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The Pensieve: Extracts

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Viesti kirjoittaja Athanaton 05.09.20 18:15

NAME: The Pensieve: Extracts
LANGUAGE: English
COMMON THEMES: Depends on each piece.
DESCRIPTION: The Pensieve: Extracts is my personal collection of canonical short stories that expand on the magical lives of my currently active characters, though I may occasionally refer to those who have already seen their best days and retired to the sidelines. It works much like the Pensieve, allowing memories to be reviewed. I have made this collection primarily for myself as I wanted to have one place for all my stories and write more for the sake of writing, however anyone is more than welcome to read it and enjoy it like any other fiction. Due to not being able to write very actively, I apologise for being a slower writer and not being able to write as much as I used to. That said, I hope you enjoy reading it and please let me know if you liked it!

The Pensieve: Extracts ITYqTqn
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Viesti kirjoittaja Athanaton 18.12.20 1:04

The Pensieve: Extracts ITYqTqn

EMRYS WYLLON

'So you want us all thrown into AZKABAN?'
'AZKABAN?'
'AZKABAN?'
'Azkaban?...'


That, was the last place that not a single wizard wanted to visit in the wizarding world, not even Emrys who had a fascination with things that could not be found, such as places that did not appear on maps. Azkaban, however, was a different story. For all he knew, saying that it was merely a magical prison was an understatement easily made by those who failed to understand why it was built in the first place, and why it was still feared by so many. Though only a handful of Wyllons had been imprisoned there in the past, Emrys had heard that most who were sent there went mad within weeks, and not one of them came back the same. He assumed that it had to do with the fact that it was guarded by Dementors, which made it such a grim place. 'Azkaban,' said his great grandfather Selwyn, 'is by no means where hope lingers. It is where it all dies for good.' To many, it was reserved for the worst of wizardkind, devoid of happiness whilst being ultimately surrounded by those amongst the foulest creatures that infested the darkest, filthiest places like the prison of Azkaban, and drained peace, hope, and happiness out of the air around them, leaving behind only despair. Being born into the Wyllon family, Emrys was well aware of the horrors that inhabited the prison, but his father Geraint liked to remind him about them every so often as if the image of their dark hooded cloaks was not vivid enough to someone who was easily disturbed by the thought of them. There was one time before dinner when he hinted at them again, saying out of the blue, 'There are worse things than death, you know?' Startled by the sudden change of his tone, as they had barely talked at all that day, Emrys realised that he had heard it so many times throughout his childhood that the image of the hooded figures came to him almost immediately, being as vivid as it could possible be.

'Azkaban,' he thought to himself, believing that it should not be spoken when his mother Enid was within earshot. Emrys could hear footsteps from the next room and assumed that she was busy doing other things, so it was better not to disturb her with such matters. After all, she did not like that he talked too much about the prison to him. They were sitting in the drawing room, enjoying afternoon tea gathered around the fireplace whilst it drizzled outside. 'He must mean Azkaban.' Then, he could tell that he was right by the look on his father's face when he stared into his eyes, nodding approvingly. 'Yes,' he said, smiling faintly. Though not lacking in the humour department, Geraint smiled rarely at others, unless he had had a few too many, but even so it was not exactly because he was delighted by what was said to him. Rather, it was his way of maintaining authority in the family and, Emrys had noted, signalling to his wife that he too was capable of being gentle, not that she was always sold on his performance. Geraint regarded emotions as aestheticised sensations, or distractions as he liked to put it, and personally preferred to be known for his thorns rather than petals much like his grandfather Selwyn Wyllon, who he was said to resemble more than his own father. Thus, perhaps not surprisingly, he could not have been more different from his wife Enid, born into the Huckbee family, who often according to her husband let her judgement be clouded by her emotions. 'It is one of those things,' he admitted and leaned back in his armchair with a thoughtful look on his face, putting his cup aside. Geraint ran his pale fingers through the tufts of dark hair on his chin and resumed his severe tone. 'What else do you think is worse than death, Emrys?' There was another thing that he brought up time and time again, especially when someone from the Ministry came to visit. Emrys glanced sideways across the room at the door behind which his mother was, not minding if she heard the response that followed.

'The end of tradition,' said Emrys, furrowing his brows to look more determined when he caught the eyes of his father. He knew that it was what he wanted to hear, so he smiled confidently in response and took a sip of his tea. 'Which leads to?' 'Chaos, probably.' The man leaned forward and gave him another approving look, his stern face being illuminated by the flames in the fireplace that crackled loudly through the silence that fell on the room. For a short moment, not even footsteps could be heard from the room where Enid was, only the old grandfather clock that ticked near the opposite wall behind Geraint and his son. Emrys wondered if she had by then realised the tone of their conversation, though it was more likely that she had not. Geraint stared down into the fireplace and laughed half-heartedly through his nose, then returning his piercing gaze. 'Chaos,' he repeated sentimentally, his voice sunk to a whisper, as he reached out and put his hands on the young lad's shoulders, looking into his eyes from under his thick brows that framed his twinkling eyes. Taken aback by his unexpected gesture, Emrys responded with a baffled look as he struggled to understand why he had come so close. If anything, he realised that he had probably never hugged his father. 'Yes, dad?' The brief silence that followed was filled with such suspense that Emrys stared at him with eyes that did not blink at all, not realising that he was holding his breath too. Geraint, smiling weakly, let his hands slide down as he sighed heavily before doing so. 'You're a smart lad, Emrys. Who taught you all that? To think of Azkaban...' Then, right as the name escaped his lips obscured by the dark beard of his, the door to the room where his mother was suddenly opened and she came in, her long, blonde hair hanging down her back. She was quite as pale as he was, but there was more gentleness in her eyes. 'Geraint,' she hissed at him from across the room, to which he quickly responded with a snort before giving her an unamused look. When their eyes met, Emrys knew what had happened, so he dropped his chin and pressed his lips together to avoid uttering a single word, and it was then that Geraint grinned at her to reinforce his position, then rose to his feet, as though her sudden entrance had somehow challenged his authority, and he had to prove her otherwise. Emrys refused to look up at either of them, hoping that it had never come to that point. He merely believed that by not saying the name out loud, she would not have realised what they were talking about, for Geraint did not like to be interrupted like that. Blood was bound to be spilt, feelings hurt.

