So. This was it. No more Hogwarts. No more Gryffindor; no more Sorting Hat and lake. No more nothing. Nothingness was dead. Now he was stumbling and falling and trying to pick up the shambled pieces along the way. He distinctly recollected the odious day; similar to that of the widely pablumed "Doom's Day." He had placed himself indiscreetly at the edge of the dock to avoid society for a scant hour. He recalls the memory with craving and reluctance... craving because he can't stop feeling guilty and responsible; and reluctance because the foreign emotion of failure is accompied with pain.
The faltering sunlight had sprinkled its brightness across the scintillating surface of the lake; glittering like a million silver diamonds randomly distributed across the vast, violet to black waters. He was reminescing upon the topic of the Triwizard Tournament, in which had taken its toll in the untidily packed recesses of his mind since the death of Cedric Diggory. He had prevailed over the nettling creatures in the onyx to violet liquid the dock was upholding him from during one of the tasks. He had sprouted gills and loathed every moment of it. He had been so gullible; a fool to think that the claret crowned male, Ron, and the honey tressed female, Hermione, were lost to the point of no return without his aid, he muses.
Nonetheless, he was shaken from his intricate memories when a lonely piece of driftwood's aimless floating across the surface of the lake caught his eye. He had been consuming a small piece of chicken he had procured from the kitchens at the time a sound of emergency was vociferated by many behind him. When he turned, he witnessed utter chaos and his stomach turned in a sickened and stricken way. He had thought what had been plaguing his forehead was an awful migraine; hence why he seperated himself from his peers. What a fatuous idea! He clambered to his feet and clandestinely made his way into the castle, erratic adrenaline and angsty indignance surging through his veins. He had fished through the crowd of evacuating students until he had reached Ron and Hermione, who had been looking for him and were appropriately very worried when they couldn't locate him. Things were moving too quickly for chastisement of his whereabouts. Other things were more important. For example: their lives.
From there, he witnessed his comrades fall and land in a motionless heap. He witnessed Peter Pettigrew give his life up in a successful attempt to save him. He witnessed any euphoria in himself burn and rot. He barely ate anything for the ensuing months following the widely gossiped, infamous crisis. Everything tasted like chicken. He would go to wash his hands and completely forget where he was at what he was doing. He would not be reminded of the task literally at hand until the sink had filled with water and was overflowing onto him. He would wear his shoes on the wrong feet. He accidently and dangerously began running into and tripping over things, like the doorframe or a clearly avoidable table. He frequently lost objects he had or anyone gave him, and seemed to have an impairment on his memory. He got insufficient sleep. He would stare blankly at things for half an hour and would enter comatose, daze-like states. He still exhibits the symptoms that occured immediately after the Demise commonly, and seems to have fallen into a bottomless, black abyss.
As the ship docks and gives a slight jerk in predecent reaction to the opposingly flowing current, he is jolted violently from his bittersweet reverie and into cruel reality. How he hates gravity. He funnels a pale hand through contrastingly ebony, touseled hair, and his lungs gradually disperse an elongated, great amount of air. Broadened shoulders slump forward a bit as he leans on the railing of the ship, a pensieve look in his beacon-like, strikingly empty green oculars. His ruminating stare fixes unblinkingly on the steel blue tide that laps lazily against the idling boat's solid side in an equable rhythm. Nostalgia, do they call it? This surely was the alien emotion that was indominably overwhelming the Boy Who Lived. He never, prior to the closing of Hogwarts' doors, had anything to feel homesick for. The Dursleys' was a far from missed location from the flummoxed, now witheringly tempered male. It was more like a jail that he was cramped in, deprived unjustly of any link to anything involving diablerie, for two and a half torturous months. While other students were gallavanting about and having a jubilant summer rendezvous, he was banging his scarred forehead against a wall and wishing away the fabulously horrible summer "holiday." His pale pink mouth twists upward at one side while a bland "hmph" is voiced at the neglect the Durlsey's so willingly breathe life into.
As a figure is barely espied out of the corner of a vibrantly emerald toned eye, he snaps to attention. He has been in defensive survival mode the length of the wearying journey to Skiztoln. He recognizes the figure as the quiet, fair skinned, youthen female that had been a former first year at Hogwarts. He regards her with a cordial half-smile, knowing well the surreal shock that surely engulfed her as a result of the untimely and tricely occuring Demise. She had been a newly sorted Gryffindor. He smiles with bitter irony at the ocean as his unreadable gaze returns to it.
