A wizard says “Words are magic.”

 

A Muggle says “Words have magic.”

 

Who speaks the truth?

 

A wizard uses his words to transform matter, manipulate the mind, alter reality.

 

A Muggle uses his word to touch the soul.

 

A wizard says “The wand is stronger than the quill.”

 

A Muggle says “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

 

A wizard learns from Merlin, Agrippa, Circe, Morgana.

 

A Muggle takes his lessons from Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Austen.

 

Words can slow time and speed fate.  Words can topple mountains and heal wounds.

 

Words are magic.  Words have magic.  

 

Who speaks the truth?

A wizard says “Words are magic.”

 

A Muggle says “Words have magic.”

 

Who speaks the truth?

 

A wizard uses his words to transform matter, manipulate the mind, alter reality.

 

A Muggle uses his word to touch the soul.

 

A wizard says “The wand is stronger than the quill.”

 

A Muggle says “The pen is mightier than the sword.”

 

A wizard learns from Merlin, Agrippa, Circe, Morgana.

 

A Muggle takes his lessons from Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Austen.

 

Words can slow time and speed fate.  Words can topple mountains and heal wounds.

 

Words are magic.  Words have magic. 

 

Who speaks the truth?

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Thank you, each and every one of you.  I know I update sporadically, but the response to every post is tremendous and I adore reading your comments and tags. 

I hope you all continue to enjoy the posts we have here, both from myself and from those who submit.  Please remember that the askbox is always open, to your thoughts and opinions, prompts and pieces.

You are all truly wonderful, and I hope you continue to enjoy the writing on this blog in the future!

Pinterest User "syreeta Dolliedagger"

A first year Ravenclaw nervously approaches a Prefect and tugs on their sleeve.

Prefect: Hmmm? What’s up?

First Year: I was just wondering…..do the teachers expect me to get perfect grades because I’m in Ravenclaw?? If they do I’m in the wrong house because my grades have never been good!!! *on verge of tears*

Prefect: … 

First Year: …..*wait’s expectantly* 0^0

Prefect: *laughs loudly* If that were true most of Ravenclaw would be in the wrong house! 

First Year: Ehhhhh?! @~@

Prefect: The Ravenclaw house boasts the BEST and WORST grades in the entire school. At LEAST half the house has trouble passing their classes.

First Year: But why?…. I don’t understand, isn’t Ravenclaw supposed to be for people who are good at school and stuff??

Prefect: Not quite. Ravenclaw values knowledge and as whole… there is nothing that is not worthy of being learned. However, we tend to be… picky… about what we learn. For many Ravenclaws, the desire for knowledge only extends into their areas of interest.

First Year: So they only want to learn about stuff they like?

Prefect: That’s right, and if they don’t care about a subject they don’t even attempt to learn it. It’s the reason Ravenclaw produces more “Specialists” than any other house. So don’t worry about your grades too much and just learn… in whatever way works best for you.

First Year: Hehehe… Is it really ok for you to be telling me not to care about my grades? ^7^

Prefect: Probably not, but you have all year to figure out your grades… Now begone with you! *shoos away* I have a wizard chess match to win.

An adorable piece from inuneechan that reminds us that the few words given to us to describe the Houses only scratch at the surface. Thank you for this glimpse into Ravenclaw House!

A discreet Portkey was set up for him once a year.  It was usually an empty bottle brought up from the kitchen, except for the time Fred Weasley managed to enchant all the bottles to hide themselves around the castle and explode into different colored confetti any time a prefect walked by.  That year, he had to make do with a biscuit tin.

 

Anthony often thought that he’d just skip it.   He was usually only just digging into his classes for the year, and there was always at least three essays he would have to finish when he got back.  He sometimes started to write the letter to his mum telling her he’d be staying at Hogwarts before the guilt would overwhelm him.

 

The truth was, he wasn’t sure he believed in any of it any more.  He lived in a world where bushes really did catch fire without flame, where water could be made to spurt from a stone.  Those wonderful, terrifying tales he grew up with could really be true- and that made him question his faith.

 

But he went.  Every year.

