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 Ginevra Molly Weasley on Jul 30, 2019 8:30:17 GMT
In some ways, watching the match from the teachers’ area was incredibly normal. In most, it was incredibly strange, but in some - the way McGonagall congratulated her, personally, every time Gryffindor scored; the way Neville clutched at his gloves with every tricky pass; and the way that she felt gripped with fear and panic and excitement the whole way through.
She was sure that she would have noticed more, but unfortunately, she’d found it hard to even focus on the task at hand (picking out players Oliver and Gwenog might be interested in). All she could think about was James.
When she’d got there she’d been excited, if a little nervous, sitting next to Neville with a Hogwarts-kitchens-cocoa, between her knees. It was rare that she saw him during the term and while she was obviously focussed and thinking about work, she was also looking forward to catching up with someone who wasn’t talking ministry 90% of the time. She was also, she couldn’t deny, looking forward to seeing their sons take each other on - but when she leant and muttered this to Neville, he looked back at her silently with something akin to horror. “Gin,” he’d said, “did James not tell you?”
James hadn’t told her. James hadn’t told her. The thought kept replaying in her head the whole way through, and even then she reached the end without working out what she should do.
She decided to hext him, in the end. The match ended, she promised Neville that she’d speak to him (and Linus) as soon as she could, and sent something quick to James (“I’m in Hogwarts, can you talk?”). She didn’t quite know where to go, vaguely wanting to stay around, congratulate Dom, and not even knowing if James would want to see her. That thought hurt the most.
Post by James Sirius Potter on Jul 30, 2019 13:26:55 GMT
“WHAT?! …no, NO, NO! LEAN when you swing for the curve. LEAN, GODDAMMIT!”
None of this had been thought through, which was both the motto and mission statement for the James Potter brand. It all came to a head- all of it, whatever it was, since he was incapable of really capturing it and consolidating it enough to recognize it. It was a slow build that was destined to burst, with every person that wanted to shake his hand, tell him how talented he was, just like his father, the sort of earnest congratulations and unnecessary consoling that made him want to put his fist directly through a wall. The pressure of the collective ‘they’ for him to be everything he was, so that they could feel heart-warmed, the way a video on Wiztant of an Auror seeing his puppy after a long assignment for the Ministry.
Yes- all of that- that was the reason he was charging frantically back and forth at the base of the pitch near the entrance to the Hufflepuff locker rooms, arms flailing, his screams being dulled out by the roaring of the crowd below. He’d tried watching from a turret at the castle- but he couldn’t feel the wind, and how was he going to be able to calculate which plays to go by if he couldn’t factor in the wind? Even if he wasn’t necessarily responsible for it anymore?
As soon as Linus spun for the snitch, James turned on his heel and exited the pitch, snarling swears to himself as he did. His pestering voice, the one he didn’t care for that had somehow taken up permanent residency in his temples, told him to fuck right off, because all of it was his fault, and maybe if he’d been a little more level-headed, he could have avoided this altog- bzz bzz.
He grappled for his quiv, muttering under his breath about flight patterns, and released it from his pocket to be greeted by a hext from his mother…who was at Hogwarts……for the match……………who he hadn’t told about his recent departure. “Fuck, fuckfuckfuck…” Pressing his eyes shut and hanging his head back towards the sky, he exhaled loudly through his nose in an attempt to gather himself for what would inevitably be an awful way to end the day.
Hi Mum…Great Hall. Can be there in a few. And he was. Thankfully, there was still sometime before dinner, and most students were preparing for a celebration in the Slytherin Common Room or perhaps some time outside, on one of the last temperate days of the fall. The Gryffindor table was barren, save for a smattering of people playing gobstones by the teacher’s table. Others were scattered about the hall, but the fall-time music wafting calmly throughout the hall blended their voices together.
His quiv was squarely on the table in front of him, and he was doing everything he could to resist slamming his forehead against it.
Post by Ginevra Molly Weasley on Aug 1, 2019 0:39:54 GMT
Ginny pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. She by all rights should be too young for stress headaches, she thought, but then she supposed her circumstances were extraordinary. She was out of the stands by now, backed behind a tower where the chattering students wouldn’t be able to see her, trying to remember the breathing exercises her counsellor had taught her. She had ended up catching sight of the Gryffindor team leaving, but decided that it wasn’t the moment - she’d seen that particular look on Dom’s face before, and knew better than to try to have a conversation with her niece in that particular mood, especially if she wanted to get to James before nightfall.
