vincentmasters:

“I never thought of it that way,” he admitted softly. Scratching his nose as best he could under the circumstances, he thought about turning his head in a different direction but then reconsidered. There was no point to it, really. Nothing to distract himself with, nothing to call Anita’s attention to. But it might be polite to turn in her direction. Talking statues were sentient, and therefore she had feelings that he might just have hurt, so he didn’t want to injure them further.

Smiling apologetically, he did end up turning his head in the direction that her voice had come from. “Look, I can tell what you’re doing. My mom talks to me like that sometimes. You’re uncomfortable, and believe me when I say I know how that feeling can effect the tone of someone’s voice.” After the smallest of pauses, his own voice changed to one filled with bright energy. “Anita, forget what I said, alright? I’m not too eager to play Marco Polo anyways!” He patted the long thing that was still pressing against his back. It must be the statue’s leg. Blanching slightly at the memory of his hand rubbing circles on it, he hastily removed his arm from the entire vicinity and placed his arm on his lap.

If he took a second to think, he was suddenly struck by an odd feeling: he was the one who didn’t need the hospital bed. Vincent had not been in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing once, ONCE, since he first began attending the school. It was ironic that he wasn’t even being given the chance to examine his surroundings. He had been so meticulous with his course work, taking exceptional care with every single detail, that there had never been a reason. Never one to spill Potions, never one to cause an explosion by saying a spell wrong…he had even done extra research in his Potions textbooks about curing colds, flu, stomach bugs; you name it, he’d used it to keep himself out of this very room.

 Now here he was, sitting on one of the beds instead of lying on it. A shudder ran up his spine at the hundreds of memories of lethargy inflicted on him by the St. Mungo’s Healer’s experiments. He had become good friends with several of the Healers, which should rankle his feathers more than it did, but that didn’t mean the effects of each “possibility” could not make him feel sick even to this day. He had sometimes fought them off with such force that they had had to petrify him and force-feed sedating potions into his snarling mouth. 

“So, Anita, I bet you’re eventually going to start wondering how we’re going to pass the time in here. Because I certainly am. Riddles or word games? Guessing which part of the castle someone is thinking of? You must know the castle like the back of your ha-” Statue whose injured her arm, Vincent! He cut himself off, not wanting to cause offence. “I need to stop saying your name so often. I definitely know your name by this point. Maybe you want to know stuff about me? Obviously I am a stream of consciousness talker, so I’ll probably answer every question in one go.”

Anita’s eyes narrowed at Vincent. It wasn’t out of suspicion, but rather at his bizarre sense of joy and exuberance when both of them were surrounded by burn victims that kept flooding the Hospital Wing. It was simply inappropriate to be so… happy. It didn’t make sense, yet moroseness didn’t help the situation much either. Perhaps the most difficult course of action was to remain serious but not depressedly so unhappy to foster a mood of hopelessness. Yet Vincent here was completely maintaining a sense of accomplishment—was he just happy to be alive?

She couldn’t say she was annoyed, but all that happy bothered her. Yes, she was uncomfortable. The way he talked was in a manner too excited, too overjoyed. But certainly that wasn’t something she felt that was needed to be pointed out—it made her more disgruntled about being in a bed that she was too used to being in. When Anita was once capable of being able to leave the bed, she hadn’t bothered, but she was sorely regretting it now, as she was unable to force her toes to wiggle even more. Anita made no reply to Vincent’s remark, and her silence was probably enough of an answer to agree with his statement. He patted her leg again, but she only knew this by observation.

He continued blathering about, suggesting puzzles and word games, even a question-answer session. Anita wasn’t in the mood at all, nor did she care to know Vincent at the moment. Her idea of passing the time was folding cranes—and there was no paper, and she didn’t quite care to ask for some, and out of courtesy she didn’t quite want to sit and fold quietly like she would in front of someone who was both bored and blind. If Vincent wanted excitement, venturing into the castle in his state seemed like a fun, although not necessarily smart, idea. Anita didn’t say anything about this suggestion, but it would get Vincent doing something else, and Anita peacefully listening to screaming reverberating through the Hospital Wing as patients were quickly operated on.

“I don’t want to play games right now, I don’t really feel like doing any—”

A nurse hurriedly pulled two people in, coughing at Vincent violently as if trying to shoo him away. “Don’t do that, he can’t see,” Anita yelled. “Just let him stay—” But the two people followed the nurse warranted Anita to be quiet. It wasn’t the people themselves, but the expression on their faces. Her father was distraught, her mother mourning, but she wasn’t dead. She wasn’t dead at all, she was perfectly alive. But a sort of feeling of dissatisfying her parents somehow elicited some sort of sadness, and perhaps moreso when her mother had given Vincent a hard shove to embrace Anita.

