Lock-in Hufflepuff Gryffindor Event Closed

Addressing: Amadea, Ami, unconscious Rosie, and anyone interested in John’s new proto-cult

Fire was the disease. Meet the cure.

John of all Johns, blessed by the dancing ghost girl, had just witnessed a miracle. He had merely expected the blue wand to soothe his pain, but behold! The burn was instantly cured! His flesh was made new, as if fresh out of the womb. John looked to the sky (well, ceiling) in thanks to the ghost girl, wherever she may be. For challenging the angel into a dance battle, John was gifted the power of healing. To his muggle-raised mind, this was nothing short of biblical.

As his mind awakened to reality, his fellow students were busy extracting Howie from his grave. Having revealed the coffin earlier, John was satisfied that the others were able to rescue the occupant, but he could have sworn he had heard a girl’s voice. He had said “Hello” only for her to reply back “Hello who?”. He could not answer, for he was consumed by the burns on his arm. One could have thought this was merely a knock-knock joke. Not so to the newly enlightened John. The voice was asking who was John. What purpose did this John have? Why was this John different from all other Johns?!

In the middle of his silent revelation, Amadea had made the mistake to ask John what had happened in the darkness. John would answer her with the fervor of a Sunday preacher.

“What had happened on this night,” he began his monologue, “will be told to your children and your chidren’s children. I walked into the valley of shadow and saw no evil. In fact, I saw nothing at all, being so dark. And behold! A light, like a spotlight, revealed to me a dancing ghost girl- NO! An angel appeared and danced and rhymed! And she would dance and rhyme over and over, revealing the monotony of this mortal world. In my childish innocence, I challenged this Monotony by fighting this angel in a danceoff. I challenged her rhymes with my own, forcing her to reply to me. So intense was our dance that a fire had consumed my arm. The Evil Flame had wanted to turn me back, back to the same scheduled life. But not even the power of dance would cease to my wounds. For once you leave the Monotony, you cannot go back. So I danced and rhymed until the angel could no longer keep up. And lo and behold! She disappeared and light entered the world again!”

“And Amadea, sweet child Amadea, you asked about the blue wand appearing to me from the ether. Let me tell you, it is no mere wand. It is an extraordinary gift! My arm was burnt beyond repair. I feared we would have to cut it off in this very tunnel! But the blue wand, the physical embodiment of an angel’s kiss! It touched my skin and BEHOLD!”

John raised his arm into the air, showing that he no longer suffered burns.

“A voice from the grave had asked me: ‘Hello who?’ I could not answer her for I still did not know who I was. But now, I can answer her! I am John of all Johns, of the Huffrindors, and to all seeking the end of the endless Monotony. One who danced with the dancing ghost girl, Whatever Be Thy Name. I am her apostle, and by carrying this blue wand, I have been burdened with DIVINE PURPOSE!!!”

Now that the Truth was revealed to Amadea, John turned to the fallen. Ami asked for someone with basic medical knowledge to help Rosie. John could do her one better: his medical knowledge came from the divine. He walked straight to the pair and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Fear not, Ami,” John said to her. “For the dancing ghost girl is my ally. And a powerful ally she is.”

With those worrisome words, John knelt down to the unconscious Rosie and revealed the blue wand.

“Rosie, who is not a Parker,” John began, for he could not remember her last name. “Too long have you been subjected to the endless Monotony that is this unconscious state. By the power given to me by the blue wand, I bid you to heal… and AWAKEN!”

John proceeded to press the cool touch of the blue wand firmly onto Rosie’s forehead. He truly believed this would heal all her wounds and wake her from her unconscious state.

Actions:

1. John’s new healing powers go to his head, has a religious awakening.
2. Informs Amadea of the events of the split and how they created his new cult.
3. Reassures Ami that his divine purpose will cure Rosie

Howie pushed against the top of the coffin with all his might, the mix of the warm underground air and the exertion caused him to sweat profusely. With the combined effort of him pushing and his rescuers pulling the lid began to open. A thin ray of light caught his eyes. This light lead to freedom, and with one final push the coffin opened up. The rush of cool air that followed breathed some life back into Howie, and with his new found invigoration he sprung from the coffin, desperate to be freed of its confinement. He was met by two redheads, one familiar and the other a stranger. However, neither one of them was the redhead he hoped to see.

"Hey, dude,"  "Nice to see ya." 

It was his buddy Ami who had helped pull him from the underground prison. He searched her eyes for answers. What was all this? Surely it was much more than a simple scavenger hunt. The words of the disembodied voice played through his head. She spoke of loyalty and strength in numbers. This must all be a test, to teach them to stick together to survive. That forging bonds of friendship could see them through the toughest of times. That it was necessary to thrive in this dangerous world. 


“Holy s***” He addressed his ginger haired saviors. “Thank you so much, I was freakin out in there.” He patted Ami on the shoulder, then extended his hand to the other. “Name’s Howie, thanks again.” Ami reached into her pocket, withdrawing a necklace with a huge pendant attached. She joked about how the had matching friendship necklaces, causing Howie to reach for his throat. He gave her a weak smile, still a little shook from the experience. Suddenly a very worried expression crossed Ami’s face. Howie followed her gaze.

Behind him, near the stairwell, he spotted something that made his heart drop to his stomach. Fear rushed through him as he automatically ran towards it. There, crumpled on the ground was Rosie. Her bright red curls and clothing singed, her face covered in dust as she laid motionless on the floor. “Rosie!” He yelled out as he and Ami rushed to her side. Howie crashed down on his knees, reaching out to shake her. “Rosie! Wake up!” His voice cracked with emotion as tears burnt in his eyes. This could not be. His girlfriend was seriously injured. “No! No!” He pleaded as he shook her again. Ami swooped in, grabbing Rosie by her wrist. She called out to the room for help. He looked around as well, only seeing John speaking with the red head from earlier. He was very animated and twirling around a blue colored wand. Howie’s fear was soon replaced with anger, and a red hot one at that.

“What the hell are you all doing! Don’t just stand there! She’s dying!” He screamed at them. Howie had no way of actually knowing Rosie’s condition, but the fear and anger pushed any rational thoughts from his mind. John made his way over, joining them by kneeling at her side. He rambled on, speaking as if he were one of those evangelical preachers you see on TV. 

By the power given to me by the blue wand, I bid you to heal… and AWAKEN!” 

John reached out a pressed the wand to Rosie’s forehead. Howie reached out, grabbing his wrist, attempting to pull the wand away from her. “What the hell are you doing! This isn’t a damn joke John! We have to get her to the Professors!” He yelled at the boy. What was wrong with them! Wasn’t anyone taking this seriously! Howie looked around at the others, his eyes burning with anger. “How did this happen?! Who’s responsible for this!” Every beat of his heart fueled his fury. This had gone too far, someone would pay for this.

Actions

Spell- current events wipe any concentration on spells out of Howie’s mind.

