florence-whoisleft

[florence-whoisleft]

unchainedprincess:

“I believe you might have dropped this,” Andromeda stated, bending to pick up the wooden stick like object with the pink end. Before giving it back to the person she paused to look over the object, tapping the end once and then finally allowed herself to hold it out to be returned to who she believed was the rightful owner. “If you’re using this as some sort of device to harm others with you might want to sharpen it because that end is rather dull.”

Florence, who had been about to thank the girl for retrieving her pencil, paused instead, somewhat alarmed at the idea of using a primary school writing utensil for murder or maiming. It would never have occurred to her to think that, but death was permeating the castle currently. Perhaps it was no wonder that Andromeda assumed that’s what it was for. It was not a thought Florence liked, and so she pushed it away, feeling uneasy at the direction it had gone. She was remarkably skilled at avoiding things in her own head, and so easily tuned back in to Andromeda and cleared her throat, a slightly confused frown gracing her face. “This... this is a pencil,” Florence enunciated. Sometimes she forgot how purebloods could be. “It’s for writing.” Creation, not devastation, though she supposed some creation could devastate. Not exactly the cheery thoughts she preferred to house in her mind, though it was a little difficult, ever since what happened in Hogsmeade. “I don’t think you could even stab someone——I mean, you could, technically, of course, but graphite’s not very... hard? So I don’t think it’d be very useful.” Dropping to a mutter, she added, “though whether anyone should be able to stab someone with something efficient is something else entirely.”

[florence-whoisleft]

sebastian-whoisleft:

“Oh, yeah. The badger and I, we’re tight,” Sebastian said, nodding his head a few times, determined to keep in step with this conversation even if had been wholly throwing him since the start. He blinked a few times, looking her up and down and trying to get a gauge on if she was kidding, if she was serious or if she was being both–– damn he wished he’d listened more intently from the start, because he couldn’t quite tell if she was just talking a minute and hard to follow or if he was entirely to blame for this whiplash he was feeling. “Like the brother I never had. I love how they just––” he clenched his fist and nodded, looking very intent. “Shelter underground. And all those other…badger things.” 

“Like actual wolfhounds, or was that a nickname for a bachelorette party type thing…?” Seb asked since that, at least, was something new he could be sure he’d heard correctly. 

Florence, bless her heart, was a lively and charismatic sort, but——unfortunately for both her and the people around her——was rather lacking in her understanding of social cues. Often, this meant she simply didn’t know when to shut up, blathering above and beyond socially acceptable levels, but left her open to all sorts of slight missteps when it came to social cues——it was a fairly accepted fact that Florence Daygust meant well and had a bright smile and a word for any situation, but it didn’t mean that she was always very good at realising whether people were thriving or floundering with her, short of them bluntly interrupting her and informing her of such.

And so, instead of providing any sort of direct signals to shout out sincere or kidding—it was, as so often was with Florence, a combination of both, in that humour could fall from her lips nearly as frequently as sincerity, and sometimes mingled confusingly—Florence chuckled at his response, rolling her eyes good-naturedly, but unable to suppress an earnest nod.

“Listen, people can mock it, but badgers would make pretty kickarse family members,” Florence said. “I mean——probably not if the implication was then that you were part badger because then there’s... probably something questionable going on with your family tree and you’ve got a lot more to worry about than the emotional qualities of your brother, but if you had to choose your family, I mean... badgers are pretty tough and they’ve got your back, which is a quality I think I would want in a brother.” She grinned at him. “Sheltering underground is good too. I, personally, think it would be incredibly useful to have a brother who can always, y’know, burrow if he gets thrown out of his house or something dramatic.” Florence, whose mind worked even quicker than her mouth sometimes——part of why it was hard to keep up with her, her thoughts were like trains jumping tracks instead of following them to their logical conclusions——pounced on the brother I never had part of his valiant attempt at a response to her. “I’ve never had a brother either—” and nor would any of her peers from home have been willing to be a surrogate one for her, what with her tendency to put her foot in her mouth and earn awkward encounters instead of lifelong friends, “—but I think one’d be quite useful. Would you want a brother?” She had a feeling there was another Nott running around the castle somewhere—a Ravenclaw, she thought—so perhaps his opinion might be coloured by the fact that he didn’t really need another sibling, not like she’d always wanted one, but she was very interested to hear, all the same.

“Actual wolfhounds,” Florence stressed, regardless of the fact that it wasn’t.... well, true. To be fair, neither was the bachelorette party idea, so there was really no better option—except, of course, perhaps not lying in the first place, but Florence didn’t really see it that way. She never did, which was the problem. “It was one summer, in Pesda——near Carnedd Llywelyn, I don’t know how good your Welsh geography is, but that’s a really big mountain, a true feat of mountaineering if you climb that, and this is one of the closest towns, actually called Bathesda but nobody around there calls it that,” she said theatrically. “There were these Irish wolfhounds around, a massive pack, and they’re lovely dogs, really, but they’re quite big and there were a lot of them and they were being a real nuisance and whilst my parents were planning the hike, I was making friends with these dogs and asserting my dominance until they came to their logical conclusion and accepted me as their alpha. Robald, my second, had the softest grey fur I’ve ever felt in my life.” Florence had actually only ever met one Irish wolfhound in her life, and she had been eleven and ran away at first, mostly because she was quite tiny——even now, she was only 5′1″, and she was sixteen——and there was a gigantic form of love and energy bounding towards her, though she swiftly got over it and made true friends with him, who was actually named Robald. Seeing as he was such a loyal sweetheart and apparently the breed was known to be in general, it only seemed natural to her to sort of... expand on the story, slightly, and add a few flourishes to make it seem more exciting. Florence Daygust, Wolfhound Alpha. She quite liked the sound of that. “Do you want to see my Asserting My Dominance face?” she asked.