 

Every year, he felt the jerk under his navel, landed dizzily in the field behind his house.  Every year he entered the warm kitchen, smelling of freshly baked challah and sweet apples.  Every year he helped his mother clean up after dinner, licking the honey off the spoon she offered him as a treat.

 

Every year he recited the same prayers, sung the same melodies, told the same lies to the friends and neighbors he saw at shul.  Every year, he felt the slight dizziness and unreality that came with fasting.  Every year, he watched as tears rolled down his mother’s cheek as she recited the Yizkor for his father.

 

Every year, he cried too.

 

And every year, when the kugel had been eaten and the kitchen was in a state of controlled disaster, Anthony Goldstein would kiss his mother on the cheek, gather up the leftovers she had neatly wrapped for him, and walk out to find the empty bottle in the middle of the field.

 

And returned to the real world.

(Source: thejdc.convio.net)


L’shanah tovah, lovely followers!  May your new year be sweet and full of joy.

A discreet Portkey was set up for him once a year.  It was usually an empty bottle brought up from the kitchen, except for the time Fred Weasley managed to enchant all the bottles to hide themselves around the castle and explode into different colored confetti any time a prefect walked by.  That year, he had to make do with a biscuit tin.

 

Anthony often thought that he’d just skip it.   He was usually only just digging into his classes for the year, and there was always at least three essays he would have to finish when he got back.  He sometimes started to write the letter to his mum telling her he’d be staying at Hogwarts before the guilt would overwhelm him.

 

The truth was, he wasn’t sure he believed in any of it any more.  He lived in a world where bushes really did catch fire without flame, where water could be made to spurt from a stone.  Those wonderful, terrifying tales he grew up with could really be true- and that made him question his faith.

 

But he went.  Every year.

 

Every year, he felt the jerk under his navel, landed dizzily in the field behind his house.  Every year he entered the warm kitchen, smelling of freshly baked challah and sweet apples.  Every year he helped his mother clean up after dinner, licking the honey off the spoon she offered him as a treat.

 

Every year he recited the same prayers, sung the same melodies, told the same lies to the friends and neighbors he saw at shul.  Every year, he felt the slight dizziness and unreality that came with fasting.  Every year, he watched as tears rolled down his mother’s cheek as she recited the Yizkor for his father.

 

Every year, he cried too.

 

And every year, when the kugel had been eaten and the kitchen was in a state of controlled disaster, Anthony Goldstein would kiss his mother on the cheek, gather up the leftovers she had neatly wrapped for him, and walk out to find the empty bottle in the middle of the field.

 

And returned to the real world.

(Source: thejdc.convio.net)

L’shanah tovah, lovely followers!  May your new year be sweet and full of joy.

Her parents expected her to hide.  So did her grandparents and her aunts and uncles.  Even Parvati expected it from her.
So Lavender hid.  She spent half a year hidden behind bandages in St. Mungo’s.  She spent the other half in her room, swaddling her face in layers of fabric any time she had to leave its safety for the loo.
Alone, she studied the texture of her scars.  She ran her fingers over them, feeling the ridges and valleys, learning her new face, her new body by touch.  On good days she could stand to look at herself in the mirror for whole minutes; on bad ones, she covered them all in blankets and buried herself under the covers.
Her parents had been cutting out any articles about the Battle before they brought her the Prophet every morning.  They must have missed one on that day- given that it was the one year anniversary, the oversight was understandable.  It was a small piece on the other Gryffindors in Harry’s year.  
Lavender Brown, presumed dead
Those four words rang around her head.  Lavender Brown.  That was her; she was still Lavender. Presumed dead. That was wrong- or was it?  Had the last year been a life of any kind?  Was she anything more than that one phrase?
The fabric covering her face dropped to the floor.  She stepped over it as she yanked open the door to her room.  Suddenly the house was too confining; it was a coffin and she was going to suffocate in it.
And then air.  The feeling of the wind blowing through her hair.  The heat of sun on her face.  Her bare face. 
Lavender Brown was not dead.  She was alive, so alive, and she was no longer hiding.
(Source: www.artflakes.com)

Her parents expected her to hide.  So did her grandparents and her aunts and uncles.  Even Parvati expected it from her.