“What happened to you?” Her mother sobbed softly. “Hogwarts was supposed to be safe, you can’t be like this…” Tears dampened Anita’s shoulder. Anita glanced at her father, staring at her legs, already knowing what had gone wrong. The failure as a father to fix it was too much for Daniel Taylor.

vincentmasters:

Trying to go about this with what little grace he had left, he lightly raised his right arm so that it was perpendicular with the rest of his body, and he slowly swept the air in one circular motion. Waiting for his forearm to hit something, he came up with nothing. Please tell me that I’m not talking to a ghost, he thought nervously. Then he mentally scolded his logic: ghost don’t offer a hand for you to grab a hold of. Right, let’s try again. He changed the angle of his arm, about 35 degrees lower, and swept it around again. Got it! The light bump of forearm to forearm completely dispelled any anxieties that he had about the other being taking offence at his action. His hand sought out the solid object, moving back toward himself until he finally found her hand. It was bigger than he had expected, and he reminded himself that the sound of people’s voices don’t really tell much about their physical appearance. From what his finger tips could tell, her hand was still covered in bandages. Immediately he loosened his grip on it, not wanting to make the injury worse or to intensify the pain that she must have been going through. He did not let go completely however, because she was his only anchor at the moment. Reaching out a second hand, even lower in altitude than the first, he ghosted over the feeling of blankets and sheets. There’s my destination then, he sighed in relief. Two more steps, and he had bumped right into the frame of the bed itself. Grunting, he would have turned beet red from how much his face would have flushed with embarrassment, had the fire not screwed up how his face functioned in the first place. “Anita, you’re a saint,” he mumbled, almost to himself. Letting go of her hand, he sat on the edge of the bed and turned away from her. 

Oh god, he was getting embarrassed even more just by thinking about this whole conversation. She was probably giving him this sympathetic smile that would forgive him of anything, and that just made him want to curl up in a ball under a bed and stay there for the rest of the afternoon. A mouse would have more courage than he did at this point. How had he gone from some brave rescuer in the fire to an ant that was afraid of its own shadow? Maybe his inability to see had reduced him to this. Clearing his throat, he adjusted his posture on the bed so that he was no longer hunched over. Sitting up straight gave the illusion that he still had some semblance of self-confidence left. At least, it made him feel better. Remember what Mom used to say: when you’re crying and you don’t know how to stop, smile even though you don’t feel like it. Your muscles send signals to your brain that you are smiling, and it’ll think that you are happy. He had tried that a few times in the past, and though there was probably no accuracy in that statement it made him feel better. So, by this faulty reasoning, if he sat up straighter he might convince himself that there wasn’t much to be embarrassed about. And then a smile appeared on his face, almost of its own accord. Wait…what was that at his back? It felt…almost like stone. Was he sitting next to a talking statue?! His left hand shot out behind him and latched onto the thing pressing against his side. It wasn’t warm. But it was smooth, and soft. His hand began moving in circles, trying to figure out the texture of this lump of whatever-it-was. The thing was elongated, and not universally one shape but descending in size as his hand moved further left. It also didn’t move at all. A talking statue actually wouldn’t be such a bad thing to meet, he thought amiably. This one’s friendly enough, at least. Statues can have bandages on their arms…maybe it’s stone fingers had broken off during the fire, trapped under something heavy, and had broken off with edges so sharp that the nurse had wrapped it in bandages to prevent people like him from getting cut or scraped. But if it was a statue, then why was it in a bed? 

“Hey Anita, maybe you should get off this bed. You know, so someone else might use it? From what I can tell, someone like you doesn’t need to be lying down. We can find me a chair, and we can sit in another part of the room and get to know each other better. Can I help you up, and then we can move together?”

Anita waved her arm about, trying to catch Vincent’s, but it was almost like two flyswatters trying to shoo away some invisible bug, both of which had missed. Anita’s accuracy was more or less decent—her arm was wrapped in bandage, which was more a surprise for her to realize as the reason why her arm moved so awkwardly.

Damn fire. She hadn’t noticed the burns going through her arms—her legs were too busy hurting for her to notice the whole time anyway. Anita hissed silently when he found her arm—it was definitely him that found her, considering that his hand slapped against her forearm before tentatively moving it toward where her hand was. His movements resumed to its careful manner again, and Anita watched him patiently as he found her bed safely without injuring himself again.

