#shiftblr community | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hrrtshape · 2 months ago

Note

lmao girl I deleted peter's ass too. can we have your marauders backstory or script or smth though? because james' cousin?? that's tea and I need it (insert squidward begging pic)

　EMMAS MARAUDERS ✶ DESIRED REALITY.

　　　　　　　　　　　ּ 　*　 ˖ 　་　ּ 　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT I. 　　　　　　　　　" meet EMMALINA ! " 　　　　THE SHIMMERING WITCH of gryffindor tower.

with russian-french roots and a family name that whispers through the halls of wizarding infamy, she strides through hogwarts like a fox, literally, given her animagus form, equal parts grace and mischief. cousin to james potter (who swears his frenchness shows in his hair), she brings an aristocratic flair to his otherwise scruffy charm.

the history of magic classroom might as well be her throne room. while others yawn, she's weaving tales of goblin rebellions like an academic bard. there’s no peter pettigrew in this reality (we don’t talk about him), leaving the marauding dynamic sharper, cleaner, and ready for some dazzling drama.

born on the honeyed cusp of dawn in 1960, emmalina juliette [...] did not so much enter the world as she stormed it, small fists curled like questions, arriving amidst the shadowy splendour of Iskanderhall, her family’s ancestral manor. iskanderhall wasn’t just a home; it was a kingdom in its own right. draped in mist and arrogance, nestled in the raw heart of the untamed highlands, the estate sprawled like a great sleeping beast, its turrets clawing at the sky. whispered myths clung to its walls, a place where secrets seemed stitched into the stones. even the wind carried a kind of conspiratorial hush, as though it knew something no one else did.

emmalina’s early years were a tug-of-war between the suffocating grandeur of her bloodline and the wild freedom of the highlands. the [...]s, distant relation to the russian imperial family (a detail her mother embroidered into every conversation like a prized crest on a dinner napkin), had escaped to britain generations ago, bringing with them their storied high-brow arrogance, treasures that gleamed like unsaid truths, and a reputation for being brilliantly dangerous. her parents ruled over iskanderhall with the kind of presence that could silence a room, her father with a steely gaze, her mother with the kind of smile that could curdle milk. they expected nothing less than perfection, the kind that could waltz into a room and leave an impression, and they weren’t shy about saying so.

but emmalina, oh, that sweet summer child, had the wild in her veins. between lectures on the noble responsibilities of pureblood supremacy, she would slip away, barefoot and unbothered, to the hills. here, where the air tasted of heather and mischief, she discovered her animagus form: a sleek, flame-furred fox.

sirius was one of the few bright spots in her otherwise curated childhood. his family, the ever-dour blacks, frequented iskanderhall for summer soirées and political whispers. while their parents sipped blood-red wine and traded thinly veiled threats over crystal decanters, emma and sirius carved their own conspiracies. he was all dark rebellion and smirks; she was sharp-tongued and feral around the edges, a duo born for trouble. their friendship was not so much a bond as a secret language, a rebellion against the velvet cages of their upbringings.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT II.

when her hogwarts letter arrived, her parents expected her to glide into slytherin or, at worst, ravenclaw, carrying the [...] name like a banner. but the sorting hat, bless its insolent fabric, spent an age hemming and hawing before settling on gryffindor. there was something foxlike in her heart, it decided, a ferocity that didn’t belong in green or blue.

at hogwarts, emmalina was a comet, blazing and impossible to ignore. her silvery accent and cool self-possession cloaked her in intrigue, but it was her partnership with her cousin, james potter, that truly set the castle alight. together, they turned hogwarts into their personal theatre of chaos. the gryffindor common room bore the brunt of their experiments, and if a prefect caught them, james would charm his way out while emmalina, ever the fox, slipped away unnoticed. sirius, of course, was their shadow, laughing all the while, and remus added a reluctant balance. peter pettigrew, as far as they were concerned, didn’t exist; in fact, in this version of reality, he’d been conveniently hexed out of existence before term began as we don't need backstabbing c$#ts around here.

but beneath the hijinks, emmalina was a paradox, a girl whose laugh could undo a room but who secretly devoured history of magic with a hunger no one could fathom. while her peers groaned through binns’ droning lectures, emmalina filled page after page with scrawled notes, her fascination with forgotten goblin rebellions and obscure wizarding wars betraying an academic streak no one expected.

her most curious entanglement, however, was with coriolanus snow. a slytherin to his polished bone, he was the heir to one of the wizarding world’s most notorious families. their interactions began as rivalry, sharp-tongued exchanges in the corridors, hexes lobbed across the great hall like poorly aimed arrows. no one knew when the venom turned to venom-laced attraction, when “i hate you” slipped into “i despise you” before landing, ungracefully, in “i love you.” they burned like wildfire, their arguments loud enough to wake the castle, their stolen moments of tenderness hidden like contraband. they were everything their friends loathed: fire and ice, chaos and control, doomed yet incandescent.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT III.

