YEAR OF DAMNATION
II. The Alchemy Club

✶

     Two bolts. A flash of blue, then white. Dion watched second-year Tom Riddle behind the wall. Moss-dotted cobble obtruded the duel before her, one eye poked around the edge. She still remembered the acrid stench of owl feces. It burned, choking her sinuses, eyes watering despite the harsh wind beating against the Owlery.

     Tom was on the ground before he could retaliate, a speck against the rolling landscape past the structures. Crimson splotches contrasted against the pristine white collar of his button up, pressed straight that morning by house elves, now crumpled. It trickled down his nose and his mouth with such fervor Dion could not tell from which it came.

     His assailant, a young man no older than fifteen with subtle green and silver motifs across his uniform, laughed out of sight and bounded down the stairs. The sound resonated in a lasting way. It hung in the air. It caught the wind and lingered.

     Tom held his chest like he was drowning; he pressed his cheek against the ground and sputtered and coughed into the worn stone. Edora would seize her chest and hack into a rag in the same way, blotching it a vile, mucus yellow. She was a sick girl. Tom would be fine if he just stood up.

     That pressure in his chest was something Dion never wanted to become well-apprised of; choking on air and blood, clawing his way onto his feet. She had been the one on the ground countless times before. It hurt, and it hurt like she would never get up again. In her conscience, she had Sasha—dragging her to her feet, patting the specks of dirt off her back and seizing her by the flaps of her father's plaid wool jacket. Muggy summer days were wasted shooting spells behind the house in The Fens once his Trace wore off, he decided it necessary.

     Yet, Sasha was Dion's, not Tom's. He had to stand up on his own.

     He rose in a moment. It was no surprise when he turned around and pointed his wand at Dion. Arm quivering, it suddenly halted like a rubber band pulled taut. She remembered not quite grasping the situation; Dion's gaze lingered on his wand longer than necessary and, in retrospect, rudely, rolled her eyes at his performance of bravery. She thought he should straighten himself before anyone else saw the condition he was in.

     An argument stalled in the anterior of Tom's jaw. Mutually, they understood this arrogance—he regarded Dion in the same light whenever they knocked her to the ground and slipped potions in her goblet at breakfast. Attacks against her were deterred by a handful of nasty duels; she got them back like Sasha taught her. No doubt, in later weeks, Tom learned to scare them off using the same tactics.

     As outliers of their house, civility and example was all either had left to offer the other. The invisible thread that formed without so much a word uttered to the other.

     Dion had forgotten the idea of a mutual sentiment with Tom long ago.

     His lips trembled with a retort, and then, to her confusion, he rolled his shoulders back, arm falling to his side, and a serene calm snagged his muscles and wrenched them rigid. This would be the first of many times tranquil overtook him like a possession, the ghosts guiding him did not have billowing cloaks and translucent skin, but family crests and ties to the Ministry.

     That was where their paths forked. As a blood traitor and a muggleborn in their house, they had much in common—until suddenly they were not a blood traitor and a muggleborn. They were a blood traitor and Tom Riddle.

     He rose, she carried on. All that remained among them was green and silver and an apt for academics, she had not seen him look anything less than even since. Dion guessed she changed, too.

     Summer of her second year squeezed her and wrung her out, soaked her in tenderness to mimic a sorry excuse of a person. She suffered. Suffered beside the ugly mayflies and handfuls of lobed-leaf ragwillow she ripped from the garden when she picked up her tiny red trunk and left The Fens for good. Dion hated bugs and she hated gardening, but suddenly life became brief and full of existence, so she clutched wilted plants to her chest as they wept and listened to the insects sing around her.

     Dead things like bugs and grass and ragwillow were not dead. Not until she forgot them. Ashes to ashes.

     That day by the Owlery, she watched Tom crumple, watched him draw his shoulders, watched him mutter a stain removal spell under his breath and watched him walk away. Same, but different. Something new burrowed into his chest. Strung him tense and lovely. He was an echo of the boy with blood smeared across his mouth, now, reverberating a memory that did not matter in the long run. Or it did matter—a selfish thought of Dion's hoped it had.

     A white bolt of light hurdled for her shoulder. Quick, but lacking finesse. Her protection spell went up with the flick of her wrist and it refracted in Alphard's direction with a ghastly dissonance.