So Lavender hid.  She spent half a year hidden behind bandages in St. Mungo’s.  She spent the other half in her room, swaddling her face in layers of fabric any time she had to leave its safety for the loo.

Alone, she studied the texture of her scars.  She ran her fingers over them, feeling the ridges and valleys, learning her new face, her new body by touch.  On good days she could stand to look at herself in the mirror for whole minutes; on bad ones, she covered them all in blankets and buried herself under the covers.

Her parents had been cutting out any articles about the Battle before they brought her the Prophet every morning.  They must have missed one on that day- given that it was the one year anniversary, the oversight was understandable.  It was a small piece on the other Gryffindors in Harry’s year. 

Lavender Brown, presumed dead

Those four words rang around her head.  Lavender Brown. That was her; she was still Lavender. Presumed dead. That was wrong- or was it?  Had the last year been a life of any kind?  Was she anything more than that one phrase?

The fabric covering her face dropped to the floor.  She stepped over it as she yanked open the door to her room.  Suddenly the house was too confining; it was a coffin and she was going to suffocate in it.

And then air.  The feeling of the wind blowing through her hair.  The heat of sun on her face.  Her bare face. 

Lavender Brown was not dead.  She was alive, so alive, and she was no longer hiding.

(Source: www.artflakes.com)

During her years at the Daily Prophet, Ginny Potter encounters a Dementor only once. 
It was during an international exhibition match between Germany and England.  Twenty minutes into the game, which was set up in an enormous forest clearing, a horribly familiar mist fell over the stadium.  Ginny sat up straight, every fiber of her body recoiling from the clammy, miserable sensation that swept over her entire body.  Without hesitating, she conjured up the image of Harry and the boys and cast the Patronus charm.
~
When she gets home, the story has already hit the Prophet.  Ginny didn’t write about it, of course, but Rita was there too.
Although it is well-known that Harry Potter’s patronus takes the form of a stag, his supposedly beloved wife’s is not the doe one would expect, but a rather large horse.
Harry doesn’t ask her about it.  He doesn’t seem upset or alarmed or concerned.  It’s only later, when he’s snoring not-so-gently next to here that she realizes that matching Patronuses feature only in the tragic love stories she knows.  Tonks and Remus, Harry’s own parents, more than a few of the sad folk tales her mother told her as a child.  Maybe it isn’t love that changes them, she thinks, but a certain inevitability of fate.  
Their love story isn’t tragic, Ginny tells herself, as she finally settles down to sleep.  It’s merely ordinary.
She falls asleep with a smile on her face.
(Source: http://www.elfwood.com/~danielle/Ghost-horse.2663215.html)

During her years at the Daily Prophet, Ginny Potter encounters a Dementor only once. 

It was during an international exhibition match between Germany and England.  Twenty minutes into the game, which was set up in an enormous forest clearing, a horribly familiar mist fell over the stadium.  Ginny sat up straight, every fiber of her body recoiling from the clammy, miserable sensation that swept over her entire body.  Without hesitating, she conjured up the image of Harry and the boys and cast the Patronus charm.

~

When she gets home, the story has already hit the Prophet.  Ginny didn’t write about it, of course, but Rita was there too.

Although it is well-known that Harry Potter’s patronus takes the form of a stag, his supposedly beloved wife’s is not the doe one would expect, but a rather large horse.

Harry doesn’t ask her about it.  He doesn’t seem upset or alarmed or concerned.  It’s only later, when he’s snoring not-so-gently next to here that she realizes that matching Patronuses feature only in the tragic love stories she knows.  Tonks and Remus, Harry’s own parents, more than a few of the sad folk tales her mother told her as a child.  Maybe it isn’t love that changes them, she thinks, but a certain inevitability of fate. 

Their love story isn’t tragic, Ginny tells herself, as she finally settles down to sleep.  It’s merely ordinary.

She falls asleep with a smile on her face.