miss [...] thrived at hogwarts, blending her intellectual curiosity with her daring gryffindor spirit. her favourite subjects were astronomy, history of magic, and muggle studies, where she excelled due to her ability to draw connections between magical and non-magical worlds. she often found herself at the astronomy tower, charting the stars in peaceful solitude, or passionately debating the nuances of magical history with anyone who would listen.

professor mcgonagall took a particular liking to emmalina, impressed by her sharp mind and unwavering determination. she became a frequent visitor to mcgonagall’s office, seeking advice or discussing transfiguration techniques. mcgonagall’s approval only fuelled emma's ambition, and she strove to make her head of house proud in every endeavor.

her circle of friends extended beyond the marauders to include lily evans, dorcas meadowes, and her close companion lily rose, a fiercely loyal gryffindor who shared emma's love for late-night stargazing and whispered secrets. together, they navigated the highs and lows of hogwarts life, from study sessions in the library to daring escapades that left even the marauders impressed.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ּ 　*　 ˖ 　་

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT IV. 　　　　　THE CHRONICLES OF HOGWARTS 　　　　( AND THE SCANDALS THAT FOLLOWED )

emma—a calamity, empress of bedlam, and self-appointed sovereign of sand dunes since that one time in her fifth year when dyeing her locks copper must have singed her last shred of restraint—was simply not entertaining the james-and-sirius soap opera hour. let them bicker over who could charm their quills faster or who had the sharper jawline in moonlight. meanwhile, she was over here, casually assembling a tabloid empire that could topple the ministry itself.

take a seat, spectators. let us dissect how emma, with all the grace of a caffeinated banshee, planned to rule hogwarts, temporarily but with a permanence that only chaos can cement. picture it: eric cartman reimagined as a gryffindor princess, machiavelli in silk stockings, all wrapped in a sylvia plath first edition. a walking oxymoron of aristocratic tantrums and poetic nihilism, she made roman roy look like a first-year hufflepuff lost in the corridors.

⋆ the hourglass annihilation : at precisely 11:59 pm, the enchanted hourglasses would combust into glitter and confusion, rendering gryffindor and slytherin’s house points irrelevant. ravenclaw, oddly enough, would gain 150 points overnight. weird. suspicious. downright uncanny, truly.

⋆ the great feast famine : she waltzed into the kitchens under the guise of a hard-hitting exposé on house-elf oppression but instead orchestrated a pumpkin juice shortage to fuel her underground black-market butterbeer racket. supply and demand, lovies. don't hate the players, hate the game.

⋆ polyjuice party-crashing : with her cousin james’ invisibility cloak in tow, she infiltrated the slytherin dormitory meeting. to this day, lucius malfoy hasn’t lived down the atrocious rumours of his tragic toe fungus.

⋆ the whomping willow curse : emma, ever the quick-buck entrepreneur (blame her mother), spread whispers that the whomping willow was cursed to ensnare romantically unsatisfied couples during their hogsmeade dates. pda levels skyrocketed as couples made embarrassing public displays of “true love.”

⋆ the quidditch match sabotage : a quick word with peeves, a little ghostly streaking at the hufflepuff vs. ravenclaw game, and voilà—exclusive interview rights to his exposé: “ poltergeist in polyester: peeves speaks. ”

⋆ the frog choir conspiracy : convincing half the school that the choir’s frogs were polyjuiced students was a stroke of genius. “could this be thy, jeremy?” read the blurry photo of a suspiciously human-like frog mid-jump.

⋆ the room of requirement rave : emma turned hogwarts’ most magical secret into the underground party hotspot, charging entry fees that somehow all went into firewhiskey and peeves’ DJ salary. bagpipes-only playlists, take it or leave it.

⋆ the prefect bathroom soap opera : one enchanted bubble bath later, and every gryffindor prefect’s secrets were whispered into the steam: “i saw you pick you nose, jude, i will tell everyone!”

emma wasn’t just causing anarchy; she was building an empire, brick by glittery, scandalous brick. from the sorting hat coup (sorting first-years into “badger bros” and “parseltongue posse”) to the owlery hostage crisis (an uprising demanding chocolate frogs as postage payment), she was an unstoppable, and truly, an annoying force.

when the great hall time-turner incident derailed every quidditch match for weeks, and the slytherin economic collapse left lucius malfoy red-faced and 100 galleons poorer, emma was somewhere in the room of requirement, sipping butterbeer and plotting her next move.

she wasn’t merely the gryffindor head firl; she was now the head of state. if hogwarts didn’t rename its history books after her, it was committing educational malpractice. build her a throne. preferably made of all the broken house points hourglasses she destroyed. her tabloid is just the first step in my empire. next stop: ministry of magic. by force. naturally.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ּ 　*　 ˖ 　་

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT V. 　　　　　　　　　THE ACADEMIC PORTRAIT.