Everytime he is shaken from his perplexed reflections, he always seems to inevitably tangent back to them. Gryffindor. Chivalry. Courage. How did he ever get sorted there?, queries his frankly turbid and disheveled mind. He contemplates all the euphoric, disheartening, and the "in between" memories that happened in the vermilion and gilded Gryffindor Common Room. The Quidditch victories. The one loss, chimes a dark spiderweb soiled recess of his incessantly cerebrating mind. His ego still hadn't made a full recooperation after the loss. The moments to himself in front of the softly crackling fireplace; magicked so the scintillas in the burning embers could not escape the hearth. The silently and fiercely competitive games (frequently prolonged ones) of Wizarding Chess he played with Ron, and the boyish bickering over how one or the cheated that came along with it. The excessively tense night that Sirius Black recklessly gained entrance to their Common Room because of Neville's (he remembers the name with remorse) irresponsibility. The fateful evening after the Yule Ball where he ingressed to find Ron and Hermione engaged in their worst bout of words yet. That night is the one that he had begun to develop a fondness for Hermione that stretched far beyond the reaches of friendship. Since, he concluded, he loves Ron and Hermione equally, but in starkly different ways. This is not to say that he doesn't value Hermione's friendship, though; of course not!, his mind assures. Love looks not only with eyes, but with the heart as well, he supposes. On the subject of the Gryffindor Common Room and Hermione, Christmas Eve surfaces and capering mischief gambols within the masculine adolescent's jade optics. A slightly arrogant, but oddly still modest grin that he has no control over parts his supple lambrums. An inch of time is an inch of gold; but you can't buy that inch of time with an inch of gold.
He adjusts the sliding strap on his malaisely positioned, stuffed to the brim shoulder bag, hoisting it nearer towards the nape of neck. Squaring virile shoulders to vibe mien of self assurance, his compact and tapering form musters the energy to escape the potent lethargy that had encompassed him. He deturbs (at least temporarily) the negative deemings that have reeked havoc over his spirit for the past months, and strides with faltering confidence to the stairs that guide one to the solid ground. On to greener pastures.
After an inwardly emotional descent down the stairs which shows not on his sobered and sedate, ruggedly good looking visage, he comes to a halt and sighs haggardly. Coal black, thick eyelashes veil verdigris eyes as he stares at his cross trainers, the lengthy lashes casting shadows across his pallid face. Despite hereditarily being of a porcelain complexion that contrasts blatantly with the shocks of fine, swarthy russet hair sprouting from his head unrulily, his emotionless countenance displays splotches of rose from the chilly air. A frigid breeze off the unpredictable sea whips his naturally aberrant, cobalt tresses into an even more mussed state. Apprehensively, his peridot flecked, arresting orbs skip through the familiar faces emerging from the ship, particularly searching for the two most familiar of them all. A certain, incisive feeling that one cannot label with a one particular word overwhelms him as he stands there... stands there feeling like he's standing still and everyone else is sprinting past. He insecurely shifts, quixotically wishing to bury the complication of his life in an unmarked grave. He seeks solace, if only to respite him for a suspend him in midair from the black hole he fell into a meager number of months ago. He's gotten through tough times before. He can do it again. Right?
[OOC: Excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I'm in a hurry. A book character - a student, to be precise... must reply to this message. No Skiztoln students yet. Read the News section (updated 3/7/02) if you haven't already.]
