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[avengger-old]

GENERAL -----

Dove, Charlotte ( @buildmcup​ ), Sage ( @sagediggory​ ) and Isolde ( @isoldebell​ ) corned Baudouin Polignac. After a struggle that injures Charlotte, it’s Dove who delivers the final blow -- the sectumsempra curse -- that kills Polignac. She feels empty, nothing, an absence of anything. I wrote a self para that you can read here. 

Dove and the gang leave Polignac and apparate to the safe house, as Charlotte needs help. They can’t go to St. Mungo’s, as she is a muggleborn. They lie and say they were ambushed. Dove has to lie to her mother, which is hardest of all. She speaks with Olivia ( @krumwood​ ) in the kitchen, and there’s not much she wants to say --- Dove wants to get out, to get to Fawn, to scream and stand among the mountains of Scotland. Dove doesn’t stay long at the safehouse, sneaking out once again.

Dove fears the worst for Lottie, and can’t handle the thought of Fawn having to lose someone else without being able to say goodbye again despite everything between them. She apparates to the battle, and seeks out Fawn ( @faawns​ ). Dove isn’t wearing her Erinyes uniform, and isn’t interested in the fight. She finds Fawn, and tells her that they were ambushed, that Lottie was hit by a curse, and that things look bad. She’s panicked, her walls are down. Fawn and Dove apparate to the safehouse together. 

OPTIONAL PLOTS  —–

Your character and Dove interact at the safehouse --- maybe they try to stop her from leaving again? She will put up a fight. Dove is desperate, panicked, stressed. 

Before Dove reaches Fawn at the battle, your character and her could interact. They can fight, if your character is a Wraith. Maybe, if your character is a Knight or Order member, they can deflect a curse aimed at Dove ( or the other way around ), or they can wonder what the hell she’s doing there. I have plenty of ideas for possible threads at the battle, but not a lot of room as Dove was there only for a very short time!

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@lilyii

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hannah & fawn‌:

who: @avengger & @faawns​ when: flashback, 12th november 2025 where: the longbottom home 

She closed the bedroom door behind her with a soft click, hand lingering on the knob for a few seconds too long before letting go. Her littlest ones had finally gone down for a much needed nap, exhausted from the day’s events. For a moment, Hannah was frozen in her spot; the breath in her lungs stuttered to a halt, as if someone had pulled the ground from under her and waited to fall through. Truthfully, the past week—which had been a living nightmare strung together by silent tears and half-hearted reassurances—left her feeling that exact way, waiting on bated breath for the moment when the grief would finally pull her under. 

But it never did. Hannah was far too busy trying to be strong, making sure that her family was thriving and planning her husband’s funeral. Her children had already lost their father; they didn’t need to lose a mother too. And when she wasn’t strong, she was numb. 

Movement became possible after a few deep breaths. Hannah steadied herself with a hand on the wall, absently tracing faded crayon marks and picture frame corners along the way. She managed to pad her way back to the living room. What was once a warm, incandescent space suddenly felt so cold, even in the presence of her two eldest daughters. Hannah sank into the couch upon arrival, the limbs that had been threatening to buckle all day finally given reprieve. 

“ Girls, ” Hannah called out into the quiet that hung around them. The voice that fought its way out of her chest registered as barely above a whisper. She opened both palms on either side of her, free for both of her daughters to take. “ Come here, please. ” 

Ever since coming home, Dove felt like she was postponing the inevitable. The ice inside her seemed to be melting, slowly turning from something frozen into the salty water of tears. It hurt, to be inside this world, and now that the funeral was over, it hurt even more. There were no distractions, no people to be annoyed with, no details to fuss over.

Right now, there was only the hole that her father had left in her home, and a silence between her and Fawn. She wanted to speak, but had no words. She had nothing; there was not even anger in her left, now, every ounce of energy drained --- she felt bare, naked, raw. It was overwhelming her, crashing over her like a relentless wave; most other days so far, she’d just been filled with an anger, with a sense of denial, and now there was nothing, nothing but longing.

She couldn’t bare to look at the chair her father had once liked to sit in. She couldn’t bare to look at the pictures with his smiling, moving face, or the shape of Fawn’s face, which reminded her so of her dad’s. Dove looked at her hands, and her hands alone, studying her nails, rubbing a thumb over the palm of her other hand, distracting, distracting, distracting.

