"Goodness and evil are not restrained by blood or being."
-- Vanessa Reese
This is a drawing I did of Vanessa, one of the main OCs in RFWW. Sorry for the really awful quality. My scanner hasn't been working right.
Love Always,
Kayla
“I bumped into Evans. Turns out she’s been made Prefect.”
“Bloody hell,” Sirius groaned, shaking his head. “We’ll have to watch ourselves this year with Prefect Prig on our case all the time.”
“She’s not that bad,” piped up Peter Pettigrew, speaking for the first time. “She helped me out in Charms last year, she’s the only reason I passed the practical exam.”
Peter Pettigrew was Hermes reincarnate. He had the slight figure and pointed features that the Greek god was alleged to have possessed, and was more of a trickster than even Peeves the Poltergeist. He had an all-encompassing sense of humor that drew others to him, and he tried to always speak the best of people unless they truly deserved otherwise.
“You would say that,” James commented, amused. Then, to Sirius, “How was your summer, mate? I didn’t hear much from you.”
His best friend scoffed and blew dark hair from his eyes. “My mum tried to redecorate my room, only to find that nothing would come off the walls. She locked me in there for a few weeks because she thought it’d be a good punishment.”
“Was it?” asked Peter, a blonde eyebrow arched above his small blue eyes.
Sirius smirked. “Punishment, are you kidding? I got be away from the lot of them for all that time,” He leaned back in his seat, a faraway smile on his face. “Couldn’t ask for a better summer at Grimmauld Place.”
Sirius Black. Gryffindor. Ladies’ man. Prankster Extraordinaire. That was all most people ever saw of him, and no one ever expected him to be anything more. However, the people closest to him knew better. They had seen the bruises and heard the Howlers that Sirius had received from his parents ever since he had been sorted into the House of the Brave years earlier. They knew that he dreaded the summer, but suffered in silence, because Sirius Black was not someone who wanted pity.
In a few words, he was boisterous, but brooding, ambitious, but unmotivated, dependable, but impulsive, diplomatic, but utterly tactless. Personality-wise, he was quite ambiguous. And the girls of Hogwarts saw him as a mystery that they thought they would be the one to solve.
None of them would.
By his family, Sirius was expected to marry a pureblooded girl with decent looks and notable ancestral background. By his friends, he was expected to fall for some half-decent slag somewhere down the road and lead a moderately happy life with her. By the female population of Hogwarts, well, each of them expected him to fall for her.
None of them were right.
“What about you, Pete?” Sirius asked, closing his eyes again. “Do anything exciting this summer?”
“Nothing in particular,” Peter answered leisurely. “My mum was with the neighbors most of the time. They’re Muggles, and they’ve got a son with one of those diseases that they don’t know how to cure, so she’s been bringing him soup and slipping Healing potions into it. So I was alone and I mostly read up on…” he glanced at the door to make sure no one was listening-in. “Animagi. There were some really interesting techniques we haven’t tried yet.”
Peter Pettigrew was brilliant at magic.
In theory.
He excelled in History and Astronomy and was decent in Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures, but when it came to actually performing spells, he seemed to have some sort of block. He did not know the reason, for none of his friends seemed to have any problems with magic on the whole, but they helped him out as best they could, so he never complained.
“Excellent,” said Sirius.
“The next full moon is on the twentieth,” James informed them. “If we work every night, maybe we can make it. I know I’m getting really close.”
Peter nodded in agreement. “And as soon as we do that, we can really get to working on the map.”
Sirius and James grinned at him, all three boys hoping for their most exciting year yet.
And, let the record show, it would be just that.
There was a girl walking down the street. She had long brown hair that was straight and pulled back half-way. She wore a pheasant top that was olive green to match her eyes and a simple jean skirt. Her leather boots came up to her mid-calf and were the same shade as her top and buckled three times down the side...