[florence-whoisleft]

aesthetic meme!

blythestethics :

send ★ for an aesthetic of your muse send ☁ for a friendship aesthetic of our muses send ❤ for a ship aesthetic of our muses

[florence-whoisleft]

eldestgudgeon-wil:

Galvin debated keeping his running shorts on or off, depending on the exact level of freezing the water would end up being, but in the end, his brain seemed to convey that boxers would be more than enough for the water, and he pulled his shorts off and set them beside the rest of his clothes as he walked into the water. He saw her procure her wand from her jumper, and he nodded gratefully. 

He shrugged his shoulders at her question. “Drying charm would be fine, I reckon.” He wagered. He stepped further into the water, up to his thighs this time, before turning back to her one last time. “Are you going to join me, or did you just suggest this to laugh at my misery?” He asked before turning towards the water and diving in. 

It was shallow at this end of the lake, and so when he instantly felt the coldness of the lake seep into his bones, surrounding his entire body, he instinctively curled up on himself and hit his knee on the mud below him. He swore underwater before pushing forward and swimming further into the lake. This was a terrible idea. This was a terrible idea. I hate everything. This is awful. Sufficiently lacking oxygen, he pushed up above the water and turned around to face her. “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

Florence was Very Difficult to shock——came with the territory of telling so many fantastical tales, really——and indeed, generally cared very little about the physical appearance of the people around her ( frankly, that was more of Gladys’ field of expertise, in terms of boys, anyway ), but had not quite been prepared for Galvin Gudgeon to be in his boxers. However, it was only a moment of being mildly taken aback, which she was fairly certain she did a magnificent job of not showing, before she dismissed it with a shrug, looking critically down at her own attire. Unlike Galvin, she was not wearing boxers, so her shorts were definitely staying on — whether or not she had embarrassing underwear on wasn’t even on her mind; for once, it was an actually practical concern of warmth, in which case she decided that whilst her shorts would provide little protection, it was still better than nothing. She felt that her tank top was probably thin enough that it would dry quickly, but that also meant it might not provide much protection, and the less wet fabric on her skin, the better. It was that conclusion, coupled with her taking Galvin’s attire as a sort of challenge — one entirely unissued by him, something that was more like if he can survive in that, I can survive in shorts and a bra, that’s more than the togs I normally have at Rhyl — that led to her pulling her tank off and putting it on top of her cardi.

“Excellent,” she said, mostly because she didn’t actually know any charms they could use in the water, and bit down a shiver. “Laughing at your misery does sound good,” she said, pretending to think about it, before flashing a reckless grin and running straight into the shore, diving as soon as it was deep enough. It was a lively action, probably very Gryffindor, but honestly, it was mostly born out of both the challenge in his question and the fear that the cold would get to her and she’d lose her nerve if she didn’t. It had never happened yet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t concerned.

Smaller than him, it was significantly easier for her to immerse more of herself in the water earlier, though she still waded further out — partially for the company, and partially because she’d have felt like rather the wuss if she didn’t. Her head above the surface of the lake, she was treading water and managing to keep her shivers down to a body-wracking minimum, telling herself that she would acclimatise soon. When he spoke to her, she shot him a winning grin. “Because it’s a splendid idea, of course,” she replied, amusement in her eyes as she observed him. “Don’t you feel a lot cooler now? More refreshed?” In all honesty, she wasn’t sure why he had either, but she personally thought it was good for him. At least, as long as they didn’t get hypothermia. Florence was a firm believer in shaking things up, and perhaps it was because she had never been an organised and logical person, but she rather thought it might be beneficial for him to do something a little bit mad, even just once.

no rest for the weary || the lake, early morning

[florence-whoisleft]

gilderoy-wil:

Gilderoy was putting more effort into looking like he was listening that he was into actually paying attention to what she was saying. He made sure his eyes were focused and attentive, not wandering off at every passing distraction. A gave soft and thoughtful smile. And he was spacing out the nodding of his head to look natural for the conversation. He caught a few words she was saying here and there, on badgers and prefects and such. But she had a lot to say on the subject that he wasn’t too interested in. So he sat dutifully, waiting for her to take a breath so he could steer the conversation back to something he did care about: himself.

“That’s fascinating,” he said kindly the minute she stopped for long enough to allow him to get a word in. He didn’t pause for too long, though, worried she would launch right back into it before he could speak. “They probably went with badger because it’s easier for the general population to pronounce. Many Welsh speakers in the castle, of course, but certainly not all of the students. I, myself, have picked up on some Welsh in my travels. I’ve picked up on quite a few languages, actually. I’m really good at it, too. Just comes naturally, don’t have to put in the effort. Just stay a place for a couple weeks and I can walk around like I’m a local. Which, of course, is what everyone should do when they travel. Really get immersed, talk to the people, see what real life there is like. Don’t just be another tourist that never peaks below the surface.”  He gave her his advice as though she had actually asked for it, rather than trying to have a different conversation altogether.

“It is, isn’t it?” Florence said without guile, looking pleased with his response and feeling graciously appreciative of his expression. Honestly, a lot of the time she didn’t even notice——or, more accurately, didn’t pay attention to——whether or not people were truly engaging with what she was saying, such was the nature of a runaway train of speaking, but she’d definitely noticed it from Gilderoy, and was quite pleased by it.

“I suppose that’s true,” Florence mused, launching back in as soon as he’d stopped speaking. “I wonder if more people spoke Welsh when Hufflepuff actually chose the badger? There can’t have been as many students, right?” Florence took a moment to pause and send him a thousand-kilowatt beam at his admission before surging back into talking. “Oh, really? Where have you been? How much Welsh can you speak? Ieithoedd faint allwch chi ei siarad?” How many languages can you speak? From anyone else, it might have been intended as a test, checking whether or not he really could speak Welsh. From Florence, it was just an excited moment of thinking she’d found kinship, and, perhaps, someone who’d had the kind of adventures she’d always talked about having and dreamed of having. It was fast and quick, as Welsh tended to be spoken, which was perhaps unfair——she flung it at him as if he were a native, when perhaps he was not at that level. Then again, he had said he was quite good at languages. “Oh, absolutely,” Florence enthused. “You can learn so many incredible things and meet so many wonderful people if you just engage with your surroundings——I was once at Llyn Trawsfynydd, and I got to see the rarest plants because of this incredible guide I met, and frankly, it’s completely unfathomable to me that some people just don’t get to have those sorts of experiences because they simply don’t engage!”

