Broken Melodies
Date: February 6thTo say that everything in Matthew's life was going to hell at the current moment would be an understatement of the highest regard. The boy was actively avoiding every S.N.O.G member like the plague, dodging hexes and curses for his life almost certainly, literally, depended upon it and if all of that wasn't enough he had gamed the moniker the 'Poisoner of Slytherin'. Life was bleak and just as he had so much of the previous year, Matthew felt alone.
Thus there was only one thing for it. Whenever his emotions became too unstable, when feelings threatened to boil over and drown him out entirely he had two options. One was to absolutely blow off the handle releasing the surge of rage and fury that lurked deep in the pit of his stomach, his own Tartarus. Over the course of the last summer and this year he had avidly decided against this course, if anything it hurt him far more than those around him but the destructive nature of the threat spared no one. No instead he would go for option to and release his emotions through music.
Entering the rehearsal room the quiet acoustics were like a breath of fresh air in a school of suffocation. In these four walls nothing could touch him, he was safe from the dangers that sought him, from the guilt he felt. The only thing the room wasn't safe from was grief but here he could put it to good use, to paint with it through melody and rhythm and conduct it into something better, something less heavy to hold.
Taking his seat at the piano stool he took out an old workbook sprawled with pages upon pages of handwritten compositions, a mix of his own creations and self transposed works from his favourite artists. Sheet music wasn't always the most affordable nor accessible and so the boy had taught himself to write the melodies out himself. As he flipped through the pages carefully lingering on each page, he struggled over what to play, his heart was so befuddled in a mixture of emotions and there was no simple answer. No route out that immediately called to him. Eventually he came to a piece by the band China Bears, it wasn't one he played particularly often but he listened to it on his playlist whenever he was at home. Times like this he missed his music most. To close out the world with his dorm bed curtains and just listen in the silent dark as his earphones blasted out melodies.
It was one of the many failures of the wizarding world to integrate and it only crippled his emotions in even more pain. Anger, hurt, grief, loneliness, anxieties, suffering each and every emotion would fill the space as he began to sing and play the chosen song. Its title was fitting for how he felt but the lyrics would matter far more. 'Participation Trophy', never the winner even in his own story and yet for some reason he still refused to give up. Often the whole world felt against him so why did he keep trying, he supposed he knew the answer deep down as hard as it was but it didn't make him feel any better.
Interacting with @Aurelia Valentine
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
Broken Melodies
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ISSUE №. 001 |
?????????????????? | 𝑸𝑼𝑶𝑻𝑰𝑫𝑰𝑨𝑵????????𝑸𝑼𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑺 |
???? | FIVE SICKLES DAILY EDITION |
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FEBRUARY 6th, THURSDAY EDITION |
16:00 LATE AFTERNOON |
REHEARSAL ROOM, FOURTH FLOOR |
@Matthew Campbell |
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HEADLINES:
BROKEN MELODIES OF MATTHEW CAMPBELL'S WEARY HEART
BROKEN MELODIES OF MATTHEW CAMPBELL'S WEARY HEART
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| ?????? |
The girls' lavatory and its location to the Fourth Floor, in Aurelia's honest opinion, is somewhat borderline criminal. She was busily writing her essay assignment for Charms in the Hogwarts Library when she felt the sudden call of nature, having to rush up here in order to relieve herself. Letting out an exhausted sigh, the young badger buried her face in the parchments she was clutching against her chest as soon as she exited the said lavatory. The essay is only assigned to them earlier today and it is due next week. However, she did not like sitting on tasks for it will nag the back of her mind all day. Plus, finishing assignments and submitting it on before deadline always presented her ample time to do whatever she wanted for a week. Aurelia brightened, as she remembered the new book she ordered through owl from Flourish & Blotts—The Philosophy Of The Mundane: Why Muggles Prefer Not To Know? Although distrusting towards the wizarding authors, the aforementioned book is currently infamous for hitting shelves. Inherently curious, of course, Aurelia is willing to jump on the bandwagon to be able to procure her opinion on the matter. A book critique, they so much pleased to call it. The literary world is not exactly condescending on young people, as most authors that are still holding their torches even in present times had written prominent books when they were only wee lads and lasses. Eager to finish her work so she could start her routine