The Pensieve: Extracts ITYqTqn


Viimeinen muokkaaja, Athanaton pvm 15.06.21 2:58, muokattu 3 kertaa
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Viesti kirjoittaja Athanaton 27.12.20 2:57

The Pensieve: Extracts ITYqTqn

EMRYS WYLLON

The knife pierced the skin like butter, spilling a bit of grease on the silver platter on which the turkey filled with a pork, sage and onion stuffing and topped with a bacon lattice had been sitting. Adorned with everything from elaborate candelabras and works of art to the portraits of late Wyllons, the grand dining room was lavishly decorated, drapes embroidered with black and silver hanging down from the walls, their beautiful glossy texture being illuminated by the chandelier that transformed the dimly lit room into an enchanted setting. 'It looks absolutely delicious,' said Mrs Trevethin with a cheery voice from across the table as she rose slightly from her chair to see the roasted thing surrounded by candied fruits. Enid responded with a smile and nodded at the house-elf who, in the midst of carving the turkey, was distracted by her compliment. 'Go on,' she said gently and turned to their guests. 'Oh, shut up. You're embarrassing him.' A floating bottle travelled across the table, filling all their cups with blood-red wine except Emrys' when he declined with a shake of his head, knowing that he was not allowed to drink it. When someone from the far end of the table leaned forward, he dropped his gaze nervously to his side, in an attempt to avoid drawing attention to himself, hoping that the gesture had gone unnoticed. 'Emrys, wasn't it?' asked Mr Trevethin, who never quite seemed to remember his name, his wizened face peering out from under his pointed hat. One could have expected the croak of old age but his voice was more like a high-ranking official, strong and distinctly upper class.

'Yes, Mr Trevethin.' Emrys raised his eyes after his mother glanced at him, beneath the table her slim fingers closing briefly on his wrist. He knew that she liked when their guests talked to him, as he was the only child and his parents had only little time for catching up with him. 'How's the school year going so far? I heard you danced with Ms Fowle. Is she the girl from last year?' When he shook his head again, hoping that he would not go on about the Yule Ball, the old man let out a dry laugh and took a gulp of his wine, his brows going up with a faint smirk on his face. 'I see what type of lad you are, Emrys. Every year a different girl, eh? You remind me of your father. He used to be just like you. Why don't you have some wine and tell us about the Ball? You see, it's been a few summers since I had mine.' Geraint, who judging by the unamused look that he gave him did not seem too impressed by his attempt at banter, snorted through his nose, then remarking with a sarcastic smile, 'Always living by your own rules, Edgar? As someone from the Ministry, I'm sure know that he doesn't drink.' A faint smile appeared on his son's face when their eyes met, though it did not last long enough to make him feel like he actually cared for anything other than his reputation. If anything, Emrys did not want to discuss the Yule Ball any more than necessary, neither with his parents, nor with anyone else. 'Emrys said his dancer partner was very talented. They danced all evening,' Enid nostalgised as if they were talking about her evening, making Mrs Trevethin smile softly with her budding enthusiasm, her eyes warmed with delight as the house-elf snapped his fingers and started floating more food to the table. 'How marvellous,' added Mrs Trevethin, her nearly white hair styled into a shining, straight bob. Emrys had never seen someone age so elegantly than Mrs Trevethin, not even his own mother. 'Oh, tell us about that night, Emrys. It must have been unforgettable. What was she like?'

Whilst she was not exactly wrong, Emrys was aware that he did not have many options to choose from. He could either tell about it as it had happened, and be yelled at later when the Trevethins were gone, or lie and pretend that it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons, even if his father could figure out that it was not really what happened. That being said, he sometimes found it easier to lie than tell the truth because to most people it did not seem to matter if his feelings were genuine, as long as they were not in direct conflict with what was expected of him. When all eyes were on him, Emrys broke into an awkward smile, his dimples becoming more visible, though not as genuinely as he would have if the Yule Ball had turned out different, and grabbed his glass before speaking. He knew what had to be done, and what his mother wanted to hear. 'It was lovely, Mrs Trevethin.' The words escaped so naturally from his lips that for a moment he could almost believe it himself, even though the Yule Ball had been an utter disappointment, and there was nothing that he – or anyone, for that matter – could do about it. Emrys then realised that the glass in his hand was empty, so he put it back down, glancing sideways at his mother and father, his brown eyes twinkling above his flushed cheeks. Geraint always gave back that swift, piercing look that sometimes made him feel like he could see right through him. 'We had some food, drinks, you know, the usual. Ms Fowle is very good at dancing, so we danced for a few more hours. Not to mention her intelligence. I really appreciate my time with her.' He resumed his desperately cheerful tone, smiling as brightly as he could, pouring all his energy into delivering the most believable performance. 'I...could not have asked for a better evening, Mrs Trevethin. Maybe next year I won't have to find a new dance partner.' His mother seemed to buy it if not anyone else.

The Pensieve: Extracts ITYqTqn
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