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[druella-rosier-blog]

DATE: September 6th // 1944. TIME: 1700 hours. LOCATION: Grounds (near Quidditch pitch). OPEN TO: @khalilahshafiq 

              Druella had never fancied herself particularly fond of Quidditch. It was exciting, to put on her vibrant Slytherin scarf and steal snacks from the hands of friends while they screamed with anger or delight, depending on the circumstance. It was also a treat to see the shiny trophy presented to her friends and fellow housemates at the end if they won, but beyond that, it was a sport with far too much rough handling for Druella’s constitution. She’d never tried out for the team, and often found herself daydreaming through most matches.

              But she had a friend who wanted to perhaps try out for Ravenclaw’s team, and Druella was the only one they knew with a free night when Kitty was practicing, so thus, a plan was born. Druella would do her very best to note the general style of play -- admitting fully to her limited ability to judge it -- and her friend would then try to make sense of the notes. Personally, she thought that seemed a bit of a disaster, but she was bored and there’s nothing better for a reputation than doing someone a favor.

              She tried not to give off an air of consideration when it came to that sort of thing, but it was always on her mind. Particularly after the start of term, and the bombs she’d seen in London -- pretty, pretty, pretty, but an empty head. She knew pretty kept her safe, but it wouldn’t keep her alive. Corvus would. Cygnus was meant to. But at the end of the day, what if they were gone? Declan swooping in had been a shock to her senses, and at first she’d been relieved. But the more she thought about it, the more she wondered: was the kindness of strangers inevitable? How much help could she buy with the soft shadow of her eyelashes as they brushed against her high cheekbones? 

              Even if she got nothing from the exercise, she would have the time to think. Maybe to even practice a spell or two. She wasn’t a witch for nothing, but she couldn’t truly tell herself she’d mastered any spells that would protect her if she happened to be alone. The blind terror of losing Corvus to the crowd weighed heavy on her heart, and as she tried to watch Kitty Shafiq fly drills high in the air, she was far more concerned with her own vain mortality.

              The sky darkened to a twilight blue without her notice, and she had only just begun packing her things when a figure approached in the distance. Not knowing who it was from such a ways away, Druella smiled and gave half a wave, shoving her haphazard notes into her bag and tucking away her quill. When she had a chance to look up again, she was more than confused -- she knew Kitty Shafiq was unlikely to bother with her on most days. Why was she walking directly toward her? And with some semblance of a smile, as ill-fit as it was directed at Druella, on her regal features?

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ ARIADNE

Date: 9.5.1944. {{ day two of classes }}

Location: Courtyard Written for: @druella-rosier

      Despite being a 7th year at Hogwarts, the cloak and uniform still looked slightly baggy on the otherwise stylish Ravenclaw, her petite frame hidden in the folds as if the blue and black fabric was trying to swallow her whole. She may have looked almost amusing, if it weren’t for her head held so high, and the elegant cast of her step. Charming, maybe, was a better word to describe the miniature Ravenclaw floating over the grass towards the flaxen haired serpent sitting upon the stone barrier. 

         Their friendship had formed stronger than that Ariadne had shared with Abraxas for so many years. Now, with their announcement of the upcoming wedding and meshing of their future, the Greengrass girl regarded Druella as that of familial connection. A cousin to Abraxas, but a sister in spirit to Ariadne.                      Or so, Ariadne liked to believe. Sitting down beside her and pulling her long raven locks over her shoulder, a small rare smile was offered up in greeting. There was a bond between the two – both puppets at the hands of their families, both hoping to achieve their dreams, though drastic in nature. Druella and her pursuit for love and affection, and Ariadne and her hopes for success and power and equality. Both had found themselves lacking a choice in their marriage, and often Ariadne would come to Druella with her innermost thoughts that no one else would quite understand.                   It was hard for the others to believe such beautiful, graceful creations such as the pair of them could suffer from anything other than what to wear at a party. Yet their minds help deeper worlds, and somehow, Ariande understood Druella was more than a shallow Rosier daughter. More than a prize to be won. 

       “How are you?” The question came out as genuine, for concern did cloud the almond eyes of Ariadne’s gaze. A raven and serpent – it would typically seem uncommon for such compassion and kindred spirit between the two, yet Ariadne had grown used to extending a caring hand to all of the houses. “I haven’t found the time to speak with you since… since the incident. Abraxas tells me Declan had to rescue you.”       In hindsight, Ariadne realized that it may be coming off as offensive, accusing her friend of weakness. Her smile had faded just as quickly as it had appeared, for it wasn’t often she granted the vision of it on her porcelain features. Continuing before Druella could potentially protest her choice wording, Ariadne offered up a tale of equal nature.                                     “You’d never believe who assisted me. Khalilah Shafiq - yes, a prefect, yet still surprising,” The Greengrass girl spoke in hushed tones, just above a whisper. While Kitty had made her own disdain for Ariadne clear, the older Ravenclaw had always been meticulously careful to deny any ill will towards her in return. “I’m glad to see you out and about, Druella.”

