The newest batch of Hogwarts students have entered this historic school and no one knows how their future will turn out - will you be a quidditch pro or maybe a prefect? The year is now 2021, and now it's time for the next generation to make their mark. The newest batch of Hogwarts students have entered this historic school and no one knows how their future will turn out - and that is where the fun begins.
The plot will be determined by the characters of the site as of now - future plots will change as these forces weigh in on the Wizarding World, and we see where these characters take us. So join in and let your character make their mark!
Minimum word count is 200.
Post by William A. Weasley on Jul 16, 2019 17:32:38 GMT
The weather wasn't as bad as it could be, Bill mused to himself on the walk back to the cottage. It was a little chilly thanks to the brisk wind, but for it being March it certainly could have been a lot worse. The sun was out at least, and when the wind gave you a second to catch your breath you could actually enjoy the warmth of its rays against your skin. Unfortunately though those moments were few and far between, especially this close to the coast - here the wind whipped up faster and stung sharper, and as much as a bracing sea wind was refreshing Bill could only take so much of it before his body started to ache for the indoors. It never used to be like this - not his body giving up on him, nor him accepting defeat so easily. It wouldn't have been so long ago that he would have laughed at this version of himself, heading back home after only a few hours on the boat, but it was no good. His pride thinking about his youth wouldn't be worth the headache he'd inevitably get from the bitter wind. And frankly, he could murder a cuppa, so that was that.
Climbing up the sand dunes, Jack padded dutifully beside him. Every so often the dog would trot away to sniff at something or other, but he would bound back to Bill's side in a matter of seconds. It wasn't just him that was getting old, he supposed as he looked down at the dog, who when he was a puppy would have been taking off to run down the beaches at every opportunity he could. Now Bill knew that much like he, Jack would be heading for a soft place to curl up and snooze as soon as they reached home. Still, he thought to himself, we're not dead yet. "C'mon," Bill said suddenly, and picked up his pace to a run. He whistled sharply, and Jack's attention had been caught - the dog quickly moved into action and sprinted at Bill's heels. "Good boy - good boy," Bill laughed breathlessly, and the two sped along the path all the way back to Shell Cottage, roughhousing and chasing each other along the way.
It was hard to say who was panting harder when they stepped through the door into the kitchen, but Bill certainly felt better and more himself for it, smiling as he shrugged off his jacket onto the coat rack. Jack, much as Bill expected, padded over to his dog bed and settled himself down as Bill set about to making a pot of tea. Wand out, the pots and water started assembling itself when he caught an owl through the window out of his eye. He moved to let it in, and it dropped a letter dutifully onto the kitchen table before flying back out again. Bill shut the window as quickly as he had opened it, lest the he lose the comfortable warmth of the kitchen to that awful chill outside, and took a brief second to look down at the letter and saw that it wasn't addressed for him. "Darling?" he called out, hoping his voice would carry to wherever his wife was in the house. "Letter for you!"
Post by Fleur Delacour Weasley on Jul 16, 2019 18:30:45 GMT
Fleur rolled on to her back and stretched her chest towards the ceiling, her arms spread out to each of her sides. The barre had been kind to her this morning, so she’d danced. She rarely danced these days, mostly preferring the slow, steady exercises on barre to a full routine. The Delacour standards were what kept her off pointe, reminding her of her creeping age, that her knees were not so lithe as they once were, and that she had to be a little more mindful of how she twisted her spine. But once in a while...once in a while. The movements, although jumps not as high, twirls not as tight, came back like singing a once-loved song. She didn’t even need a note of music.
He began to call her as she finished untying her shoes, returned from the boat, as if there were anywhere else he could be found on a Sunday morning (or any other other morning, really). Jumping down the stairs, two at a time, her wand was out of her cardigan pocket, swishing itself over the inevitable sand scattered from the entryway and into the hall, gone before she’d seen it despite knowing it would be there.
“From Maman?” she chirped, tracing her hand along his shoulders as she passed behind him, peeking over his opposite shoulder to spy at the handwriting on the letter. Apolline was obsessed with her quiv, but never has so little to say that it could be contained in a hext. She was, however, capable of commenting on her grandchilden’s wizta posts as if she were writing an owl. Belle Dominique, you are so inspiring. It is a nice picture. Are you coming to Christmas? Love, Grandmere et Grandpere.
She motioned to pluck it out of his hands, whispering in his ear as she did, her free hand scratching lightly at the back of his neck. “Cup for me too, mon cher.”
Post by William A. Weasley on Jul 18, 2019 19:32:27 GMT
Bill paused after he called up the stairs, straining his ear a little to hear if there was any sign of movement - and there was. A few seconds later he heard footsteps and floorboards creak, and knowing that Fleur had heard him he happily turned back to the matter at hand which was the pot of tea that was starting to brew. He summoned his favourite mug from the cupboard - it was old and chipped, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw away the ‘Number #1 Dad!’ Father’s Day present from years ago that the kids painted themselves at his mother’s house. He’d kind of just accepted that he’d be using it until it fell apart and crumbled in his hands, but thankfully he had a whole army of other novelty ‘Dad’ mugs in the cupboard for back-up (and he had to admit he already knew which one he’d be using next, which was Louis’ offering that had “Happy Father’s Day (I bought this present with your money)” printed on its side).