Movement- Gets out of the coffin. Upon seeing Rosie, rushes to her side. Shakes her to try and revive her. Attempts to keep John from using the blue wand on Rosie.

Speech- Thanks Ami and Amadea for freeing him. Yells at Rosie to try and wake her. Shouts at the room in anger. Shouts at John.

“Sorry, I just didn’t want you to step on me.”

Anatole had said panting. Aurelia didn’t know why the boy was soaking with sweat, was it from the heat of the awful spell he had cast, a sudden fever, or had he really no stamina to walk a few steps.

“Alright, alright! I'll come with you!” He boy seemed intimidated by Aurelia, by the way he mumbled and had so willingly agreed with tagging along. It might be due to the fact that he didn’t want to be left in the dark but Aurelia was relieved that he had agreed, she didn’t want to travel alone in these now dangerous calacoumbs. Anatole had scanned around through the dark tunnel, his eyebrows creased together, clearly concerned about something. Then he began to speak.

"Just one problem. I...uh...can't get up on my own. Can you help me? I...uh...might need to use you as a crutch." He let out a sigh and stretched his hand out towards her, expecting her to help him up.

Her eyes trailed down to his foot and she winced slightly when she saw that the ankle was twisted in an odd angle. It was the reason that he had been lying on the ground. Why did he had to be the one following her? She now had to watch his back, it would be mean of her to leave him on the stairs alone in the dark.

On the other hand, she didn’t want to be used as a human crutch. It would mean that he would be holding on to her shoulder for support and risk touching her fresh burn. Still, she had to find a way to drag him along. She sucked at her teeth in frustration. There was an option she wasn’t very fond of.

“Take this. Don’t burn me, I swear I would kill you if you do.” she warned as she pushed the floating candle towards his extended palm.

Then, she crouched down beside him. Wrapping an arm across his back to his shoulder and another under his knees. Even though they were of the same age, she would probably have enough strength to lift the small boy up. She heaved him up and started towards the main area. She hoped she would drop him. Even though it was quite a load, at least the boy served as a human shield from the waist up. If it was truly a Basilisk in the main area and if it were to attack, Anatole most likely would be the one getting most of the hit.

╔══════☽ ✦ ☾══════╗
ACTIONS
╚══════☽ ✦ ☾══════╝
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────
✧ Hand Candle to Anatole
✧ Pick Anatole up like a damsel in distress
✧ Go to the Main area
──────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────────

Captain Reid did what any sane child would do, step aside and evade the incoming dragon. Serena did... not. The Indian girl was agile and small but it was not enough. The dragon caught her off guard, immediately climbing up her leg. It moved to her back, climbing up her before she could scream. Her eyes widened, the girl freezing into place. It all happened so quickly that she did not have a chance to react. 

Before she knew it, this creature was on her shoulder. Its weight sat on her shoulder, pushing it down a little. She expected it to hurt but there was no pain. Perhaps it was not attacking her. "Ah!" Serena turned her head a little to try and see what it was doing. She wanted to move, worried it would breathe fire into her face from her shoulder. But she also did not want to anger the dragon. 

Animals usually attacked when they felt like they were in danger, being attacked or threatened in some way. Serena tried so hard to not move, not wanting to make it feel threatened enough to attack them all. It was cute but it was still a dragon, nonetheless. "Wh-what?" She mumbled as the dragon starting to speak- WAIT, IT COULD SPEAK. 

The girl stared at it for a moment. It introduced itself as Mushu. They apparently summoned it. Serena looked at the dragon. "... Cute..." She muttered, recklessly. She proceeded to scream that it was 'so cute' before introducing herself to the very cute dragon by saying 'little guy'. Apparently... the dragon did not like that. Mushu got angry, trying to say it's not a little guy. Instantly, the dragon took flight. He flew towards Reid but the Hufflepuff boy dodged out of the way, leaving the dragon to crash into the ground. 

Blinking, Serena just looked at the dragon. What was he doing? She did not get a chance to ask. The Hufflepuff girl near her that had been scared suddenly was overcome with worry - definitely a trait true to her house! She asked the dragon if he was alright. Stepping forward, she waited to see if the dragon was okay before she continued to talk.

"So uh you can talk, Mushu?" Serena asked the dragon, even know she knew the answer. "Wh- what are you doing here?" The Hufflepuff Prefect wondered what in Merlin's name a talking dragon existed in Hogwarts. "Are you Professor Lear's dragon?" She asked, wondering if the Professor of Care of Magical Creatures also kept talkative dragons with an ego problem around. That sounded great fun. Mushu was adorable - though it was clear that he might not have liked that. "So uh, what are we supposed to do now? Why are you here?" Serena continued to question the dragon. They had been led to this empty room. It had nothing but these runes, that apparently summoned up a dragon. 

Were they missing something? Was it meant to do something else? Was Mushu the key to solving this puzzle set by the Professor? What would Lear want them to do in this situation? She had no idea... But he was the Professor of a subject that looked after creatures. He probably cared about them... That gave her an idea, "Hey Mushu, want to be friends?" She asked the little dragon, "I'd love to be friends with a brave, strong and amazing dragon like you," The Hufflepuff continued to talk, buttering him up a little by playing to the ego that she might have previously insulted. She was trying to mend the damage, even though she still maintained that Mushu was cute.

ACTIONS:
1. Ask Mushu several questions
2. Ask Mushu to be her friend

The pathetic attempt to move so that the blond kid wouldn't grab him was to no avail - the little sucker latched on so tight he might've well have been an octopus. A million other things seemed to be happening in the room at that moment but some random kid clutching him was the one at the forefront of Max's mind. He hated it. Physical contact had never been something he'd been a fan of; touch was a whole different language in and of itself, from a a light hand on the back saying he'd better behave to a thumb swiped across the cheek that meant it was time to piss off until later. Hugs were worst of all. They were usually superficial apology and trapped you for a moment, made you have to freeze up at your worst.

"Get." His voice was somewhat lost to history when the statue his hand was on came to life, a brawny man who started yelling like a lunatic. There wasn't time to consider the implications before the cups of blood him and Dorian had painstakingly gathered were shoved into his hands like an afterthought. Had they even helped at all? "Off." The second word was a harsh snap and had a quality somewhere between rocks being ground together and an animal growling. He'd tried to make himself go cold but the stress of it all made everything bubble up, and he was powerless to do anything but snap.

As Eris told Alan off then turned to help Dorian, Dorian prepped himself for the arm wrestle of a lifetime, and Dorothy stepped up to attempt to challenge Strong Arm to a battle of wits, Max lost his shit. He wasn't thinking straight, and the world seemed to blur out around him until he was so angry that he couldn't control himself from what his body did next. "Stupid little piece of filth," he spat as he lifted the cups above the kid's head and dumped them, thick, congealing sludge pouring down onto the shorter boy's head 1976 Carrie-style. He wasn't paying attention to anything else or hearing what Dorothy had said about the door - 'let me protect you' sounded like a less subtle version of his mother telling him things were for his own good. He didn't need protection. Who the bloody hell did this disgusting little child think he was.