(Source: http://www.elfwood.com/~danielle/Ghost-horse.2663215.html)

In one moment, suspended forever as one evening in the August 1873, here is what an idle observer in Diagon Alley might have noticed:
A baby was crying, a malnourished, pitiful yowl coming from a tiny window with a whitewashed pane. It hung open, a desperate attempt to keep still, scorched air circulating. From the same tiny room, our unnamed observer could have just made out a lullaby, a mournful song about a hopping ghost, sung entirely in Cantonese. On the grubby cobbles below stood a Veela, in an outfit which would have made many of the pureblood women purse their lips and cover their daughters’ eyes. Grime from the smog stuck to her skin as she slowly rocked her bare hips from side to side, beckoning silently, with long fingers and hooded lids to passers by, striking bargains in a language she barely understood.
In the next building, a Vampire leaned out the third floor window, his greasy hair unkempt and his shirt too large. Vampires could never look bad, their closest approximation was the extreme side of what is best described as déshabillé, but there was no mistaking the hollows in his cheeks or the quiet, desperate hunger in his eyes for fashionably deliberate. He was staring contemplatively at a dark skinned man sleeping in the gutter, a pool of whiskey for a pillow. The man’s beard was matted, and his left leg was missing from below the knee. His wand, warped and bleached, stuck out from a pocket of a faded green coat. Closer inspection would have revealed a sloppy silencing charm ensuring peaceful slumber.
All kinds of smells - some pleasant, some rancid - mixed in the air. Perfume, spices, sewer. Opium, if you knew what you were looking for. But on this particular evening, a very different kind of smoke dominated.
The fire allegedly started by accident, although several historians focusing on magical race relations would later dispute this, noting the evidence suggesting fiendfyre and foul play on the part of the Ministry. It didn’t take long to catch in the warm, grimy street and some - like a weak, hungry vampire or a one legged man sleeping under a silencing charm - didn’t stand a chance.
Some ran only around the corner, their most prized possessions in their arms. One woman, an immigrant from Hong Kong who arrived in Knockturn Alley with nothing but her baby in her arms, went on to orchestrate some of the most vigorous social reform the wizarding world had ever seen. And some saw their chance and took it, running far, far away from the ashes in Diagon Alley, anxious to return home and with no wish to see London ever again.
Until, some twenty years later, a Veela found herself walking down the rebuilt street that was forever burned into her memory, although she had to admit it looked altogether more pleasant in the sunlight, with its new buildings and legitimate tradesmen. She stopped in front of a stone memorial, ten years old and beginning to weather. Two marble men carrying buckets of water, with an inscription that read:
‘For Those Noble Witches And Wizards Who Died Here August 21st 1873 - May Their Souls Rest Peacefully In Eternal Slumber.’
The Veela looked at the stone for a while, her eyes narrowed. She looked at the two stone wizards, strong and able with pale, blank faces. She spat at their feet, and walked on.
(Image from hairextensionsofla.com)

A fabulous submission from Fastice.  I absolutely adore “moment in time” fics, and this one is beautifully written.  Thank you so much!

In one moment, suspended forever as one evening in the August 1873, here is what an idle observer in Diagon Alley might have noticed:

A baby was crying, a malnourished, pitiful yowl coming from a tiny window with a whitewashed pane. It hung open, a desperate attempt to keep still, scorched air circulating. From the same tiny room, our unnamed observer could have just made out a lullaby, a mournful song about a hopping ghost, sung entirely in Cantonese. On the grubby cobbles below stood a Veela, in an outfit which would have made many of the pureblood women purse their lips and cover their daughters’ eyes. Grime from the smog stuck to her skin as she slowly rocked her bare hips from side to side, beckoning silently, with long fingers and hooded lids to passers by, striking bargains in a language she barely understood.

In the next building, a Vampire leaned out the third floor window, his greasy hair unkempt and his shirt too large. Vampires could never look bad, their closest approximation was the extreme side of what is best described as déshabillé, but there was no mistaking the hollows in his cheeks or the quiet, desperate hunger in his eyes for fashionably deliberate. He was staring contemplatively at a dark skinned man sleeping in the gutter, a pool of whiskey for a pillow. The man’s beard was matted, and his left leg was missing from below the knee. His wand, warped and bleached, stuck out from a pocket of a faded green coat. Closer inspection would have revealed a sloppy silencing charm ensuring peaceful slumber.