ASTRONOMY : 7 / 7 — stars don’t lie, and neither does emmalina’s perfect score. her knack for celestial navigation is unmatched, and she has a little habit of slipping poetic metaphors about constellations into her essays. she’s also mastered the art of charming professor sinistra by always showing up to stargazing sessions with perfectly rolled parchment and a bit of dramatic flair (think: velvet cloaks and faux-cryptic musings about the moon).

PROFESSOR SINASTRA'S NOTES : “ miss ... has an uncanny ability to map the heavens with precision, though her insistence on turning every constellation into a metaphor for doomed romances is... unique. ”

HISTORY OF MAGIC : 7 / 7 — naturally. a direct result of her obsessive reading, family archives, and a romanticised view of the past. she’s that annoying student who voluntarily writes extra essays, constantly debates binns on niche points of goblin history. she’s genuinely convinced she’ll be in the textbooks someday.

PROFESSOR BINN'S NOTES : “ she is one of the few students to actively engage with my lectures. [...] while her tendency to editorialise is frustrating, her work is meticulous and her arguments, while dramatic, are logically sound. ”

MUGGLE STUDIES : 6 / 7 — she insists she’s "too cultured" for this class but secretly loves it because it’s her ticket to overdramatic critiques of her classmates’ lack of muggle knowledge. professor tofty was so charmed by her footnotes (and latent existential commentary) that they gave her a near-perfect grade.

PROFESSOR TOTFY'S NOTES : “ her grasp of muggle culture is impressive, though she approaches the subject with a certain aloofness, as if observing a particularly exotic bird. while her essay on the psychological implications of traffic lights was unnecessarily existential, it was also utterly fascinating. ”

POTIONS : 5 / 7

— slughorn knows she lied about her grandma dying, but her tears were convincing enough that he caved. brewing potions, for emma, is less about precision and more about vibes; sometimes it works, sometimes it explodes, and she’s fine with either outcome.

PROFESSOR SLUGHORN'S NOTES : “ ah, a curious case. her potions are unpredictable at best, explosive at worst, but she makes up for it with undeniable charm. ”

TRANSFIGURATION : 6 / 7

— her fox animagus tendencies are both a gift and a curse. on the one hand, mcgonagall appreciates her natural talent for animal-related transfigurations; on the other, she’s constantly penalised for her “creative liberties” (like transfiguring someone’s quill into a lizard mid-class “for a laugh”).

PROFESSOR MCGONAGALL'S NOTES : “ miss ... has natural talent but lacks discipline. i've repeatedly warned her that transfiguring classmates’ belongings into woodland creatures is not ‘creative problem-solving.’ if she ever learns to focus her efforts, she could excel in this subject. ”

CHARMS : 7 / 7 — duelling club MVP and absolute show-off. she can cast a perfect aguamenti with a casual flick, and her summoning charms are so on point that she once “accidentally” summoned sirius’s shoe from across the castle. flitwick loves her enthusiasm but occasionally has to remind her that magic is not, in fact, not lighthearted.

PROFESSOR FLITWICK'S NOTES : " a brilliant student with a knack for charmwork that borders on showmanship. her only fault is her love of spectacle—her recent essay on the alohomora charm inexplicably included glitter. "

DIVINATION : 6 / 7 — as a natural oracle (and dramatic flair enthusiast), she’s great at the theatrical side of this class. however, she has a bad habit of predicting catastrophes purely to stir up drama. once foretold a student would “trip into his true love,” and when it happened during dinner, she took full credit.

PROFESSOR TRELAWNEY'S NOTES : “ miss ... is undoubtedly gifted, though her talent is often overshadowed by her dramatic tendencies. nonetheless, her scrying is superb, and her visions, while eccentric, are often eerily accurate. ”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT VI. 　　　　　　　　　　　THE HOBBIES.

archaic letter writing : she writes letters to friends on parchment using quills dipped in absurdly expensive enchanted ink, letters so beautifully crafted they could be sold as art. sometimes, she forgets to send them.

sketching history : emma loves to draw little caricatures of historical witches and wizards in the margins of her textbooks. slughorn caught her once during potions, only to discover a rather flattering sketch of himself as a duelling champion.

enchanted origami : she folds parchment into tiny enchanted animals that hop across desks or flutter around classrooms. one time, a paper phoenix burst into flames in flitwick’s class, causing quite the uproar.

fortune-telling experiments : she doesn’t believe in divination but keeps a deck of tarot cards she uses to intimidate people in the common room (“your future looks bleak, lovie. maybe don’t eat the shepherd’s pie tonight?”).

collecting trivial magical facts : she has a journal stuffed with obscure magical trivia, like the exact number of cauldron explosions recorded in hogwarts history (321, if anyone’s curious).