James. Right. She checked her quiv and sighed. I’ll be there soon. Had he not been at the match? Or had he rushed off that quickly? She scrolled back through their hexts as she started to walk up to the castle, her feet suddenly reluctant and unsure. Was she nervous to talk to him? This was ridiculous.
But she couldn’t see anything in their hexts that were abnormal. What had happened? Why had no one told her? She knew it was hypocritical to play the war hero now, but seriously, surely it should have occurred to one of her friends in the castle to drop her an owl or a floo when James - but then, she reasoned, they probably thought she’d already known. It wasn’t like he’d stopped writing.
She stopped walking as the castle came into view - ostensibly to pull her heating-charmed-gloves on, but more realistically to take a moment to look up at the towers. Hundreds of memories, years upon years of Quidditch matches, flooded through her head, and of course that final stuck there. They had no proof it was Gryffindor tower, but in her head she felt like it must’ve been. That was the kind of irony the world liked to throw at her. “Oh Harry James,” she murmured to herself, “what would you say to him?”
Pulling herself together, wiping tears away on the back of her hand, she pushed open the doors of the Great Hall. It felt strange, sneaking back into school as an adult, like she needed a written note from a teacher - which was stupid, of course, McGo - Minerva knew she was here. A group of first years (they were so small) stared at her before scattering, and she rolled her eyes. She hoped the hall was empty.
It was, basically, and as soon as she saw James her organs felt like they were realigning - he was okay, physically at least - and she had to hold in the urge to run. She was by his side in seconds, and barely let him stand as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders (ridiculously tall this son of hers), any frustration temporarily vanishing in favour of relief. “Jamie,” she said quietly, aware that the handful of people in the Hall might all have their eyes on the Famous Potter Family, “what’s happened? Tell me everything.”
Post by James Sirius Potter on Aug 8, 2019 14:43:18 GMT
Staring at his quiv, he imagined its circular form twisting together, turning into a little whirlpool that could momentarily suck him up and off the bench, away to a place he wouldn’t have to deal with what he was about to deal with. What was most distracting to him was the worry about what sort of “Can you talk” hext he had just received. Every dynamic of his family that he’d understood to be true (which were few, to be fair) was different now, different since it had happened. The mother he would be sitting down with momentarily was a different mother, and he was a different son. Would she be angry? It was definitely possible, if not for throwing away a final year of prime talent, then for not writing home about it, even a tidbit tucked inside one of the many regular owls he sent home about nothing in particular, their only purpose to please her, make sure she knew no one else would be flying into a turret any time soon.
This moment of pensiveness had become a regular exercise of his any time he was about to see her, usually without the whole heaping rest of the family. It was the arduous task of churning through himself to spit out the James he felt he needed to be for her, the switch from Hogwarts James to Home James, two different Jameses that hadn’t existed until a couple years ago, when he’d been positively split in half, his great trauma necessitating his great schism into both his care-free, ridiculous, bludger-hitting, class-skipping James, and a new solid, quieter, receptive James, freshly cauterized in order to sustain himself, to sustain his family, to be whatever he needed to be in whatever moment he needed to be it in.
The transformation sealed, as it did every time, the moment she had nearly toppled over on him, making it difficult for him to truly straighten up at give her a proper hug. Time had him willowing over her now, but time had also taught him to hold her a little longer than he might want to, to give a slight and extra squeeze to her shoulders as he sat himself back on the bench, thus inviting her to do so too. He was barely able to offer a “Hi Mum,” before she was asking after him. Well, after it. The great departure of his seventh year. He paused, still deeply unsure of how to answer her (how could he, when he couldn’t even answer to himself?).
“What’s happened? Well…they haven’t kicked me out of school yet, you’ll be pleased to know,” he started, keeping his tone quiet, but dressing it with a distinct cheer. Avoidance- his second language. “We’re all getting on quite well. Al and Lily are, you know,” he shrugged, shifting his hands like scales, not the least bit sure just how his siblings were doing, “…doing what they do. Dom carries her soapbox wherever she can. The usual!” He imagined his direction may not be met with buy-in, so he carried on. “How’s things with you? Have you seen Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione recently? I really have meant to write but, sheesh, then I’d be writing to just about everyone and we all know I have quite a lot to say but it’s not of much interest to anyone but me, yeah?”
He’d become quite seamless in his ability to carry on as if nothing were wrong, which may be fine for the every-day, as his issues didn’t often manifest in such sudden, serious ways. How well his facades would sustain in the face of something he couldn’t hide was a completely different situation, and not one he wanted to deal with on a Saturday afternoon.