I was thrilled to be starting my sixth year at Hogwarts. It would be my first away from Victoire, meaning that I would no longer be dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn to have my hair and makeup done (I had to agree to allow her to do this in order to stay on the Quidditch team – my mother’s rule, of course), I could eat whatever I wanted at the table, rather than having to sneak fattening foods into my bag when Victoire’s back was turned, and perhaps I could find a boy that liked me, instead of one who tried to woo me in order to get closer to my sister.
At least, those were my wishes before a letter arrived and my world burst spectacularly into flames just days before returning to school.
All right, perhaps that’s putting it a bit dramatically, but that was the way it felt at the time.It's my first time writing first person from only one POV, so it should be interesting. I quite like the story so far. (: Let me know what you think!
"Artists use lies to tell the truth." - V for VendettaHey lovelies! I have decided to start posting a blog to keep you all up to date with developments in my stories (currently Of Raindrops, Flowers,& Wishing Wells and Secondhand Wings), just so that you all know that I haven't fallen off the face of the earth or anything. I'll also give you teasers and post drawings occasionally.
Her cold, bare feet drug in the grey sand as she swung back and forth in the low swing. The wood beam above creaked in protest at the weight, as though it had not been used in many years, and the chains reeked of rust and mildew.
It was, like everything else in the small industrial town (ironically named Lantern City), in desperate need of repair, but the landlords that owned most of the area around the old textile mill had never seen fit to waste money on something children would not use. Few people went outside at all due to the thick smog that hung in the air like a dark, suppressive cloud, and those that did hurried from one place to the next, shielding their faces and never stopping to speak with anyone.
The only residents of the town were those who worked in the mill, and over time, they had taken on the filthy, grey look that had seeped into the small brick houses and stamped out any amount of color there once was. Their faces were ashy; their hair was somewhere between grey and mousy brown and hung limp about their thin, sallow faces; their eyes were flat and pale, and no longer told the million little stories that most eyes can convey.
She looked up suddenly when she heard the sound of feet on the cobbled street, and saw a man in the dusty, grey uniform that all of the mill workers wore. His salt-and-pepper hair looked out of place on such a young man, but the shadows of lines forming on his brow told her what she already knew—work at the mill aged people far too quickly, drained them much too soon.
He caught sight of her sitting in the swing and seemed unable to look away, like he was suddenly a child brought into a toy store for the first time and astounded by the innumerable colors and sounds. She blushed and turned her head, and the man kept walking, but she could feel his eyes on her until he turned onto Factory Way.
Her mother had once described her as the stained glass windows in a dreary old church, and while the once-beautiful windows in the church at the end of the road had long-since been boarded up, the girl could understand the analogy. Perhaps, had she lived in the little town year-round, she would have faded, too, but she attended school far away, and as such, had maintained her vibrant color.
Her skin was pale, but not in the sickly way that most in the town had, and accented with freckles. Many girls her age hated their freckles, but she was able to see them as just one more part of the spectrum. Cracked pink lips framed her wide mouth, which was full of too-big teeth that all showed when she smiled, and her shockingly green eyes were almond-shaped and surrounded by thick black lashes. But easily the feature that stood out the most was the long, red-bronze hair that curled softly and thickly down her back.
She had, however, inherited the rail-thin figure that was common in the townspeople, though while at school she was able to gain a small amount of weight. But she always appeared too thin to truly be healthy. During her time at home, she seemed to absorb the smell of smoke from the mill until she could not get it out of her skin for weeks into the school year.
She coughed, the smog getting into her lungs and affecting her breathing, but still she sat in the swing. She was waiting for him. She and him—an unlikely pair that was misunderstood wherever they went. While at home, the locals assumed that they would be yet another marriage of convenience, as so many were, and at school, people thought of their friendship as impractical, impossible even.
He was supposed to be there, and the only reason she could imagine that he would be late would be that his father, who was far too fond of liquor, had been rampaging drunkenly about and hurt him or his pacifistic mother.
As soon as the thought of her friend in trouble crossed her mind, she was on her feet, but a second set of footsteps interrupted her.