leisure reading, Aurelia ambulated through the marbled halls. At first, Aurelia pondered on why the first impression she had for the Fourth Floor is that it was somewhat ethereal to her. Her deep brown eyes scoured the area in order to relive on why it is so. Large, arched windows decorated the walls, that when sunlight pours in, the light reflected the assorted colours of the kaleidoscopic panes, the merging colours decorating the marbled floors. It dances somehow, she thought... Along with the melody that streamed around the hall like tangible ribbons; of course, one should think sounds are not exactly visible. But to Aurelia, if one desires to believe in it, then it is most probable. The young badger stopped in her tracks, as the ribbons of heartbreaking melodies led her eyes towards the Rehearsal Room just ahead of her. Started making room for my... Participation trophy. Her steps careful, the clicking of the soles of her Mary Janes helplessly reverberating in the walls, the bushy-haired badger slowly peeked inside the Rehearsal Room, thanking her luck as soon as she saw that the doors are marginally opened. The ribbons of the melodies started constricting the beat of her heart, as though it is meant to be felt profoundly, not only by the singer but also the listener. Aurelia winced, before her deep brown eyes zeroed in on the boy playing the grand piano up at the podium. He was somewhat familiar to her, but the supposed vivid recognition kept eluding her and so she focused on the melody instead. It doesn't just get better, It doesn't just get better, It doesn't just get better without trying. For the love of Helga Hufflepuff and everything that she deemed very much holy, the pain is felt to her very core. Watching in bated breath, her mind worked like a child would be; the ribbons of melodies for her started encircling the boy, as though he owned it, as though he had the right to call it his. The melodies are grieving with him, it is a broken melody of a weary heart. She immediately looked away—letting out a quivering breath as though the melody snatched it from her. It would be bad, as his pain started stabbing her eyes and involuntarily conjuring tears. This is ridiculous—she should go. However, her body did not follow through her mind's command. Her eyes are on the kaleidoscopic windows as she continued listening, her back leaned on the wall beside the doors. Who is that boy? As though a slap—a loud, whistling sound started emitting from her enchanted leather satchel. Aurelia jumped, alarmed, the strap accidentally slipping from her shoulder because of the gesture. It made a resounding clang on the marbled floors, spilling the hopping golden-coloured teapot along with the blue and pink teacup. The teapot of teatime, which whistled and inevitably prepares tea every 16:00. The young badger is beyond horrified, her hands immediately flying on her mouth in shock. It is still whistling, demanding her to put her preference for tea in the pot. She hurriedly crouched to collect it, covering its hole with parchments to stop it from whistling. She never regretted buying the pot, as she adored drinking tea. This exact moment did change her mind. As Aurelia knew the boy heard the commotion outside. |
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memento mori; memento vivere
[ the golden girl; the harshness of such warm light ]
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.
Broken Melodies
Date: February 6thThe emotion that was pouring from him in every single syllable was so painful it practically broke him to release it. Every pent up little bit of tension, of sorrow and guilt he felt over the last few days was clawing its way out of his throat in a melody that actualised around him twisting around the broken form of a boy who just wanted answers and instead made everything worse. A boy who had made everything worse from the second he had entered the world. A boy who just wanted to be ok.
Having spent a few days recovering in the hospital wing this had been the first time he had really been able to express the weight that sunk into his bones, it was as cathartic as it was suffering. As necessary as it was upsetting. Matthew's fingers felt stiff under the pressure, it wasn't any ordinary playing where he moved elegantly from key to key with practiced grace, this was not for pleasure but because he had no other option. If he kept it all inside he would drown so he sung and let the words rip from his throat no matter the pain of his throat.
I'm not scared of trying ,
Anymore.
After all the harrowed pain in his voice the last words hung in the air softly, almost silently, his fingers no longer forceful on the ivory keys but sweeter, timid almost, producing a smaller sound, a kinder moment. Perhaps the month had been a complete failure, perhaps he had undone all the damage of his previous summer and given into anger and resentment but at least he was trying. There were those in the world that never wanted to better themselves, that took everything that happened to them as an excuse to hurt others but not him, he wouldn't let it. Matthew would keep trying against it all.