     Sounds of a terrible omen circled overhead within the murder of crows, piercing caws and squawks among black dots surrounded by grey sky. Dion's stomach churned unpleasantly at the thought. Crows rarely migrated, much less this early—what an awful, horrible, bitter winter it would be. Perhaps she should write Inaya and Maha to warn them of the weather approaching East Kindale. Once snow fell, Dion refused to trek to the Owlery. She would resign herself to the confines of the castle until spring, lest she wanted to catch a cold or worse.

     Nights came sooner and wind blew colder, shushing the high grass on the outskirts of the school's grounds. Soon, the sun would set. Not that it mattered, it had been hidden behind thick, smoky clouds all day, it only stopped raining a few minutes after her last class.

     Blundering a sidestep, Alphard narrowly avoided her counterattack and seemed less than delighted when he glanced downwards at his mud-tarnished loafers. Dion felt more pride about the loafers than her victory. However, her attempts to verse him in the art of duelling rang null. His losses without improvement attested to it.

     "Good God, Seaver," he scoffed. Wind disheveled the blunt, black fringe that circled around his head and he did nothing to fix it.

     "Sorry."

     She wished she meant it.

     Patience whittled away long ago, and she sensed he detected her lie, Alphard stared pointedly at Sanyu sitting off to the side for a defense. Alphard was much more of Sanyu's friend than Dion's. In truth, she came to the conclusion that he hardly enjoyed her presence—a majority of people hardly enjoyed her presence so she appreciated the fact that he spoke to her without glancing over his shoulder to check he had not been caught every few seconds. Unabashedly himself. A part of Dion resented it.

     Beauty drew attention, the eye naturally traveled to her best friend; she contrasted rich hues against the desaturated grass of the school grounds, her crimson tie seemed to be the only pop of colour so far as the eye could see.

     Palms bearing her weight, Sanyu leaned back on the red gingham blanket, mildly amused. "It was your spell to begin with."

     "As if she needed to fling it at me that bloody quick."

     "I thought you wanted to practice," retorted Dion, gazing at the distant vegetable patch belonging to the Botany class.

     Little orange pumpkins littered the dirt, the scent of manure wafted over every now and again. How she hated gardening. Perusing a blossomed berry farm better suited her interest, filling a wicker basket with plums until it became too heavy to hold with one hand, the whites of her nails free of dirt and muck, hot rays beating against her hale, freckled skin. And a big sun hat, woven with a thick cotton tie around her chin like the Greeks wore.

     In a race to dampen her fantasies, the conversation at hand and the way her legs puckered with goosebumps were neck and neck. They grabbed her and pulled her back to Scotland.

     "I did."

     "Erm, please elaborate."

     Alphard's words fell dull and slow like a butter knife. "I expected more of what you do in duelling club?"

     "I mentor second and third years—would you rather be pared down to their expectations?"

     Pink heat crawled up the sallow skin of his cheeks and he rolled his eyes. "Must you be so brash?"

     "I am confused," Dion admitted, eyes flicking Sanyu.

     "He wants you to go easy on him 'cause he's still learning." With a grunt, she hoisted herself onto her feet, tossing her wand to the ground. "Though, I did enjoy watching you nearly take his head off."

     "Thank you."

     Alphard scoffed somewhere behind them.

     "If you want to improve, you have to push yourself. Dion, give me your wand."

     Not wanting to disappoint, she placed her wand in Sanyu's palm. She rolled it from hand to hand as if checking its weight before pitching her hand over her shoulder abruptly. When it dropped again, Dion's wand was gone.

     "I think you have thrown my wand," she informed her.

     "Think fast!"

     A rush of Sanyu's hand sent forward a pink flare. Her mind vacated its prior thoughts when Dion attempted to block it with a defensive spell, but she always floundered her wandless magic. It shattered her shield on impact and, in a moment of mortal weakness, her forearms came up to guard her face. Nothing hit her. Dion's arms fell lamely to her sides.

     There was a hum along the pads of her fingertips and she mimicked Sanyu's movements; rictusempra, Dion shouted in her head, thinking of her arm as an extension of her magic. Sasha would tell her to use a stronger spell—strike once and keep them down, he told her time and time again—but she swore to never hurt Sanyu, dueling or not. Her brother never cared for sentimental things like that.

     Jumping out of the way, Sanyu struck again. It sank into Dion's shoulder and felt like nothing more than a light shove. Still, she lost her balance and buckled backwards. Mud clung to her bar shoes and seeped into her once pristine white socks.