It didn't take further provocation for him to drop the cups onto Alan's head - the fact that his own robes would get dirty from the blood made him angry enough. He didn't even give the boy time to get off before swinging his fist at the kid's skull. He wasn't strong by any stretch of the imagination but adrenaline made him cease caring about that; a blow in the right spot might at least make a person stumble back, and you'd have to be mental not to release someone who was punching you in the head.

Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that he'd dropped his wand to help Dorian, elsewise he might've just Incendio'd the bugger. If panic, anger, and frustration had a smell they might be the coppery scent that was filling the room from the amount of blood that was being tossed about everywhere. If he could just get Alan off, he'd be able to think up something to help Dorian or at the very least help Dorothy attempt to distract Strong Arm. But if he couldn't, he wouldn't rest until this Gryffindor was out cold on the ground, preferably not getting back up any time soon.

ACTIONS:
-Dump the blood and drop the cups on Alan's head
-Attempt to punch Alan in the head

A scream in his direction from Max. But Alan's sight got blurry. What was all this, what was happening? Alan was fighting, thoughts were popping up in his mind and it's as if someone fought against the water. Alan felt like drowning but his eyes opened, he could only think blurry only see blurry. He tried to reach the surface psychically.

Alan would not notice how Max poured the blood over his head, emptying the cups and afterwards dropping them down on his head. He would probably notice it later as soon as he caught of to what happened. The Alan that was trying to fight had no clue about what happened during the past moments. The minutes that caused all this.

Then again Alan struggled and got what happened, but it wasn't Alan. It was the Potion. He narrowed his eyes, freezing as he turned to Dorian. The one who caused all of this. He wouldn't let go of Max completely, he just needed one hand to draw his wand and point it at Dorian. If he was gone Max wouldn't be so cold to him.

Suddenly everything he felt was dizziness and he tried to fight it. Unbeknownst to him was yet, if he could succeed and successfully fight whatever was happening at this moment. He didn't know and it feared him. He felt as if he has no control about himself and he wanted it back, his control. But what might be bad was, that during his fight against himself, he did not notice what Max Avery was planning. That Max would attempt to punch him, which meant Alan neither get off nor did he try to dodge.

Action
Attempt to Fight the Potion and regain Control

Point wand at Dorian

Being oblivious to what happens around him

MENTIONS!
Mysterious Voices.
INTERACTIONS!
Aurelia Bezuidenhout.
NOTE!

Reducio

Sorry about the late, bad reply, Aurelia! I think that you don't need to reply with too much after this, maybe just say they're going forward toward the Basilisk. Thanks!

"Take this. Don't burn me, I swear I would kill you if you do."

Now, what words were those? Death already? That was a subject Anatole wasn't very fond of, hence he decided to keep to himself and never scream a word for the rest of this Lock-in. Maybe never talking again would be better. At least he wouldn't get these threats. "Okay, okay, I'll take it!"

But by now, the ominous truth was clear: Aurelia did in fact dislike Anatole thanks to a silly fire-making spell. Incendio had done its job and burned to ashes any seed left of a possible friendship. The irony of it all is that her hand held a simple magical candle, in which Anatole took and prayed to the god of the ghost girl nothing would go wrong. There was something about him and fire that just did not click.

When he proposed the idea of the crutch, her anger was even more evident. From the way she grit her teeth to the way she inhaled sharply, there was even less of a chance that he would get out alive. However, Anatole knew he needed to trust her. There was a certain misfortune associated with being alone...

Well, now there was substantial proof that Aurelia Bezuidenhout was not, in fact, heartless. She slid her hand under his back and his legs and decided to carry the boy just like the big ol' baby he was. With heels in one hand, candle in the other, bare feet and a towel around his ankle, Anatole was ready to move and save whatever was in the abyss. Holding the candle out, Anatole dared to command her. "Onward, ho! To the Professors!"

Parcel held a conflicted grimace on his face. There… there was this conversation he heard… um… yes, a conversation between a head of house and another head of house. He could recognize the voice of his own head of house by the feminine sulks he seemed to release at times, and the other voice would have to come from the Hufflepuff house master. They seemed to have encounter the basilisk Parcel had helped, um, let loose…
Parcel winced when he heard the talk of loosing arms, was that on Parcel? Had he indirectly ripped Solomon’s arms of? Sh-should he perhaps run back and help?

As he thought of running back, to be the two heads of houses great savior, Parcel noticed the tiny bundle lying on the floor, on what almost looked like an island in a lake of p-pink’ish water?
The bundle seemed to talk, or actually, sob. And as Parcel knitted his brows and squinted at the bundle, he could recognize it as a house-elf. It seemed hurt, was this one more of Professor Lear’s twisted tricks? Parcel had no particular interest in House-elf’s, it wasn’t like he was a S.P.E.W member or anything, but even Parcel found hurting a house-elf distasteful. So, if it was a choice between helping a house-elf, or the guy that set the poor house-elf up in here, then Parcel would pick the house-elf. Professor Lear could deal with the Basilisk on his own for now, and Parcel’s own head of house would just have to be collateral.

Making up his mind, Parcel went a step closer to the pool of water, lifting his torch up to spread as much of the light as possible. He tried to look around, what was keeping the house-elf there? Was there some sort of creature, like, another snake? Or was it something else? And why did the water have a pink glint to it, was there something in it?

Before he could come up with any viable answers, the cat girl burst past him. She ripped of her robe and started spouting something about saving the elf… Parcel eyed her back as she waddled out in the water, was she stupid? Like, didn’t she look around at all? He sighed before turning his head to the mention of his own name.

“Oh, Lucy, hi, no luck where you ran off to?” Parcel still remembered that the girl had ran off at the first sight of danger, leaving himself alone with the Basilisk. He had tried to avoid the two girls but was now stuck with them again.

"We have to help them,"
Lucy said to him, Parcel scratched the scar on his chin and looked up to the ceiling, apparently thinking.
“Yes, I think so too, but we need to find ou-“
Before Parcel had finished his thoughts, he had looked back to Lucy, and saw her attempting to jump the water.

“By Merlin’s bloody green suspender pants! Do none of you think! We need to know what the hell is going on first!” But Parcel’s shouts were too late, Lucy had already jumped. Parcel hadn’t cared much when the cat girl went out, he didn’t particularly like her all that much, he didn’t like cats, so a girl that liked cats so much that she would transfigure cat ears and a tail on herself wasn’t particularly high on Parcel’s get to know list, but Lucy was someone he already knew, he had dueled her, and she was pretty good at it, she might be a coward that runs away under an adventure, but he wouldn’t like it if she got hurt. What if the water was poison or something? Or there was a see creature lurking, ready to eat her if she hit the water?