           Druella was quite prone to sunning like a cat, particularly in the warmer months. Though the leaves were brown around the edges, the warm August sun lingered pleasantly into the first days of September, drawing her out from the Slytherin common room as often as possible while it lasted. She kept her eyes closed but was always open to a touch on the shoulder or a shout of her name. It wasn’t surprising to hear someone sit beside her, but when she paused to see who it was, her eyes flashed with delight as a bright smile crossed her face. 

           Ariadne was one of her favorite people, though they’d only begun talking rather recently in comparison to some of the other friends she had. There was something in the way the Ravenclaw looked at her, as though there was substance to Druella that most people didn’t bother to see. It made her feel special and important in a way that seemed to fill a hole inside her when no other attention quite did. In return, she was a more excellent listener than usual with Ariadne, truly giving her thoughts and worries weight rather than daydreaming as she often did during long conversations. 

           ❝ Better today. Declan did help! Tom had to abandon me for some younger students and I wandered off a bit, but... he really did save me. Weird, non? ❞ Druella explained, half a smile remaining on her cheeks. The events of the past few days had certainly shaken her spirit, but she was never one to be bogged down for long, always springing from tragedy largely unscathed. ❝ And I missed you! I must insist you come see me much sooner after the winter holiday, or I will think I’m no longer your second favorite. ❞ It was sort of a tease, knowing Abraxas would always be number one, but Druella was content in this case with Ariadne’s affections.

           Normally she would begin conversations without thinking to ask, but when Ariadne spoke, she was genuinely interested. ❝ How are you? Enjoying your classes I’m sure. ❞ Though it was a stereotype of the ravens, it was also often the truth that they enjoyed the learning portion of school more than she would ever hope to understand. At Ariadne’s mention of Kitty, Druella’s eyes widened in shock. She knew of the animosity between them, though the meaner girl had always seemed rather ambivalent toward Druella. ❝ Did she pretend not to care afterward, or are you going to be -- ❞ Druella leaned in with a hushed whisper, ❝ friends now? ❞

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ CYGNUS

She was always fluttering, Druella, like a butterfly. And that’s what she was, no? A butterfly: frail and frantic and spun from gossamer. Her heart fluttered, her hands fluttered, her eyelashes fluttered—she fluttered, that little papillon, and things that fluttered (fairies, birds, little girls’ hearts) ought never to be touched by hands that knew only how to crush. 

Could you imagine? Cygnus Black, with his big, stained-with-foul-blood hands that left blooming bruises on his lovers, cradling delicate, darling, fluttering Druella Rosier—forever. It was laughable, really, the notion of wedding a butterfly to a net. But there she was, eyelashes fluttering, hands fluttering, heart fluttering (he could feel the labored rise and fall of her chest), looking up at him like was more nectar than net, like she could sustain herself on his sweetness for this lifetime and the next. What a terrible shame that no one had schooled her on the anatomy of Cygnus Black, for you could peel away his skin, crack open his chest cavity, dissect each of his organs and suck all of the marrow out of his bones, and you’d not find a single vestige of sweetness in his whole, hollow body. 

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to muffle his scoff at her very simple, very stupid ‘no.’ ‘No’—as if to punctuate her naivety, as if to flap her wings and chirp, ‘Look! Look! Watch me flutter! Come catch me!’ No one in the castle’s hallowed halls—save for, perhaps, Evadne and Lucretia and Walburga—could lay claim to the privilege of not needing to be terrified of Cygnus Black. He swallowed stars, Cygnus, inhaled their solar shine and exhaled a carcass of stolen virtue, siphoning the light of others so that he could survive his own darkness. And Druellla Rosier? She was the lightest of them all, outshined only by the sacred purity of Lucretia, whose goodness could not be matched even by winged seraphs. He didn’t want to wed, Druella, no; he wanted to devour her, wanted to feed on her light until he’d had his fill of starshine, until he’d smothered her goodness, robbed her virtue, and plucked her wings. 

“Don’t fret, mon papillon,” he crooned, raising his hand to her temple and using his knuckles to to sweep a few pale curls out of her face. The gesture appeared to be tender—intimate, even—but those who were well-acquainted with Cygnus’ trickery knew that he liked to play with his food, and that he only gentled his touch right before he was about to strike a monstrous blow, as if to deceive his prey with promises of shelter when we was, in fact, the storm. It was too easy to play her, really; she was painfully readable, Druella, and so it was not very difficult at all for him to bend her, to break her, to strum this string when he wanted to hear that tune. “Our dear Corvus is safe and sound.” Maybe, maybe not; Cygnus certainly didn’t know. “Last I saw him, he was on his merry way to the dungeons.” A lie, but you wouldn’t know it from the way his tongue spun straw into gold, delivering the bluff with stark sincerity. Stars, he’d learned, tasted best when they shone brightest, and Druella, he’d learned, positively beamed beneath the dizzying weight of his attention. Like the big bad wolf, he would dress up and play the fantastical role of knight in shining armor she’d fashioned in the cosmos of her imagination, and when she realized what big teeth he had, he’d eat her. Tomorrow, he might change his mind (he was a fickle creature, Cygnus Black, and his wants changed as often as Hogwarts’ shifting staircases); tomorrow, he might tire of this game, might dismiss her existence with cool indifference and ignore her altogether. But tonight, he wanted to play.