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-When I Cry, So Too Does the Blackbird- -- Ron Weasley, 17:39:01 03/08/02 Fri
-There was something missing. Something important, something that teased him by resting on the tip of his tongue. Or was it...was it a someone? Did it even matter? Yes, it did matter. He remembered that much at least. Who was he missing?-
-A stiff lock of crimson hair stood straight upon his crown as youth gazed towards the horizon. Not towards his new place of occupancy, but back to Hogwarts, to the place far beyond sight that was his home-
-Home. It had something to do with home. Wait, not quite. Home, yes, but it wasn't home anymore. Why not? He could still see it, standing proud upon its rock spire. Why was he here and not there?-
-The sudden lurch of the barge alerted of its halt and the tall young man stooped to haul his duffel bag from its position. A single duffel bag, that was it. All that was left of his belongings-
-Why so little? He could picture the trunk sitting at the foot of his bed, picture everything in it. All of it was far too much to fit in the single bag. Where had it all gone?-
-Light footsteps echo to eternity as he disembarks the ship, the last to do so. Cedar eyes look straight ahead, never wavering, never faltering, but neither are they alive. A boy lost in forgotten memories-
-There was something wrong. Nothing added up, why he was here, why his possessions were so few, why everyone was so quiet-
-There, before the detached youth, sat Skitzoln in all its glory. Almost familiar in its granduer, mystique, allure. But different. Always different-
-The walls. The walls! They were closing in all around him. No? No. They were still. But they were close, so close. Why were they so close? Oh. That made sense. A coffin. So he was dead. But if he was dead, why was he having such a hard time breathing...-
-Ron looked at the castle of Skitzoln and began to cry-
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This is me pretending this is all I need -- Draco Malfoy, 01:36:43 03/09/02 Sat
//Are the sins getting staler
Does every moment move past you
Or does it feel like forever
And shouldn't you be laughing too\\
Somewhere amongst the swarthy shadows and audible creaks of the steadfast sea vessel, a figure sat in a bedecked cabin below the ship's oaken boardings, slender legs curled up tightly against his rising-falling torso, as if to let go would mean the world would slip away. As if it hadn't already. Yes, he sat unmoving in this position for seemingly hours, cerulescent optics glassy in their unreadable depths, as they retraced with fine acuteness the patterns of the walls around him, his otherwise seething mind making mental images as to what these things looked like, and he found that one, ironically, looked like a smiley face. It annoyed him, and by means of response, his first movement in hours, a leg untucked itself before he could register it, coming forth with a sudden, palpable force, and kicking the very spot in which the 'smiley face' resided. A stupid, futile move, yes, but not a soul had to witness it, not a soul had to know that one, Draco Malfoy, felt the certain backlash of the malicious intent that fate had decided to lay upon the youths.
Nothing should be happy. Not even the wood.
//Take a look how they found you
Take a look what they've done to you now
What was it they wanted
Sullen and haunted
If only you saw it coming\\
The hole of a chamber in this mass of floating nothingness had become similar to a place of sanctuary, only leaving when neccessary, and only to return and live in the same state of rage bordering detachment that he was in at this very moment, platinum cranium bowing itself now, as if in rememberance of what was, what could have been, and what shall never be. It was facing reality, which was a step in the direction of healing, as any would say, but he was facing it with the beginnings of an all-consuming bitterness, and one who had not known him before would dash the grasps of the entirity of the turmoil within. Just beneath his skin, he was screaming, the cries echoing in his head with a shattering force, ice breaking from a blow. They would not be satiated.
It was, also, a sadistic way to bring realisation on just how horribly he'd lead his life, just how wrong his future was going to be, and no less encouraged by the man that he now suffered over, the deceased spectre that was him aged. Now decaying, he presumed, in some forgotten tomb, bones cold and hollowed, body tissueless, and all forms of the charismatic being drained from the hollow husk that houses life. If there was an afterlife, a Heaven that so many coveted, he held no hopes on meeting Lucius there, aside from the fact that the man most definitely didn't deserve such a rumouredly prosperous place; more over, he himself didn't deserve it, a fact that stood out more prominently in his mind as he had the time to mull over his every flaw, every barb sunk into another.
Still, he felt no self-disgust, if that would be what one's thoughts of his emotions. He felt a longing of regrets, though, the sort that tugged on one's mental framework and dragged the person down with it, if the victim was weak. A Malfoy wasn't weak. A Malfoy was brooding, calculating, but alive still, as was now apparent. All the ice castles of vainity and fortune couldn't keep this particular situation from melting them, however minutely that breach may've been, enough to be felt. And adhered.