“Damn it girls! Look at the bloody water! Its pink! Water isn’t supposed to have that color, its supposed to be colorless, so why the hell is it pink!?”
He shouted more at nothing then to the girls now, was it possible to be this dense? Parcel wasn’t afraid of danger, shit, it wouldn’t be fun without danger, but you still had to be smart about it, you wanted to survive even though it was dangerous!

Parcel walked as close to the water as he could without standing in it, he decided to try and get the house-elf’s attention, perhaps it hadn’t noticed them yet.
“HEY! You house-elf! What has happened to you?!”
Information was key, that was what his grandfather have said, and Parcel always tried to live by it. The more he knew of the elf’s circumstances the better equipped he would be to handle whatever did this to the elf.
Parcel kept his eyes on the Girls however, did the water do anything to them?

Actions:
- Walk as close to the waters edge as he can without touching the water.
- Try to get the house-elf's attention with a question
- Stare intently at the girls for any change in them after they (Rosie at least) touched the water.

Dorothy

Mentions: Max & Dorian

Finally a handsome boy had noticed her. Escorted her even towards the statue. Dorian had the face most pre-adolescent girls would dream about. Her heart should have fluttered a little bit, but hers did not. It was a good thing, boys like Dorian only bring about disappointment.

Dorian did not want Dorothy, well at least all of her. All Dorian wanted was her blood. And he would lead her to the chalice, already mostly full and add her innocent blood to the mix. Dorothy was an innocent right? The boys were innocents too, right? No, the boys were definitely not innocent. Snails and puppy dog tails all the way...

She would look up as her blood was allowed to drip into the mouth of the vessel. There was something strange about seeing your own blood leave one's own body. It was stomach churning, almost nauseating. It made one feel cold and restless. Uneasy and hollow even if it was only a few drops.

It was okay to be scared. It was okay to admit that you were hurting. A salty tear would escape the corner of her eyes. This was a lot for a child to endure. This would have been a tribulation for even an adult. But she, like so many others had not learned anything. Learned what was of value.

Her arm, lighter now perhaps due to the loss of blood. Her task was complete. Her value was limited to what she could give to them. And her interest was not in the one that was left behind. The peril of the room adjacent, the chaos and the danger, the blood and the fear. No, it was the prizes like the rest. Had she always thought like this or had the boys already rubbed off on her.

"I'm staying.  But this prize better be bloody valuable, or I swear those professors will-"

Yes, that was what was important here. Not the hole in Max's foot. The obviously intoxicated Alan. The slain avian creatures. The danger or the until recently fettered furry in the room adjacent. No, it was the prize. Its extrinsic value and if it would be enough considered all that she had endured.

It would never be enough, not when you are looking to be gratified by the things that you can have.

Dorian & Max

In terms of the academic -- everything was a test. Everything they endeavored to complete, everything they failed to do, how they decided to problem-solve told Solomon tomes about what these students desired to one day be. Would they be heroes? Villains? Something in-between. The world often favored the selfish, the person who did what they had to do to get what they wanted... what they needed. The world did not favor heroes, but unfortunately for them Solomon was in the market for making heroes.

Forged in the fires of Muspelheim.

Honed in Niflhel.

Solomon was in many ways crueler than the hand of fate because he knowingly placed these children in peril. Taught them, yes... but what would they learn beyond the fact that to survive they must do what was necessary. To live with the fact that they have betrayed and abandoned their own. But that was the point, the pain because it defined them. Their regret and their fear. Their rejection, loneliness and guilt.

Max created a pair of birds attempting to cast a spell that he did not fully think through. That he was too much a novice to understand. However he had power, power over those suffering creatures that he allowed to be slain.

Did Dorian kill them as an act of mercy or as a utilitarian's choice. He had their blood on his hands and it was for convenience although he might tell himself later it was a kindness that he ended their suffering. Perhaps he would tell himself that it did not count, Max created them from something that was bereft of life -- Max could take away what he had given as easily as he had given it. Max had the right to allow Dorian this kill. After all young Maxwell was like their God.

Dead... that both birds were. Their blood still hot and sticky was poured into the chalice. Why? Curiosity? The call for adventure? Greed? Likely all of these things. They had the option of going back but behind them was the playground of a great serpent, something that they should have fled from. Something that should have left their stomach in knots knowing that others were left behind. Knowing that others were dead.

But they did not matter.

Did any of them feel any guilt? The pang of remorse. It was unlikely, often people hardly realize the terrible things they have done or allowed until it was too late but there would always be a day that would come. A day when their toes would curl and a chill would run up their spine as they remembered the terrible moment they made that decision. That moment where your blood turns cold and leaves your face. That moment when you remember who suffered. Who died. And why you allowed it.

Alan & Max

Alan's arms were draped around the young deviant. The effects of the amorous substance was certainly overwhelming for Alan's mind and heart. No, 'heart' was not the right term. Lust differed from love, love was complex, deep and life-changing and it was a sentiment that nobody had the power to manufacture through a means as simple as a potion.

Being desired is often something to aspire. To be wanted. Even if it was a blind adoration. A devotion that was fueled by a potion. For a short period of time Max would know what it was like to be wanted. To have someone that wanted to be by his side. Someone that wanted to protect him. Someone that would give of themselves freely for Max's benefit.

But Max wanted none of that.

"Get..."

"Off"

Alan was like that girlfriend you regretted looking at in the lunch line. That girl that has already named all your children before the first date. That girl that fits every cliche. Only problem being -- Alan was probably a dude. Max apparently liked the ladies.

He would attempt to struggle free of Alan's grip, he was hanging off of Max like clothes on a clothes line. Semi-limp and way too much static cling.

Free Arm Attempt: 3 Failed

He was not able to muster the strength to wiggle free, but it did not matter. he would go down with Alan. He would launch the blood, now sluggish and half clotted in Alan;s direction fully accepting the fact that his attire and face would be collateral damage.

"Stupid little piece of filth."

So hurtful, the things that Max would say to the man that loved him. OK, wanted him. Well, wanted him as physically as a twelve year old boy understood he would want another boy. It was confusing. Alan was confusing.

Still, what he felt was wrong, it was not natural. Alan would threaten Dorian, the threat. Alan's romantic rival. As he did so, his grip would loosen on Max, he was still there limiting Max's mobility but Max was free to fight back and fight back he did.

They were both fighting -- Max was fighting Alan. Alan was fighting the influence of the potion.

Alan attempts to be free of the potion. Roll: 15 Success

As if the lights in Alan's head turned on. What the heck did he ever see in Max, that ungrateful whelp! He was painfully handsome but he was a dude. Unless Alan swung that way, that too might have been a deal breaker. If not, well... meh. His personality did not match his good looks.

There was that and...

Max's fist tightened into a hard ball. Max would turn to Alan and attempt to hook the befuddled student in the jaw.

Attack (Max) 16 Success
Evasion (Alan) 9 Hit

Max's fist would connect soundly with Alan's jaw. Enlightening the boy to Max's true sentiments if Max at any point let off any mixed signals.