[florence-whoisleft]

remus-whoisleft:

Remus was sitting at the Gryffindor table, a few seats away from Florence, but it was hard not to get drawn in (or at least distracted) when Florence Daygust was on one of her rather infamous spiels.  As per usual there was a far too large book propped open in front of him on the table, settled between his third cup of tea and his plate of barely touched toast, a diagram of a particularly tricky incantation replaying over and over again as he blinked at the younger girl, enthralled by her story.  It wasn’t exactly new information, sure, since as a younger lad he’d spent more than his fair share of time researching all four of the Hogwarts houses (it was the closest he thought he’d get to being at Hogwarts for a very long time, after all) but Florence had a flair for storytelling, he couldn’t deny that.

“She was from Wales,” Remus lightly offered up, chin now resting on his hand as he watched the younger Gryffindor with a clear fondness on his face.  They didn’t have a ton in common, the two of them, but their Gryffindor-ness and Welsh-ness had brought them together the moment Florence had settled herself at the table after her sorting.  “They’re fierce little buggers, badgers,” he laughed, glancing around to make sure he wasn’t interrupting anything by interjecting, but it seemed like whoever Florence had been talking to was now busy with something else anyway, or looking for a way out.  Or maybe she’d just been talking to him the whole time and he’d just now noticed.  “You mean like the Disney movie?  I actually wondered if that wasn’t some coincidence when I saw it, too,” he laughed, setting his quill down.  “Perhaps someone working on the film was actually a student at Hogwarts, y’know?  A bit of a tribute to the old Fat Friar.”  He stopped, looking up and down the table briefly, before he looked back at Florence.  “Sorry, I think I might have - missed something, was someone asking about Hufflepuffs?  Or just badgers?”

There were few things or people Florence loved better than other Welshmen, and Remus Lupin was absolutely no exception. The very moment he spoke up, all of her attention was fixed upon him, affection all over her face, her poor victim of conversation——more accurately: monologue——completely forgotten. “See?” she said to absolutely nobody in particular, bringing her small palm down in an emphatic slap on the table——one which startled pretty much... nobody, such was the lack of impact her small hand could make, at least in a situation that involved a veritable torrent from her mouth. “More reasons why Helga is an absolutely iconic lass. Welsh,” she said sagely, nodding at everyone she could see as if that ought to be a valid reason to all of them, and feeling quite validated when she received a few agreeing nods back.

“I don’t think I’d like to find myself on the wrong end of one,” Florence agreed with a shudder. Witch or not, she loved animals too much to hurt them if one tried to attack her——and, quite honestly, was probably not proficient enough at her spellwork to even defend herself if one did. “Yes!” she exclaimed, constantly thrilled whenever anybody could talk about films with her, especially Disney. A story-lover at heart, and storyteller of epic proportions, Florence loved movies, particularly Disney, which was often littered with girls having fantastic adventures even if they were absolutely ordinary, and always had fun animal friends and adventures that ended happily ever after for the heroes you were meant to root for——and Florence considered herself the hero of her own story, if anyone was. “Oh, that would be wonderful,” she gushed, completely taken with the concept of someone just like her, someone who was in these walls, being part of something so magical and adventurous as Disney. Of course, Florence valued far more highly the actual completion of adventures, and was utterly convinced that her real life could be full of the same adventures that graced the screens and her wide-eyed imagination, but that hardly diminished how wonderful it seemed to her that a student like her could have made such a cool thing come to life. “D’you think I could do that one day?” she asked Remus curiously. “I mean——I do like having actual adventures, but, you know, on the side... d’you reckon?”

At his question, Florence frowned, racking her brains before coming across the right answer. “Someone was talking about the symbols——third years, I think, complaining about Ravenclaw being an eagle instead of a raven, and just coming up with new ones, and then going on about how anything would be cooler than a badger, how had Hufflepuff ended up with that, and of course I had to let them know how truly fitting and respectable the badger was,” she informed him, utterly earnest.

badgers and babbling | open

[florence-whoisleft]

sebastian-whoisleft:

Sebastian found himself looking at the girl in complete and utter silence as she finished speaking, realizing that he’d heard all of it, for sure, but that he hadn’t been listening properly enough to form a halfway decent response. Not that he might have been expected to, of course. She had gone on for a while about a number of things, and it was all he could do to stand there, mouth slightly agape, blinking at her and trying to remember just how they’d started talking in the first place and what he’d said to set her off in the first place. Had…had he said anything at all? Oh gods, he was drawing a blank. Admittedly, he’d taken a few hits off a joint outside on his walk back from Care of Magical Creatures, but that didn’t usually cause him to blank out of entire conversations.

“Oh, yeah, no, I…am a Hufflepuff, yep,” he said, nodding a few times and looking down at her with wide, earnest eyes as if that would somehow disguise his lame answer as something more passable. “You’re right.”

Florence, for her part, was looking at Sebastian expectantly once she finished her spiel——though what anyone could possibly expect except their opposite needing air after that particular onslaught of words is anyone’s guess——but also with a buoyant cheer which could not be deterred; lucky for her, given his complete ( and understandable ) lack of real response.

“Do you feel kinship with the badger?” she asked curiously, shooting him a quizzical look, feeling immediately cheered by how earnest he looked. Sure, he didn’t seem to have much of a response, but very few people did, so really, his expression was already more than comfort enough. “I’m not entirely sure how I feel about association with the lion——I mean, I’m not very big,” she continued, gesturing down at her admittedly petite self, “and I don’t know if I’m quite as fierce as a lion, though I did once become the alpha of a pack of wolfhounds, so maybe that was quite a lion-y——lionlike——leonine? thing to do.”