All kinds of smells - some pleasant, some rancid - mixed in the air. Perfume, spices, sewer. Opium, if you knew what you were looking for. But on this particular evening, a very different kind of smoke dominated.

The fire allegedly started by accident, although several historians focusing on magical race relations would later dispute this, noting the evidence suggesting fiendfyre and foul play on the part of the Ministry. It didn’t take long to catch in the warm, grimy street and some - like a weak, hungry vampire or a one legged man sleeping under a silencing charm - didn’t stand a chance.

Some ran only around the corner, their most prized possessions in their arms. One woman, an immigrant from Hong Kong who arrived in Knockturn Alley with nothing but her baby in her arms, went on to orchestrate some of the most vigorous social reform the wizarding world had ever seen. And some saw their chance and took it, running far, far away from the ashes in Diagon Alley, anxious to return home and with no wish to see London ever again.

Until, some twenty years later, a Veela found herself walking down the rebuilt street that was forever burned into her memory, although she had to admit it looked altogether more pleasant in the sunlight, with its new buildings and legitimate tradesmen. She stopped in front of a stone memorial, ten years old and beginning to weather. Two marble men carrying buckets of water, with an inscription that read:

For Those Noble Witches And Wizards Who Died Here August 21st 1873 - May Their Souls Rest Peacefully In Eternal Slumber.’

The Veela looked at the stone for a while, her eyes narrowed. She looked at the two stone wizards, strong and able with pale, blank faces. She spat at their feet, and walked on.

(Image from hairextensionsofla.com)

A fabulous submission from Fastice.  I absolutely adore “moment in time” fics, and this one is beautifully written.  Thank you so much!

Ella lived this way, a servant to her own family, for a year before she saw hope for escape.

 

She was serving her stepsisters breakfast when the envoy came.  He wore the uniform of the servants of the Minister.  Bowing to the butler, he handed him a thick piece of parchment and asked that it be delivered to the lady of the house.  Ella had only seen an envoy appear at the house once, when the Minister had requested her father’s presence at a dinner.  The fact that this mysterious letter had been brought by person rather than owl meant that this was a matter of utmost importance.

 

As her stepmother read the message at the table, her eyes begin to shine with delight.  “The Minister’s son has arrived home from his Grand Tour and has decided to seek a bride.  All eligible witches of good birth and breeding have been invited to attend a ball.  That includes you, my dears.”  Ella’s stepsisters dropped their silverware and began to clap with glee.  Reading further, their mother frowned.  

 

“The ball is in three days time!  Why, that’s hardly any notice!  We must go and purchase new dress robes and shoes, we must find ornaments for your hair and fans and jewelry…Ella!  Come here my child!”  Ella stepped cautiously forward.  “You must run and inform the robeswoman that we will be visiting her at once.  She must close her shop immediately and have all her seamstresses on standby.”  Ella pulled off her stained apron and hurried toward the door, but stopped before leaving the room.

 

“Stepmother…” she ventured cautiously.  Her stepmother glared at her.

 

“What is it?”

 

“May…may I go to the ball?  It says all witches of good birth…and my father…” Her voice trailed off and she gazed hopefully at her only remaining parent.  Her stepmother’s lips quirked into what may have once been a smile.

 

“If you do exactly as we say over these three days, and if you perform to my satisfaction then yes, you may attend the ball.”  Ella’s joy gave her feet wings as she rushed from the room to do as her stepmother bade her.

 

Ella barely slept over the three short days before the ball.  She dressed and undressed her sisters, fixed their hair into endless arrays of curls and braids, clasped bracelets around their wrists and necklaces around their throats.  While her family ate, she swept the house from top to bottom and scrubbed every floor until they gleamed with polish.  She collapsed into a fitful rest long after midnight and arose before the dawn to make her stepmother’s tea.

 

As Ella fastened the last clasp on her stepmother’s sumptuous robes, she stepped back.  “Stephmother” she ventured tentatively.  “The ball is in a few hours.  I’ve done all you’ve asked of me these past three days.  Please, oh please, might I come with you?”  