There were no signs of a mental civil war, of rebelling thoughts in his physical appearance, because only someone so deeply enamoured in sympathy would leave themselves that blatantly open. Alabaster flesh was as preened as ever, elevated cheeks and velvety skin stretching over them, coinsiding harmoniously with the rest of his pointed visage; metallic-white locks framing the face of angelicity, stormy, bright blue eyes peering back with a certain disdain that was programmed to be there. Yes, by everyone's unknowing standards, he was heartless. The same as he had been before. But no one could see the landscapeless fury within, so he embraced all generalisations and tossed them aside there after. But it was not fine.
//How far down would you fall
If you never came up again
'Cause you're so sick of it all
And you want to change everything
Just how deep will you go
To see through it all\\
Oh, he recalled the news arriving home plain as day. But it was as ethereal as a novel, something one merely sees in a omniscent range of perception, not a tragedy cast upon such a family's life. What an outrage, for fate to bestow death's wings upon an otherwise pristine setting, and cast it into undiscernible splotches and shades of grey! Because, really, it all became clear-cut; you were born to die, to break down and wither away, your remains to return to the dirt. To be forgotten. As immortal as they hoped they were, it seemed that not even England's most prestigious bloodline could hold out on the beckoning forces of it all, weakened and trivial in the grand scheme of the world's wants.
//If you could consume her
Would you say you were finding your way out?
Is anything coming clearer
Smashing your mirror?
Still you can see you're guilty\\
It all hit the blond boy, like a mass of bricks to the chest, drawing him of breath, when it came. It was abrupt and painless at first, and it seemed no different. Lucius was often times gone from home on 'business,' the very same business that landed himself in death's clutches, and it was easy to simply leave oneself in the state of mind that the Malfoy patriarch would return, with a rare smile that striked his face in the presence of his family, and all would be complete, their circle of uncomprehendable fondness of each other.
And those dreams were broken the day of the funeral.
The normally azure hue of the sky had gone into an inept hibernation that day, saturated droplets of liquid free-falling from the looming, grim clouds overhead, as if they, too, mourned the loss of such an elite person; as if the Gods, as cruel as they proved, were showing some sort of belated sympathy for their actions. It suited the occasion, for no one smiled, even if it was a small throng gathered there.
The thing that stood out the most in the former Slytherin's mind, however, was that no one cried either. Hadn't even thought of it. They didn't know how, had no use for tears. Not even as minister said words of prayer, finality, and the usual clichés that are set to offer condolences. Not even as the casket made its painstakingly slow descent into the caverned hole of the earth. Not even as it touched the bottom of the chasm with...
With an audible sound. Out of his reverie, unfocused optics blinked owlish. Had the ship docked? Had they crashed, meeting the same fate of those before them? There'd be only one way to be sure, and thus, causing him to rouse finally, the slender form set into a fronting graceful motion, carefully practised, almost, as if liquid over rocks, adorning simple, sable slacks, and a snowy-dress shirt. It was time to face whatever this situation offered, and put his best face forward; bitterness, in the upholding of all he'd lost.
//Coming closer my composure turning
inside out in her
Calling home all alone
You can call I won't answer
Any question in my head
Remains until you feel the same
Never telling how I felt is all I ever cared about\\
((OOC: I recently woke up, so I probably slaughtered my own post. heh Anyhow, I left it sort of open-ended instead of doing the whole, 'stepping onto the land of America' thing, since that's going to be done to death. Besides, my eyes hurt. x.x))
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drowning from within.. -- ginny weasley, 10:17:47 03/09/02 Sat
Auburn tresses are pushed away from the pale, tear streaked cheeks of the youthful female who is gradually being shoved into the most important stage of metamorphosis. Change. How she hates the word that spins webs of misery within the abyss of her scarred mentality. Her eyes don't seem to be looking at anyone, just passed them all, as though they are all transparent...as though this is a mere dream that she is forced to haunt. How wonderful it'd be if it were just a bad dream, something that could be deleted from recollection the moment that she awoke. However, it is all real...and one truth stands out in the midst of the rest of memories. Fred is gone for eternity, and he left without her being able to tell him that she did love him. In fact, her last words to him were 'I HATE YOU FRED WEASLEY!' The memory brings fresh tears stinging at the back of her eyeballs, the eyes that itch like crazy because of all of the saltine liquid that she has lost for the ones that no longer exist on earth. An uncontrollable trembling that runs up and down her spine with a