It was a curious thing to watch someone go from an almost bombastic confidence to a sullen sort of self-derision. Anita hadn’t done anything wrong, from what she could tell, and she didn’t call to Vincent again until he regained composure. Her fingers picked at the bandages, but they were wound around tightly enough that Anita couldn’t pry them away to see how badly damaged she was. That, or it was magic, because magic was always the viable explanation for everything in a school full of it. 

Her eyes darted across the Hospital Wing, looking for the curly hair boy again—and there was no sign of him at all, amidst a sort of organized chaos about. All of the nurses knew what they were doing, but the process went by so quickly that it was difficult to keep an eye on just one nurse. The moaning boy on the side couldn’t stop, no matter what the nurses administered. Anita pondered if she were lucky enough to live long enough to be tended to for the pain subside, because she was rather certain that the boy on the bed wouldn’t survive. Even if he did, he wouldn’t quite care to keep living anyway. It would hurt too much to live no matter what in his case, and that was an idea that Anita had encountered before, but only recently applied it to herself. Was it fortunate for Anita that Chase decided not to let her die when she so asked for it?

The answer to that was far off, and although Anita believed that if she had thought about it she’d be able to find the answer like a real Ravenclaw should. However, her logical mind was interrupted by a sudden bump against her leg. She only knew what it was because Vincent was on her bed, but otherwise, Anita seemed well-sedated enough that she wouldn’t have been able to figure out that it was a person against her leg had she been blindfolded. Vincent’s hand traveled up and down her calf, trying to assess what it was—Anita had to look at him to remind herself that he was blind to everything that was going on, and his senses seemed to be failing him.

The question he asked was a rather odd one, considering that Anita had no control of her legs at all; as a matter of fact, Anita was unsure of what to do when it came about to walking off of the bed. In her state, she couldn’t—that was fact. But what if she were un-petrified and un-sedated? He was right about not needing to lie down, considering that there were more serious emergencies to take care of, but wasn’t there nurses to figure that out?

Anita didn’t voice her opinion on this, mostly because she had hoped that she could get herself walking again if someone had helped her up—perhaps to shock herself into trying to balance herself was a good idea, and she really had formed a slight dislike to hospital beds, having spent most of the term in one like she was dead. She was sure that no one would mind her walking for a moment, even if it were to sit someplace else. But considering that Vincent was blind—well, it wasn’t the greatest of ideas to be toying with, and sensibility was the strongest solution in this case.

“All right, I suppose,” Anita answered, mulling over her words. It was difficult to find the right ones—and he had expected that he should be guided to a more convenient location. “I don’t quite understand why you would want to though—you and I seem rather comfortable here, and I don’t think it’s a particularly good idea for someone whose bandages are over his eyes to play Marco Polo for a different spot in a Hospital Wing.”

She paused, still wondering why he didn’t think she should be in a bed; she didn’t want to be in one, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t be in one, if the injuries were sufficient enough. The only glaring problem was that Anita wasn’t sure what was wrong with her to explain anything clearly about what she was doing in a bed in a Hospital Wing, wasting space as such. 

act-anita-taylor:

emilia-kingsley:

So I hope this counts as a post.

No, it doesn’t.

For Emilia, I’d talk to Tori about making a thread to see what Aiden would do with her (if she’s not around in time, create an open in the forest and say Emilia got lost trying to follow Aiden).

For Nathaniel, I’d create/answer an open about what happened after the fire; I’d godmod his and Damian’s safe escape because Bryan won’t come back in time to finish out the thread without it getting too far afterward to do it.

Look! A wild open para appeared!

Options:
REPLY
IGNORE 

emilia-kingsley:

So I hope this counts as a post.

No, it doesn’t.

For Emilia, I’d talk to Tori about making a thread to see what Aiden would do with her (if she’s not around in time, create an open in the forest and say Emilia got lost trying to follow Aiden).

For Nathaniel, I’d create/answer an open about what happened after the fire; I’d godmod his and Damian’s safe escape because Bryan won’t come back in time to finish out the thread without it getting too far afterward to do it.

vincentmasters:

He had been practically shoved into the large room without a guide as to where he was supposed to go. Of all the outcomes that his imagination could have come up with, this certainly hadn’t been one of them.  His cheeks were still flushed from what he could tell, and the drastic change in temperature had little to no effect on the rest of him either. Drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging to his body, he could tell that he wasn’t near the flames any more. Someone had found him, pulled him out of danger. But why would someone do that? He had been helping, if his short-term memory was anything to go by. But if the air in this room was anything to go by, he was no longer involved in his self-proclaimed search and rescue. He couldn’t have fainted. No, definitely not! Vincent Masters does not faint! Yes, you do, he admitted to himself, his pride rapidly deflating and plummeting to earth like someone coming off of a Billywig-sting high.