 

Her stepmother turned and gave her a cold, hard look.  “Look at yourself, Cinders-Ella.  Your face is covered in soot, your robes are torn and filthy, and your shoes are not fit to be seen in the scullery let alone the Minister’s mansion.  What makes you think I would ever allow you to humiliate us in such a public fashion?  Go back to your attic and don’t ask such a foolish thing ever again.”  

 

Ella fled.

 

She was curled on her cot, exhausted from her sobs, when she heard the carriage leave the house with her stepfamily.  The thought of three such unworthy persons gaining the attention of the Minister and his son brought Ella to tears again.  But before she could lose herself in grief, a loud crack echoed through the attic.  A plump witch with inky black hair and purple spangled robes now stood in the center of the tiny room.

 

“Merlin’s beard, I thought I would never break those wards.  Your stepmother is a dab hand with protection spells, but she never did know how to tie off the ends properly.  What your mother would say if she could see you in this state!  Ella my dear, you are a sorry sight.”

 

Ella was agape.  She had seen no one from outside the house since her father died, and now this loud woman was standing in her room and speaking to her as if they’d known each other all their lives.

 

“Excuse me Madame but…who exactly are you?”  The plump witch sighed and pulled her wand out from her pocket, polishing it vigorously with the corner of her robe.

 

“Why, I’m your godmother child.  Your mother and I were the same year at Hogwarts.  Now, would you like to go to the Minister’s ball or wouldn’t you?”

~Part 2 of the Cinderella story as told to pureblood children

(Source: Millicent Sowerby via Flickr)

Ella lived this way, a servant to her own family, for a year before she saw hope for escape.

 

She was serving her stepsisters breakfast when the envoy came.  He wore the uniform of the servants of the Minister.  Bowing to the butler, he handed him a thick piece of parchment and asked that it be delivered to the lady of the house.  Ella had only seen an envoy appear at the house once, when the Minister had requested her father’s presence at a dinner.  The fact that this mysterious letter had been brought by person rather than owl meant that this was a matter of utmost importance.

 

As her stepmother read the message at the table, her eyes begin to shine with delight.  “The Minister’s son has arrived home from his Grand Tour and has decided to seek a bride.  All eligible witches of good birth and breeding have been invited to attend a ball.  That includes you, my dears.”  Ella’s stepsisters dropped their silverware and began to clap with glee.  Reading further, their mother frowned. 

 

“The ball is in three days time!  Why, that’s hardly any notice!  We must go and purchase new dress robes and shoes, we must find ornaments for your hair and fans and jewelry…Ella!  Come here my child!”  Ella stepped cautiously forward.  “You must run and inform the robeswoman that we will be visiting her at once.  She must close her shop immediately and have all her seamstresses on standby.”  Ella pulled off her stained apron and hurried toward the door, but stopped before leaving the room.

 

“Stepmother…” she ventured cautiously.  Her stepmother glared at her.

 

“What is it?”

 

“May…may I go to the ball?  It says all witches of good birth…and my father…” Her voice trailed off and she gazed hopefully at her only remaining parent.  Her stepmother’s lips quirked into what may have once been a smile.

 

“If you do exactly as we say over these three days, and if you perform to my satisfaction then yes, you may attend the ball.”  Ella’s joy gave her feet wings as she rushed from the room to do as her stepmother bade her.

 

Ella barely slept over the three short days before the ball.  She dressed and undressed her sisters, fixed their hair into endless arrays of curls and braids, clasped bracelets around their wrists and necklaces around their throats.  While her family ate, she swept the house from top to bottom and scrubbed every floor until they gleamed with polish.  She collapsed into a fitful rest long after midnight and arose before the dawn to make her stepmother’s tea.

 

As Ella fastened the last clasp on her stepmother’s sumptuous robes, she stepped back.  “Stephmother” she ventured tentatively.  “The ball is in a few hours.  I’ve done all you’ve asked of me these past three days.  Please, oh please, might I come with you?” 