“Come,” he entreated, offering her the crook of his elbow. “I’ll take you to him.” Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. “I’m an excellent protector, you know.” Theoretically, yes, Cygnus Black would make an excellent protector, for his peers feared him as intensely as they wanted him. The only problem? He was the reason anyone needed protection in the first place; he was the monster Druella Rosier needed to be protected from. “Trust me, little dove.” Fly away, little butterfly. Run, little girl. 

         What a fool she was. Pretty and bright, but a fool nonetheless, to put her trust in Cygnus Black. It was not entirely her fault -- after all, she had been encouraged her entire life to do so -- but it was a flaw she could not see to see. She trusted others, non? For good or ill, and perhaps that was her undoing. Perhaps that would be her undoing. Yet how could she not? The world had formed itself between her palms, light as air and so easy to carry with no other burdens. How was a feather to know it would eventually hit the ground? 

         It was in her nature to forgive, and so she did, for every past transgression he’d laid at her feet. He was always tugging at her heart, but she could not bear to let him go, could not let the dream of him dissolve into nightmare. Without Cygnus, without her and Lu’s dream of being sisters at last, what was there for her? In this world that had shown itself just now to be so cold and unforgiving, where would she fit if not beneath his thumb? She was made for him, shaped by her parents’ hands, by her brother’s ideals, and served on a shining silver platter. Did he not want to take advantage?

         There was no doubt she was meant for him, and her trust was given freely, without remorse. When Cygnus said he’d seen her brother leaving the Great Hall, Druella felt relief in knowing he was safe. Her naivety was all-encompassing, after all. ❝ Then we should go as well! ❞ she said, suddenly worried on Cygnus’s behalf instead. She would hate if he’d gone to all the trouble of saving her only to be hit in the head with a falling rock or something else as dreadful.

        ❝ Yes, of course. ❞ She blinked as she followed him, confused by his wording. It was not particularly like Cygnus to be obvious. ❝ I do. Of course I do. ❞

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It's just six words

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It's just six words

Two foolish hearts, two outstretched hands.

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Like patched silk: delightfully, tenderly mismatched. 

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You see all sides of me.

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Blood is binding two familiar strangers.

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Sadness touched their spun sugar hearts.

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[druella-rosier-blog]

DATE: September 3rd, 1944. TIME: 15:33. OPEN TO: @electralestrange

     Druella tapped her wand against her lower lip, daydreaming as usual. Now that Corvus was in his seventh year, he hardly had time to spend scolding her about her coursework, let alone stop what he was doing off with Tom Riddle all the time. She didn’t miss the nagging ( perhaps only a little bit ) but she did find she was getting less and less work done. There was just so much else to do!

     Flipping back through her Charms reading, she tried again, following the path illustrated with her wand in the air. She frowned, trying to figure out where exactly she was faltering, before deciding just to go ahead and attempt it anyway. In what she hoped was a fluid movement, she whispered, “Aguamenti!” not wishing to disrupt anyone else studying late in the common room. Her wand gave a few feeble sprinkles of water before dying out, and she huffed, her shoulder sinking as a pout dressed her lips.

     Normally she would have given up by now, but conjuring water was useful and interesting enough that she thought she might need it. Annoyed with herself, she went back to her book, flicking through it with small taps of her nails every so often. Charms was her best subject -- she should be doing great with this spell. Perhaps the calamity of the previous few days had made her head spin. Whatever the case, she felt a well of stubbornness that often accompanied her sulks -- she wanted it her way, and she wanted it that instant.

     Pushing up her sleeves ( and thank Merlin she didn’t have to wear her stuffy robes in the safety of the common room ) she fixed a determined little glare at her wand, which would have been rather adorable to an onlooker but felt fierce to her. This time, her fluid motion was sharper, more languid but hitting the right beats, and when she said the spell again, snow began to fall from the ceiling. For a moment, she screwed her face into consternation, but eventually it dissolved into bright laughter. Maybe she should save that one, just to produce snow on command!

     Turning and half-covered in snowflakes, she spotted Electra and brightened, her face lighting up in joy and excitement. ❝ Electra! ❞ she exclaimed, forgetting to be quiet and not to disturb anyone now that a friend had come. Electra was so smart and so good at magic -- she would surely know the best way to complete the spell. ❝ I was, wondering, if you had a moment, if you might help me? It’s just -- I can’t seem to concentrate. I keep thinking back to the bombs. ❞ She shuddered slightly, sinking into her seat. ❝ I suppose I don’t feel safe. ❞

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ LUCRETIA

“I think if you charmed it with an extension charm, there’s no limit.” Her words come out in a breathless gush, accompanied with the giggles of innocence. To hear her laugh is to see a window into the past, a glimpse of the world it was way back when, back before bombs were falling and Europe sat at the crux of horrific domination. Of course, such comparisons would glide easily over Lucretia’s head. War has always been far far away, its horrors never beckoning, its tales rare to grace her life. “And then we could stuff ourselves for weeks and weeks.” Her idea is a silly one, she knows, but these are the most pressing problems either of them have faced, protected by a bubble of lace and purity.

