❛ conséquences ❜
❪ aftermath. ❫

THERE WAS A THOUGHT, A SILENT ONE, THAT CONSTANTLY FIND ITSELF WORNING OUT EFFIE'S SOMBER MIND. A forbidden thought, desire, a wish ― of what could have been if her parents haven't fell into the cold, tight clutches of peer pressure and their own selfish and ambition driven goals in life. And perhaps, she wouldn't have lost the stars that shone relief in the tenebrious forest permanently written, imprinted ― carved and grown themselves into her. And that her strawberry honey laugh wouldn't be nothing but a lost melody played by a broken record in the back of her mind. It was a clandestine ponder, almost a sacred thought that brewed a raging tempest that soon enough, the silent thought stood out amongst the most loudest ones.

But atlas as everything else, it remained only as a honey dew sky basking in the mauve glory as the golden glory sets over a field of flowers ― an illusion, hallucination that stayed as nothing but a daydream.

The scaring, both emotionally and physically felt as if they were still present, fresh and raw, incinerated and smoldered in the back of her mind. Despite the terrifying rate times passed by like a sudden gush of breeze.

In front of her was a canned food she bought from the convenient store, as she couldn't cook to save her life. It was horrendous, but it kept her alive and going so she couldn't really complain, especially seeing how worse other people's situations were than her. Ever since her parents were set off to rot in azkaban, she wanted to be independent so she let a friend of her to borrow her elves until she could finally learn to take care of herself without someone else to help her ― and as you can see, she hasn't improved a bit. As she, from then on, cooked for herself a meal.

( ― but it's still progress, right? )

And it was those rare millisecond of a moment of her day that she ― admittingly or not ― missed her parents. Or a part from her parents. Perhaps it was the sudden hit, or grasp away from reality where nostalgia invaded your most vulnerable time without even a single merciful glance to show any sort of sign to kick in. Like that specific detailed moment where one would find themselves dive into their past, passing from different shelves of one's mind to meet a moment once opon a time in their memories; an enemy perhaps, one that would tug your hair and spread false rumors of the opposite gender having cooties. Turning out that you weren't actually missing the person, but the exact feeling, emotion ― moment? Where you could still have a piece of your youth after growing up too fast that you didn't even realize it until everything falls apart and all you could do was dwell in the past.

Because just like that, there was something in Effie's fucked up mind that yearned for a mother's touch, a father's hold, and a sister's bond. It was sad, to say the least. Never once hold any adoration towards her mother nor father, trecherous, trecherous, vile parents they were. It was a twisted, twisted contraption of an idea ― of another universe where she would wake up to a loving family where she could feel the devotion they have for each other, baked goods and perhaps the bittersweet breakfast in bed like the ones in the films. Oh what an absolute dream ― sad that the love was barely even there.

Because tragically as it is, there flamed in her crepescular forest that safely hidden her heart, vines over growing from the last time she ever had it on on her sleeves, a hope ignited that perhaps ― layed deeply in the depths of her parents' heart, that they genuinely loved her and her sister.

But just like every other candle, the hope that once ignited a warmth in her, eventually extinguish into a mound of clinkers.

The lines swerved and curved, as the words came at all met in the needed places as the words flowed across the sea from the river's jagged rocks. Dipped in ink, scrawled with a fine clean penmanship. Tossed away in a tiny capsule just enough to seal it, with the salty tears of the ocean, it's waves consumed the bottle and without a second wasted, it fell into oblivion. But as centuries, from centuries, in the brink of a new era, the bottle washed onto the shore, for something ― or someone to discover and come by the capsule. Investigated, the paper aged and rusted into a pale mustard, the ink splotched and faded into hues of lilac after years underneath the surface.

And in that capsule was a theory, because the cosmos ― universe? and gods among the heaven's reign, vowed ―

( ― a pinky promise? )

( ― or a ritual that involves metalic object slicing through a layer of skin, only to be greeted roughly by the intoxicating, pungent aroma of splattered blood. )

( We'll never know. )

To have the main principle of the universe's clandestine memoir was to, rather than a merciful, indulgent, quick-paced death, Effie Coven was given no salvation; but of prolonged torture wedged between the ungodly sheets of her own personal hell, the catch is, was that it was no afterlife she will suffer from ― no, not yet ― for even alive she must as well. Drearing until the grim's drawn-out fingers clung onto her, but this time the inevitable was close, and this time, it did not let go.

Acknowledge it like this, jolting up in sudden apprehension only to meet with a claustraphobic rectangular shaped space, covered in ruby velvet coverings almost as if it was mocking you, straining you. 6 feet under. Nauseating, as you were left to rot alive ― literally, left to suffocate and scratch through the last hours left with death entailing close behind you. Until between your dehydrated lips, was your blast breath ― nothing but a rough, yet indistinct muffled scream.