 

Her stepmother turned and gave her a cold, hard look.  “Look at yourself, Cinders-Ella.  Your face is covered in soot, your robes are torn and filthy, and your shoes are not fit to be seen in the scullery let alone the Minister’s mansion.  What makes you think I would ever allow you to humiliate us in such a public fashion?  Go back to your attic and don’t ask such a foolish thing ever again.” 

 

Ella fled.

 

She was curled on her cot, exhausted from her sobs, when she heard the carriage leave the house with her stepfamily.  The thought of three such unworthy persons gaining the attention of the Minister and his son brought Ella to tears again.  But before she could lose herself in grief, a loud crack echoed through the attic.  A plump witch with inky black hair and purple spangled robes now stood in the center of the tiny room.

 

“Merlin’s beard, I thought I would never break those wards.  Your stepmother is a dab hand with protection spells, but she never did know how to tie off the ends properly.  What your mother would say if she could see you in this state!  Ella my dear, you are a sorry sight.”

 

Ella was agape.  She had seen no one from outside the house since her father died, and now this loud woman was standing in her room and speaking to her as if they’d known each other all their lives.

 

“Excuse me Madame but…who exactly are you?”  The plump witch sighed and pulled her wand out from her pocket, polishing it vigorously with the corner of her robe.

 

“Why, I’m your godmother child.  Your mother and I were the same year at Hogwarts.  Now, would you like to go to the Minister’s ball or wouldn’t you?”

~Part 2 of the Cinderella story as told to pureblood children

(Source: Millicent Sowerby via Flickr)


There once was a manor on a hill.  The manor had sprawling gardens and a sweeping terrace and was filled with fine art and elegant furniture and servants for every room.

 

There was also a girl.

 

This girl lived with her father, a wizard of old blood and high standing.  Her mother died when the girl was very young, and her father doted upon her.  She never wished for a single thing, not a doll or a book or new robes or shoes.  Her name was Ella.

 

When the girl was reaching school age her father began to dread the thought of his daughter going so far away.  So he employed a governess, one well-versed in all the classes his daughter would have attended at Hogwarts.  

 

The governess was not beautiful and she was of Muggle birth, but she was very, very clever.  It soon became apparent that the little girl’s father had fallen under the thrall of a love potion.  Before long, they were married, and the woman brought with her two daughters from her first marriage.

 

These daughters took after their mother in looks but sadly not in talent- they were both Squibs.  Ella at first tried to befriend them, but they refused to play the magical games she knew and snubbed her when she tried to join their Muggle ones.

 

Now, it is known that eventually a strong and powerful wizard can overcome a love potion if exposed to it at length.  After a year of marriage, it became apparent to Ella’s stepmother that her husband was beginning to fight the effects of her potion.  So she ensured that her final batch included a few special ingredients.

 

After her father’s funeral, Ella turned to her stepmother and sisters for comfort.  She found none.  She was stripped of her fine clothes and jewelry, forced into the servants cast-off clothes and set to work in the manor.  Her wand was locked away in her stepmother’s room and she was forced to clean every fireplace in the manor of ash and Floo residue.  Her sisters, now wearing her beautiful robes and living in her opulent bedroom, simply laughed and began to call her Cinders-Ella.


And Ella curled up on her cot in the cold, dark attic and cried.

~Part 1 of the Cinderella story as told to pureblood children

(Source: nohamahmoud.blogspot.com)

There once was a manor on a hill.  The manor had sprawling gardens and a sweeping terrace and was filled with fine art and elegant furniture and servants for every room.

 

There was also a girl.

 

This girl lived with her father, a wizard of old blood and high standing.  Her mother died when the girl was very young, and her father doted upon her.  She never wished for a single thing, not a doll or a book or new robes or shoes.  Her name was Ella.

 

When the girl was reaching school age her father began to dread the thought of his daughter going so far away.  So he employed a governess, one well-versed in all the classes his daughter would have attended at Hogwarts. 

 

The governess was not beautiful and she was of Muggle birth, but she was very, very clever.  It soon became apparent that the little girl’s father had fallen under the thrall of a love potion.  Before long, they were married, and the woman brought with her two daughters from her first marriage.