ruthless nature harasses her figure, made feeble from lack of food. The soundless tears continue their path down her colorless skin, uninterrupted by her digits; in fact they go entirely unnoticed by the defeated female. With a rickety sigh she gradually meanders the boat's length, traveling to the exit at the back of the line, as though she wishes to escape from identification, but it is actually due to the fact that her lower limbs just don't want to move. The sensation of her stomach lurching, not unfamiliar occurs, but she manages to keep the bile down. A gentle whimper escapes, her appearance now an unhealthy, milky glow because of the nauseous feeling that lingers ruthlessly, as if her very own body is preparing to betray her. She seems to be 'human' enough to mentally curse the boat and the desolate sea, promising that she'll never look at the livid waves the same way again…not after that dreadful expedition from wreckage to the petrifying unknown. She does her best to stay away from everybody, but her gaze wanders the docking area as if she searches for a nonexistent soul. She suddenly notices that the melancholy creatures that seem to drift about in a daze assault her personal space unintentionally. Why can’t they watch where they’re going?' She asks herself in irritation, experiencing the recurring resentment that she has traveled around with ever since that hideous, terrorizing night. Her eyes slither toward the castle in a frightened method, as though timid to the reality that any resemblance shall bring memories swarming her, and they do, only with a severity that she didn’t expect. Caught by surprise, she staggers backward, colliding inelegantly with another student. She doesn't bother with apologies, aware that she is much too lost within herself to vocalize anything but moans and whimpers. She backs away from the castle as though it is contaminated with a lethal malady, almost not willing to enter what shall become her new home.
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-Memory is a Fickle Friend- -- Ron Weasley, 16:08:05 03/16/02 Sat
color=red>
-As rapidly as he breaks down, the pallid youth recovers, hastily rubbing tear streaks from his sunburned face with a forearm. Dampness now vanished without a trace, cedar optics peer up at the building with no small amount of trepidation. Only a moment does he do so before glancing away, for it the sun rested behind the castle and could not be looked at for long. Gaze falling on the obsidian tousled male nearby, spindly male moves towards him-
"Let me out! Let me out! I'm not dead, I don't want to be dead! LET ME OUT!"
-With a slight hesitation, the boy speaks to his companion, voice soft-
This is it?
-He looks not at the structure splayed out before him, but instead at the soft loam surrounding the castle. Looked remarkably like cemetary dirt-
"God, no, don't do this to me! Please! I don't want to die, I'm not dead! Let me out!"
-Shuddering slightly, the youth forcibly ripped his gaze from the ever enveloping ground-
"Please, let me out..."
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Friend or fiend?... -- Harry Potter, 16:45:32 03/16/02 Sat
Contempt of the satiric irony that life is chiefly comprised of flickers in the hardened, emerald eyes of the compact figure. Nearly five years ago, around the anniversary of this very day, did he discover the truth. It was utmostly surreal. Had he not been so innocent, he would have been more cynical of the motive of the gargantuan, blundering giant that had arrived to bring him into a world where everything was the inverse of the one he had been in. He had been so eager to escape the ten years of undiluted anguish that he had spent, trapped in that God forsaken and less than humble abode, that he had been gullible enough to go. What if he had refused to venture off into the unknown with a stranger? Could he have? Would it have mattered if he had protested? He frequently pondered what his life would be life if, perhaps, by chance, he had refused to venture off with Hagrid. He recalls the blustering, pure man with a sense of remorseful respect. A melancholy feeling washes over him and a familiar voice shakes him from the angsty deemings infiltrating his mind without end.
A disdainful sort of "hmph" is emitted in a low undertone to the crimson crowned confidant in reply. A distinctly flummoxed look briefly comes to his usually unreadable, verdant optics as he glances surily at the male that he has developed and enduring companionship with. "Look on the bright side. We're alive." The tousel haired boy is inwardly shocked by a sudden sense of merciful pity and guilt for his ruby apexed crony. Shouldn't have mentioned life in front of him; he's going to dwell on Fred's death now, admonishes his fervently attentive mind. A certain sort of dreadful apprehension creeps into his system as the reality of everything dawns on him; as if someone exposing another human to a blindingly ardent sphere of light when they have been living in the dark for years. The dawning of reality is now redundant to the irritably tempered Boy Who Lived. He finds it nearly unfair that he somehow manages to perpetuate his exsistance and yet, so many others unjustly do not... and he is confident, in hsi pessimist, masochist way, that it is because of him. And truth be told... it partially is.