[florence-whoisleft]

gladys-wil:

Gladys knew how difficult it was for her friend to stay still, so she doubly appreciated that she had been sitting with her while she went through a few of her dresses to decide which ones she wanted to keep and which ones they thought weren’t as good and should be donated to someone less in need. Every so often, she would go through her clothes and sort them for less fortunate muggles and witches alike, she thought that it was important to give back. 

“Yeah?” she asked, looking at the mirror again, and then back at her friend. She still wasn’t so sure about it as she scrutinized herself in the mirror. She pulled her hair up into a messy ponytail and then let her hair drop in frustration. “I think so?” She said, looking down at the dress. While she loved clothes like most sixteen year old girls, she couldn’t say that she based her clothing choices off of fabrics. She just liked what was pretty and what looked good on her. Or what she thought looked good on her. “Really?” She asked. Gladys was used to Florence–she never did understand how she knew so much information, it boggled her mind. “Are you sure you weren’t meant to be in Ravenclaw?” She asked with a teasing smile. “You know everything, Flor,” she giggled. “Like how do you know where tulle and taffeta came from? That’s crazy!” She meant it in a good way, she wasn’t worried of Florence taking it the long way. That was a perk of being friends with someone for so long. You didn’t take as much offense to things like that anymore. She always felt like she could speak freely with Florence around. She was glad that her friend was usually honest with her, unlike her brothers who had been known for saying that things looked good even when they didn’t out of fear of hurting her feelings. Galvin, of course, usually did this less than Davey it seemed, or maybe Gladys just noticed it more with her oldest brother. 

She tilted her head and concentrated. Did she even want to look elegant? Maybe not. Florence was right, elegant was so boring, unless you were going to something that required you to be elegant. Than it was not such a waste of time, she supposed. “I think that you’re right,” she finally decided. “This dress is cute, I look cute. I don’t need to look elegant in this dress,” she said, turning to her friend with a smile on her lips. “I think it’s just a cute everyday dress. Or a Hogsmeade dress, don’t you think?” She asked. “I wish we didn’t have to wear a uniform, then I could wear all of my clothes,” she sighed.

“Yes,” Florence said firmly, nodding her head assertively. Frankly, Gladys looked absolutely lovely in that dress, and Florence was determined that she would realise it. Gladys was possibly the best person Florence knew——the entire reason they were doing this was because Gladys had more compassion than most people would know what to do with, after all——and it was of the utmost importance to Florence that Gladys be made aware of every wonderful thing about herself, and by Jove, that included how pretty she looked in her dresses.

At Gladys’ suggestion, Florence let out a peal of laughter. “Ravenclaw, me?” she gasped, between chuckles. “Gosh, could you even imagine?” Florence, frankly, could not. She got where her friend was coming from, sort of, but she also knew deep in her bones that she’d be absolutely hopeless as a Ravenclaw. She was Gryffindor through and through, though she supposed if she had to choose a second house to fit her, it’d have to be Hufflepuff. Only thing was, so many Puffs that Florence knew were so good and caring and honest and fair——and it wasn’t that Florence wasn’t any of those things, exactly, but she was definitely not an archetype of them the same way Gladys was. Florence didn’t tend to think of herself as terribly dishonest, even though the stark truth of the matter was that she was, so she didn’t count that as egregious a fault as she ought to have. She preferred to think about her storytelling as simply telling truths that hadn’t had a chance to happen yet, because she was going to be an adventurer, she was——that was, she thought of it like that on the occasions she even spared an ounce of self-awareness towards thinking about her own conduct. Truth was, it didn’t happen frightfully often——definitely not as frequently as it ought.

“I don’t think I could be a Ravenclaw,” she continued, her tone thoughtful, expression schooled into its classic Thinking Florence face——not altogether common of an expression, though one more likely to come up amongst her closer peers than the general public. “Ravenclaws love learning, right? I don’t really like learning, I just... know a lot of things.” Florence liked to know things, to be knowledgeable, partially because it meant more things to talk about and partially because it often helped with her stories. At the very least, it served to make her seem more clever, even though she wasn’t actually very good at school, and definitely not at work. She furrowed her brow and, in a self-deprecating tone that would most frequently occur in Gladys’ company, added, “’sides, I’m not very good at school, am I? And unless the common room guard wants to have a conversation about its riddle and listen to me dissect it and whatnot, I’m not sure I’d ever even get in to sleep.” She threw her hands up dramatically. “I’d be the worst Ravenclaw ever,” she announced, before tacking on, “——though I might be able to teach the guard more riddles. I learnt loads when I was trekking up Cadair Idris once, all from a bona fide riddle master.” Not that she’d ever actually, you know, been to Cadair Idris, let alone climbed it. She’d been near the base once, and it had looked awfully majestic, and she’d daydreamed about doing it enough that it was practically like she had, if you asked Florence. She had a very vivid imagination——made everything seem realistic.

“I learned about fabrics from Madame Lumière,” Florence added sagely, a touch nonchalantly, the perfect way to deliver a special little name drop. It wasn’t false, exactly——Florence had learned about taffeta and tulle and the history of fabrics from a very posh and critical Madame Lumière. Only thing was, it was through the telly, one evening when she was ten and at home instead of invited to Daffyd Watkins’ birthday party like most of their class. “Of course I’m right,” Florence added immediately, but there was a wide grin on her face and no real arrogance, only pretend, the kind you could have with your good friends. “You do look cute,” Florence agreed, jumping up mostly to put her hands on her hips in order to project the full force of her assertion behind her nod. “I reckon it’d be great for every day—or with those cute white sandals you have, it’d look absolutely brilliant for Hogsmeade,” Florence suggested, surveying her friend with satisfaction. “Tell me about it,” she added with a dramatic eye roll. “I’d never worn a robe in my life except for a bath robe before I came to this school, and it’s still mad to me that we’re meant to wear robes every day instead of, you know, normal human clothes.”