And then there was her mother, her words so soft, so fragile, hanging in the airs. Two open palms. And Dove sat frozen, for a moment, the way her mother had uttered the word please hurting her like a dagger might --- deeply, sharply. There was a moment of hesitation, but shegot up, sitting down on the couch next to her mother, her legs pulled up close to her body, her head on Hannah’s shoulder. She felt like she might break, and maybe in a way, she did. The ice had melted, the tears were in her eyes, ready to fall. “I’m here,” she said, because that’s all she could say, all she could do -- Dove had no words. Nothing.

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hermione‌:

“If only. Cobble streets only make rolling your ankle more likely to happen, but it can happen even on flat surfaces just by stepping wrong. I don’t think anywhere is rush proof.”

“Ease my mind a bit and take a moment to elevate it. You’ll only make it worse if you keep walking on it. I’ll even buy you a butterbeer if you’d like.”

“Alright, alright, you make a good point. But come on, as if you don’t ever hurry. I mean, I can’t imagine that never occurring.”

“Alright, but only if you buy me a butterbeer. Sitting still and doing nothing without a warm beverage just doesn’t fit in my lifestyle, I’m afraid.”

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mira:

Mira laughed, “CLEARLY not. Maybe they should be the ones taking a few pointers from muggle artists, not that they would seeing as they think they’re better than them and all. A mistake of severe artistic proportions on their part.”

“My god, imagine keeping yourself from looking into muggle art, just because of your backwards beliefs. That’s just cruel towards yourself, besides it, you know, being pretty cruel towards the group of people you’re excluding.”

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violetta‌:

“Of course I would. Watch: Oi! Rocks- don’t trip Dove ever again or I will personally turn you into pebbles. She is a queen and deserves to be treated as such. So straighten out so she can walk, got it?”

“Thank you --- I knew I could rely on you. I’m sure the cobbles and I won’t have any issues in the future, because that was way scary. Anyway---- how’ve you been, V?”

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sage: 

“Without hope, there’s no reason to act. You’re right, we need to do something  — the question is: what should we do first? And when to do it, security is pretty tight but we have time before school starts back up. Maybe or they could be writing about the thickness of cauldron bottoms again. Sounds splendid.”

“Get out of here with your philosophical truths, Diggory. I don’t hope -- I aspire, or do. Hoping is passive. We should just redo the entire streets, I think. It’d be good to get our hands dirty. And my god, can you imagine having to write about the thickness of cauldron bottoms. Why don’t they ever write about tops?”

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“I never meant for it…any of this…any of that to turn it- “get out.”

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icarus:

“What else do you think you are?” He asked. He’d heard it bounce around the walls of the safehouse and in the desperate cry during interrogations in Hogwarts. They were fighting the ‘good’ fight while they were the only evil ones. Maybe they were evil but that didn’t make them good. Right?  The thought of Lily and Fawn helping him escape, Scorpius carefully tending to his wound and the thought of Mira with her coloring books pops into his mind. No.

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“I’ve not got a fucking clue, actually, but I’m not going to talk about that with the likes of you,” she snapped. “I don’t owe you any explanation on anything.” Dove hated that he made her think, that doubt was trickling into her mind like a thin stream of water. She was in the right, even if she wasn’t good, and believing that ---- no, knowing that was all that mattered. She didn’t care about being good, she cared about righteousness. 

She had expected him to fight back. To lash out, verbally or physically, to match her angry, her violence with his own. She didn’t expect this. Dove watched Icarus raise his hand to his jaw and felt frustration rise in her chest. This was supposed to be a way to make her feel better --- this fight, this letting her rage run free, but she didn’t feel better.

She didn’t know what she did feel. Confusion washed over her as she watched Icarus, as she heard words spill over his lips that didn’t seem to be directed at her. Father, he asked, and Dove felt guilt blossom in her chest. She wouldn’t feel bad for Icarus Lestrange, wouldn’t feel guilty about her anger --- she couldn’t. Feeling bad for him, meant she had been in the wrong, that her anger wasn’t justified, that she’d gone too far. 

And yet. Icarus laughed, cursed, and Dove just watched, unsure, uncomfortable. She didn’t want this -- she didn’t want to see someone she despised in a state this fragile, couldn’t handle the idea that Icarus was human, too, that he ached, too, that maybe he wasn’t a perpetrator but a victim. 