     Oh, bother. She was a terrible apprentice. Her skirt was wet and muddied as well.

     Alphard seemed about ready to split open with laughter. Sanyu sheepishly approached and hoisted Dion up by the hand, eyes roving her legs, taking in the damage.

     "Nothing a quick spell won't fix," consoled Sanyu. It did nothing to help Dion's steadily heating face. "I thought you would stumble, not fall."

     "I lost my footing." A lie, only to soothe Sanyu.

     Time spent outside of Hogwarts weakened her severely; throat constantly itching to swallow, cotton-mouthed, moments blurred together by something that could not be satiated. The tide of war persisted as an ever changing thing, once Dion thought she wrapped her head around it, another bomb in the distance—another moment she expected to be her last. Ration books forgotten. She had better things to worry about than how hungry she was.

     Sanyu hummed in half-response, twirled her hand, then wavered with a sheepish smile. The shoes remained dirty.

     "Well, I'm no good at cleaning spells."

     "Then I will need my wand." Dion shot a forlorn glance in the direction of her wand, gilded under the long-bladed grass. What a pain. She trudged over without complaint despite her woes.

     It was only a moment of winnowing through yellowed shoots before she found it; Sanyu had a nice, straight throw behind her. Had she done that before, during Quidditch practice? Dion wondered if Sanyu threw things away from her friends often, or perhaps it was a special occasion for herself and herself only; the kind of practical joke you play on only the closest of friends. How wonderful that would be.

     Dion stood up and inspected her wand for any scuffs or marks and when she was satisfied she cleaned her skirt with a simple flick. She turned to ask Sanyu if she missed a spot, but in the distance a head of orange hair stomped down the field, tendrils whirling like a brilliant, flickering candle.

     "Is that Avery?" exclaimed Sanyu from where she stood. The wind had picked up since they exited the castle.

     Alphard snorted. "She looks pleased."

     Humor was far from the first thing that came to mind when Dion saw Evelyn Avery on a warpath for her. The closer she came, the more features came to light. Transparent brows knitted together, teeth grit to the base, black eyes sharpened for Dion. She was still beautiful despite it all. A whirlwind of fire.

     Evelyn was tall and boxy and impossibly cool, both in nature and demeanor, her face morphed into an icy distaste when she drew near enough to see Alphard. She smoked expensive cigarettes and wore red lipstick, her affinity for fur coats made Rosemary sneeze endlessly when they shed all over the dormitory. But Evelyn never cared to pay attention to anyone who was not in her circle, Dion wondered if she cared about anything else at all.

     A lump formed in her throat when Evelyn stopped in front of her. "You."

     All at once, Dion felt very seen. She missed her cue to speak.

     "Seaver, is it?" asked Evelyn, all slow and dulcet.

     "Yes."

     "Wonderful. Follow me." She turned around and walked without waiting for a response. Dion followed.

     "Is something the matter?"

     "Undoubtedly." Her tone told her to leave it at that.

     Sanyu and Alphard watched them walk away with as much confusion written all over their faces as Dion felt. She waved goodbye and gave them a wordless shrug when Sanyu motioned for an explanation that Dion did not have. Next morning's breakfast would be more of an informational gathering with all of the unanswered questions, she guessed.

     Plodding toward the castle, Dion dared not to ask anything else about her sudden departure. She struggled to keep up with her long strides and a nauseating lump settled in the base of Dion's throat when Evelyn refused to look at her or utter another word. Crows cawed and wind whistled between them until they entered the heavy, iron shelled doors of Hogwarts which shut with a simple thud and gust of air.

     It was warm and glowing and lovely, soothing the wind-nipped apples of Dion's cheeks and the tops of her ears. She took a moment to catch her breath but Evelyn's stride remained unheeded. It became obvious based on the route Evelyn led that she was headed for the Alchemy classroom, and her heart caught somewhere between eager and fearful. It had been nearly a week after she wrote her name on the sheet, she had not quite forgotten, with the Knights encircling her thoughts every night while she tried to doze off, but it startled Dion that they were capable of paying her any mind.

     The hallways bustled quietly with students, those who muttered excitedly with one another pertaining to end of the week festivities. Parties, late-night escapades to Hogsmead after prefects did their rounds; things Dion never experienced. Other people were a window that Dion could only look through, resting her head on the cool glass and watching the world flit by—would the Alchemy Club grip the window by the sash and force it open?