100 damage from Alan's 800 hit point total

Max's blow was not particularly devastating but Alan would feel it in the morning. What did Alan do to wrong max besides show him affection and adoration? Apparently a blight to the boy. Well, either that or he adhered to another mantra: love hurts.

Dorian & Dorothy

Dorian's hand would be encased within that of a newly resurrected behemoth. It was unlikely what he expected and Dorian would be utterly outclassed. His tiny, bony boyish limbs in comparison to the godlike biceps of the gargantuan man they had summoned with their blood sacrifice. The statue's hand would tighten, Dorian would feel an intense pain, as if blood was trapped in his fingertips and as if new blood was being prevented from finding those same phalanges.

Dorothy knew that Dorian did not have a chance against this giant. This beautiful man of carved perfection against Dorian's well... less carved perfection and more doughy strands bent at the elbow. For a twelve-year old he was an impressive physical specimen, sure. But he was a boy playing a man's game.

"Wait a minute.  Everyone just... Just slow down!  This is crazy!  He's a human muscle.  We're twelve! There's no way-"

Dorothy stopped. 

"Mr.  Statue-human-thing.  You are very impressive, and we may be a bit out of your, um, weight class. He's hurt.  I'm hurt."

She shown her injuries to the statue, but his eyes full of fight were focused on Dorian.

"I propose a different challenge.  A battle of wit.  Physical strength isn't everything, you know.  To truly be the strongest, sharpness of mind must be present." 

She was trying to convince him, sway him.

"A game of riddles.  If we win, you give us the treasure.  If we lose, you arm wrestle, or we leave.  Whichever you want.  Deal?" 

Dorian would try, as any small child would. Use his body's weight as an asset but how much did he weigh? Fifty kilograms would be exceptionally generous. This man appeared to be the sort that could curl the boy for reps. That would not prevent Dorian from trying.

Roll: 7 Failed

The statue-turned-man would grunt as he attempted to overcome Dorian. "What treasure?" He would announce as the statue took the boy's hand and crashed it downward with such force that it would fling the boy about. He would hear a SNAP in his shoulder and this sudden wave of pain that would descend the length of his arm. It was enough to take anyone's breath away, Dorian's arm was dislocated.

"Ha Ha!" The smiling, somewhat oblivious statue would announce indifferent to Dorian's suffering and potentially his screams. "Good try, but not good enough!" He would extend his opposite hand to Dorian's remaining hand before he relinquished his grip on Dorian's right. A shock of pain would move through him, his fingers tingling, red and angry and his arm limp at his side.

"You first?"

Had he agreed?  Dorothy didn't care. The statue hardly even noticed.

"What word... What word looks the same upside down and backward.. When- when all the letter are capitalized?"

She was asking for a very particular type of Palindrome. Words in such a palindrome can only be made up of only letters that look the same upside down such as H, I, N, O, S, X and Z. Words such as SWIMS, HANNAH and NOON. Alas, the meat-head would not have been clever enough as to answer that question had he even been paying attention.

The statue did not care that he had hurt Dorian, that Dorian was already hurt or that he was about to hurt him even more. Much like the selfish children, he only cared about what he wanted to care about. Why would a statue care? The statue cared about one thing: that was whatever it was built to be.

Rosie [The Furry]

Mentions: Max, Dorian, Dorothy, Alan and Eris

Rosie was not going to join the other half of this merry band of adventurers. Max, Dorian, Dorothy, Alan and Eris had all left her to die and for what? For prizes? To sate their curiosity? Their wanderlust? She was not like them or so she wanted to believe? Perhaps she would have been right there with them if she had not been the one left behind, but there is something about being neglected, forgotten and discarded that changes a person's perspective. Perhaps she was changed, if so it would prove in the long-run to be for the better. If not, the sorting hat had chosen her house well.

She had a choice now -- return to the Professors. She could have ended this adventure the moment she was free of her restraint. She had decided to venture further, deeper. Yes, away from the basilisk that had headed straight for the Professors and any resting students without warning. Did she think about them? Was she trying to save her own skin? Did she too share a bit of Eris' fatal flaw as she too sought adventure and a prize. she had chosen the southern path, it was there that she had first heard the screams... those pitiful cries for help.

She had followed them. Perhaps her redemption. A way of salving the ache she might have felt knowing where the basilisk had gone. To save something in a place that would put her in less peril. Logical for the self-preservationist in us all. It was there over a narrow stretch of rushing water that she would see it, a badly injured stranger calling out for help. It was trying to rise but it could not, too weak... too damaged. By what, that would be an unknown variable at least for this time.

The water was still powerful, rushing through her legs and attempting to knock her off her feet. She would attempt to wade across, the wet bottom hard to find sure footing.

Walk Attempt Roll: 2 Failed

Rosie would slip and she would fall. The water would rip her feet from under her and she would splash down into the water. A sense of panic might set in. She was an agile creature, but like most cats Rosie probably was not a fan of water.

She would try to stand.

Stand Attempt Roll: 16 Success

She would struggle back to her feet, using all she had to rise above the rushing and dangerous waters. It only took a few inches of powerfully moving water to sweep someone off their feet, that was a common danger in flood zones and Rosie had just learned why. She would have to try again, taking care to find her footing on those slick stones she would continue to venture across. Her choices would have been to go back to to continue on, but she had made a promise and she had not make a contingency plan in case she had begun to fail. So with only one direction she might go she moved onward.

Walk Attempt Roll: 14 Success

She would make it across but it would not be easy for the little girl, her heavy robes a burden. Her wet hair/fut matted to her head, her tail and ears... wait, those were gone. Washed away perhaps? She would not have time to notice, she had a terrified and injured house elf to attend to.

Yes, it was an unfortunate house elf. Tiny in size with slender arms and knobby joints. Tanned skin and large, soulful, expressive eyes and large satellite-like ears. She would be able to see clearly that the unfortunate creature had been badly injured. It's leg was obviously broken, the foot was not facing the right direction and there were several cuts and gashes on his face and forearms, knees skinned and knuckles bloodied.

"I-I am so sorry miss! I am so sorry!" He cried, sobbed in fact.

"I-It's okay!"

"I tried to stop him! I knew it was wrong!"

"It's okay, I'm here. You're safe. We're gonna get you somewhere safe, and everything is going to be fine."

"I am SO SORRY!"

Lucy

Mentions: Rosie and Paracel

What was she doing here? There were bats to the north so that was a no-go. There was a basilisk to the east, that seemed like someone else's problem. A room full of greedy adventurers to the west leaving her with the south. There was the promise of potential reward or adventure here. A lack of known danger and of course of competition.

The only problem was -- there was someone in trouble. This would enter the list of things that were NOT Lucy's problem. But this is also the moment that defines you. Lucy could have been a witness to Rosie as she traversed the raging subterranean river, see her nearly drown and then interface with the blubbering house elf with no effort from her person.