 

These daughters took after their mother in looks but sadly not in talent- they were both Squibs.  Ella at first tried to befriend them, but they refused to play the magical games she knew and snubbed her when she tried to join their Muggle ones.

 

Now, it is known that eventually a strong and powerful wizard can overcome a love potion if exposed to it at length.  After a year of marriage, it became apparent to Ella’s stepmother that her husband was beginning to fight the effects of her potion.  So she ensured that her final batch included a few special ingredients.

 

After her father’s funeral, Ella turned to her stepmother and sisters for comfort.  She found none.  She was stripped of her fine clothes and jewelry, forced into the servants cast-off clothes and set to work in the manor.  Her wand was locked away in her stepmother’s room and she was forced to clean every fireplace in the manor of ash and Floo residue.  Her sisters, now wearing her beautiful robes and living in her opulent bedroom, simply laughed and began to call her Cinders-Ella.

And Ella curled up on her cot in the cold, dark attic and cried.

~Part 1 of the Cinderella story as told to pureblood children

(Source: nohamahmoud.blogspot.com)

flourishandblottsstories
flourishandblottsstories:

They met in a bar.

Millions of couples have met in bars and millions will continue to do so.  But they were not this couple.

It was the raucous celebration party following England’s magnificent win against China in the Quidditch World Cup.  It was in a pub that had been transplanted from who cares where to stand on the pitch.  It was magically expanded, but still bursting at the seams.

Charlie Weasley had been recruited to manage the Chinese Fireballs that had served as China’s opening act.  He sat on a wobbly barstool at a table in the corner, gripping a frosty pint of lager.  Very occasionally, he would take a sip, but mostly he was using the coolness of the glass and the beer to soothe a nasty burn he’d gotten on his palm.  He hadn’t gotten the chance to get it healed properly yet and it still smarted.

Oliver Wood was trying to avoid getting sloshed.  He was far too old to manage the hangover properly, Quidditch World Champion or not.  He slowly made his way to the back of the pub, hoping there would be a door there so he could slip out quietly.

Instead, he found Charlie.

There was so much that unspooled between them as they sat at the rough-hewn table in the corner.  If they had paid attention, they might have sensed the great future that lay ahead.  The tabloid rumors, the Daily Prophet interview, the family tears and angry Howlers.  The great rambling house in the country, the runaways and foster children that would come and go, the marches and signs and protests.  Their love would make news, make change, make history.  

But for now there was only Charlie and Oliver, sharing a drink and a sense of possibility.

(Source: www.theguardian.co.uk)

My first piece specifically for this blog that seems to fit in nicely with JKR’s latest Pottermore piece.  I also just really love this idea.

flourishandblottsstories:

They met in a bar.

Millions of couples have met in bars and millions will continue to do so.  But they were not this couple.

It was the raucous celebration party following England’s magnificent win against China in the Quidditch World Cup.  It was in a pub that had been transplanted from who cares where to stand on the pitch.  It was magically expanded, but still bursting at the seams.

Charlie Weasley had been recruited to manage the Chinese Fireballs that had served as China’s opening act.  He sat on a wobbly barstool at a table in the corner, gripping a frosty pint of lager.  Very occasionally, he would take a sip, but mostly he was using the coolness of the glass and the beer to soothe a nasty burn he’d gotten on his palm.  He hadn’t gotten the chance to get it healed properly yet and it still smarted.

Oliver Wood was trying to avoid getting sloshed.  He was far too old to manage the hangover properly, Quidditch World Champion or not.  He slowly made his way to the back of the pub, hoping there would be a door there so he could slip out quietly.

Instead, he found Charlie.

There was so much that unspooled between them as they sat at the rough-hewn table in the corner.  If they had paid attention, they might have sensed the great future that lay ahead.  The tabloid rumors, the Daily Prophet interview, the family tears and angry Howlers.  The great rambling house in the country, the runaways and foster children that would come and go, the marches and signs and protests.  Their love would make news, make change, make history. 

But for now there was only Charlie and Oliver, sharing a drink and a sense of possibility.

(Source: www.theguardian.co.uk)

My first piece specifically for this blog that seems to fit in nicely with JKR’s latest Pottermore piece.  I also just really love this idea.