectly. Phillip Carlyle, the Head Boy, had arrived about ten minutes into the planning. This had been slightly concerning for Anne, who had only communicated with her partner in stiff, unsure letters of congratulations over the summer. Neither seemed able to find the right words all summer. She supposed it was natural, seeing as they had never interacted before. The two of them had classes together, yes, being two of the brightest students in the school. But with advanced classes focused heavily on independent study and neither knew the other well enough to pair up for the few projects they were assigned.

That was the least of her worries, though she tried not to think about it. The Carlyle family had a reputation, and it was not one that painted a hopeful picture of Phillip's respect for a Muggle-born. The past few years had seen a palpable increase in the tension between Muggle-borns and Pureblooded wizards as You-Know-Who grew more and more powerful. Not all Purebloods held the supremacist attitude towards Muggles, of course. But the Carlyles were one of the most notorious families for this attitude and had been for generations, and Phillip Carlyle was the only heir to this legacy of hatred in a time when such superiority was thriving. The thought of what might happen while they were forced to work side-by-side had caused her more sleepless nights than she cared to admit.

However, Phillip's arrival on the train had brought no ominous thunder or sudden chill, so that had been a plus.

Really, Phillip was nothing but supportive of the orders Anne had given. He assumed the role of enforcing her plans rather than trying to make his own, which Anne discovered when she heard him instructing some of the new Fifth Year Prefects.

"She's the one running the show right now," he had informed them, and there was no malice or sarcasm in his voice as he said it. "That's good for you, because she's going to give you a little part of the plan to work with. If you do your job well, then everyone else will be able to do theirs, and we'll be able to get this train to the station without burning it down."

The two Fifth Year girls he had been speaking to had burst into giggles at that, but Anne had found herself feeling just the slightest bit flattered. She had considered going over to greet him, maybe thank him in a professional manner, but it was at that moment that a Third Year boy burst into the compartment, saying, "Umm... So, we were just sitting there, right, and then the seat started smoking, and we don't know how it happened, but there's a small hole burned in-"

"How small is 'small?'"

"I dunno, I mean, most of the seat is gone, but-"

Neither had spoken to the other after that, for as the Prefects began to do their jobs, various situations arose that demanded each of their separate attentions. This was a development that Anne did not mind, and she was happy to keep busy on the ride to the castle. By the time that the Hogwarts Express had pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Anne had successfully handled a game of Exploding Snap gone wrong, a misfired charm that caused the snack trolley to overturn, and a mess made of a pair of robes during a game of Gobstones. As she watched the students leave the Express, Anne was aware of the fact that her face was flushed and her curls were escaping her buns in wisps. But she also felt proud, like she was beginning to live up to the shiny badge pinned to the front of her worn Ravenclaw robes that were a few inches too short.

It did irk her slightly that Phillip Carlyle looked as unruffled as ever from where he stood across from her, making sure that all of the students made their way out.

After that, things were a blur. Anne and the Carlyle boy were tasked with making sure that students knew where to assume their seats since Professor Lutz was unable to do so while she was tending to the First Years. After the majority of the students were seated, Anne made her way to the Head Table to ask any of the professors what they should be doing next.

"Excuse me," she called to the nearest teacher, the blonde Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. Professor Barnum glanced over at Anne with a kind eyebrow raised. "Is there anything else that we can do, Professor?" Anne queried, hopeful. She needed something to busy herself with, or else she was fairly sure her energy would fall flat.

Professor Barnum hummed softly, appearing to think. "Erm... I don't think so, no," she replied, smiling apologetically as she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "But I am sure that Phineas said something about the Sorting starting soon. You two have done more than enough for now, I think, so you can go enjoy the festivities with the rest of us."

Anne nodded, offering the professor a polite smile that hid her disappointment. "Thank you, Ma'am," she murmured, inclining her head respectfully. She was fairly sure that she felt Professor Barnum's motherly gaze upon her back as she weaved between students on the way back to the Ravenclaw side of the Great Hall.

As Anne left the table, she saw that Carlyle had already taken this advice. He was seated in the middle of a group of affluent Slytherin students, and he was laughing at something the brunette girl across from him had said. It did not set in until that moment that Anne did not have anyone to sit with now that W.D. had graduated.

Her brother was working in the Three Broomsticks in order to support them, and Anne knew about the second job that he was hiding. She had noticed the owls coming at odd hours of the night to their tiny flat in Hogsmeade, and she had even managed to sneak one out of the trash, from which she deduced that he was doing some translation of Runes for scholars in Albania. Anne's heart ached that her brother, a brilliant Runes translator who could have found a prestigious job anywhere in the world, was slaving away at a pub for her sake every day. When she graduated, Anne was determined to pick up and leave to start a new life with W.D. They would go somewhere, anywhere, and Anne would get a job researching advanced potions until she was accepted by some major Quidditch team. But until then, Anne no longer had anyone to sit with.