Her world was black and white, and this didn’t fit in it. The idea that Icarus was just a teenager, like her, who had been hurt, who had suffered, who had been used, wasn’t one she could accept. He was wrong, she was right --- and anything that might suggest that it was different, that maybe they were both right and wrong at the same time, she dismissed immediately. Even if it was hard, now that she was looking at him, in this state. 

And then he pushed her, and Dove was taken aback, again. “Yes, you,” she bit back, words leaving her mouth only so she could make a sound. Another shove --- she didn’t care; she wished he’d do more, she wished he’d punched her like she had punched him. But he only looked at her with a look in his eyes that made her feel small, like the angry child she’d once been --- filled with thunder and tantrums.

There was a softness, and Dove didn’t want it. She wanted cruelty, a viciousness and anger that matched hers. She didn’t want this, whatever it was. 

“Don’t worry. I was already on my way out,” she said, her words growing colder with every syllable that left her mouth. Her pride kept her back straight and her chin up, but she felt strange, out of balance, as if the world and her ideas of it were wobbling, ready to topple down and crash at any moment. 

And so she turned and left, pulling the door behind her, closing it with less of a bang than she might have, if things had gone different. She wanted to be alone, to not look anyone in the eyes right now --- she figured that maybe Icarus wanted the same.

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olivia‌:

who: olivia + @avengger​

when: january 7th 2026, before the graveyard battle.

where: grimmauld place.

                     the arrival of another group of students who brought the injured girl terrified the few members present at grimmauld place that night. she listened briefly to the explanation given, a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. it was revolting that the war would take on such proportions, that it would force teenagers to get involved. when olivia heard that the wraiths had ambushed the students in the dead of night, she grew angrier; somehow it became even more difficult to stay in the safe house “doing nothing”.

                   as the auror post demanded vast knowledge in potions and healing spells, olivia took care of checking how the erinyes were doing. in the first room liv entered, she recognized one of the girls: first because she had seen her at the end of last year at the leaky cauldron; and secondly, due to realizing only now that the younger was the daughter of neville longbottom. she cleared her throat to announce her presence; when olivia thought she had caught the longbottom’s attention, she asked: “are you okay? can i get you anything?”.

The world felt like something distant, something unreal. Dove watched how Lottie got help and felt relief --- that was the only thing that had felt true, and now that that was being resolved, she was back to a strange sense of numbness. She’d lied through her teeth about what had happened, and had nearly believed the words that came out of her mouth. You just killed somebody -- those words echoed through her mind on an endless loop, and yet she didn’t believe them. ( It was like when her father had died, and she kept having to tell herself, out loud, that he was dead, because otherwise she’d forget. )

She wanted to get out. To feel fresh air on her face, to run through Hyde Park as if she was only a muggle, jogging away, with no war in her life. But she was stuck, with extra pairs of eyes on her and her co-conspirators, now. Dove stood in a room -- if you asked her a day later if it was the kitchen or the living room, she’d not have been able to tell you -- and stared. She was ripped from her thoughts -- or lack thereof -- by a cleared throat, and turned her eyes towards Olivia. “I’m fine,” she said, her words short, echoing in her mind. “I might make a sandwich, though. But I got it. Thanks.”

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hugo:

The holidays had always been Hugo’s favorite time of year. Perhaps it was a tad cliche, obsessing over the carols and lights and the endless cheer that had always seemed to accompany the December month and time home with his family. Sure he was a tad sulky the past few years, wondering how long until he got to see the same faces he spent every day with at school, or about the uncomfortable outfits he would wear, but that attitude always turned around as quickly as it came. However the somber atmosphere everywhere he turned made Hugo regret his past few years of teenage angst leaving him too cool for the festivities. And if December was great, Hugo didn’t have words to describe the New Year. Not for the parties or champagne toasts as they all rung in a new calendar year that in reality meant little to none in the grand scheme of life. January first marked a fresh start; gifting the average wixen with resolutions and the illusion that all your past mistakes went away, got left behind in the previous year and you were wiped clean of all guilt. 

The constant in and out of people still overwhelmed his introverted side, even when the company was for a happy reason. Maybe now especially when it was for a happy reason as that seemed so rare lately. Hugo only needed a few minutes, just to walk away and collect his thoughts than he would find a smaller group and rejoin conversation where it seemed any serious discussion by anyone over the age of twenty-five ceased the second he made his presence known. 

He honestly hadn’t expected anyone to answer when he knocked on the door. Typically his awkwardness would be buzzing at a low level for the next ten minutes or so because someone else is going to see he uses the bathroom, anxiety glossing over the fact that she also was in the bathroom. But that had been canceled out by the tear tracks coating Dove’s face, hitting Hugo hard with the realization that none of them were getting a fresh start come midnight. 