Catching the mug in his hand, he allowed himself another little look down at the letter laid on the table. It was addressed ‘Maman’, which certainly narrowed down who the potential candidates for the sender were by a considerable amount. And at a closer look, Bill would have put a healthy bet on it belonging to Dominique - her hand-writing had always looked hurried, like she had so much to say and she couldn’t write it down fast enough to keep up with her thoughts, with thick quill strokes as she pressed hard down into the page. But before he could wonder what she would possibly be writing about that she couldn’t just Hext, he felt a hand lightly tracing his shoulder. “One of our offspring,” he corrected her, and held up the letter for her to take. “Looks like Dom’s writing.”
He took a brief moment to enjoy the light scratches at the base of his neck, smiling softly at her warmth up behind him, before craning his body to press a soft kiss into her hair and setting about getting their tea ready. He summoned her mug with a flick of his wand and the pot shared out the brewed tea for them, and he started assembling their usual tea orders. “Brutal wind out there,” he started putting a sugar in his mug and stirring it with a wave of his hand. “Even Jack was shivering - weren’t you?” he said, and couldn’t help a little laugh when looked over at the dog who had his head resting on his paws. “So we gave up and came back.”
Post by Fleur Delacour Weasley on Jul 30, 2019 15:17:06 GMT
She lifted it with a light tug from between his fingertips, and ascertained, just as he did, that the writing was Dominique’s. Addressed to her, it could only be. Anything of length, Louis would bubble over to her through one of their frequent and full quiv calls. Victoire wasn’t much for calls or letters, more of a smattering of hexts whenever it pleased her, as if she was picking up a conversation that was already taking place. Still, although it was most like Dominique to write in comparison to her siblings, it wasn’t necessarily like her.
Puzzled, Fleur folded over the letter, running her finger against the grain of the flap to open it up, unfold, and begin to read, the familiar and delicate percussion of Bill’s tea-time routine accompanying her as she did. Very quickly, she found herself fully engrossed. It was a letter beyond pleasantries or updates, or even what she may have expected, that being unpacked feelings of stress. Her daughter had placed a lot on her shoulders in her final year of school, an ambitious load between a host of challenging NEWTS, leadership in the form of a progressive and very new student group with far reaching effects, and a quidditch team freshly relieved of their captain. Dominique, however, relegated these topics to the first paragraph alone, leaving room for discussion of her newest perplexity.
Bill was detailing his time on the water, her best assumption, as she concluded reading and looked up to find him smiling down at the dog not too far from his feet. She folded the letter back up delicately and slid it into its envelope, setting it back on the table with the address facing up once more. “Our Cherie is troubled,” she said, setting her elbows on the table as she settled back into her stool, her chin resting lightly between her two, intertwined pointer fingers. She blinked over from the letter to her husband.
“And there is very little we can do about it, before you begin to foster plans.” Despite her own dissatisfaction, she did smile at him, with a moment’s gratefulness for a husband who would worry over a letter such as the one in front of her. “Deceived by a friend, or perhaps more of an acquaintance, and not sure what to do.”
“She is like you, I think,” Fleur continued, tilting her head to the side, French accent slow as she considered her words. “Just trying to do the right thing.”
Post by William A. Weasley on Aug 1, 2019 13:11:06 GMT
Tea ready, Bill tucked his wand behind his ear for a moment as he picked up the mugs. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he could hear Mad-Eye complaining at him in his gruff, angry voice about how it would be his own fault one of these days when he injured himself. Even after all those years, just the errant action of putting his wand behind his ear summoned up the memory of him. It didn’t sting as much as it used to, thinking on someone they lost, but he found Moody’s memory was just as effective as he ever was in person, as the second he put Fleur’s mug down on the table in front of her, he took his wand back and tucked it away in the pocket where it belonged. He doubted he’d ever be able to store his wand anywhere but its determined safe place ever again. There was some comfort in knowing that Moody might have found at least some satisfaction in the knowledge that his words had some lasting impact. Constant vigilance, indeed.
Taking the first sip of his tea, and savouring the sensation of it warming him, it took him a second to take in his wife’s demeanour as she read the letter in her hands. That didn’t much fill him with confidence, and Bill was only more concerned to have that little worry in the pit of his stomach confirmed when she spoke. The vagueness with which she delivered the update immediately sent his thoughts flying to every which possibility about what could be wrong with his daughter, and much like Fleur had suspected, to every which way he could try and help to fix it. She knew him well enough that when presented with a problem, Bill Weasley would be the man to try and sort it out - and there being any situation where he couldn’t help, let alone one concerning Dominique...Well, that didn’t comfort him at all.
Bill was quiet for a few moments, considering this and taking another sip of his tea. “She’s a good girl,” he agreed, quietly. Their middle child - the one that others might have thought was predestined to get lost in the sea of their family, but was anything but that. She was a special kid, and knowing her like he did, this letter only seemed to trouble him more. His fingers tapped against the side of his mug, as he lost himself in his thoughts for a moment. Deceived by a friend - which friend? Did he know them? Had they upset her? What sort of thing had to have happened to upset Dominique? Was it something bad? Logically he knew that she was at Hogwarts, and had written to Fleur about it, so there was very little that he would practically be able to do, but it didn’t stop the thoughts from coming all the same.
He pulled out a stool and sat next to Fleur, resting his mug in front of him, his fingers clasped around it. “You’re sure she’s okay?” he asked, doing his best to try and resettle the part of him that had been knocked at the news his daughter was struggling with something. “It’s not bad? I don’t need to kick in the gates and storm Hogwarts, do I?” He smiled.