     Dion bit down her smile at the thought. As they approached the classroom, she could hear muffled chatter inside. Looking up at the strange, bronze door knocker, her heart settled on fearful when the tangibility of her dreams appeared to be in her grasp. It was heavy and looked like a toucan head, it squawked at Evelyn and she called it a stupid vermin and it squawked again. Then, she entered without knocking.

     The Alchemy classroom was the same as always: dimly lit with the long, violet curtains drawn shut. Red and white candles hovered around the impossibly high ceiling like flies when they smacked their bodies across the upper surface in an attempt to escape—poor things. The flies, not the candles. The candles were merely a result of the professor's haphazard charmwork. As expected, he was already asleep at his desk, littered with half-written papers and souvenirs from every continent: an intricate Chinese opera mask hung in front, several small vases sat atop, a miniature Moai statue made of lapis lazuli, a red Matryoshka doll. Her mother had owned one of those.

     Dion looked away.

     Normally the wooden alchemy benches were lined up neatly in rows of three, but now six of them were pushed into a hexagon in the center of the room. Only six sides. Tom sat at the apex, facing the door, the others were turned away from Dion at various degrees, jabbering amongst themselves. He watched them with a fixed expression.

     "I'm highly motivated," Thaddeus was saying, "I'm an asset, I'm resourceful, I'm a people person—am I alone in thinking, when the time comes, I should be Head Boy?"

     A chorus of hesitant ayes buzzed around him from the Knights.

     "Maybe if they handed out participation prizes, you would be in the running," said Evelyn, announcing her presence. "I found her—on the field."

     Thaddeus Nott enjoyed bothering Evelyn, and the other girls swooned whenever he visited their dormitory. He had a boyish-charm to his face: lopsided grins and thick, dark eyebrows that matched the messy waves of his hair. It fell right after his ears and he styled it slovenly to give the illusion of effortless beauty. Dion knew it was intentional because he never stopped touching it. Sometimes he wore small, round tortoiseshell glasses; they slipped down his nose when he chuckled before he told a joke—Dion did not think she had ever heard a serious word from him. Thaddeus could say anything and the world would laugh with him.

     "Who?"

     "She's tracking in mud," Romulus sneered.

     Dion looked at her still-muddied shoes and the dark brown splotches on her cotton socks, the streaks of mess trailed behind her. Her face burned and she muttered an apology under her breath alongside a string of cleaning spells. Evelyn looked pleased with herself when she sat at the last empty table.

     "Who is this?" asked Thaddeus again.

     "Seaver, you idiot," Evelyn snapped while looking at her nails.

     Dorian's eyes flickered up through the hairs of his furrowed brows for a moment, then disinterest saturated him like Dion was nothing more than an eyesore and he licked his thumb to turn the page of his book. She could not see the cover the way he splayed it out on the bench.

     The Head Boy's choice in company was curious, to say the least. Each of the Knights were exceptional in their abilities, but Dorian conducted himself so vehemently straight-laced that, on assumption, Thaddeus and Antonin's presence would be enough to send him into cardiac arrest. He was icy, even by pureblooded standards. The Rosier family were descendants of Kreges Gringott, the founder of Gringotts bank—Dorian dressed less like a banker and more to the tune of the grim reaper, or some long forgotten wraith trapped in a dusty attic.

     "Seaver?"

     "S—Yes, Seaver. You know. Blonde. Prefect."

     "I don't recall."

     "Dion," squeaked out the blonde, much quieter than she had hoped. The Knights stared at Dion blankly like she had just butted into a terribly important conversation. She felt like she had, too—her name was uttered from their mouths. "My... erm, name is... is Dion."

     "Oh, right. Well, I'm Thaddeus Nott."

     "I know."

     They had shared classes for the last six years. And she was a prefect. The prefect of their house. Which all of them had in common. The rest just kept staring; thousands of little pinpricks across her skin telling her to curl into herself under her blankets and never come out again.

     Thaddeus smiled at her oh-so kindly. Condescendingly. "Well, I must've missed you."

     Dion hated the Notts. However, she heard they owned a vineyard that resembled a postcard in the spring. Wine never piqued her interest, either, but its rich colour and crystal wine glasses did. She looked around for someone to come to her aid and save her from this horribly awkward lull in conversation.

     First, her eyes landed on Professor Murk's slumped figure, head resting on his desk, salt and pepper hair dipped in mousy brown, unmoved. Tom still had not spoken.