“No! I mean- take your time I was only…” He stammered, a hand reaching over to scratch lightly at his arm. “I um.. I made cookies. They aren’t out yet but do you want one?”

Why did people have to be so good? So kind? Dove was frustrated --- she was all ragged edges and sharp corners, a harsh word, a cold look, a face of thunder, and so many people were kind. They were gentle, offering a helping hand without a question, caring, and she? She had never been good at that. Not even before, before this war, before the Knights and the Schism and her dad --- even then she’d always felt uncomfortable with her mother’s soft hands and Fawn’s kind eyes. She couldn’t return it, not in a way that matched, that fit. Dove always seemed to say the wrong thing, in the wrong tone, her hugs always too distant or too rough, her hands too harsh to hold another one softly. 

When Hugo asked if she wanted a cookie, she felt as if she might crumble. She didn’t deserve this --- this gentleness, the consideration. She wanted to be glared at, to be avoided, to be joined in her anger. Dove looked at him, aware of the tears tracks on her cheeks and the fresh ones burning in her eyes. Kindness made her feel weak, so maybe that’s why she was bad at it. ( But then, maybe this was weakness; these endless walls, the denial of her true feelings, the way she wanted to dismiss any soft word. ) 

She wanted to dismiss Hugo’s words, to show him nothing but the rage that she felt towards the Knights, and so to a certain extent him. She wanted to be the fury she thought she was --- but she couldn’t. Not with Hugo offering nothing but kindness, not right now, in this state. Dove swallowed. “Yeah,” she breathed. A hand was raised to wipe at her nose, and she chuckled, as if embarrassed, as if apologising for her emotions -- she wouldn’t mention it in words, after all. “That sounds good. Maybe we can get a cuppa, too.”

[avengger-old]

james:

if it weren’t for the correspondence with a pretty major international holiday, james may have forgotten about his birthday entirely. he’d fully planned on glossing it over this year, maybe maintain only the most important traditions ( though many were now obsolete without his father, just as they had been last year. except last year, he’d gone through with them and made sure to pour one out in his memory. what was he to do this year? ). he could sneak out to a pub at night, security measures be damned, to ring in the new year and try and forget the last even happened. being cooped up in order safe houses, most interactions with the world from behind his gringotts desk, was exhausting. he had to get out. but it seemed almost cruel to enjoy himself in the midst of their current milieu  — as james was bitterly reminded of as dove walked in.

happy birthday she’d said. could that now be considered an oxymoron? in his opinion, happy and birthday were now as contrasting as black and white. but, jamessiriuspotter was a tired cheery man who always had a witty comment and a sly grin at the ready to assure others that all was well. so, while james internally grimaced, jamessiriuspotter gave the old friend a quick, tight hug before accepting the gift. “ thank you, ” he admired the plant, “ i’ll be sure to take great care of this. you know, you really didn’t have to get me anything. this was very thoughtful of you. ” dittany? was that the one for burns? maybe the one that helped get rid of wrinkles? he’d never paid much attention in herbology, instead always trying to distract his friends. professor longbottom had always scolded him, but james knew deep down neville had always enjoyed his antics… oh yeah. clearing his throat, he set down the plant on a nearby table and piped up, “ it’s nice to see you, dove. it’s been quite a while. ”

A shrug. He was right – she really didn’t have to give him anything, and she wondered why she did, now. Being around the Potters – any of them, really, but most especially Lily and Harry – felt like torture, constantly confronted with what she lost and what they gained. ( And she knew, she knew that it wasn’t ideal, the way they got Harry back, but they did and she lost her dad, and that still hurt, even if they were not to blame. ) She stood there, awkwardly, before sinking down on one of the couches. Dove couldn’t blame James for the sins of his sister; that’d be unreasonable. And so she tried not to. She tried to just sit down, and be there, on his birthday, for at least thirty minutes --- she’d known James all her life, after all. Dove couldn’t burn all her bridges, she knew that. ( And the distraction -- albeit exhausting -- was welcome. )

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, waving away his comments. It’s been a while. Dove grimaced, for a moment, wondering what he’d like her to say. “It has. I’ve been so --” Busy? Angry? Occupied with the fact that the world has fallen out from beneath my god damn feet? Filled with grief and rage and guilt, that it’s impossible for me to continue to move like a normal human being? “-- tired. School’s a lot and then...” Her words trailed off, and she shrugged. “Well, you get it.” He did, she supposed, in a way. Not too long ago his father had died in a cruel way, though under quite different circumstances. “How’ve you been?”