No, she too would strip away her garments -- lucky Paracel.

With a running jump Lucy would attempt to sail over the body of rushing water, the risk of walking through too great she would do so just as poor Rosie the resident woobie got pulled under. 

Lucy Jump Attempt: 20

She was able to clear the gap without difficulty. It was a rather impressive sight, had she been a muggle she would have considered long-jumper. Alas, her skill regarding this might have been a fluke and if it was an unrealized skill it was one that would be unlikely to get the attention it deserved in a place that favored magical skill over physical prowess.

She would look back and see Rosie nearly drown but she would pull herself up and trudge onward. The sobbing elf would apologize to Lucy before Rosie even stepped on the shore. "I am so sorry... I couldn't do it. I am so sorry..." He seemed to be begging. If Rosie accepted it, Lucy had her hand out to help pull the drenched girl from the water. They needed to work together, alone neither of them would be enough. Something by now they had likely started to realize. In an adventure there were rules:

• - Don't travel alone.
• - Never leave your team mates behind.
• - There is no "I" in TEAM.

Paracel

Mentions Lucy and Rosie

Paracel was in fact a heartless Slytherin that was placed in the wrong house. Well, he was a pragmatic young man who decided that -- well an elf was of greater value than a Professor.

All life had value but in the immortal words of mister Spock: "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." The decided trespasses of one, the onus of the devastation on Lear meant that those who suffered alongside would be mere collateral. That sort of vengeful logic was fascinating. It explained it. It excused it, but not by means of forgetting. Not by means of telling himself that he could not make a difference. No, by simply saying that he preferred to help the one that offended him the least, even if there were fewer to save. It meant that Paracel's word was his -- that his choices were based not in logic but in sentiment or in his case resentment.

It was an interesting conundrum. One that Solomon would have to later explore. The making of a hero often came in steps. The call for adventure being enough for some. Others built from a sense of loss. Paracel, however, was a concerning creature. He did not choose to act out of avarice. He as a greedy little *******, yes. But there was a means of decision making that those with dangerous hearts and minds share.

It was his choice.

There is a trope, one that Mister Spock most famously explained but often known as the hero's tragic choice. The hero left to decide between their selfish want -- perhaps the life, love, happiness or safety of a lover or a loved one against that of many, perhaps dozens, hundreds or even thousands of innocents. Neither choice a good one, no choice "right" although that statement is up to vigorous ethical debate. in the end, a life and the act of saving one or the other does not in itself constitute an 'evil' act but it is how and why a decision was made that speaks volumes.

Paracel would approach the water with great caution. he was not about to rush head-first into danger for the sake of an unknown. Nor was he willing to valiantly face off against a basilisk for the sake of the man he faulted for this misadventure.

If nothing else, Paracel was the light.

Lucy might have been more than willing to leave Paracel to die beneath that Basilisk but Paracel was a boy... not a house elf. Interesting how selfless some can be when the danger appears to be less, when the perceived victim is seen as an innocent. 
 
“By Merlin’s bloody green suspender pants! Do none of you think! We need to know what the hell is going on first!”

How sweet, Paracel was worried about Lucy. He was not worried about Rosie. He had a type and his type was not Rosie.

Paracel was concerned about the tint of the water. An intelligent fear, the water had a pinkish hue. WHY did it have such a coloration?

“HEY! You house-elf! What has happened to you?!”

Paracel called out to the suffering, sobbing, apologetic elf. "He got mad. He got so mad..." The elf sobbed. "I did nothing wrong. I never do anything wrong!" Who was he? What was the elf talking about? "He is dangerous, we need to leave!"

The water did nothing to them. The water was fine, just a bit of blood. The water would prove to be the least of their concerns.

Cynthia & Serena

Mentions: Reid[/size]

Enthralled by the dragon, a curious thing that betrayed any literature -- at least any serious literature regarding the subject. In fact, if Cynthia had grown up as a muggle she would have recognized the beast as well as the name. It was not a coincidence, merely an act of plagiarism by the eccentric and potentially cruel professor.

Serena was both terrified and elated, tiny talking dragons were adorable. The dragon would climb up her back and perch on her shoulder until she dared offend the majestic and powerful creature. He would take flight and crash when Reid stepped out of his way.

Was he all right?

"Am I okay...?" he paraphrased. "Am I the great Mushu okay?" The answer was obvious from his tone. he was fine, everything was intact even if his pride was a bit bruised. "Of course I am fine. I am GREAT. I am Mushu!"

"So uh you can talk, Mushu?"

"Talk, of course I can talk. Do you think I just flip his beautiful lush lips for the heck of it girl?" Mushu trots away several steps ranting to himself. "Of course she thinks I cannot talk. She probably said to herself just now dragons don't talk. Why is a dragon talking? I don't think..."

"Wh- what are you doing here?"

Good question but Mushu was busy ranting. "That is racist... HUMANIST!" He nearly missed Serena's question. "What am I doing here? Oh boy, isn't it obvious. I-I... I'm tasked with the glorious and important duty... The duty of..." yes he was drawing this out. "I am ...the guardian!" He puffed out his chest.

"Are you Professor Lear's dragon?"

"Professor Lear's Dragon. Am I Professor Lear's Dragon? I am nobody's dragon. I am MY OWN dragon!" He was at this point pacing in a small circle.

"So uh, what are we supposed to do now? Why are you here?"

"You're supposed to... Y-you are... I know what you're supposed to do, but..." he frowned. "I want you to tell me," he looked away.

It was an intelligent query. Why were they in here. The answer was simple, this is where they walked. They walked into this room in search of a prize. In search of treasure. In search of prizes. That was the reason that they were there. Their adventure differed from the others. Not in peril, at least yet. Perhaps they moved slower, in some cases some were hardly walking along.

They had two puzzles: the answer was obvious for anyone that paid attention in transfiguration. That would be the goal of any academic, to ensure the utilization of what they had learned but was that all Solomon wanted to be learned. Solomon often sought a different sort of lesson: togetherness, dependence on one another.

None of that had come up but was it a lesson that they needed to learn at all. Serena was already forged in fire, Reid as well, even Cynthia. They had already experienced a near-death experience. They had already learned this lesson. They already know how to fight together. To go back for those that cannot keep up. To catch one another when they fall.

They had already learned. They already knew.

"Hey Mushu, want to be friends?"

Serena asked the little dragon but Mushu could see right through that. He rolled his eyes and took little effort to hide this fact. "Oh please--"

"I'd love to be friends with a brave, strong and amazing dragon like you,"

She continued on. She was not wrong, Mushu was dang awesome. Handsome... tall... powerful... She could continue with the compliments he was not wrong and he had a terrible poker face. "Okay... okay... sure," he relented as if she twisted his arm. "Friends."

