Not Even Singed
The illustrious old bookstore was one line on a lengthy agenda for the second first year, such a contrast to the prior July that Lourine had only now paid it mind. Flourish and Blotts would receive them all the same as sunlight grazed the wood flooring, the hushed commotion offering nostalgia for a place they'd not recognize. Staff weave through shelves as the late twelve-year-old dips their tote against one, the same stark amber of The Moth they wore, lifting its hood to reveal a few tomes of their own.
Magical Drafts and Potions, an illegible copy of A History of Magic, and miscellaneous yet magical titles that were all hand-me-downs from their Mama's Hogwarts days. Lourine hadn't touched them since leaving Cardiff, or a bit prior, as it was obvious in their haphazard arrangement that Mama Eryth had done them the favor of packing. It was a spotty collection, they knew well, there'd be little surprise if she had lost a few over the years. Lour would have to replenish her collection.
Half the books press upright against each other as the child rifles through them with their wand propped against the bag. They count out what they had so they could purchase what they hadn't, plucking Magical Theory off the top of a poorly arranged stack, only to unburden a much meeker, ill-fitting novel underneath.
The Picture of Dorian Gray. It's titled on flimsy paperback and blond hair. As they set aside the print that suffocated it, they take the humble, muggle work in their hands; a synopsis pitches down the back cover in a fashion that was not nearly one of a textbook.
❝ ... from where'd you appear ? ❞
They'd murmur, Welsh, as they pry the book open on a fissure. The paper is soft on their fingers and black ink scrawls in small, even words against it, the top edge tucks into a neat triangle— a hint.
They recognize Fain's habit; she'd dog-ear all the books she'd ever read and it'd drive Kathana mad. It must be hers, and even she neglected poor Dorian. They slot a finger under the corner, unfolding till it laid flat, though with little concern for the crease it left behind.
There are worse things than capture; The Duchess starts in the stroke of quotation marks that litter the page, and as they clutch the year-abandoned novel and the musk of Flourish and Blotts for the first time, they couldn't help but understand her.
Because Lourine would chase just as well; A burnt child loves the fire.
I am not even singed; A nail taps the letters as they stand idle in the secluded space between towering bookcases. ❝ ... pace gives life, ❞ They'd remind, as if to her, in a voice carried barely over a whisper. ❝ you'd go on even if it burnt you once. ❞
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𝕹𝖔𝖙 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖉 ♡ [jul.31 2026]꒰Y.1B꒱꒰multi꒱ [✉] [ooc] ty for your patience, quite excited to RP with you so i was definitely overthinking this starter ♡ let me know if you'd like the title, tags, or date changed, simply picked the first available one. 𖦹 this post formats ic welsh like this 🔒︎ lour is wearing the Moth and equipped their wand, textbooks [★] h.lourine, d.archer [☆] e.drachir h.fain kathana @lourine hoax @archer duncan | ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ |
❝ and i have nothing else to do, but bury my love for you ❞
♡ so what are you going to do about it?
꒰nothing꒱꒰fill an application꒱꒰seek out lour꒱