She took a spot at the very end of the Ravenclaw table where no one else sat, fiddling with the napkin on the table absently. She could feel eyes on her, now that she was Head Girl... And she knew those eyes came along with whispers. They did not linger too long, as people had better things to talk about, but she still looked down at the hem of her threadbare sleeve to avoid seeing the brief glances. Anne had never been particularly popular. People knew she was brilliant, they knew that she was one of the best Chasers that Hogwarts had seen for decades, maybe even a century. But for as many acquaintances as Anne had, her dedication to her schoolwork and Quidditch performance did not leave much room for any real friends.

A few moments later, an ample distraction came to turn any unwanted attention away from Anne. Headmaster Barnum rose, and with a wave of his wand, he magicked away the tables. The Headmaster's skinny, slightly mousy appearance was deceiving, for this man was a master of the classes of illusion and enchantment. He was renowned for it in many circles, and Anne was fascinated by the slight flair for the dramatic the man had. She had always been attentive to his words, respecting the air of mystery that clung to him like cobwebs.

The Sorting commenced thereafter. It was a short one, with a particularly small incoming Year. However, there was a noticeable disturbance throughout the ceremony. Anne noticed almost immediately that whenever a surname that was well-known and respected in the magical community was announced, it was greeted with full applause. There were several surnames, however, that were known to be traditionally common in Muggle communities. The cheering following these names was weakened as if at least a third of the students had dropped out. Anne's eyes narrowed, and as soon as any student with a name such as her own was announced, she could be observed to be cheering twice as loud as normal. Several of the teachers picked up on the incident as well, and Anne was fairly sure she caught a glimpse of Professor Barnum and her husband murmuring sonorous charms so that the cheering of the teachers was magnified.

By the time that Zabel, Francine had been sorted into Hufflepuff, Headmaster Barnum had summoned the tables again out of thin air. Gasps filled the room from the First year students who had not been there to see it the first time, and Anne felt a little smile play with her lips. The Headmaster gave a quick speech, and then with a flourish of his wand, the platters before the students all became filled with enough food to feed a small army. Chatter rose to mingle with the cozy sounds of clattering forks and knives, and Anne felt herself visibly relax. Maybe she wasn't exactly a part of it, but this was the part of Hogwarts that she loved. Moments like these, where so many students just existed together, made it feel like home.

Of course, the day chose that moment to turn for the worse.

Anne had only just begun to pour a goblet of pumpkin juice when she first noticed the disturbance, coming from one end of the Slytherin table. Three boys, Fourth Year students, Anne guessed, were using their wands to send little chunks of candied carrots flying to hit a pair of Muggle-born twins across the aisle. Anne set down her goblet, preparing to rise to call the students out. Before she had managed to extricate herself from the table, however, one of the twins had turned and fixed the Fourth Years with a smirk. Anne hastened her efforts to reach the students, but it was much too late. An entire bowl of steak and kidney pudding flew across the aisle to splatter the three students and anyone in the immediate vicinity. For a moment, all conversation fell silent, and there was a moment of hollow space.

And then, the shouting began.

Wands flew out, and Anne fumbled to keep her own in her hand as she desperately scanned the room, trying to see where she was most needed. Anne's ears were overloaded with a tangle of layering spells, most of which sent various trays and plates of food zooming through the air. At first, Anne struggled to appeal to the casters of the spells, but there were far too many. She cursed under her breath as she began to nonverbally cast as many shield charms as she physically could. Invisible barriers sprung up between the attackers and their intended victims, and they effectively stopped the food from flying any further. Unfortunately, this mostly resulted in whatever was being thrown being propelled back towards the attacker, spreading still more food everywhere.

A plate of treacle tart whizzed past Anne's head, and she narrowly dodged it only to be met with a full tureen of chowder. The soup drenched her and a pair of First Years from head to toe, and a shocked gasp left the lips of the children behind her. Anne winced and quickly darted back, gripping them by the hands and pulling them under the table. "Stay here until it's over," she instructed the shell-shocked girls before sliding out from underneath again, leaving them gaping at her retreating form.