[florence-whoisleft]

fitzsimmmonsy:

“live fast, die young. bad girls do it well” I sing as I organize my sock drawer before going to bed at 9:30pm on a Friday night

[florence-whoisleft]

benjy-whoisleft:

These things weren’t supposed to happen. He knew better to trust in promised safety, to keep a sharp eye out, but he still went. He was still trying to be part of something that was out for him. He couldn’t live his life in fear, but he didn’t know how much longer he could live life like this.

Because it wasn’t just little day to day occurrences that got to him, that still sent him back. There were explosions and larger scale attacks. There was the constant negative reinforcement that more than some of his classmates didn’t want anything to do with him. This extended beyond the walls of Hogwarts, and laying on the floor of Dervish and Banges, he knew he wasn’t okay.

It didn’t just apply to the bumps and bruises that had come with Florence’s arm and pulling her to the ground with him the moment he realized they weren’t safe. He’d been staring through the large sheet of glass, about to comment on how they might want to move further in when it had blown inwards with a spray of glass. He might be cut up, but he wasn’t at a point to evaluate the damage yet. He couldn’t focus on anything than the immediate facts; he was shaking, he might be hurt, more could be coming, he had to get off the floor. The floor got him into trouble, and he couldn’t tell—he couldn’t tell if the masked figures were standing right over him or a burred memory from that night.

He forced himself into a sitting position, tucked between shelves where he hoped to be out of sight enough to not draw attention and relatively protected from whatever curses might come in from the now very open window. His breathing was shallow, each on sharp and almost painful, and he drew his legs up to his chest, trying to be small and stable, protecting himself and curling in. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t process what was going on. He was in a shop and under attack yet again. He was in an alley bleeding and reeling from what was supposed to be a fresh start. He was in the dungeons, spots swirling in front of his eyes. He was sitting out on a curb, staring at the body of his sister. Unable to move, unable to do anything. Small.

He rested his forehead on his knees for a moment and shut his eyes to try and ground himself in something only to find it worse. It was so much worse. He needed the reality of the shop, no matter how hard it was to absorb that he was hear yet again. That he’d been here too many times in the past few months and that no matter how hard he tried, no matter what steps he took, he was losing.

Benjy looked around, trying to find something—anything in the chaos of the shop to ground him. There were a few smoking instruments that he might normally ache to get his hands on but he could only see as another potential threat to their safety. There were collapsed shelves and ruined furniture—and shattered desks pieces strewn around and no. He wasn’t there. He was…he was in a shop and there was Florence. His eyes found her and stayed locked on her. He wasn’t alone this time. He wasn’t sure if that was better in the grand scheme, and there was an inkling of anxiety on top of everything over the fact that he was breaking down now, but she was more than he’d had previously.

“I’m…I’m not…” He didn’t know. His thoughts were failing him which was as bad as anything. It only dug him deeper into this state. The one thing he could rely on was being able to think this through, and this series of events had robbed him of that. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” The words came out forced between sharp breaths, staggered and irregular. He pressed a hand to his forehead, damp. It was damp with—he pulled it away to make sure he was correct, but he was sweating not bleeding. Not there at least. Not from his head. The inside was another matter, but he was slowly beginning the physical assessment, bit by bit with the relief that it appeared, at least, he hadn’t hit his head or been cut there.

@florence-whoisleft

Florence was still trying to figure out what was happening. One moment, she’d been enjoying herself, window-shopping outside Dervish and Banges—which largely constituted of admiring the magical instruments and imagining dramatic and adventurous ways in which she could possibly use them—and the next, well——

The next, there were screams and shouts, hooded figures ripping through the village and something frightening in the air, an image that chilled Florence to the bone. Panic had whirled through her, striking her still, until she’d caught Benjy’s eye——and she didn’t know him well, but at least they recognised each other, at least it was enough. Still, if he hadn’t pulled her down, she didn’t know where she’d be. She glanced up at the gaping window, at the jagged edges of glass littering their area, and blanched. Lacerated, probably. Then again, she couldn’t be sure she wasn’t currently, if not to as extreme as an extent as she could have been. She couldn’t look at her arms. Florence Daygust had always had a lively imagination, and she couldn’t currently trust that she’d see anything clearly.

That was a rare moment of shocking, zinging self-awareness, before suddenly she was overcome by an overwhelming, all-consuming feeling——a feeling of what, exactly, she wasn’t sure, but all she knew was that it was surrounding her. In fact, more than anything, it seemed to be characterised by the fact that she didn’t know what it was——as if it was the very state of not knowing. Still, she was okay. She was okay. If she repeated it enough, it would be true.

Discarding those thoughts—a feat in and of itself—Florence realised she was splayed out in a way that was not only undignified but probably quite unsafe. She scrambled backwards, hissing lightly as she found shards of glass dragging across her skin as she pulled her body back, but continued doggedly—whilst it’d have likely been safer, from a broken glass point of consideration, to move slowly but carefully, especially because there had been Aurors around and she was meant to trust them to keep her safe from the attacks, all Florence knew was that her fight-or-flight instinct had never been stronger and was telling her, in no uncertain terms, to move out of the damn way.

Once she was settled more against a wall, Florence looked around wildly, trying to find the Aurors, something, anything——and her eyes came to rest on Benjy. Her sigh of relief was audible, even amongst all the chaos. He didn’t look... great. She wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, because she couldn’t really tell much about him physically—she hadn’t even checked herself physically, let alone been able to focus enough to take anything in about him as she scanned her eyes over him—but something about the look in his eyes was pounding into her, twisting her heart. 