     It startled her how indifferent he was. He could not have been sitting in that seat for all he cared. Or perhaps the absence was her own and he stared straight through her because that was the only thing to do when someone of Dion's status stained the room with her presence. The vacancy stung no matter who it belonged to.

    "The..." her voice died in her throat, "The Alchemy Club?"

     "'Tis we," remarked Thaddeus, a few of the Knights notably winced. He kicked his feet onto the bench. "You've... joined?"

     "Yes."

     "Hm." His brows furrowed and he clicked his tongue a few times, surveying the array of benches. "Seems we have a predicament."

     Conveniently, there was not one for Dion to have her own, unlike the Knights who encircled Tom like a crown of sorts. None of them were particularly known for their fondness of sharing positions.

     "We're well aware this arrangement is terrible, Nott," jeered Romulus, motioning toward the hexagon of benches.

     Rarely did Dion see Dorian without a head of curly, rubicund-blond hair at his side. His counterpart was already short for a man, hardly taller than Dion, but Dorian smurfed him in comparison. Romulus Mulciber had a jaunty air to him; big, tired blue eyes and full lips that curled into lazy smirks. Pretty, but not delicate. He was fond of straight-cut starched pants that sat high on his waist and he was the only one of the Knights that strayed outside of dark, sophisticated tones. Occasionally one of them sported a hint of green, but Romulus' outfits relished in opulent amethyst buttons and traces of rich lilac throughout.

     Up close, he differed from what Dion had imagined. The white sleeves of his button up were pushed to his elbows and his physique gave that of lean muscle turned to pudge—in the past he had been a Seeker for their Quidditch team, but he fell off his broom one game and nearly died on the pitch. Dion was not present, Sanyu relayed this information to her. She could not recall the last time she had seen him near anything that involved Quidditch.

     "Merlin, just add another table—"

     "—it's ugly—"

     "—punishing everyone with your neurotic—"

     "—I don't like it—"

     "—I'm sorry, o' grand Mulciber. Let me hand carve ball-and-claw feet—"

     "—the formation, Thaddeus—"

     "Will both of you shut it?" butt in Antonin, slamming one of his hands on the bench. It halted the argument. "The girls should sit together."

     "Go on, sit with her, Dorian," teased Thaddeus, as if the argument were long forgotten.

     Dorian kept his eyes on his book.

     Evelyn cringed. "You're so elementary."

     Thaddeus blew a raspberry at her.

     One of them cracked a grin, Antonin again, smug and vicious. The look on his face chewed through something in Evelyn and she went back to staring at her nails. They used to be glued at the hip, if Dion recalled their first handful of years at Hogwarts.

     Without a doubt the most unsettling presence was Antonin Dolohov. He had ashy brown hair clipped short on the sides and blunt over his forehead. Square jawed, the skin of his cheek was marred by a thick, jagged scar that Dion recognized as a spell wound that was left to heal without magic. He was a large boy, all stocky meat from wielding the Beater's bat for their house's Quidditch team, attractive attributes, if it were not for the fact that they belonged to Antonin. Students cowered away from him, he made a name for himself using fear and rumors of horrible rows he always came out on top of in a mess of blood, broken teeth, and bruised knuckles. Strangely, the violence he exerted was less magical and more primal—skin on skin.

     The way his eyes widened when he had fun left a sinister taste in Dion's mouth. Sasha said that kind of fight from a wizard made him dangerous; the existence of boys like Antonin proved it.

     A letup in chatter. Dion caught her breath.

     "If I might add to your thoughtful debate, our newest member expected an alchemy club," spoke Tom, something welcoming tinged his expression. Silence across the benches. His eyes flickered toward Dion and she felt like her favorite painting had come to life and acknowledged her. "—If that isn't presumptuous of me."

     "No..." she mumbled, swallowing, finally seizing her bearings. "You would be correct."

     "I was under the impression that you were given an invitation, which outlines the textbook you need."

     "I have not received anything."

     Tom hummed shortly, gaze landing on Evelyn. She stared back, her expression unyielding. A conversation, if she squinted, but Dion's wit ended at books and words spoken to her. Whatever they said in that moment fell on blind eyes.

     "We meet here every Friday at five. We only have an hour, most days." It was six. "And have your copy of Ars Speculativa Alchemiae on hand."

     "Of course."