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-Only When You Look For It Does the Truth Surface- -- Ron Weasley, 19:52:06 03/16/02 Sat
-A faint frown graces his lips as he gazes broodingly at the castle-
"Oh God, he's alive! Thank God, he's alive!"
-Unconsciously, a gaunt hand rises to brush the youth's chest-
I am alive, right Harry?
-He panicked as his mother embraced him, pulling free with a sharp yell. Staring with wide eyes at her astonished face and feeling a surge of guilt, he looked away. For some reason, it had felt too much like the arms of Death surrounding him-
-Despite the warm weather, the boy shivered-
Fred and George probably will take all our minds off things.
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It seems even the truth is mendacious. -- Harry Potter, 20:44:21 03/16/02 Sat
The maelstrom that had been encroaching upon his swimming mind fully ascends as he follows his thin familiar's cedar colored gaze towards the castle. The moment seems very unreal, and as cliched as it is, the tousel haired boy feels as if this is one prolonged, loathed nightmare that they will all soon awaken from. Reality tells him that this quixotic fantasy of his, that it is all just a thing his mind conceived in his sleep, holds as much truth as a blackened lie does.
A painful pang of irresolute sympathy for his vermilion topped cohort multiples within him as he queries so listlessly. His pate inclines towards his chest and pale digits trail through mussed, ebony locks as he responds. "Yes, Ron. You're alive. Thankfully." He surpresses the tremendously overwhelming itch to exhale because he knows things can never be the same. Instead of being disheartening, he does the opposite by offering the freckled friend a weakened smile.
He sincerely wishes there was something he could do to ease the ache of denial inside the friend that has managed to put up with all of his quirks for nearly five years now. He silently swallows a lump in his throat, in debate of awakening the logical side of his grieving friend and merely going along with the idea of Fred being extant as not to upset him. An undilutedly sad, dreary sort of look onsets upon his visage of pallor, and he murmurs, barely audibly. "Ron... they're upset as we are about all of this." What pain it brings him to pronounce the words. Fred is gone, and Harry knows this fact well, yet Ron's kinship inspired love for his brother prevents him from believing the obvious. The things a human being can do to another human being never cease to amaze the Boy Who Lived.
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-Denial Isn't Just a River in Egypt- -- Ron Weasley, 21:15:45 03/16/02 Sat
-The youth looked sharply at his friend, biting his lip. There was something about that statement-
-He could remember a little bit now. It was about the twins. Or one of the twins-
No, only one of them is sad, Harry. The other one isn't sad. 's funny, though. I can't remember which one is sad.
-Why couldn't he remember? It was important. But it evaded him as badly as the memories of the Demise did-
-The male knew something was wrong. Too many things didn't add up. Why he felt so weak. How he'd gotten in the coffin. Who was missing. Why no one would talk about what happened. Too bad he couldn't remember anything-
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Part of the cure is wanting to be cured -- Harry Potter, 09:13:20 03/17/02 Sun
His conscience cannot conclude if he should tell the denying boy the truth or, perhaps be kinder, and play along. Playing along with a sick game. The wiry boy's peridot flecked, brilliantly green oculus meet the confused red head's trivial peer with an element of gloom. "George is sad, Ron. It's just George now." His chin inclines toward his upper torso in a disconcerted, guilty fashion. His sable eyebrows arch slightly then furrow in a thoughtful manner, and his next query has a soft inflection to it. "Ron... do you remember anything?" This is not inquired insultively, but with indiscernable undertones of sympathy and need to know if perhaps he should enlighten the carrot topped chum as to their unfortunate situation.
He scans the crowds disembarking the ship absently with hardened, cold eyes, a certain bitterness redoubling inside of him like a cancer. His sober stare befalls a blanched female with rich, auburn hair, Ginny, and again, that incisive stab of guilt twinges inside of him. Suddenly, he feels indescribably indignant about life being so intricate and complicated... not just for him, but for others he holds close to him. He sheds a low, quiet exhalation, managing to catch the bleak female's hazel optics long enough to offer her a pacifying smile. It serves as an invitation for her to join them as well, as they soon will be shakily ingressing the novel castle for the sorting ceremony. In the time between, his morose gaze returns to his long time comrade's.