Taking a steady breath to try to restore some calm, he nearly choked, coughing madly as the air seemed almost too clean. Sounds all around him were muffled, as if there was some padding over his ears. His throat was raw, like the air was some sort of beast clawing at his esophagus on its way down. As his fight for breath eventually subsided, curiosity began to dance along the edges of his mind. Where was he? His vision was completely unreliable. It felt as if he could still see the fire, that the flames were still dancing in front of his eyes, seared into his retinas without hope of ever going back to normal. The room was dark, as devoid of light as the tombs in Egypt that had yet to be illuminated by a torch. Why is is so dark? Turning his head to the right, then to the left, something was definitely different. Something rubbed against his ears as he moved. Steadily, Vincent raised a hand to his face to discover that there was a thick, heavy bandage over his eyes. 

So that’s what it is. He was half-tempted to take the thing off, but brushed that thought aside. They must have put this on him for a reason. His skull wasn’t screaming in agony…so that meant that his eyes were not burned past the point of recovery. Some sensation was beginning to return to his face. A wet trail, running from his eyes down to his chin, signaled that his tear ducts were still functional, trying to get some moisture into an organ that must have desperately needed the water. The smoke must have done this to him. Reaching up to wipe the tear tracks away, the action suddenly triggered his memory.

The hell? His voice had come out as a whisper.

Oh good, you’re awake, a woman had answered. No, keep your eyes closed. I’m wrapping them up now so you don’t do them anymore damage. Since you’re not dying, you can to be put in  the wing to recover while I sort other people out who need immediate assistance.

No wait, where am I? 

No, come on, get up. Good, you can walk. Now, in you go. Try not to hurt yourself.

Right…Hospital Wing. So…was he alone in here? Think, Vincent, think. This was a challenge, to be sure. It’s almost like a game, he realized with a eager smile. Time to focus, then. Concentrating hard, he went through each of his remaining senses one by one, in the order of the least valuable to most valuable. His tongue would tell him the least information, but it was an intriguing puzzle to try to figure out what he needed with as little facts as possible. All he could taste was his own spit,  and it held an annoying smoky aftertaste. His nose relayed equally useless trivia. Next: his feet were on solid, stony ground, and his clothes were still stifling. But there was a warmth spreading on his left side. Sun from the windows, that’s what that was. And there were no stirrings in the air, no small breezes to indicate that someone was approaching him. Finally, he listened hard. Shallow breathing, some distance away.

He made an attempt to keep the eagerness out of his voice when he said, “Hello? Sorry, I needed a minute to collect myself. Bandages over the eyes is a little disorienting.” Hesitantly, he took a step forward. Good, nothing directly in his way to bump into. He started walking forward, taking one careful step at a time. “My name’s Vincent. I was trying to help people from the fire. Haven’t a clue how I got here in the Wing, but that’s alright-DAMN!” His foot had collided with one of the nearby beds, sending lances of pain through his toe. Immediately he said, “Sorry! GAH HAHA THAT HURTS. That REALLY hurts. Sorry! Whew, ow.” Trying to exhale as much of the pain as possible, he stopped and bent over. “Might have warned me that was coming, mind you. Anyway, more importantly, what’s your name and where the hell are you? God, my manners are a mess today!”

It was absolutely no use trying to turn on her side. All the shifting did was wrinkle her blankets and twist her spine uncomfortably, her legs simply refusing to comply. They felt solidified, like stone, but quite unlike stone in the fact that they didn’t feel heavy at all like stones do. She attempted to shake them, but at least they didn’t send jolts of pain anymore at every move—although the fact of the matter was that they couldn’t. Anita wondered what was going on, everything about knowing seemed to pass when she lost consciousness.

She wondered where the little boy was. The curly haired boy, Gryffindor from the color of his robes. You couldn’t dare command someone who was eleven, twelve, or any damn age to be brave in the face of everything. His crying reverberated through her ears again, sending a feeling of being doused with water across her back. The feeling subsided after a moment, but Anita didn’t relax. She was worried, but there was nothing to do now; she was confined to the bed, unable to find the boy, and even if she did, she doubted he’d remember her.

She didn’t think of it then as heroism, but a sort of pity for someone helpless—it was enough to force her to make herself protect someone she barely knew. It was her one heroic moment, and it wasn’t at all heroic. No, it was Chase that saved them, Chase who refused to let her die, Chase who refused to put her down. The idiot didn’t listen, he didn’t go and save anyone else like Anita told him to—because Anita would be in the Hospital Wing either way.