When the silence emerged he felt a small shiver wash over his form like the electric energy he had just summoned all of a sudden reverted back out into the world taking away all the sparks he had created with it. The space felt colder, harsher but he knew it was because he could finally feel again, he was no longer living in a strange between state. Matthew was himself again and although that emptiness was hurtful it meant he could start again.
Just as he was losing himself to the cold desperately clinging his hands around his arms in comfort he heard a whistle tone ring through the room and no quicker had it come than a metallic clatter rung from the outside hall. Turning quickly he realised the door had been slightly ajar, someone had been listening to him, observing him in his moment of pain and hadn't said anything. Was it one of the S.N.O.G participants trying to harass him or just some random student stumbled across. Whoever it was he was determined to know so screeching the piano chair of the smooth wooden floors he made his way towards the door asking, "Is somebody out there?"
Interacting with @Aurelia Valentine
| Nikolai Volka // "Light, light: do not go | I sing you this song and I will sing another as well." // Matthew Campbell |
Broken Melodies
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𝙸𝚂𝚂𝚄𝙴 №. 002 |
?????????????????? | 𝑸𝑼𝑶𝑻𝑰𝑫𝑰𝑨𝑵????????𝑸𝑼𝑰𝑳𝑳𝑺 |
???? | 𝙵𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴𝚂 𝙳𝙰𝙸𝙻𝚈 𝙴𝙳𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 |
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𝙵𝙴𝙱𝚁𝚄𝙰𝚁𝚈 𝟼𝚃𝙷, 𝚃𝙷𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝙸𝚂𝚂𝚄𝙴 |
𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙾𝙾𝙽 |
𝚁𝙴𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚂𝙰𝙻 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼, 𝙵𝙾𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙷 𝙵𝙻𝙾𝙾𝚁 |
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𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝙽𝙸𝙲𝙺𝚈 𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙲𝙺-𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙺𝙴𝚁
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| ?????????? |
There were times one would think that only the littlest of mistakes might end the world. Which is true; this could be compared to a house of cards, where the crafter perhaps built the art for hours, only to be devoured by a slight movement, trace of the wind or perhaps sudden gesture of a hand. Upon centuries that this humble soil endured over the past, civilisations spent years, decades even, to be remembered of common historians or history books, knowledge they taught and force to kids in school without so much as thinking that the irrelevance would still be wiped out from one's brain department only in a matter of hours. Everything is now only the thing of the past, and in order to be remembered even though it already crumbled into dust is to romanticise and encompass it as though one rightfully owns it. This train of thought is only procured because of the inevitable feeling that the world is crashing down, pressing down upon Aurelia as though she bears it. There is nothing to be worried about, to tell the exact truth, but being discovered listening to one such private moment only the singer with a broken heart should be entitled to only own and cherish it is not her primary goal. To be completely honest, the young badger was only enamoured of the fact that the pressing emotion the boy clearly expresses is attractive to one's ears, the one that would covet the crowd's attention. She imagined it to be something like Phantom of the Opera, where nearly everyone is not bored by the pace of the story. "Oh, please, just shut it already," begged Aurelia under her breath, when stuffing parchments inside the teapot did not work in the slightest. Now kneeling in front of it, unbothered by the sudden cold of the marbled floors that touched her knees, she rummaged inside her enchanted leather satchel to find for a pack of Earl Grey tea. The inside of this satchel is all organised but she could not seem to find the box specifically. Heartbeats ringing through her ears along with the annoying whistling tone of the aforementioned teapot, she gave that little quest up too before her deep brown eyes scanned the vicinity for something that would help. These large kaleidoscopic windows does not open; the rooms in Fourth Floor are limited because of how big the Rehersal Room potentially occupies—there is possibly nothing she could do. Be that as it may appear, Aurelia Valentine is a witch—a role she is meant to excel at, where she knows she should be exemplary and be remembered as one. She might have been remarkable in her former schools, adored by her teachers with her adept ability to learn anything quickly and be somewhat responsible in such a young age, nonetheless being a witch is a fate that found her itself! These exact thoughts came upon her, struck her like lightning, as soon as she saw the glimpse of her black walnut wand tucked in her curls, deeply buried in the wild mane that if she did not see its shadow cast on the marbled floors she might have never remembered and panicked all throughout this moment, babbled with tears in her deep