Language shapes the world, for good or for evil. In silence, wounds fester and arguments begin. And what are wars but arguments out of control?
||2014 Dobby Winner: Best Quote; 2014 Golden Snitches, Silver: Best Romance, 2013 Silver: Best Romance, Best Slash||
Men become accustomed to poison by degrees - Victor Hugo
It is October 1949: Lycus Malfoy is dying, quarantined in his house alone but for his wife, Adelaide, who still hopes there is a miracle cure; Eileen Prince has vanished into a Muggle life, washing the dead and arranging flowers, away from the sneers she endured at school; Cygnus and Orion Black are at war with each other even as they bury their secrets six feet deep.
There is a murderer on the loose, shrouded in paranoia, and the old structures, things of blood and age and time, are starting to crumble.
And a ship arrives from Lübeck bringing Tom Riddle home.
Fifty years after the fall of Grindelwald, old scars and wounds linger, as do the ideologies which caused them - some plan to use them to their own ends, no matter the collateral damage.
Six years later, the Second War against Voldemort has been over for a year, the wounds scabbing over, and Hermione Granger is determined to force change.
Viktor Krum is struggling to remember quite what hope is; that change does come, if slowly. There is poison in the past, but healing is possible.
Immortality is as much ambrosia as it is poison: it is selfish, egotistical and all-consuming.
We fell; or rather, one fell - the other was already at the bottom.
Men were never meant to be gods.
Before the Peverell brothers were immortal, they were dead. Before they were dead, they were dying, bit by bit by bit.
Wings arc from your body as you begin to soar, rising and curving towards the sun as it filters down towards you through the ink-blue sky.
Water fills your lungs in a steady drip, drip, drip, and you are drowning instead.
In the middle of the journey of our life I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost.
- Dante Alighieri
One cannot pick fruit until one has planted and watered the tree, every day and every night, faithful and constant, as my ayah used to remind me. Only then, after years of patience, does the fruit come: plump and soft and quickly ripe; the farmer's reward for perseverance.
Being a collection of letters from Elphinstone Urquart to Minerva McGonagall, from 1956 to 1982.
(Or, a courtship in motion.)
In death we are reborn anew; though the death doesn't have to be ours.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted
History is written by the victors, to their specifications. Not all of history fits within them.
These are those parts which do not.
Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle, but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.
- Homer, The Iliad
He and I, we were infinitesimal.
For Connor & Tanya
She watches him grow, her son - far more her son than either of the others - until she is no longer sure she knows him.
His blood burns in the night, crackling with power and he dreams of it turning gold, of two crowns on his head, and a throne of onyx.
In the end, blood only runs red and crowns melt in the glare of the sun.
They watched how he tried to fly, mere mortal in the hands of Fate, and they watched how he fell.