“I…” Alphard’s name is nearly on her lips, wishing to confess everything to her dear friend, to place her head upon her shoulder and simply lament the loss of a brother. (He isn’t dead, she knows that, but the hole he leaves is one just as acute). “It was odd.” This is as close as she can come to the truth, knowing by the way that her parents sharpened their gazes at her that his absence is not something to be spoken idly about. But she’s family. Or, she will be soon. Justification firmly settled in her mind, she probes into the great dark secret - which pales in comparison to the burden other families carry, but has been her singular one. “Alphard wasn’t there. All summer. And whenever I asked about him, no one would tell me the truth.” Sighing wistfully a little, she conjures his face before her, allowing it to dissipate with Druella’s words. “Well, next summer - you simply must visit. We can go out into the country, or London perhaps.”

Lucretia’s inclines her head with agreement, nodding at every word that passes through her friend’s lips. In all their years together, she doesn’t think they’ve ever had an argument, simply too alike, too in sync, too close to think of such a thing. “I despise the winter. It gets so cold up here. All that snow…so wet. The grounds are much prettier in the summer.” In the winter, it isn’t uncommon for Lucretia never to leave the castle, too scarred by the memory of being pelted full in the face with a snowball, back in her third year. (Cygnus rushed to her aid and no one ever tried it again, but still). “Everything is better in the summer.”

          Druella taps her bottom lip as a slow smile stretches across her features. ❝ You’re right, Lu -- good thinking. We’ll just have to keep it cold in our pockets so nothing goes bad. Feed ourselves for the year! ❞ She leans close, conspiratorial and bright. ❝ You and me against the world, Luce. We’ll stuff ourselves like Americans on their cockerel holidays. Or... is it quail? I don’t remember. ❞ That’s half the fun of Druella Rosier -- she makes everything seem like a grand game, a secret just for the two of you, no matter who she ends up sharing it with. 

          She almost misses it, the way Lucretia’s face falls, the way she bites down the end of her sentence. Druella leans forward to share in the suspense, her face falling into something serious, something caring. She is not always flighty, of course. Not for her friends. Not for Luce. ❝ You can tell me, ma chérie. What puts this furrow in your brow? ❞ She strokes it away with the pad of her thumb, her smile gentle and full of all the soft things in the world. Nothing should put a frown on Lucretia’s face. They were meant for better than that, the pair of them, destined to walk in the light side by side.

          When the truth finally spills from Lucretia’s mouth, Druella’s face fills with sympathy. Her expressions are always a study in theatrics, but this is true pain, true empathy -- she cannot imagine the loss of her brother for such a long time. Alphard was a good brother, she thinks, though she can only vaguely recall him. He’d been far too old to hang out with her and Luce all the time. ❝ And no one said a word? Oh, mon ange, how troubling that must be. Perhaps you could send an owl, non? Just to say hello. It is in a sister’s nature to worry after her brother. ❞

          Druella’s smile brightens at the mention of a holiday with the Blacks. ❝ Yes! We must go. Perhaps by summer the war will not be so bad, and then we may go where we please. Maman said I was not to go back after we saw the shelling. ❞ A small shudder ran through her, but she was quick to get off the sad topic and on to something more pleasing. ❝ You must visit me as well, of course -- we will be spoiled and fêted from dawn ‘til dusk. ❞

          All memories of summer are fond, the languid heat dusting her skin and the gentle breeze from across the lake. ❝ Yes, I do so loathe the cold -- though it is nice to be warmed with someone, non? ❞ She laughed at the saucy idea, giggling like the schoolgirl she was.

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ DECLAN

DATE : 1 September 1944 LOCATION : An empty corridor TIME : 21:17 ( 9:17 pm ) STATUS : Open

He moves through the acrid dust, alone, eyes watering and blood singing in his ears, finding he cannot stop reimagining the moment of impact - the screams, the scrape of glass on brick, a sound so thunderous it became a swallowing silence. It is nothing he has ever known, this form of destruction. When the bomb (and he knows the word, the mechanics of it, but oh, what a foreigner he is to her deathly throes) struck, he had felt the heat of impact, a rumbling ghost of debris and fire licking at his turned back as he lunged to cover a first year with his body. His very bones had quivered - and even now, he can still feel them rattle with every step; knees knocking, arms heavy and uncooperative. Having been forced to take a detour to combat the overwhelming crowds, Declan navigates the empty corridor with a hollowness, urgency sunk to the back of his mind.