Anne fought to move forward, doing as much damage control as she possibly could. Dodging food became completely impossible at this point. What might have been an entire ham narrowly missed Anne's head, shoving her hair out of her bun and getting the soaked curls everywhere. Several pastries were hurled at Anne and smashed into her shoulder, her arm, and her chest, smearing all down the front of her robes. A bowl of lukewarm porridge dumped over her head, and the Head Girl fought to wipe it out of her eyes as she forged forward. All she could do, at the moment, was vanish whatever flying food she could hit. Luckily, Anne had fairly decent aim, and she managed to completely remove several large platters of turkey, ham, and chicken from the air before they could actually hurt someone. Through all of the fighting, she could barely tell who was who, until she stumbled into a form slightly taller than her. Anne whirled around with her wand out, ready to stun the perpetrator if need be.

Instead, she found herself coming face-to-face with a thoroughly flustered Phillip Carlyle.

He looked absolutely ridiculous, with what must have been half of a pudding plastered to his hair and the side of his face. What Anne guessed was chocolate syrup dripped down the side of his face, and what had been his pristine, brand-new robes were covered with mashed potatoes and pumpkin juice. There was a determination in his eyes that was rather comical, seeing as his normally perfect hair was in a cowlick that looked like something from a cartoon. However, as he raised her wand at her, she did not find it hard to believe that he might stun her.

"Carlyle!" she called, over all the noise. "Stop, it's Anne Wheeler!" He froze for a moment, blinking, and Anne remembered that she probably looked equally ridiculous. But then, relief spread over his food-covered features.

"Thank Merlin," he exclaimed, gripping her by the arm and yanking her to the side to avoid a flying sponge cake. "Are you the one who's been vanishing things?"

"Yes," she called, tugging her arm free from his grip immediately. She did not have time to be flustered by the sudden, unwanted contact. "This needs to stop, now, before it gets out of hand!"

"I think it's a bit late for that, as I think I just saw Headmaster Barnum quite literally pie Professor Barnum in the face."

"Are you certain-"

"I would testify to it before Wizengamot."

Anne gritted her teeth and glared at nothing in particular. "Maybe if we can get to Professor Lutz, then-"

Behind them, there was a massive boom, and Anne cried out. Carylye was touching her again, pulling her to the ground with him. She landed sprawled rather uncomfortably on his solid chest, and quickly Anne moved to haul herself off of him. As if that was not enough, a bowl of tuna salad shot by them, effectively covering the both of them in creamy goop.

"Sorry, sorry," Carlyle panted, looking up at her with blue eyes that were as wide as the saucer that broke against the wall behind them.

"What was-"

Just then, a rancid smell filled the hall, and Anne clapped a hand over her mouth and nose. Carlyle did the same, not before Anne caught a glimpse of a gag.

"Dugbob," Carlyle's muffled voice reached her ears as the disgusted coughing of many students filled the hall. Anne felt her level of frustration skyrocket.

"Dungbombs?" she spat. "For the love of all things holy, who the-"

Another boom, and this time Anne was ready. She ducked her head under the nearest table, but Carlyle was not quick enough. Mud flew through the air, hitting him square in the face. Immediately, the Head Boy turned and began to cough, attempting to get out whatever he could from his mouth. Anne stood, trying to locate where the Dungbombs were being set off. The smell was crippling, but she kept a hand clapped over her mouth as she struggled to make her way forward, leaving Carlyle behind. Another detonated, and Anne felt the mud splatter her, too. But she managed to keep it out of her eyes, and that was all that she needed. She pushed her way forward, and through the cloud of brown smoke, she spotted the Fifth Year who was detonating them crouching over another one.

"Evanesco!" Anne shouted, taking aim at the bomb. The boom still set off, but only a little bit more filth flew through the air like projectiles. The rest vanished, along with the bomb, and Anne aimed a silent 'Petrificus totalus!' at the single figure she could see in the center of all of the smoke. She heard a crack that meant that the charm had met the intended target, and then, in the haze of the smoke and the break in the fight, Carlyle climbed onto the Slytherin table, almost slipping in the spill of soup on top of it.  Anne pointed her wand at him, murmuring a breathless "Sonorous."

And then, above everything, Carlyle's voice boomed, "The next student to use food as a projectile will personally volunteer to work in the kitchens for two weeks, after they clean all of this up!"

The hall was silent, and Anne let out a soft groan as she leaned against the table at his feet. No noise could be heard except for the labored breath of the students and the dripping of food off of robes. Carlyle let out a massive breath of relief as Anne rubbed her temples and stared at the growing pile of porridge and tuna fish chunks at her feet.

Anne was fairly certain she would not be forgetting her first day as Head Girl anytime soon.

#anne wheeler #anne wheeler x phillip carlyle #phillip carlyle x anne wheeler #Phillip Carlyle #carwheeler #carlwheeler #carlwheeler fic #hp au #tgs hp au #the greatest showman #the greatest showman su #the chaser i seek #the greatest showman fic #the greatest showman fanfic