Sic semper tyrannis
It is the morning of 26th December 1968 and the scandal breaks like a storm: Minister Nobby Leach has been poisoned. The suspect, Abraxas Malfoy, sits in a holding cell, red-handed and innocent. Auror Alice Longbottom is leading the investigation - not into the poisoning, but into a string of strange crimes: people vanishing, candlesticks stolen, and rumours that the dead are coming back. The Department of Mysteries is reluctant to help: James Selwyn left the office three weeks ago under a cloud of suspicion, and since then the Death Chamber has been locked, its contents sealed away.
Eyes are watching everything, everywhere, spying on protests and squishing riots, but talk is growing in the shadows: turning from unrest to rebellion to revolution.
Lord Voldemort is ready.
the sequel to Imperium
and she stumbled earlier but you fall now
Millennials Are Ruining Their Own Lives By Overthinking
"And how would you like your quarter-life crisis, Monsieur? With a side of frites or salade?"
(sequel to six segments of a satsuma.)
What's your poison, then, sir?
Even gods sin.
The sun rises and it smiles cold.
(It is the last day of summer.)
astronomical twilight (def.): the last stage of dusk before night
- palm-against-palm and wood between, elm and silver lime and Veela hair and dragon heartstring and there is no difference, nothing at all between us -
boys don't cry.
(or, Tom Riddle Sr., in the aftermath of enchantment)
Cœur du lion - mon cœur - mon frère, je suis noyé.
The line between the living and the dead is stretched thin, fragile and breakable like glass; there are ghosts in the stars, ghosts in his head, and everything fades with the dawn.
They say Regulus is dead. They say Lord Voldemort is fled, a wraith wrapped in smoke.
They say, they say - but what do normal people know?
Men become accustomed to poison by degrees - Victor Hugo
It is October 1949: Lycus Malfoy is dying, quarantined in his house alone but for his wife, Adelaide, who still hopes there is a miracle cure; Eileen Prince has vanished into a Muggle life, washing the dead and arranging flowers, away from the sneers she endured at school; Cygnus and Orion Black are at war with each other even as they bury their secrets six feet deep.
There is a murderer on the loose, shrouded in paranoia, and the old structures, things of blood and age and time, are starting to crumble.
And a ship arrives from Lübeck bringing Tom Riddle home.
|| Nargles 2020 Winner: Best Worldbuilding; Nargles 2018 Winner: Best Description ||
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When one door shuts - oh, but there is always another possibility, always another future; another hundred, another thousand, and it is maddening to know fragments of them all but never enough, never enough to be more than a sickly, sweaty, sleepless mess.
I blink, and -
(Gellert Grindelwald is expelled.)
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They say Cygnus Black is dying. They say he cannot go home.
Lord Voldemort hovers somewhere between revenge and mercy.
It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.
In 1924, Albus buys a dreamcatcher in San Francisco and is reminded that melancholy, for him, is a mistake.
Sunshine on white-blond hair,
Banks of tall, pointed pine,
A long walk once,
And your hand in mine.
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Wings arc from your body as you begin to soar, rising and curving towards the sun as it filters down towards you through the ink-blue sky.
Water fills your lungs in a steady drip, drip, drip, and you are drowning instead.
|| FROGS 2017 Winner: Best Description ||
Antebellum (adj.): occuring or existing before a war.
August 1945 - October 1949
The world is in flux; history is not yet past and the future is not yet here.
Tom Riddle is patient.
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Advent is a time for hoping, for waiting, for believing; a time when gods descend to the earth, and the celestial is made temporal.
A shame then, that Grantaire believed in nothing but Enjolras.
Or, Grantaire lit four red candles, one each Sunday of Advent; each time, he was visited by a god: a god who performed miracles.
For the Holiday and Diversity Challenge.
March 16th, 1980: Remus Lupin is waiting for the full moon, alone in the mountains of the Lake District.
(He's not dreaming of Sirius, or of martyrdom, and the anger's just the wolf clawing at him, impatient to be out.)
Men were never meant to be gods.
Before the Peverell brothers were immortal, they were dead. Before they were dead, they were dying, bit by bit by bit.
In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.
- Dante Alighieri
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In death we are reborn anew; though the death doesn't have to be ours.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted
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History is written by the victors, to their specifications. Not all of history fits within them.
These are those parts which do not.
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Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.
- Homer, The Iliad
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He and I, we were infinitesimal.
For Connor & Tanya
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She watches him grow, her son - far more her son than either of the others - until she is no longer sure she knows him.
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His blood burns in the night, crackling with power and he dreams of it turning gold, of two crowns on his head, and a throne of onyx.
In the end, blood only runs red and crowns melt in the glare of the sun.
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