It shouldn’t have taken him so off guard. He knows what bombs are, knows the evacuation drills, he keeps active tabs on the latest ones to have dropped in muggle cities. He has been preaching it to his Resistance for months, years: we are at war. Wasn’t this precisely what he’d forewarned them of? War. And yet, here he is: numb. Shocked stupid by its potency, the abrupt chaos it brings in its wake, like thunder chasing lightning. 

So consumed in his thoughts, Declan fails to see the figure approaching him until they are less than fifteen, ten feet away. He blinks once, twice, and opens his mouth to call out to them. Are they lost? Have they been hurt?

And suddenly, the world shakes. 

He isn’t sure what happens next - there is a great shudder from above, then a groan, and some guttural, animalistic instinct in Declan drives him to race towards the figure and pull them out of the way, mere moments before the low corridor ceiling collapses, an upheaval of smoke and stone. What little light the sparse corridor torches offer dies, and all falls into blackness, stillness. A delayed reaction, a final cry.

They’re trapped.

With effort, Declan untangles himself from the body on the floor - the both of them had fallen - and struggles to his feet, assessing the situation with quiet alarm. His wand has been wedged firmly between two rocks, he finds after a minute of foraging, unmoving and irretrievable. Declan curses viciously beneath his breath, but otherwise demands calm from himself. This is no time for fear, for uncertainty. Steeling himself, he casts a glance over his shoulder at the shadowed figure, squinting through the dark. “Are you alright?”

            Druella is best not left alone. It’s a simple fact of life, irrefutable by all who know her. Tom Riddle, unfortunately, does not know her overly well, and the moment he ran off to attend to another student was the moment her loneliness got the better of her. She’s more suited for following than for leading, and though she knows she’s meant to go to the dungeons, that persistent thought of that place is not safe just as this castle is not safe they told us it would be safe echoes in her mind. She wants to search out a teacher, but is unsure where to look, and after turning down several corridors, it seems a doomed endeavor.

            Seeing any face at this point would be welcome, even if it belongs to the most ferocious lion of them all. Declan Prewett walks with purpose in the opposite direction, then seems to decide against it, turning enough for her to see his face. He looks the least put together she’s ever seen him, but his shoulders seem broad enough to hold up the sky, and for all that Tom is a fellow snake, even Declan feels safer. She feels the nervous beat of her heart jump to her throat, yet she picks up her pace, thinking perhaps Declan will be able to reassure her. The castle should be safe. Where are we going to be safe? 

            Gryffindors are all about chivalry, right? She knows he will help her, knows that most people are more inclined to help her than to leave her to die. Still, she feels anxiety licking at her spine, the sense of wrongness at going against her brother’s orders. This is not like running into Leo in the mud -- this is running toward light itself, running toward the golden boy whose made himself an enemy to them all. She can’t help it -- in her fear, she is desperate, and she goes toward him despite what she’s heard. Anything is better than hurting alone.

            She doesn’t reach him before the earth tilts beneath her feet. She screams, a sharp, shrill sound, frozen in place by the loud noise and the groaning stone. She is prey caught in the teeth of a predator, flinching beneath sharp incisors, when Declan pushes her back, his arms like iron around her. She feels more safe in that moment than she did all the way down to the dungeons. The comfort of arms surrounding her, protecting her, is so familiar she clings to it, going easily wherever it is he wants to push her. The sound of a sharp crash barrages them both, and then there is only the pitch black of absolute darkness, a whimper trapped in her throat and waiting to be released.

            Druella has never been afraid of the dark, for it has cossetted and protected her all her life. Yet the blackness is so absolute she clings to Declan’s arms, her elegant hands terrified to let go but forced to do so as he pulls himself to his feet. ❝ No, no, come back! ❞ Her voice is hoarse, barely there from the intensity of her earlier screams -- she is a canary left without her song, a star left with no light. She struggles to get to her feet with him and begins to panic further as something catches behind her, the long edges of her robes caught beneath broken stone. 

            She struggles and fails, unfettered terror in her breathing as it gets faster and faster. ❝ I can’t, I can’t, I’m trapped, I -- I can’t move -- ❞ and she has always loved the cage, always loved to be trapped in the safety of lovely gazes, but this does not feel good, does not feel joyful. It feels like she’s drowning in darkness with no way out, fumbling for her wand but unable to reach it thanks to the entanglement of her pockets. She begins to hyperventilate, unable to hear him after the quiet question and terrified that he won’t help, that he’ll leave her just to toy with the snakes she calls family. ❝ I can’t, please, please -- ❞

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ CALLA

The sky was collapsing and Calla, a snow-coloured lily blooming in the dust raining down, casting the gilded Great Hall in a sickly grey shade, stood at the epicentre and plucked her delicate white silk gloves off finger by finger. She had heard the screams, like sirens, and the sirens, a roar, and above their heads, a charm, someone’s voice magnified — Dippet, no, of course, Dumbledore — air raid drill. Find your house. Find your prefects. She found them. And then she looked back towards the sea of green in search of those who truly mattered, plates abandoned, smashed, a few stray wands left behind, and she would have clicked her tongue and summoned them to her — accio, prizes to drop into the lining of her robes with her gloves, they would be missed — if she hadn’t been hit, a cheek like a fist pressing into her back.