[avengger-old]

who: dove and @viviehnne​​ when: november 20th where: history of magic classroom

She despised this --- sitting in a classroom, taking classes as if nothing had changed, as if nothing had happened. The world kept moving; there were essays to write and spells to practice and NEWTs to worry about, and Dove couldn’t get herself to participate. Everything moved past her, colours mixing and blurring together as shapes talked, walked, lived. All there was in her world was the gap that her father had left and the rage that filled it. 

She was building something, and that was all that mattered. The Erinyes --- that’s what she was calling it, and it’d exist out of the people who like her, disagreed with the Knights, who like her were built of rage and a thirst for justice. To focus on finding the right people and making plans was the only thing that kept her from collapsing, right then and there, in that classroom. The guilt pressed on her chest too hard to breathe, sometimes, and the longing – that gap – was too big to even grasp, and this distracted her, made her breathe a little easier.

So during this lesson, she hardly listened to the professor, but in stead focused on the conversation she planned to have with Viv. Viv, who had left the Knights before everything went to shit, who was now unaffiliated but who was driven and clever and willing to fight for what was right. Viv, who would be a perfect fit for the Erinyes, thought Dove – and so when class was done, she matched her speed with that of the Gryffindor and met her on the way out of the classroom. “Hey Viv – d’you have a spare minute to talk?” One good thing about having a recently murdered father: people were unable to say no to a question like that.

[avengger-old]

but the truth is some holes keep going

when: january 6th. where: york, near baudouin polignac’s estate who: features charlotte meadowes, isolde bell and sage diggory (and baudouin polignac).

So this is what it feels like, to kill. 

Dove stands still and watches. She hears commotion, knows that Charlotte needs her help, that they need to move, that they can’t stay here, with Baudouin bleeding out, with the chance of being caught growing with every second they stay there.

She watches the blood leave his body and wonders why she doesn’t feel anything. She tries to dig inside herself, to reach to the place where all her anger lies, and finds it undisturbed. She wants to feel something, even disgust or fear would be better than this, this lack of anything. She watches Baudouin and she feels frozen, ice cold. 

Dove wants to scream, for a second. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen: she was supposed to feel victorious, to feel justified, vindicated, but in stead she feels nothing. No pity, no guilt, nothing. 

Someone she knew is bleeding out in front of her and it was her who dealt the death sentence, it was her who spoke that final curse. She feels a wind pass through her, as if she’s hollow. Her knees tremble, as if she’s  ready to collapse, but she stays standing. Staring. There’s nothing inside her.

The blood continues to flow. She remembers hitting a bludger in Baudouin’s direction on the Quidditch pitch and shooting him a shit eating grin --- all fun and games, back then. Her hatred for him had existed back then already, but it was different now. Now her hatred had been a weapon.

She thinks of her father, and wonders what he’d think. He would hate Baudouin, too, she knows --- Baudouin is a murderer, a worse one than she is now, one who killed someone younger than he was, one who killed someone who was good. Baudouin Polignac deserved no mercy. And though her dad would have hated him, she doubts he’d do the same as she did. She feels nothing at that, either. 

And he’s still gone, he’s still dead, so what the fuck is the point of all this? She still feels the same. She still misses her dad. That gap that he left is still there, and it’s no smaller. She wants to scream, but resists.

She watches Baudouin take his last breath. He gasps. He stops. He’s as frozen as she feels. 

She feels nothing but an endless abyss inside herself. A hole that she’ll never fill.

She has killed now, and she thought she’d feel changed. Like a fury, an erinyes, a goddess --- but in stead she feels lost. Still filled with a longing for something she can’t reach, can’t have, can’t touch. 

Has this changed nothing, then? Is she still a shelled out being?

She turns to Char, Sage and Izzy and hopes they don’t see the ice in her eyes, the hollowness of her body, the emptiness of her hands. “We need to get out of here,” she says. “He’s dead.”

[avengger-old]

“My grief will cut off all of my hair. My grief will burn my house down. My grief will give birth to chaos. My grief will stop at nothing […]”

— Lydia Havens, from “September & Nothing Else,” Survive Like Water (via lifeinpoetry)

[avengger-old]

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