The second he started speaking, Florence seized upon the impulse within her and surged towards him. She’d never been good at not being overwhelming, and now was probably no exception, but James’ Quidditch training——she decided to credit it to there, given that she’d never been especially proficient at stopping with anything before——had her pulling up and halting a pace or two in front of Benjy, instead of hurtling straight into him. “I don’t know,” someone said, and it took her a moment to realise it was her. Her voice sounded strange. Perhaps it was just because she wasn’t used to hearing her voice in nightmares, which she supposed this counted as, for her, anyway. “I’m—I think so?” she said, voice a little wobbly, before trying to scold herself into keeping it together. You are Florence Daygust, Gryffindor Chaser, Would-Be Adventurer. You can do this. However, she was also Florence Daygust, sixteen-and-four-months year old girl, and this was the scariest experience of her entire life——even if she wasn’t really in danger, best as she could figure, she was shaken. She willed herself to focus on his question and scanned her body. There was some blood, a few cuts, probably from the glass, only made worse from her scrambling, and she could feel bruises forming on her arms. She licked her lip and grimaced—it was bleeding, probably from her teeth crashing into it as she’d hit the ground. Never did learn to keep my mouth shut. Still, nothing broken. “Nothing serious,” she said, trying to sound confident. “You?” She peered around, but she couldn’t really see much except for broken glass and instruments, at least not from their positions. “D’you reckon they’re still around—the Aurors too?”

no place for us | florence & benjy

[florence-whoisleft]

eldestgudgeon-wil:

Galvin raised an eyebrow as she turned to the lake, determined and decided. He looked down at himself, very clearly sweaty, yes, but not exactly dressed for a swim. Not to mention that his sweat signified just how exhausted he was from the run. He never really went easy during his workouts, after all. But as she pointed out, he was rather dedicated to keeping in shape. 

It was her challenge to him that instantly settled it, though. He may have been quieter and more levelheaded than his younger siblings, but they shared Gudgeon blood nonetheless, and that meant a ferocious desire to win and prove oneself. A headstrong determination to succeed and to rise to any challenge from anyone. Even if it meant swimming in the Black Lake after a decidedly difficult run. 

Sighing, he reached for his shirt and pulled it up and over his head. He held it loosely in his hand as he looked at her. “I never said I was a professional,” he reminded her. “So if the squid comes looking for trouble, just know I’m not qualified to save either of us.” He walked over to the edge of the lake and moved to take off his shoes and socks, the dewy ground greeting him before the lake water sloshed up and covered his feet. He winced ever so slightly at the sharp chill that rose through him before moving to set his shoes to the side and set his shirt on top of them. 

Turning back to her, he sighed. “You didn’t happen to bring your wand, did you?” He asked. “It’s rather chilly in there, and I’d rather not die of hypothermia before I graduate.”

Florence wasn’t entirely sure that he’d take her up on her offer. Sure, she thought he ought to, because it was, in her own entirely biased opinion, Quite A Good Idea, but experience over the years had shown her that not everyone agreed with her ideas——though, of course, she had never let that deter her from offering them yet again. She was like an exceptionally plucky spring flower, that Florence Daygust: no matter what tread on her, she always found herself bouncing back, as vibrant and unapologetically lively as ever.

Still, when he sighed and reached for his shirt, Florence beamed at him. She really hadn’t been sure he would, but she’d had some ( possibly poorly-founded ) faith, and she very much appreciated it working out. “Excellent,” she clapped, before frowning slightly at his reminder, though her expression soon cleared. “It’s all right,” she said reassuringly, despite the words to follow not being particularly reassuring. “I’ve been in plenty of trouble in my life, so I’m sure I can get us out of it if it does come knocking.”

It was at about this time that it occurred to Florence that she too would require some form of preparation for her dip. Preparation was not something she was particularly familiar with—her stories, after all, were made up best on the fly, and she was rather of the opinion that they were the best thing about her, so she modelled as much of her approach to life on that as possible. As it was, she was in possession of a wand, but only by virtue of habit, not forethought. It cheered her immensely to realise this — a fact she had quite forgotten until he’d asked — as it meant that she could dry her clothes once she escaped the cold. Well, theoretically. She’d never been fantastic at warming or drying charms, largely because she’d very rarely been in situations dire enough that they could actually earn her concentration.

“In fact I did,” Florence said loftily, retrieving it from her pocket as she pulled off her cardi, settling it down beside his shirt. Slipping off her shoes — not untying, that would be too practical, no, just wriggling out of them — and removing her socks, she put them down and moved her cardi on top of them. “What were you thinking — drying charm, or something for actually in the water?” Florence was fairly aware that she quite possibly wouldn’t know the charm he had in mind, but had decided to cross that bridge when they came to it. She was currently too busy being quite pleased that she’d managed to convince a competent, capable human being into accompanying her on what could be very well argued to be a rash sort of choice. Then again, that was adventure — wasn’t it?

no rest for the weary || the lake, early morning

[florence-whoisleft]

talents include looking 12 and saying thank you to the bus driver

[florence-whoisleft]

4, 5, 6 & 7 out of ∞ ➙ women who make me want to light my hair on fire

[florence-whoisleft]

eldestgudgeon-wil:

Galvin was a man of few words, and he was one of the few Gudgeons that could claim such a trait. They were Irish, after all; why use one word when seven would do? That said, he was used to conversations dominated by other voices, content to listen and absorb and on occasion drift off into his own thoughts. It was a role he inhabited nicely, one he could call upon at just about any moment. But none of the Gudgeons –– not Davey, not Gladys, not their parents, no one –– rivaled the unmatchable babbling of Florence Daygust. 

Not that she was babbling, of course. Well, she was, sort of, but it was babbling in a linear fashion, recounting her morning in remarkable detail. It was babbling Galvin could follow. Nevertheless, most of her story, Galvin was content to listen, and she seemed more than willing to let him. So she spoke, and he simply crossed his arms over his chest, letting the wave of human interaction practically wash over him with little to no resistance on his part, before she turned her attention back to him, snapping him back to attention. 