She accepted it, okay? She gets it, all too well. As if there was a raging, uproar, deluge brewing and caving in on her conflicted mental battles, sinking onto the pits of her stomach. On whether or not she deserved to be treated right and have any type of involvement with serotonin. Toxic mindset staying intact after years of trauma, that still hasn't been left behind as it resurfaced every once in a while with a mild panic attack. After living for almost two decades, there were things that Effie Coven came to learn over the years. One, being that there were just things you are unable to obtain, to reach despite the amounts of effort you put to have the chance to have a taste of it, of having and experiencing it.

And for her, it was happiness.

Because stripped down from her pique and luster, there impuissant, in peril, unfolds and unwinds who really was Effie Coven; nothing but a defected, fractured, chewed up and spat out gum after usage. Bathing in her own cataclysmic, woeful state as she basked in molten jade glory.

After going through a temporary visit to a therapist, she learned how to gather up these emotions and pour it onto a journal off various, never-ending web of thoughts that have accumulated with grudge laced venom.

"I must say, no spell nor simple potion are able to fix that. It's just between you and your emotions, I don't really recommend prescribed medicines; but ― do you write?"

"Used to, a pass time activity actually."

"Why don't you," her dainty hand to push forward a piece of paper and pen ― something muggles used to write, that her doctor finds amusing and helpful to use. "write them,"

So she did, there were many, many things she didn't really, per-say, have positive feelings towards them. So she rounded them to three:

ONE, the nauseous scornful-tasting caffeine brewed beverage; coffee. The overwhelming aroma straining her from a full blown breakdown, the memories tangled between the smell ― yet the sweet taste disolved into a bitter void.

TWO, holding such sky rocketing pride of her house was pitiful for the way she despises her house head. The house head that was meant to stand as a somewhat parental figure for the students under their wings ― but Snape, he was anything but that. There was no doubt that he holds a pride within the house he came from, and supervises, with favouritism at it's finest peak; but there the man will never be a parental figure. It was pompously and patheticly suffocating for her to watch a bloody grown man bully and use his high status badge their Headmaster bestowed upon him for his own advantage.

THIRD, Fred Weasley ― well, she doesn't hate, hate him like. But it was just everything about him but . . not him as a person.

( a lunatic is what she is. )

She recalled, every passing year, her eyes would ever so discretely wonder over to the Gryffindor's table where scarlet and gold were the usual color palettes giving life to the longated table. However, as soon as the astringent, obnoxious laughter exceeds their table, she knew it wasn't the sickly signed colors of the house that gave life to the table ― but it was the full of vibrance ( not kidding, like really, ) bright and over the moon ginger headed twins ( told you it was vibrant. ) occupying one of the many seats aligned in one side of the table.

( insufferable. )

It wasn't only their eye-catching hair color, or their uncanny resemblance features-wise, but also the knitted sweaters hugging their body in a ruby toned yarn, with their first name initial written in gold. If she was not mistaken, the sweater that their mum ― Molly Weasley, a traitor some would say ― made.

( envy. )

By this point, her meal was finished. Cleaning up the dinning table, she stacked the ceramics on top of each other along with the silverware before delivering it onto the sink. But before doing so, she passed along an opening leading into another hallway. The flip on her stomach was familiar, nostalgic, as a large framed painting hung tightly on the wall, excactly facing her, as below it was a long table where other moving pictures were. It was the painting made before her sister's birthday, a smile etched onto their features but as thick were the paints, the stiff smiles were translucent to her, strained artificial smiles that as if they were molded into clay, forced and ingenuine with emotionless distraught behind them. Despite the lack of distance between each other physically, they were emotionally shunned off.

And it was then it came across her like a cold, refreshing breeze of reality. The surpressed truth ripped out from her bare bones. She never really hated him ― Fred, nor the Weasleys in general. It was the pride induced actions and envious glances because of the fact that he had everything that she doesn't.

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words from the author.

it's here !!! after a month ( more than even. ) i was able to publish the second chapter. wasn't kidding when i said chapter two would take time to write. although it wasn't my favourite chapter to write, i'm still ok on publishing it since i'm more confident with my writing ( despite the mental breakdowns i had when i wrote this. took more than a week to write.

used a different style of writing, if you couldn't tell. still will stick with my writing on chapter one because it's legit my favourite chapter i've written in all my books. hopefully it's alright & didn't bother you as much😔

a regulus black & sirius black fics ( along with many up coming ones in the future AFTER i finish this. ) are coming your way, i've recently binged mister timothée chalamet's movies & i'm vv much in love so guess who'll write a sad, sad, did i mention sAd? book of him. ( but does contain fluff, ig. ) since cmbyn fucked me up.

comments and vote are greatly appreciated even though i couldn't respond to all of the comments ( but still will try! ) please know i appreciate ya'll sm, hopefully this update is good enough. chapter three will take awhile though, hope ya'll stay with me😤💞 ily all sm, until we meet again.