The sheets were all too familiar from an extended stay due to—well, something, Anita couldn’t remember, probably because she didn’t believe it. Why would someone poison her? It was strange, because it was more beneficial to her confidence if anything. She was no longer scared or afraid of much like she was before, and it was odd to find that it had taken a sort of death-defying experience to do so, even if that death would have been painless. Her life was ordinary, and short, only extended by the mercy of Wizard God*. It didn’t matter now to linger on the past, nor to regret every moment, because waking up was something that shouldn’t be taken for granted.

Yet it took effort not to think of Albus sometimes, and how terribly he was missed, and how cruel it was for Wizard God to just take him away like that too. She sighed, trying not to cry, and at this point she felt she’s quite good at not crying now. Anita allowed her body to sink back into her sheets, her energy removed from fidgeting now. Her eyes remained closed, but the sunlight bled into her eyes. It was a comforting warmth, not a frightening kind like the fire that threatened to devour you alive with its tongues and tresses of flame and spark. No, it was the kind that reminded people of fluffy animals and hugs. It was nice, but it didn’t help that she was essentially staring at her own veins. Thinking of that was creepy.

The nurse—well, it sounded like a nurse, but it didn’t have the Delacour French Inflection—chatted with someone nearby, and Anita then turned her head to look at who it was. They had probably brought in reinforcement from St. Mungo’s, let the ministry deal with it. Anita appreciated being nice and comfortable now, not having to deal with those kinds of politics, but the sense of being inert wasn’t completely comforting. Where was that boy? 

The patient beside her had gotten up, his feet meeting the marble awkwardly. It wasn’t very long for Anita to realize that the boy was blind—and not very long for Anita not to understand why the boy was forced to walk out without his vision. He groped blindly at his surroundings, trying to be careful not to hit anything, and finally finding something worth speaking to, and that was Anita herself, who was well awake now.

She didn’t shrink back at his insistence—name, Vincent. Trying to help people, perhaps more successful than Anita was at an attempt like that. However, his carefulness didn’t last very long at all, shrieking in pain as he collided against Anita’s bed. Anita wasn’t the only one who nearly leaped—if you call it that with petrified legs, as she had now figured out—of their beds. Few people rolled about, some complained. Anita’s eyebrows knitted themselves together, her lips pressed tightly together. She bent forward as much as she could, trying to reach his hand.

“I’m Anita,” she replied to him. She made no comment toward his excuses, simply nodding in understanding without realizing that he couldn’t see her. She didn’t apologize upon the realization nor ask if he were okay, but extended her arm toward him so he could sit… or at least not hurt himself trying to make conversation. “I have my hand out, you can reach it.” Her eye darted to his bed, where another disfigured burn victim was placed, moaning hopelessly. The new boy’s words were indistinguishable from his sobs, and Anita turned her face away and tried to push her arm toward the blind boy. 

((*I’m Wizard God.)) 

a-phoenix-scarcello-original:

From all blogs. That is, if the man who loves me more than life gets off his dick and stops the fire that’s been eating my face for three weeks.

true dat home girl

Everyone’s familiar with the story of Harry Potter. The struggle between dark and light. The choices between what is right and what is easy. The loss of the good and the rise of evil, but all cultivating into a successful defeat of Lord Voldemort and his followers. Ultimately a happy ending to a wonderful story penned into the history of the Wizarding World.

However, we find ourselves with a new generation to fill the classes, dorms, and halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the same subjects are taught, but a different presence is upon the school itself, a definite distinction from those who saved the Wizarding World. These children owe their livelihood to their predecessors, for without them their world would be none of the same as it is.

But it makes one wonder if the story they create has the same—or, if one can hope, greater—magnificence. How does their tale pan out? Join us to find out, and let the butterbeer flow.

Home | Rules | Character List | Taken Faceclaims | Application

We have many roles open, and we are also accepting OCs. We have also been asked to create characters and their biographies, but we choose not to do that to give people control over what they wish to do with their character, as well as allow them to use their own creativity.

We do, however, still have many canon characters open, as well as OC siblings. Please consider taking up one of our open characters first before making an OC. You are able to insert whatever sort of personality fits your fancy into the characters that we have available.