She spun, a spiral of dirt from the quaking castle swept up by her hem and kicked back up into the air. She knew before she turned, with that whine as grating as the shrill sound of the alarms, ‘Corvus, Corvus, Corvus, needneedneed’: white hair, to match Calla’s gloves, emerald robes that made Druella’s skin look almost translucent, wet streaks and dust painting her cheeks. Calla’s hands rose into place, grabbing her jaw with one, casting with the other, and her nails must have made cuts for her to mend. “Episkey.” Quiet.

Druella in the palm of her hand, she drew up to her full height, pulling the girl up with her. “There is no reason to be scared, babydoll.” The words were a lullaby, but her voice was so cold she could have held ice in her mouth as they stood in the fire and not have choked on it. No reason to be scared. If you are afraid, then you are nothing. 

If you’re afraid, you’re in my way, a liability, I will leave you here for your burial.

      It doesn’t take long for Druella to wince at the sharp stinging sensation suddenly pressed into her cheek. She stills, wary and afraid of anything that causes pain, a lamb entirely unfamiliar with the idea of the slaughter. She is caught, half-terrified and half-dizzy with how fast she’d spun through the crowd, and when she sees Calla Parkinson, her vision narrows. She hasn’t interacted over-much with the other girl, mostly because of her reputation -- scarymeansmart. None of those things meshing well with Druella’s own traits.

      Sometimes her life feels like a study in avoidance, with the way she’s always stepping out of the paths of others. Only there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from that penetrating, intelligent gaze as it fixes on her. Calla seems to realize she’s cut wells into Druella’s cheeks, her brows slightly drawn, her nails sharp as claws. Druella has always kept hers so neatly blunt, so pristine with their white tips. Calla waves her wand and the burning accelerates, causing Dru to wince before it fades altogether. Her hands brush her cheek only to find it whole and hale, and she realizes the spell she wasn’t able to understand through the noise.

      Druella isn’t sure whether she should be grateful or upset that Calla hurt her in the first place. She doesn’t know why the other girl has to have such sharpness about her -- must everything be a war? Still, she settles on a meek little ❝ thank you, ❞ predictable as she always is. There’s something in Calla’s gaze that says be quiet, something that tells her she won’t like what happens if she doesn’t listen. Druella has always been an exceptional follower -- she takes Calla’s direction with instinctive ease.

      Calla’s words are right but the tone is wrong, all callous mirth and wry apathy. Druella lets Calla draw her up anyway, until she stands a full in taller than the Ravenclaw. It’s surprising, the way she’s able to feel small even when she’s bigger than someone else. Fear turns to loneliness sinking back toward fear, and she casts her eyes away from Calla’s, afraid to quite meet her gaze. ❝ Not scared, ❞ she replies, because she knows that doing what Calla says in this moment is quite important. ❝ Worried. Cor wouldn’t leave here without me. ❞

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ CYGNUS

And so the game of cat and canary began. 

She fluttered frantically, helplessly, a broken, bareboned bird with an injured wing that needed splinting (how unfortunate for her that his hands knew only to break, to ruin). Her birdsong was a high-pitched chime of anguish that sounded equal parts damsel and distress, summoning all the brave, lionhearted woodland creatures to safeguard the canary from bump-in-the-night monsters. (Too often did she call his name as shelter, not knowing he was the storm; too often did she seek his protection, not knowing he was the biggest, baddest bump-in-the-night monster of them all). She was the seraphic blush of dawn against the too-grim, too-bleak backdrop of the witching hour, and the shadows were swallowing her. 

The shadows had always been kind to him. 

She was fluttering, and he was watching. Cheshire smile, crooked lips, hooded eyes at half-mast: he was the perfect picture of a cat, lazy in his observation and cooly indifferent in his regard for the bedlam that unfurled before him. He had, admittedly, indulged in some of the fear and shock that the students were presently drowning in (fear for Lucretia, for Walburga; for the few who were beloved to him; shock at the novelty of it all—he was an aristocrat too well-kept to be acquainted with bombs and fires). But his brief stint of humanity (blegh—how positively revolting; he wouldn’t recommend it) had come and gone unceremoniously, for novelty gave way to familiarity, and familiarity gave way to fondness. He had always felt really quite at home in the belly of the beast of chaos (had his hands not trembled with the embrace of “welcome home” the night he’d peered over the ledge of the Astronomy Tower and listened to the symphony of the fatal crack of bone?). Yes, he felt really quite at home in the belly of the beast of chaos.

It was evident to him that Druella did not feel the same. Whoever thought to join the cat and the canary in holy matrimony was fucking mad. 

She was singing her sad birdsong again, and where he once was amused, he now was bored, perhaps even a bit embarrassed on behalf the reputation of his house and his dynasty (so soft a rose would taint the Slytherin and Black legacies with the foul rot of weakness). Pathetic. Expelling a weary sigh (as if spectating this sport of bloodshed and mayhem was really very exhausting), he surged forward, placed himself in front of her, and caged his arms around her waist (was he saving her or trapping her?).