brown eyes in order to redeem herself, like she always does whenever she found herself in an unprecedented, tight situation. Transfiguration always have been one of the subjects the young badger very much adored. This is because she likes tasks that challenge her, the complexity of it all that will make her rebellious hair go wild as though it was a mane of a lion; that will force her to spend hours upon hours in the Hogwarts Library, almost breaching the curfew and the rules that surrounds it; that will make her check out unimaginable stack of books in order to study better late at night where the moonlight seeps through the window, illuminating her private quarters in the Badger Bungalow. It has been her one of her strongest subjects, earning consecutive O's from every assignment she passes on time or earlier compared to the pace of her peers. Of course, how could I forget? Detangling her black walnut wand from her rebellious curls, these unruly, long curls cascaded down her back before it puffed out like a bush. Before she could even complain about this exact moment, she heard the footsteps against the marbled floors inside the Rehearsal Room before a voice erupted, an incomprehensible question based on the intonation of the said voice, however it only echoed meekly, as though it was not wanting to be heard. The young Hufflepuff witch felt a nerve throb in her temple as soon as she perceived the predicament she lets herself in, her possessions scattered all over the floor, in no way to be collected in just one scoop before bolting; the enchanted teapot she bought from Hogsmeade still whistling, demanding even just one tea; the teacups rolling about in its own accord in when she had the time to hope that it was not chipped in the process at all. Whatever possessed her to run towards the double doors in order to lock it with her body leaning on it for the person to be trapped inside, she does not know. The raven-haired badger could, of course, be regarded as a quick-thinker but she never claimed being overall clever with all of her decisions that lacks proper consideration for all logic. Along with the slam of her comparatively small body to one of the doors, a reverberating sound of two large pieces of wood crashing harshly together echoed in the hallways, perhaps in the Rehearsal Room too, she is sure of it. An exhausted sigh escaped her quivering lips before she muttered, "Choclea Bibe," a desperate utterance as she aimed the tip of her black walnut wand towards the whistling enchanted teapot, her deep brown eyes flashing with a glint of eagerness to shut it up, its unintentional participation of blowing her cover. Just like it did in that particular Transfiguration class where she learnt to perfect the aforementioned spell, the whistling teapot eventually morphed into a live snail, the transformation still brings a bit of unusual uneasiness from her that crawls just beneath her skin. These type of spells, for her in all honesty, she believed would be useless for the randomness of the combination, but sometimes you never know. Aurelia did not even foresee to be stuck in a situation like this. Too bad for her, they have not reached a certain class where they learn Untransfiguration and the associated spell for it, which would be, no doubt, a ton of essay assignments that is going to be scheduled to be done in the near future. Surely an older student would be more inclined to reverse the spell for her, as she would prefer her teapot more than an actual live snail when in truth she has severe sensory issues. Consulting this to a professor will lead to an issuance of detention since it was never allowed to cast spells outside of class and without supervision. Next step: place all ber things inside her leather satchel and then bolt. "Wingardium—" A force just in the other side of the double doors made her utter a slight squeak as her Mary Janes glided forward against the marbled floors, in which she fought back by pushing back too, exerting strength she never she had as sweat beaded her pale forehead. Aurelia cannot possibly do things in her own way if this other person, this mysterious person who just conjured heartbreaking melodies a moment ago, fought his way out. Whatever is the point of keeping him inside? What is it to him and to her if he knew she eavesdropped on such a private moment? There are times when it is more difficult to explain than to let contrasting emotions and feelings swirl in the core of your soul. If the young badger decides on not to be seen, she will do everything in her power to execute it right and properly—her own way. |
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@Matthew Campbell |
𝙰 𝚂𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙶𝙾𝙳𝙼𝙾𝙳 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙼𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙴𝙳! |
@Matthew Campbell |
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memento mori; memento vivere
1,360 wc
1,360 wc
[ the golden girl; the harshness of such warm light ]
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.
[ aurelia valentine, the golden girl ] † [ lucien de montfort, the deranged artist ]
Visit Lourine's SMITTEN shop for handmade pfps with DISCOUNT—FREE for AI pfp users.