     "Professor Murk oversees our meetings. However, he's currently resting—as he does." He gave a tense sort of smile, a descriptor which still seemed to be pushing it. "We'll make due just fine."

     A compliment, if she embellished. It gratified her nonetheless. They would make due because they did not need to be taught. The Knights observed the interaction with great interest—tilted heads, narrowed eyes and pursed lips, as if they were watching a play to be critiqued on the latest paper column. Whatever Tom made of her seemed pivotal in that moment.

     Of course—how could she have forgotten? Tom. Admirable, lovely, muggleborn Tom.

     His role in relation to them was highly bizarre; he served as a moniker for what every pureblood strived to be despite his heritage. Unless there was a unanimous agreement to ignore this fact that Dion was excluded from, then the reason why no one else noticed was lost on her. Utterly confusing.

     But Dion settled. Poorly placated, but settled. She watched in interest when she happened to see them: Antonin shouting at Evelyn across the yard as they walked to the greenhouses for Herbology; Romulus' habit of playing lively piano sonatas in the Common Room past sundown, and Dorian, always close by, sitting on the sofa reading Treatise on the Innovations of Dentitions: An Exploration of Teeth in Healing; Tom's back when he stretched, reaching for a vile of crushed beetle shells from the top shelf for Professor Slughorn. Dion thought her signature would have gone unnoticed next to theirs, a mere gust of wind amidst their clear, sunny day.

     At last, she stood in front of them, bonafide. A stranger in the window of their paradise. This time, they were the ones looking through in that curious sort of way. Gauging, judging the content of her dialogue, the insecurity of her gait, waiting for Dion to trip or blunder so they could mutter to themselves, "We should have never let that inferiority taint our space."

     She was not what they made her out to be. Well-read and gracious, logical and driven, here and there. What they were—pristine, effortless sophistication, sans stupid, ugly mayflies and muddied leather—she was too. Desire to be one with them consumed her.

     That voice inside of her screamed again, I am just like you. Let me show you. I can be your friend.

     Tom stood up, dark leather briefcase in hand; not a crack or crease in the material. The Knights followed his lead, chattering amongst themselves as they tidied. Words caught in the back of Dion's throat and she felt her spark of confidence dim, watching them file out of the room one by one without so much a glance. She wished they had said goodbye.

     Her lamenting was cut short when Tom stood behind her and said, "For future reference, the benches are meant to be sat on."

     "Sorry?"

     It came out much more curt than Dion anticipated. Fists clenched into the fabric of her skirt when she spun around like she had been ogling something she should not have, her stomach felt like nothing more than a brood of cicadas. This may have been her chance to speak to him casually.

     "It's rather simple, unless you prefer idling."

     "Oh. Not particularly," she paused, thinking long enough to be offended, but not long enough to dwell on it.

     "Have you chosen who to sit with?

     "Do you think Evelyn would mind if I sat with her?"

     A beat.

     "Evelyn?" Tom blinked at her, lips thinning ever so slightly. She suddenly realized the subtle scrutiny of his demeanor, as if she were an intricate object in front of him.

     Dion blinked back.

     Tom blinked a second time and responded just as curt as she had. "Sit wherever you please, Seaver. I doubt your presence will be well-received no matter your decision."

     Face contorting to something loosely unpleasant, her lips downturned and her brows knitted, she lauded the dim candlelight as it masked the details of her expression. Perhaps her response was insufficient to his standards, or whatever she missed within he and Evelyn's silent conversation was crucial to this moment. She thought about many unkind words for this sudden animosity but did not dare utter them aloud.

     She settled for, "Goodnight, Tom." Then practically ran away from him.

     Muttering expletives for every mistake she made throughout the meeting, Dion observed an abnormality in all she knew Tom Riddle to be. His evenness did not equate to pleasantness. What he had been—admirable, charming, and lovely—would be barred until further notice. At least until she uncovered the key to befriending Tom and the rest of the Knights.

     Dion went to the common room, daydreaming of theories shared over rose tea. That night, she fell asleep rereading her favorite chapter of A Room With A View with Sir Garfield curled against her legs.

{ ༺✶ }      "these people are so cool" dion says. and its the biggest group of losers you've ever met in in your life

in all seriousness sorry for not posting for six months i fell into a bit of a writing hole. i hope to at least be mildly consistent from now on but. heh. we'll see how the cookie crumbles.

wc: 5070
girlpools / 2024