Characters available to fill:

Canon Families:

• James Sirius Potter, 7th Year
         - Son of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley
• Hugo Weasley, [4th or 5th] Year
         - Son of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger
• Lysander Scamander, 6th Year | FC: Hunter Parrish or someone similar
         - Son of Rolf Scamander and Luna Lovegood; twin to Lysander

OC Families:

• [MALE] Finnigan, 4th Year
         - Son of Seamus Finnegan and Katie Bell 
• Discordia McGonagall, 6th Year Hufflepuff | FC: Hayden Panettiere
         - Daughter of Sancus McGonagall and Sylvia Tripe; twin to Felicitus 
• Nicholas Orchard, 7th Year Slytherin
         - Son of William and Mary Orchard 
• Falco Pucey, 6th Year | FC: Thomas Dekker
         - Son of Adrian Pucey and Daphne Greengrass 
• Valencia Pucey, 5th Year | FC: Troian Bellisario
         - Daughter of Adrian Pucey and Daphne Greengrass
• James Weasley, 4th Year Gryffindor
         - Son of George Weasley and Verity Clarke, born out of an affair 
• Oliver Weasley, 4th Year Gryffindor
         - Son of George Weasley and Verity Clarke, born out of an affair 
• Violet Speranza Zabini, 7th Year | FC: Naya Rivera or someone similar
         - Daughter of Blaise Zabini and Leanne Smythe; twin to Scarlett 
• Ash Niccolo Zabini, [4th or 5th] Year
         - Son of Blaise Zabini and Leanne Smythe

Unlisted Canon Parents: (not for roleplay, but for making families)

• Dean Thomas
• Lavender Brown
• Parvati Patil
• Romilda Vane
• Padma Patil
• Marietta Edgecombe
• Susan Bones
• Marcus Flint 
• Zacharias Smith
• Millicent Bulstrode
• Roger Davies
• Dennis Creevey
• Gregory Goyle
• Lee Jordan
• Cho Chang
• Theodore Nott
• Marcus Belby
• Terry Boot
• Michael Corner
• Anthony Goldstein
• Zacharias Smith
• Justin Finch-Fletchley
• a lot more than I can possibly list

The little boy lay cradled into her arms, sobbing for what felt like an eternity. Anita tried what she could to comfort him, to understand why he was crying, and she didn’t understand why she was crying either, but she was. It was disquieting to realize that there seemed to be no reason for what had happened. No reason why she couldn’t move without feeling a burning sensation from her back or a sharp stab from her leg or a tiredness from anything else that wasn’t being burned or stabbed. No reason. 

Where the boy had gone now, she wasn’t sure. Anita’s arms lingered empty, and she sat, waiting for something, but unsure of what. She wasn’t even sure where she was, no matter how stupid that sounded, but it was probably because she wasn’t paying attention. If one ever looked at how often Anita paid attention—not like in class, but to people, to just everything in general—the fact that she doesn’t is striking, not only because she’s a Ravenclaw, but because doing so made her so stupid.

And in the few times she had ever paid attention, terrible things had happened. The name Albus rang with a pang of emotion-filled familiarity, and although Anita hated how much she cried, she almost would. It didn’t help that Anita didn’t understand why he had to die, and it didn’t help that every time Anita would find herself frustrated with something, the question that was etched onto her mind elicited a faint glow that drew her attention to it: why did he have to die? 

It’s difficult sometimes to keep things like that to yourself, but Anita liked to think that she had mastered it. It always seemed like the last possible thing Anita could think about, and it only became easier to keep it the very last possible thing to think about. There were more pressing needs to be met, more important topics to discuss than begging Wizard God to bring back Albus Potter, with his green eyes that light the memories. By the shores of the Black lake, behind them rose the forest—there the unicorn stood waiting, if Anita cared to remember. The lake was clear and sunny, bright, as the fall lingered over the grounds and shaded the trees into an orange palate. 

It was as if these memories hadn’t happened at all now anyway. Too far away ago, too eclipsed by darker instances, and too flat out depressing for Anita to think about, even sometimes. It was hard to cast them away, but she stood patiently in the hall, tinkering with a camera, half-expecting Albus to come, but he never would. The word never simply emphasized how depressing dying was, or at least having someone die before you did and having to wait out your own death. At least that was what she was always reminded of when she thought of Al now, instead of the tall awkward Slytherin that sent her the quill that had a quaint shade of azure.

The happy parts don’t like to linger for very long.

The ground wasn’t ground anymore, but that was because Anita couldn’t feel anything in her legs. No, she was lying down. That sounded right. She wasn’t floating, but the cushion underneath her didn’t feel cushioned at all. She tried to turn herself to the side, but something seemed to tether her to staying on her back. 