“Come now, little bird,” he crooned, voice deceptively gentle (rattlesnakes made gentle noises, too, you know—right before they poisoned their prey with venom). “Dry your tears.” And then, tenderly, he cradled her upturned face between his sin-stained hands and used the pads of his thumbs to sweep away her tears (erasing all evidence of weakness). Perhaps what was most frightening of all was this: Cygnus Black’s hands were as adept at caressing as they were at killing. “You need not be frightened with me, pet, do you?” A rhetorical question, yes, but the cruel curve of his lips offered this answer: Yes, you do. You ought to be more frightened of me than bombs. Bombs will kill you quickly; I will ruin you slowly. 

           She was trapped but did not feel pain in it. There was only the sad-sweet pleasure of what it means to be held, to be truly enthralled until she was so captivated she could not recall what it was to be free. What it was to want it. Druella looked up at Cygnus and saw the future and the present, the beauty and the darkness, and oh, she wanted it. She wanted him. Look at me, she thought, unbearably pleased when he did. Look at me look at me look at me. He plucked an endearment from the air with precision, tugging at her heartstrings -- she was the lyre and he was Orpheus, drawing even the Gods to hear her endless love song. 

           He stole the tears from her cheeks and the breath from her lungs all at once. He was beautiful, Cygnus Black. He was the rocks that shipwrecked sailors driven forward by siren songs: danger wrapped in the illusion of paradise. She missed every clue, wishing to cloak herself in that darkness and not realizing it would bite. She was not frightened with him, no, or perhaps she was more so -- her heart certainly fluttered in an uneven rhythm, her skin flushed and her eyes wide. She was a fool for Cygnus and she could not help it. Her stupidity beneath his gaze was a by-product of her utter inability to impress him.

           Druella was well-aware of which eyes followed her down the hall. She was almost painfully observant when Cygnus looked away, a look of boredom crossing his features between one blink and the next. She knew it and it made her ache, to please him, to adore him and make him adore her in turn. It was half-love and half-ego, her refusal to quit until absolutely everyone loved her, and her desperation for no one to love her as much as he. There was power and danger enough to drown in and she was ready to suffocate, to clog her lungs with thick tar and smile as she went. If she’d ever had caution, it was not evident at his side and even less so beneath his gaze, her hands shaking and her stomach full of fairy wings.

           His hands were so big on her waist, she wanted to revel in it, even in the press of all those people. Druella put hers, so careful, so gentle, against the beating of his heart. It was steady, calm, if a little fast, and Cygnus stood firm as the press of other students moved past them. ❝ No, ❞ she said, and her smile was a pretty thing, blossoming under his simple care. He did not need to do much to impress her. ❝ My hero, thank you. ❞ She curled closer like a cat searching for the sun, seeking his warmth, his pleasure. If he would but smile at her, genuine and small, she would crow with joy. Even these, small and smirking things as they were, Druella cradled close to her chest and kept, covetous and naive.

           Without herself to worry about, her thoughts turned to Corvus: possibly the only topic that could turn her gaze from Cygnus. She scoured the room around his tall frame, a slight frown on her lips. ❝ Did you see Corvus? I’m sure he’s downstairs, but... ❞ she bit her lip, still searching the crowd. But what if he wasn’t? Her brother would never leave her behind, and she could not leave him, either. He was her best friend, her closest ally, her dear brother. She could not imagine him heading to the dungeons without her. 

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ TOM

       ❛ Nothing is assured, Druella. ❜

       It appeared that most of their house was already out of the Great Hall. The few that lagged behind, visible more by their faces in the weak light than by their colors, were in a similar situation —— caught by the confusion or otherwise slowed down by the crisscrossing of bodies. He could have hustled through to catch up, dragging her along like a rag doll, but he sensed that this was to be no sustained raid, nor that the structures of the castle might fail them so quickly.

       ❛ And who’s to say this was the work of Muggles? ❜ It did not make sense for such a far out and unsuspecting location to be targeted. Perhaps Hogwarts, with its reputation for manufacturing goodness and providing sanctuary, had accrued more than praise. ❛ Don’t you read the news? We’re all at war and nothing is safe. ❜

       His tone, which had been somewhat wry, flattened as he added, ❛ It appears we’ve been left behind. ❜ He let her go but offered his hand, thinking perhaps she might float away if untethered. ❛ Let’s get to the dungeons first, then be concerned with Corvus’ whereabouts… ❜

       Undoubtedly, several students would be missing tonight. If ever there was a time for mischief, this was it.

            It was contradictory, the way he said that nothing could be assured in such an exacting tone. If nothing could be assured, then how was Tom Riddle so sure about everything? Druella knew many things to be true and more to be certain, yet there was doubt in her mind far more often than it appeared to bog down his. It was comforting and terrifying at once, to be in the presence of someone with such a sure sense of their own mind. Tom said every sentence as though it was fact, and he made you want to believe it, too.