Anatole and Aurelia

Mentions: Solomon and Sebastian[/size]

Anatole followed Aurelia up the stairs. The light she carried would guide him. each step of ascension likely a painful one, the heels would bob in his hand, swing back and forth likely gripped by the strap if they had one. Pain felt in his injured and likely swollen ankle, the already damaged boy would hear the most fearsome of sounds. SCREAMS. Those terrible cries and a story being told through them.

Something had attacked them. Something had taken one of their arms. Someone was saying his good-byes. It did not sound good for whoever was in there. It sounded as if someone was about to die. It sounded as if whoever was hurt was going to be left to die.

That was how things worked wasn't it?

You run when terrible things happen. It does not matter who you left behind because the most important thing is to look out for yourself. What benefit was there in running towards disaster? The risk of shared peril? Something terrible that could have been avoided.

What was the logical thing to do?

What was the right thing to do?

There is a saying in times of war -- the victors or in this case the survivors are the ones that get to write the history books. It is their story that gets told. It is their perspective that is remembered. Their action or lack thereof would be up to their creative minds in the end, assuming they survived.

So there was no need to fulfill an image of honor. Of heroic deeds.But there was a call -- this was the call only heroes hear.

“The Professor are in trouble. Come on, stop being weird and get up, we need to help them.”

She scolded the dramatic Gryffindor.

“Come on Anatole.”

She was answering the call. However there was something that she did not understand about being BRAVE. About being a Gryffindor. That is was okay to be afraid because you cannot be brave unless you are afraid. Being full of fear, of knowing with great trepidation the fierce things that might come is the trademark of a Gryffindor. Yet there is a difference -- a difference between adventuring and running head first into danger and disaster and being "a hero." One is a fool, one with a likely short life that would be hardly accounted for. The other saved someone, did something of worth. The later would have stories to tell, differences made, and a mark left in this world.

It would appear that Aurelia was destined to be the later.

The ever dramatic Anatole would apologize, his greatest fear being crushed beneath the eleven year old's what...  mammoth feet? There were scarier things out there, like whatever it was that could make a seasoned wizarding veteran scream.

"Alright, alright! I'll come with you!"

Anatole had resigned himself to the fact that he was going to go WITH Aurelia. What did he think he was going to do? Had he truly thought out this situation fully?

"Just one problem. I...uh...can't get up on my own. Can you help me? I...uh...might need to use you as a crutch."

Was he trying to cop a feel or tire her out so he could outrun her.

"Then we'll go after those Professors!"

The call to adventure has been answered by the both of them, for the better or for the worse.

"Alright, you and me... We've got this."

“Take this. Don’t burn me, I swear I would kill you if you do.”

What was her plan -- to give Anatole her only consistent source of light? Well, yes. It was not a great plan but it was the only plan she had. Honeymoon-style she would scoop the tiny boy up in her arms.

Strength Check: 2 Failed

She would try and lift the pathetic Gryff and she would drop him. (-25 damage and a bruise on his @$$) An act of benevolence? Perhaps. An act of self-preservation? Likely. A not so durable meat-shield is what Anatole offered. yes, it would cost her one floating candle but in exchange, she had something to feed the snake.

Would she try a second time?

Sure... why not.

Strength Check: 16 Success

And like a newly wed couple defying the usual trope she lifted the injured young man from the ground and carried him in her arms. She would ascend the few stairs that remained. The sounds that came from the darkness above were disconcerting.

"Oh God... Or some deity!"

"We're MEN, we don't pray!"

There was banging and crunching, as if another tin can was being crushed.

Aurelia's gaze would crest over the stairs moments before Anatole's. They would see an interesting scene as they made their way to the original camping room.

Siege was sleeping despite the racket in the far back corner, he never bother to change out of his costume. Solomon and Sebastian (who has not posted in forever so will have to live with my Godmodding) was sitting on the floor Indian-style. Some tin cans and a few books -- Solomon scraping or collapsing one of several cans in front of him and Sebastian pounding the ground with a book or slapping the cold floor with the palm of his hand. They were occasionally shouting out something -- such as the loss of an arm. Last requests. Whatever came to mind, Solomon once forgetting that he had already 'lost' that arm in the narrative he gave.

Yes, it was a simple ruse. They were fine and there was no Basilisk to be seen. Considering the expression on their faces, it would seem as if Solomon and Sebastian were for once... getting along famously.

Ami, Howie, Amadea and Rosie

Mentions: Anatole

Ami would not find wealth inside of that coffin but rather what every coffin is supposed to hold -- A BODY. Just in this moment a live one. Howie was an unfortunate victim of his own cleverness, oddly enough what he found inside of that coffin was an intended prize. Ami had one also - a sentient item. Understanding the actual gravity of this fact probably blew past the both of them but an item that has intelligence, thought and the ability to interact rather than react within the narrow if-then confines determined in many of the rudimentary spells that are taught in this academy, these items represent something more. There were a few potential options -- these might be Tsukomogamis -- spirits that inhabit and posses inanimate objects but these items were similar, the gem being the main difference between them. It was unlikely that these were treasured objects because more than one existed. No, these objects represented something else. Something potentially terrible, even terrifying.

Either a soul was bound to these, one rather content to be a footnote. An accessory to the living. Or life, at least a firm representation of life was manufactured. It betrayed a natural order in concept if it was the later and the Professor whom placed that item here would have to be quite brazen to leave such a fearsome truth in the open to be found.

Perhaps he was a brilliant fool.

Ami would reveal her gaudy necklace. Howard would feel his own.

"Hey hey!"

A voice would come from the necklace.

"Got yourself a boyfriend already? Good girl! I got a joke for you boy-yo... What did the skeleton say to his girlfriend?" The necklace would pause of a moment. "You need to have some game for this one dude..." He egged Howie on. "I love every bone in your body! HA ha HA ha!"

"Oh leave them alone," Howard's necklace scolded. "Can't you see they're overwhelmed. Everything is gonna be fine... Everything is..." The necklace's hollow assurances were cut short by the tone of the word that would escape Ami's lips next.

Ami was already distracted, she had no sense of humor. Apparently crispy girls were more important. Ami would notice that Rosie was unconscious on the ground. She was badly hurt, still smoldering in fact from Anatole's reckless attack.

"Rosie?"

Ami saw it, that mass of red curls and that burnt body laying on the ground. The air had this scent of cooked meat, it was far from appetizing. Rather it had this sickening scent. Ami would feel Rosie's wrist, checking if there was a pulse. She would feel something, a throbbing that was almost indistinguishable from her own. She was still alive, even if only barely.

“Rosie!”

Howard echoed the young ginger's name with urgency and fear. He would rush to her side, practically falling down next to her as he gripped her shoulders and tried to shake her awake. Despite the violence he might have inflicted upon her in his hasted attempt to revive or rather pull her to consciousness she would be limp in his arms. Her shirt near her shoulders where his hands gripped flaked away in blackened, charred bits.

“Rosie! Wake up!”

She was not responding. She did not even look alive.