Anita tried what she could not to open her eyes, but the windows were clear and sunny, bright, as spring ventured through the castle and reflected its light over the marble. Where the little boy had gone now, Anita wasn’t sure, her arms at her side, speckled with fading scars from burns. It was disquieting to believe it had really happened—but there were things that Anita would rather not believe, but they were all too real not to be real, no matter how fictional it sounded when one said that the person she had loved came back from the dead or that someone had decided to set the school and its students ablaze.

cleverlittlelitajett:

I NEED HELP. HOW DO I DO THE PREFECT THING. THIS IS A THING THAT MUST HAPPEN FOR LITA BECAUSE SHE IS HERE. AND SHE IS LITA. END OF STORY.

I SAW YOUR PROM DRESS AT DAVID’S BRIDAL AND ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS IS WEARING MY DRESS

I mean I’m gonna post an open with cripple!Anita soon. Does Lita have feelings to talk about? Cause all Anita’s gonna do is complain about how she wants to have Chase’s babies how stupid Chase is

chaseeverettbitch:

There was a sudden surge of air, someone figured out how to put the fire out, Anita still lay surrounded by embers, the table off of her battered body. Chase chocked on oxygen flooding his lungs. “Anita, i got you.” Chase was glad that he had some muscle strength left in his tired body. Fire was still on there backs, no time to waste on breathing. Carefully, Chase angled his arms under Anita, tucking her close to his body. Her legs and lower back mangled and burned, The smell of roasted flesh caused him to gag, but he didn’t stop as he moved to where the old hall doors once stood.

Chase’s heart sank looking looking around the hall. Bodies littered the walkway chard and battered. Evidence of a fire fight, and the hall still lite up with the glow of the flames. He looked carefully, eying the stairs for open, safe passageways. “Anita, don’t you dare fucking die on me,” Chase sprinted up the steps to the wing, his heart breaking for students begging for help. The doors in his sights, people crawling their way to help. He could only figure there were twice as many in the wing it’s self.

“Chase, no!” Anita sobbed. “Let go, please, it hurts, you’re—you’re making it worse—” Her arms attempted to flail, but Chase’s grip around her body couldn’t be fought. If she could kick, she would, but moving anything jabbed invisible knives through her skin, and helped nothing when he clumsily stood up trying to support the weight of two other people. The way he pressed her against him was only slightly comforting, and as much as she cried and screamed to be left there or for him to save someone else. “Look, Chase, please, there are people that—aren’t going to survive—please let me go, I promise I won’t die if you let me go, please, everything hurts….”

Anita’s words became more and more incoherent as he pulled her out of the charred hall. She finally relented, however, and tucked her head into the nape of Chase’s neck. Anita gritted her teeth as he continued down the hall, two of them in tow. Whatever feeling Anita once had was replaced with pain now, searing as her burnt flesh met ashen cotton, her legs completely refusing to cooperate. It was as if she had lost control of movement completely, twitching as a response to the pain. 

The floor of the Hospital Wing was cool as Anita was settled in a corner. The curly haired first year Chase carried began coughing again, crying now, frightened, calling for Chase, only to be unheard in the commotion of bodies and clutter. The only thing Anita could do, she did; her arm wrapped around the boy, who coughed blood onto her clothing, her other hand holding his. Her breath was shaky, and this time she couldn’t help her own coughing. The clatter of potions bottles and the panic of people about screaming about what happened didn’t quite mask the voice of the crying boy Anita held. It was the last thing Anita had heard after succumbing to her own exhaustion before Chase Everett had returned with medicine.

lolzyweasleywizardwheazes:

You can still respond to my Open guise! c:

charlee-gonecrazy:

We’re all afraid to, ‘cause you stop replying! XD

Even though I was probably about the single most active character since close to the begining of the RP for the longest time?

Maybe most running paras with consistent replies for a very good amount of time? Oh, sorry.

I already appologized so, yeah.

I have a life too, you know. I’m hardly clinging on to the possibility of graduating. I do my best, but I have a life.

It happens. 

Also — we’ve had people drop entirely and return like it’s nothing so this is frankly a bit offensive to somebody like myself who has invested so much into writing this for so long with in depth replies to a variety of characters at the same time.

I need a hiatus sometimes too.

Also — certain characters avoiding the idea of replying to my character , (after forcing their character to be vital to every aspect of my characters mood), instead of just telling me to end the paras had frozen Fred pretty badly for a while. I had to forcibly ditch the para because he was so horribly stuck, after they avoided replying.