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-What Is Lost Should Always Be Returned- -- Ron Weasley, 16:15:08 03/18/02 Mon
-Regarding downcast companion with solemn gaze, the youth observes the seriousness with which Harry brings up the matter-
Harry, all I can remember is a flash of green light. That's it.
-The light! It was burning, burning past his eyes, into his mind, his heart, his soul. It hurt like nothing else, like someone had just ripped into his chest and pulled out his heart. Good God, it hurt...-
-A cold shake of pate sends curls whisking from side to side vigourously as the memory recedes. Ceasing his movement, the boy stares with something close to fury at the other male, as if he was the one who had performed the curse-
Tell me. Tell me what happened. To me, at least, if nothing else. And tell me why George is sad.
-George was crying. Why was George crying? He'd never seen George cry, not in all his life. But here he was, a smile on his face, but tears on his cheeks and death in his eyes-
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pinch me...pinch me...'cuz i'm still asleep... -- ginny weasley, 19:34:48 03/19/02 Tue
silence...how appalling it has become. eyes of hazel overflowing with the fury of a embittered heart stare impassively into that of the 'wonder boy's' own immeasurable pits. at first, astonishment is unveiled for his detection, as though she has never encountered such an 'honor' before. however, all passion is thrown aside as though what she's feeling shouldn't matter to anyone, let alone herself. the summons, although infuriating her heart for inexpressible basis, is received and limbs of the she become mobile, moving her toward the familiar beings as though she's searching for a rescue boat amidst the storm. she remains quiet when she determines that she is close enough for her own personal space, newly developed, to be asserted. a passing gesture of greeting is given in place for a hollow 'hello'. what did words indicate anyway? her gaze scrutinizes the facial appearance of her sibling in a concise, inquiring moment, but she finds her eyes sliding to the ground as though not even he is worth her examination…or maybe it's the other way around. at any rate, the youth glances up again to briefly glance at them both before staring apprehensively at the castle before them.
somebody save me…i don't care how you do it just save me.
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Words fail -- Harry Potter, 21:04:01 03/19/02 Tue
The fatigued boy is appropriately mildly disheveled by the eerie wrath in the familiar's cedar colored eyes as he shifts his gaze to his own. He too had seen the startlingly bright, lime green light, brought to life by the same wizard, and put into exsistence by the same wand. No matter how rigorously he strained the preciprices of his sometimes ghastly memory, he could never recall it. At least he had no trauma of the pain that accompied the fateful efflux of emerald color, peculiarly, nearly the same shade of his unreadable eyes. At least he didn't have time to form a bond with those who conceived him so that he would feel the indescribable anguish that would surely descend upon him like knives dug and twisted into one's heart. At least his misery was numb. Or at least, that was how it remembered it now. This was how his experiences with the one who murdered his parents differed from Ron's. They weren't entirely intact like the red head's were. Was it ever painful, or did he just grow immune to it after five years? It was a confusing and most tiring topic to digilently dwell upon. Sometimes, if he tried to conjure the image the pair that gave him life, he could remember snippets of their appearances. It was all very unclear and very namby pamby. Like everything was now. In his recent contemplations, he had shamefully blamed himself for the attacks on Hogwarts. Truth be told, they were definitely induced by his presence at the school. Many of his peers discerned this fact as well, and had been wittingly avoiding him. He carries the burden of the immense guilt of being the root of why so many lost their lives upon his weakening shoulders and they never fail to send tempestuous waves of guilty pain through every withering empathy inside of him.