“No! No!”

He begged. Was he begging her to respond? For the gods of fate to hear his call?

"Hey, someone with basic medical knowledge, come here and check her out."

Ami ordered but that was a bit much to ask those gathered here. They were merely eleven year olds, perhaps a sprinkling of twelve year olds still learning how to light the tip of their wands.

"Don't just stand there like idiots, please- she needs medical attention, and fast."

She demanded action, action even she was failing to give. Amadea would join the demanding girl. What was she supposed to do that had not been done already. It was unlikely that she knew CPR. Was this the time for that anyways? No, no it was not. Maybe later or if Rosie turned into a cute boy for uh... practice.

"Should we bring her to the professors?"

Amadea's answer was simple -- forgo their adventure and their advancement, even if it was only temporary so that they could get Rosie the help she needed. Help she could not give but perhaps they could find someone that was capable. The Professors. It was likely that they knew how to heal her. That they had something in their mental arsenal that could be of use. They had been wizards longer than every last one of them had been alive. It only made sense.

John, Ami, Rosie & Howard

John was a god, not the sort with a capital "G" but at the very least a little "g." He had gained power over the cold, the mortal nemesis of fire. John had performed a great miracle, he was burned but then he had faith and power and HE WAS HEALED. Through the magic... the power... the awesome might of his wand.

This was not his first miracle, oh no.

The first was the parting of the darkness and the fog. And then they saw the light. The glorious light that was John. Because he believed. Because he danced against the devil and he won.

Second, when he raised the dead. Howard was gone and lo-- he would be mourned! But Johnny raised the unfortunate soul from the depths and gave him new life!

Third, he healed dire and terrible wounds. Om himself he was burned and then... he ached no more.

Place your trust in Johnathan, the prophet. The one true path. The harbinger of truth and enlightenment.

“What had happened on this night, will be told to your children and your children's children. I walked into the valley of shadow and saw no evil. In fact, I saw nothing at all, being so dark. And behold! A light, like a spotlight, revealed to me a dancing ghost girl- NO! An angel appeared and danced and rhymed! And she would dance and rhyme over and over, revealing the monotony of this mortal world. In my childish innocence, I challenged this Monotony by fighting this angel in a dance off. I challenged her rhymes with my own, forcing her to reply to me. So intense was our dance that a fire had consumed my arm. The Evil Flame had wanted to turn me back, back to the same scheduled life. But not even the power of dance would cease to my wounds. For once you leave the Monotony, you cannot go back. So I danced and rhymed until the angel could no longer keep up. And lo and behold! She disappeared and light entered the world again!”

And thus the first miracle of John, the new coming. The alpha and the omega.

He would not know it at first, something even he admitted but he was chosen. He was THE chosen one. He was the truth... the way... the light.

“A voice from the grave had asked me: ‘Hello who?’ I could not answer her for I still did not know who I was. But now, I can answer her! I am John of all Johns, of the Huffrindors, and to all seeking the end of the endless Monotony. One who danced with the dancing ghost girl, Whatever Be Thy Name. I am her apostle, and by carrying this blue wand, I have been burdened with DIVINE PURPOSE!!!”

He was right of course, the grave called out to HIM. It did not change him, it did not sway HIM. He changed it. He designed the path, the way. He was given the reigns to a divine purpose. One only he would understand.

These were not words that Howard was willing or ready to hear. Some are not ready for the divine coming. Some logically get mad when someone gives a sermon while their girlfriend is dying on the ground right in front of them. Some...

“What the hell are you doing! This isn’t a damn joke John! We have to get her to the Professors!”

Howie was not wrong. They were a simple flight of stairs away. Here she was dying on the cold, singed ground and the Hufflepuff was cavorting about with his nifty prize -- a new wand.

“Fear not, Ami...”

The prophet spoke. He gave Howard no such assurances.

“For the dancing ghost girl is my ally. And a powerful ally she is.”

Had John gone mad? Yes, but he was not wrong. John knelt down to the unconscious Rosie and revealed the blue wand. This was his sigil, his holy symbol, his means of war and of peace.

“Rosie, who is not a Parker...”

There were a lot of injured Rosies about.

“Too long have you been subjected to the endless Monotony that is this unconscious state. By the power given to me by the blue wand, I bid you to heal… and AWAKEN!”

Like drums in his ears, each passing moment... each beat of his heart only deepened his anger. His spite. This was the sort of moment that broke a man and Howard was only a boy.

“How did this happen?! Who’s responsible for this!”

He did not know did he? Of course he did not, he was buried alive when it happened. When Anatole recklessly cast the same spell that nearly killed a dozen Hufflepuffs earlier this year in the camp out.

Still distracted by anger, Howard would be the last to see the change in Rosie. Bleary-eyed, fire and brimstone in the back of his throat and a mind and heart descending into darkness he was departing salvation. AMEN Rosie was HEALED! John proceeded to press the cool touch of the blue wand firmly onto Rosie’s forehead. He truly believed this would heal all her wounds and wake her from her unconscious state. Her clothes would not be repaired but her mortal flesh would be. The char and the raw red broken flesh now like new. Her shallow breaths deeper and more purposeful, her eyes would flutter open.

Yes, John has performed yet another miracle and Howard would be a witness to the glory. His face, John's that is would be the first Rosie saw of course. He was in the way, that glory-hog but Howard was right there behind him, his hands still clasped onto her now healed shoulders.

Hail John, the holiest of all Johns. The great prophet of the dancing child. The harbinger of the cold. The dancing and rhyming king. Destroyer of monotony. The boy with far too many names.

And lo Howard -- the boy whom might descend to the darkest depths when what is precious to him is lost. Fear for this young Hufflepuff. Fear for love in your case is too deep... is too strong... You feel too much.


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Howie’s anger blazed on, looking around to the others, he searched their eyes for an answer. Someone must know how this happened to Rosie, but if not them, then the Professors would. How could they lead them down here, set them off on their own without any adult supervision? This was no scavenger hunt! Buried alive! People burnt to a crisp! Damn them.

John muscled his way past Howie, continuing to rant on and on. The blue wand he acquired had obviously addled his mind. Try as he might to stop him, Howie could not prevent John from touching the tip of the wand to Rosie’s forehead. “John! No! You don’t know what that thing is!” Howie called out to him. 

John blocked his view, but Howie could feel movement under his hands, a slight stirring. Rosie’s once motionless body gave a small sign of life. He threw his shoulder into John’s side, attempting to get a clear look at her. Peeking around him, he saw her eyes flutter open. She was alive! Howie lifted his hands, what had once been charred and blistered skin underneath them was now healed, as if flame had never touch it. His eyes shifted back to the blue wand in John’s hand, then to his eyes. Howie should have had more faith.

“Thank you John.” His voice was hoarse. He should have said more, but couldn’t. Howie shimmied his arms underneath Rosie, and would attempt to lift her, to take her up the stairs to what he hoped was safety.