Humming, as if in thought, he shrugged once, offering not much more than that. “He’s a picky fellow,” he answered. “Though, you don’t look very shrimp-like, in my opinion. And I mean that entirely as a compliment.” He tacked on. He shifted on his feet and looked over to the lake, the waves lapping calmly against the shore. At this time of day, the Giant Squid was probably concerned with feeding on much more fish-looking creatures than attacking some human for trespassing. “I think it’s worth a shot, at least.” He declared honestly.

It was a rare person who could survive a torrent of Florence Daygust’s words and even rarer a boy — Florence suspected that they were generally less used to talking, except perhaps Gilderoy Lockhart, whom Florence was certain could talk for hours, at least on his favourite subject: himself — but here was Galvin Gudgeon, taking it all remarkably in his stride. Florence actually took very little notice of this, because it didn’t seem very out of the ordinary to the girl who’d always been a bit thick about working out when she ought to stop talking, but had she been a more self-aware sort of girl, she’d have appreciated it greatly.

As it was, Florence rather just appreciated how quickly he’d managed to reply. For reasons she had yet to discern, people tended to take a little bit of time to reply to her or react—though she was not aware of it, they usually needed to take a well-deserved moment or three to digest the overwhelming torrent of dialogue ( or, more accurately, monologue ) that had erupted from the deceptively small form of Florence Daygust. She had a lot of words and big lungs tucked away in that small self.

Beaming up at him, she said, “thanks very much! I intend to take it as one. No offence to the shrimp. They’re a lovely colour—at least when they’re cooked. The Great Squid wouldn’t be eating cooked shrimp, though I doubt it’s making its dietary choices regarding shrimp based on their aesthetic value.” Following his gaze, Florence surveyed the lake. She tried to imagine what he was thinking as he looked at it—he looked very stoic, standing there looking over the water, and it made her awful curious—but got easily distracted, imagining if she met a mermaid in the lake. She had an inkling that one of her DADA professors had said they were fierce, but Florence would hardly let that deter her from telling one a story if she met one. Stories, in her opinion, made everything a good sight better.

“All right,” she stated determinedly, grinning up at him. “Your Official Professional Opinion has clinched it.” Looking him once over and taking in all the evidence of his early morning run, she whistled. “Cor, you’ve worked up a right sweat.” A runaway success at pureblood dinner parties, Florence Daygust would not be. “Up for a swim to cool down—or maybe to keep exercising, even, seeing as you seem very good at it and all,” she said, half a question, waving her hands to indicate at him, meaning to refer to how he not only struck her as someone committed to his trainings and exercise, but also looked the part. “Unless you’re worried the Squid will eat you?” she asked, tilting her head, her tone taking on the slight hint of teasing challenge that just came naturally to those living in Gryffindor Tower, even though she hadn’t intended to do so, nor had she even realised it had crept into her voice. “Though, you don’t look very shrimp-like, in my opinion,” she quipped, a good-natured wink as she did so.

no rest for the weary || the lake, early morning

[florence-whoisleft]

badgers and babbling | open

“It’s actually very interesting,” Florence said earnestly. “I mean, I didn’t know anything about Hufflepuff when I first arrived—well, except Marjorie Cornwall said they were a bit pointless, which obviously I don’t agree with, though I didn’t know anything about them at the time so was only mildly horrified that she’d call people pointless, not completely outraged, because it’s one thing to be rude and quite another to be wrong on top of it——but yes, I didn’t know anything about them when I arrived, and I actually thought the symbol’d been chosen because of Trufflehunter, or Badger from Wind in the Willows, though I worked out pretty quick that they weren’t nearly old enough.” 

Shifting slightly to look at the badger on the Hufflepuff hourglass, Florence launched back in. “But Robins told me—y’know, that prefect from last year? yeah, him—well he told me last year, in detention, that it’s because badgers will protect themselves and the things they care about, like family, even though they’re small. Mountain lions hesitate to attack them sometimes,” she said fervently, widening her eyes appropriately. “And so—Hufflepuff chose the badger,” she announced with a flourish, completely impervious to whether or not her audience wanted to know—and whether or not her audience had been a voluntary one. “Though, I’m fairly sure she’s Welsh, so she’d have really called it a Mochyn daear,” she said thoughtfully. “And I mean——earth pig, literally, which is pretty accurate, I think.” As her mind latched onto another image, she let out a peal of laughter. “Also, when I first saw Friar Tuck, and that he was a badger, I couldn’t help but think of of the Fat Friar,” Florence recounted with a laugh.

[florence-whoisleft]

nicholas-whoisleft:

“’The sound of your voice makes my heart melt; every time I look at you I find that I can’t look away,’” Nicholas read, a dramatic flare added to the words as he walked down the corridor—the crumpled piece of parchment in his hands. The Slytherin couldn’t help but laugh a little, though any true humor was lost other than Nic finding the whole effort to be ridiculous. “Well, it surely would have gotten the attention of someone if they had put it in the correct bag.”

With that he crumpled up the piece of paper up into a ball and stopped at the door of one of the abandoned classrooms, tossing and scoring the disregarded love note into the rubbish bin. “And here I didn’t think I’d go around doing community service such as keeping someone from getting embarrassed when they realized they had not just a stalker on their hands, but one who can’t write poetry to save their life. Don’t people usually get medals for things such as this?”

Not a romantic herself, it wasn’t as if Florence was likely to have sent a love letter which got incorrectly delivered, or perhaps delivered to someone who simply did not appreciate it. However, she knew many a romantic, and, more to the point, was a great lover of people, and immediately felt a strong wave of sympathy wash over her for the poor person who had penned such a note, only for it to find its final destination the rubbish bin. She was rather certain the older boy was not talking to her—indeed, she thought he might be talking to himself, or keeping up a running commentary of self-congratulation for someone to validate—but that in no way deterred her from speaking to him.