Yes, that’s all very good, but there are a few factors that you need to consider before lashing out at someone else for making a statement that people are afraid to reply to you.

a) Since the inception of the RP, we have had more characters, and there are more people that are active that eclipse your achievement as the most active character—a title you probably held six months ago. “Being active for the longest time” something most people keep track of, and you’re making yourself sound like you’re entitled because you were the first person I invited to this roleplay. 

b) Your replies are only consistent in the sense that there’s a long time in between for you to actually reply. Although it could be considered admirable that you have a ton of paras, a lot of them void themselves because the RP moves too fast for it.

c) Everyone has a life. There are people here that take challenging classes, work multiple jobs, or have extracurriculars that force them to be busy. You’re not alone in that sense, but the difference is that they notify us of a hiatus, instead of disappearing. Your constant apologies for inactivity don’t really count as a notification, and it’s explicitly stated in the rules that you have to tell us if you’re going to be missing for more than two weeks. Most people apologize in advance for inactivity as well to everyone in a general post (like Louis and Roxanne so far), but you have a tendency to come back and keep apologizing without replying.

d) People avoid replying to you because it takes you forever to reply to the point that people think you’ve forgotten about it or their character developed faster than you can manage a thread.

Also, people haven’t been replying to your thread not only because of your consistent absence, but because everyone else is busy with their own thread to get involved with something from the same event. You’re blaming other people for things that aren’t their fault, and you’re getting mad over something that was probably meant as a joke. I’m glad you’re back, but don’t “expect better” of everyone who has been around not only to post but to tell us about hiatuses despite their individual circumstances.

Everyone’s familiar with the story of Harry Potter. The struggle between dark and light. The choices between what is right and what is easy. The loss of the good and the rise of evil, but all cultivating into a successful defeat of Lord Voldemort and his followers. Ultimately a happy ending to a wonderful story penned into the history of the Wizarding World.

However, we find ourselves with a new generation to fill the classes, dorms, and halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry; the same subjects are taught, but a different presence is upon the school itself, a definite distinction from those who saved the Wizarding World. These children owe their livelihood to their predecessors, for without them their world would be none of the same as it is.

But it makes one wonder if the story they create has the same—or, if one can hope, greater—magnificence. How does their tale pan out? Join us to find out, and let the butterbeer flow.

Home | Rules | Character List | Taken Faceclaims | Application

We have many roles open, and we are also accepting OCs. We have also been asked to create characters and their biographies, but we choose not to do that to give people control over what they wish to do with their character, as well as allow them to use their own creativity.

We do, however, still have many canon characters open, as well as OC siblings. Please consider taking up one of our open characters first before making an OC. You are able to insert whatever sort of personality fits your fancy into the characters that we have available.

Characters available to fill:

Canon Families:

• James Sirius Potter, 7th Year
         - Son of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley
• Hugo Weasley, [4th or 5th] Year
         - Son of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger
• Lorcan Scamander, 6th Year | FC: Hunter Parrish or someone similar
         - Son of Rolf Scamander and Luna Lovegood; twin to Lysander

OC Families:

• [MALE] Finnigan, 4th Year
         - Son of Seamus Finnegan and Katie Bell; twin to Hailey 
• Discordia McGonagall, 6th Year Hufflepuff | FC: Hayden Panettiere
         - Daughter of Sancus McGonagall and Sylvia Tripe; twin to Felicitus 
• Nicholas Orchard, 7th Year Slytherin
         - Son of William and Mary Orchard 
• Valencia Pucey, 5th Year | FC: Troian Bellisario
         - Daughter of Adrian Pucey and Daphne Greengrass
• Everly Weasley, 4th Year
         - Daughter of Charlie Weasley and Penelope Clearwater 
• Violet Speranza Zabini, 7th Year | FC: Naya Rivera or someone similar
         - Daughter of Blaise Zabini and Leanne Smythe; twin to Scarlett 
• Ash Niccolo Zabini, [4th or 5th] Year
         - Son of Blaise Zabini and Leanne Smythe

Unlisted Canon Parents: (not for roleplay, but for making families)

• Dean Thomas
• Lavender Brown
• Parvati Patil
• Romilda Vane
• Padma Patil
• Marietta Edgecombe
• Susan Bones
• Marcus Flint 
• Zacharias Smith
• Millicent Bulstrode
• Roger Davies
• Dennis Creevey
• Gregory Goyle
• Lee Jordan
• Cho Chang
• Theodore Nott
• Marcus Belby
• Terry Boot
• Michael Corner
• Anthony Goldstein
• Zacharias Smith
• Justin Finch-Fletchley
• a lot more than I can possibly list