Needless to say that after his mind tangented in such a way, it is a minute or so later after his musings commenced that he replies. He mulls quietly over applicable words for the situation, not bothering to sugarcoat everything when it ensues verbally. He seems strangely emotionless anymore as he begins; as if a dementor had just administered its wretched kiss. What had happened in the three minutes since he had been considerate and caring, and now was bitter and indignant about everything? Such a dramatic change in a such a short timespan. Nonetheless, he monotonously speaks, as if he does not want to evoke emotions within his companion and cause him further emotional hemorrage. "Hogwarts shut down because Voldemort lead a carefully plotted raid from the inside on it. A lot of people died. Voldemort hit you with the Killing Curse. It didn't fully hit you, though. Or else you'd be dead. It brushed by you, just hitting you by a millimeter, they said. They also said that if it had hit you any closer, you'd be dead. Fred died, Ron. He's not here anymore, Ron." He pauses and continues with bitter amusement as the thought of Dumbledore dawns on him. "And, oh yeah. Dumbledore's a turncoat. Or was, might I say. Voldemort killed him too." If he's going to be blunt, why not be crystal clear? The words forming on the tip of his tongue are "Fred's six feet under," but his conscience, which seems to be gradually melting into one angel with devil horns supporting its halo, manages to make him refrain from saying such a cruel thing. Fred was his friend as well as Ron's brother, and he felt the same sort of dreary rue that he did, but perhaps not to the degree the other felt it. Ron wasn't ready to face the realization of losing someone. No one is, and they recognize that fact the minute the person slips away, and no matter how prepared they had assured themselves they would be, when the time came, they saw they weren't. Everyone knows how they might have been saved once the ship has already sank.
Beacon-like, gelid optics sweep over the approaching female's wanly complected and comely face as she gains way towards them. He allows the awkward silence between the trio to exsist for a few malaise moments before the mournful atmosphere corrodes a nerve. He ogles the castle in cleverly disguised exhaustion and somewhat apparent reluctance, his mind reeling with memoirs locked inside of him. The reverie suffocates as his overactive imagination aberrantly contrives ways that someone could make shambles of the already devestated ruins of the students. That someone is a figure that been the presiding haunt of his dreams for years. Sometimes he wants to end it all. It would surely put his friends at less of a risk, as the master of all things dark would have no further inclination to slaughter them all like he seems hell-bent on doing now. Or at least it is perceived to Harry's complicated mind which overanalyzes every second he exsists that way. His stare is surprisingly empty and unmotivated as it returns first to the ruby tressed female, and then her matching brother. A compassion for wanting to comfort them pangs somewhere in his beclouded mind, and the obscure stare of the Boy Who Lived avoids them unsurely. "Well. This is it. May as well move on; there's nothing left to go back to." And nothing to go forward to, either.
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«..Lost Feelings..» -- Cho Chang, 10:06:48 03/20/02 Wed
The whole period of hours that it took to obtain docked at Skiztoln, chinese-descended teen female had ebbed far below the decks. Trails of saltine tears declining down olive-toned cheeks as memories of Hogwarts flood her melancholy-filled thoughts. No more Cedric, no more Hogwarts, no more life. She was ripped away and dragged here by fate, or maybe that was only what she thought.. Female heard the hull of the craft hit the shore, men anchoring the ship. Dark-shaded eyes gaze resentfully around the "room" before unsure steps proceed out and onto the decks.
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Broken soldier, hear my words. -- Seamus Finnigan, 14:57:27 03/20/02 Wed
I lived through it.
I was there, I; Seamus. Me.
And to think, one such as myself could be saved from such a demise.. how I could have survived? Me?
Transparent saline trails down cheeks, singing the already hot face.
Seamus had been sitting on the decks, dazed and lost in his own mind. When the shit stopped, someone kicked him back into reality with a steel-toe shoe. Male stands, slender appendages raised above his head.
"Wonderous... errr?"
Idle he stood, peering around blankly. Yes, Seamus.. back into his memories he dove; memories of the sorting hat, the lake; oh, all the wonderful things.. at Hogwarts.
Memories flooding back all at once causes male to wobble, scuffed sneakers shuffling blankly.
Oh, I lived.
But was it worth it?
Expression blank he peers into nothingness.
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(shit=ship.. oops x_x) -- ., 14:58:59 03/20/02 Wed
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read. -- Haley, 17:16:11 03/23/02 Sat
Alright. The game's dying so we're going to put them all in the Gatherplace now. Nonbook characters are permitted to post in reply to my post on the Gatherplace. They're congregated there to see the book charactes being sorted into their houses. The characters took a test [not literally, but.. just deal with me and pretend] which was evaluated to see which house they went into. Results are on the Gatherplace.
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