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ּ 　*　 ˖ 　་

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT VII. 　　　　　　　FAVOURITE SPOTS IN HOGWARTS.

the trophy room : she claims it’s the most underrated place to people-watch because of the odd assortment of students sneaking in to polish old awards. she even made up a game called trophy stories, where she and her friends invent scandalous backstories for the winners.

the owlery : she finds solace in the chaos of screeching owls and the lingering smell of parchment and rain. when no one’s looking, she recites poetry to the owls like she’s performing to a rapt audience.

the kitchens : she has a special spot in the corner where the house-elves sneak her freshly baked éclairs and orange juice. she insists that the elves give her life advice better than any professor.

the astronomy tower (but not at night) : she goes there early in the morning to watch the sunrise and reflect on her most recent academic rivalries.

the lake’s edge : she dips her toes into the water and chats with the squid like they’re old pals. she swears it “understands her” and sends her approving splashes when she’s feeling low.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ּ 　*　 ˖ 　་

　　　　　　　　　　　　　ACT VIII. 　　　　　　　　　　 LOVE LIFE CHAOS.

emma, gryffindor’s gleaming crown jewel, all head girl polish and unshakeable poise, finds herself tangled, no, downright ensnared, in a maddening duel of wit, charm, and unresolved, spark-shooting tension with none other than coriolanus snow. the slytherin head boy. heir to ambition so icy it burns, a charisma that sidles right up to discomfort, and a smirk that makes her want to fling her inkpot across the great hall. he’s the sort of boy who makes you forget to breathe when he walks into a room, infuriating, insufferable, intoxicating, and frankly, it’s ruining her life.

what begins as pure academic warfare (she’s all quills-out precision; he’s maddeningly cool rebuttals) quickly morphs into something stickier, trickier, downright labyrinthine. they’ve got the whole castle holding their breath, watching this slow, delicious train wreck unfold.

in public, they’re sugar-coated thorns. their words cut, sure, but with a syrupy kind of sweetness that leaves everyone buzzing. he’ll saunter up in charms and adjust her wand grip with the most insufferable smirk, murmuring, “ if you’re aiming to turn the teapot into a shoe, you’re doing splendidly. ” she’ll retaliate in charms, slicing his arguments to ribbons with a smile so bright it could outshine lumos. they’re gossip fodder for everyone, even the fat lady leans closer when they bicker near the gryffindor common room (which he visits suspiciously often).

but oh, behind the scenes it's another beast entirely. snow, mr. too-cool-to-care, has saved her spot in the library far too many times for it to be coincidence. (“ it’s quieter here, ” he’ll mutter, not meeting her eyes.) and emma, who swore on merlin’s saggy socks she wouldn’t give him the time of day, has slipped him notes about transfiguration essays because, godric help her, she felt bad.

and then there are the patrols, those velvet-dark hours when the castle’s asleep, save for the flicker of their wandlight and the soft echo of their footsteps. side by side, no words spoken, the air crackles with something unnamed. It’s like standing in the eye of a storm, knowing full well the winds are coming but too enchanted by the stillness to move.

the astronomy tower knows too much. it’s where their arguments, ambition versus courage, slytherin versus gryffindor, logic versus gut feeling, dissolve into softer things. like how he hates chess because his grandmother was obsessed with it. like how she feels most herself on a broomstick, slicing through clouds. he laughs, really laughs, when she teases him about his scarily neat handwriting “ do you stencil your letters, or does it just come naturally? ”. and sometimes, when she gets too lost in the stars, he watches her. quietly. like she’s the only constellation worth memorising.

and oh, the small things. the way his lips twitch whenever she’s flustered. the way her quill digs deep into the parchment whenever he leans too close. one accidental hand brush during a yule ball, and she’s blushing harder than a howler. and him? he’ll cover for her during potions disasters, not because he cares, mind you, but because listening to slughorn wax poetic about “ unrealised brilliance ” isn’t worth the headache. “ you owe me, ” he’ll say, voice low, eyes strangely softer than sleep.

the castle knows something’s brewing, of course it does. it’s in the charged glances that stretch too long, the smirks that linger, the way their arguments hum with an undercurrent of something else. neither will admit it, of course. not yet. but when you’re debating wand movements and holding eye contact like it’s oxygen, well, the feelings have already gone and written their own love letter.

what comes next? that’s a riddle only time, and perhaps a few midnight patrols, can solve.

151 notes · View notes