             ❝ If nothing is for sure, how do you know that the dungeons will be any safer than up here? There’s more of the castle to fall down on us the lower we go. The Great Hall is meant to be protected by magic too, isn’t it? ❞ She was searching for that surety he so easily possessed, searching for the sense of safety she’d been desperate to find with Corvus. He wasn’t there, and she felt hollowed out by it, this inability to see or hear him when things were very much not okay. 

            Don’t you read the news? She frowned, trying to think back to if she ever had. She’d seen the headlines, giggled or gasped at pictures on the front page, but she couldn’t remember ever sitting down with a paper and reading it. Still, the tone of his voice said that would be the wrong answer. She tried in vain to think of something to say that wouldn’t make him go all sharp like that. ❝ Then who would? Who would threaten the future of the Wizarding world if they belong to it? ❞

            Druella slipped her hand into his with all the trust in the world. She didn’t know Tom well, but she knew that he’d been elevated to the responsibility of Head Boy. She knew that he would take care of her. ❝ I didn’t mean to make you late, ❞ she said, more quiet now that the room had emptied somewhat. ❝ I was worried. ❞

[druella-rosier-blog]

ღ BELLAVIE

She can’t do anything more than stare at the girl for a moment. It takes a considerable amount of effort not to gape at her. Bellavie has been accused, a fair number of times in her life, of viewing the world through rose-tinted lenses – but Druella Rosier must not only view it through rose-coloured glass, but smell it through rose-scented perfume, touch it through rose petals, taste it through rosewater. De-thorned roses, at that, likely specifically for her. The girl must know about the Statute of Secrecy, must know that Muggles don’t know wizards exist – and yet, somehow, still believes that they specifically designed missiles to not hit them. Let alone her earnest belief that somehow Bellavie would be safer trapped for hours with a group of snakes, that she would ever walk out of that in one piece (or at all).

At least the girl’s reaction to the idea of Muggleborn-seeking bombs was to worry, and not blame. She wondered how long it would take some of Druella’s housemates, before they used this as an excuse to further their purge.

Druella’s not wrong about the rooms, though, and Bella wonders (again) how these locations ever got past the administration. The Gryffindors were the only ones who weren’t in the building itself – and they were in a small shack that would crumple under a bomb. The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs were at least underground, but if the building fell down they might be trapped (but then, with wizards a blocked exit may be less of an issue, so perhaps they would be fine), and the poor Ravenclaws got the worst of both worlds, neither safe below earth where the bombs wouldn’t penetrate nor out of the path of a castle falling on their heads.

She covers the pause by reaching out to tuck a stray strand of Druella’s hair behind her ear, and gives her another encouraging smile (and if it’s a little wan, well, there are few who could blame her. She picks her words carefully, trying to pick a path through this conversation; to tell the truth and let the girl know the bombs fell indiscriminately would scare her anew with the thought that her blood would not protect her. “I’m sure the rooms have been protected with a lot of magic. It’s probably easier to shield a small area than the whole castle.”

She glances towards the Slytherins for a moment and squeezes Druella’s hand. “I have to go with my House, Druella.” She smiles a little and gives the girl a conspiratorial wink. “My friends tend to do rather silly things when they’re worried about me, and we wouldn’t want to get them in trouble, would we? But I’ll be okay. I’ve been through this before, remember, and I’m still here. We can talk about it more tomorrow, if you like. But for now, I think we should get you back to your House quickly, so that your brother doesn’t worry about you, dear.” Or see his sister talking to a mudblood, which she doubts would be pleasant for either of them.

          Druella is quite used to being petted, and the familiar sensation puts her at ease, her fluttering heart attempting to return to its normal rhythm. She is still afraid, still terrified, because Hogwarts is meant to be protected by magic too, is it not? But Bellavie seems so sure, and so strong that Druella half-believes her based on tone alone. She is not difficult to lead to any particular conclusion, only filled with too gentle a soul to understand the dawning horror of this night. 

          Just listening to the strength of others returns hers, assured by the knowledge that even if she doesn’t know what she’s doing, she can follow someone that does. She’s reluctant to leave, however, because while Bellavie can prop her up, Tom hasn’t seemed the gentle type. Will she be in trouble for being late, or for not going the right way? ❝ I hope the magic is better there than it was in here. ❞ Her eyes go to the destruction of the room and she tries to stay calm, tries to do what Bellavie says.

          ❝ Right. ❞ She smiles thinking of Leo earlier, and knows that Bellavie must be in good hands -- after all, she has felt the strength in them, and for all that Declan’s name is hissed among her house, he is a good person, too. ❝ It’s true, all that stuff about chivalry and daring. I can barely do this once, let alone loads of times. ❞ She is an affectionate person, touchy and loving and French, and she takes Bellavie’s face in one hand to press a kiss against her cheek, quick like the fluttering of wings. ❝ Thank you for helping me. Nous ne sommes pas sorti de l’auberge, so be safe. ❞ She turns, craning her head until she can find Tom’s dark head above the crowd and darts away, worry still tracing her features as she goes.