“Really,” Florence said, “that’s just rude.” Walking towards the rubbish bin, she continued, not even pausing for breath, let alone an opportune moment for the boy to interrupt, “just because someone wrote a love note doesn’t make them a stalker, don’t be silly. They might just be shy, and it was awfully rude of you to just throw it away like that, like someone didn’t pour their heart into that and muster up all the courage they could to write it.” Florence was quite empathetic, and she was so caught up in imagining the poor person who could have written the note that she found herself quite overwhelmed with sympathy for the hypothetical writer. “Maybe it slipped out of a bag or off of a bench and into yours, or maybe your bag looked the same, or maybe it was even for you,” she pointed out, though she couldn’t help herself from adding in a mutter, “even though you’re disagreeable and have no appreciation or sympathy for that poor letter-writer.” Florence had half a mind to fish it out from the rubbish bin herself and embark on a quest to send it to the rightful recipient—as difficult as that may be—and peered into the rubbish bin to evaluate whether she could. “And nobody gives people medals for being rude and dismissive of people’s efforts,” Florence said indignantly, before tacking on, after remembering her father complaining at length about the subject following a scathing news article, “except for businessmen and corporate giants, and everyone knows they’re the devil himself.” A touch dramatic, that Florence Daygust.

[florence-whoisleft]

eldestgudgeon-wil:

Galvin did the same thing every morning. Rain or shine, in season or out, he woke up with the sun and ran around the lake. He prided himself on his discipline, on his ability to commit to something a stick with it. This was just one of the many ways he proved that discipline. 

If he was completely honest with himself, Ravenclaw getting knocked out of the running for a championship didn’t matter much to him. Sure, it sucked to lose, but it didn’t change anything for him in terms of practice or commitment to the game. He knew he’d played well, even if there was room for improvement, and just because their season was over didn’t mean that he was throwing in the towel for his own athletic development. Ignoring the part of himself that told him he was training for the pro leagues, he continued to wake up and push himself to train better, faster, harder. Old habits died hard, he told himself. 

So that Monday after the Slug Club dinner, right as the sun was coming up, he found himself alone by the Black Lake, chasing the shadows away and working up a sweat to get the day going. He had nearly finished his second lap when he saw a figure in the distance. Slowing down to a jog, he climbed the embankment up to where they were resting by the tree. “Normally, I’m the only one out here this early.” He spoke, resting his hands on his sides, trying to catch his breath. “What got you out of bed before the house elves?”

Florence, surprisingly to some, was a morning person. Well, of a sort. It was more that she always woke up early, due to her abundance of energy, and was always a little bitter about it. Sleep, Florence thought to herself with a huff as she stared at the top of her four-poster bed, was such a lovely thing to revel in. Then again, it was entirely possible that she enjoyed it so much because it didn’t last too long. Still, it left her there with nothing to do, seeing as none of her dormmates were awake. With an exasperated sigh, Florence threw off her covers and proceeded to change, switching out her pyjamas for shorts, a tank top and a light cardi. It was entirely possible that she would get a little cold out there, what with it being so early and only April, but she chose to think positively.

Perhaps she would go swim in the Black Lake. Florence wasn’t sure if she could actually do it, but, she supposed, she would be in a far better position to do so if she was actually outside, and so she set off. Florence often intended to do the things that she said she did, and imagined them in great detail; it was probably why her stories were so enthralling and even some of the most outrageous were still believed—because she had imagined them so vividly, it was almost as if she’d done them. 

When she arrived at the lake, she decided to stand by the tree as she surveyed her surroundings, trying to decide if she was really going to go swimming. She was in the midst of this process when Galvin Gudgeon approached her, and she shot him a sunny smile. “Oh, hello, Galvin,” she greeted cheerfully—perhaps a touch too chipper for this time of the day, but she was genuinely pleased to see him. Galvin was quite the impressive person, in Florence’s eyes—a good brother, a splendid Seeker and someone who just generally seemed to have his life together. He did seem, perhaps, a little tight—in that he was restrained, or just had always seemed to Florence as if he was so busy being responsible and an older brother and whatnot that he sometimes forgot to enjoy himself and do exciting things, but that was just Florence’s opinion, and maybe she didn’t know him all that well.

At his question, she gave The Grin—the one that indicated she was about to launch into a story. This one was actually true, but that did not change the fact that it was in entirely too much detail for a simple question. “Well,” began Florence, “I was lying in bed, dreadfully awake, which you’d think I’d be used to, since I always seem to get up this time every morning—I keep hoping it’ll change each new morning, but alas.” She shook her head dramatically, before realising she was off on a tangent, and continuing with her story. “I couldn’t just lie there until my dormmates woke up because that would be ridiculously boring, but I didn’t want to shower and wake everyone up—” highly considerate, in Florence’s opinion, though that didn’t stop her from showering that early some days regardless, “—and I thought I ought to do something, you know, because I had all this time. And I was thinking that it might be a nice time for a walk, and I thought it might actually be quite interesting to go for a swim in the lake, if it wasn’t too chilly, and so I set off on my trek down to here, and then I’ve been standing here deliberating the situation, because I really don’t fancy taking a dip if the Giant Squid’s going to decide to play Spot The Difference and realise that it’s not meant to have a Florence in its ecosystem and forcibly remove me, but it also seems like it could be quite refreshing and at the very least an adventure, so I find myself in this conundrum and here I am now, standing here, still thinking about it and telling you,” she finished, somehow without pausing for breath. Taking a deep breath, she looked him once over. “Have you been training for Quidditch?” she asked, wrinkling her nose, though not because she didn’t see the point in him doing so when they were out of the running—though the reason that thought wasn’t flitting through her head was mostly because it hadn’t occurred to her. “Merlin, I bet James is going to make us run so many laps from now until May,” she grumbled. “Then I’m really going to need to cool off in the lake.” She cast a glance at the lake, then back up at Galvin. She had to take a slight step to the side, in fact, in order to look up at his eyes without cricking her neck. Nobody had ever accused Florence Daygust of being tall. “So whatcha think?” she asked. “Official professional opinion on whether the Squid’s going to think I’m a particularly large shrimp and try eat me?”

no rest for the weary || the lake, early morning