Pinned
silly doodles from my HL fic. she’s my favorite totally canon npc ever
Worthmore
20 — Concurrence
April stares at her reflection, fingers ghosting over the scar that stretches across the bridge of her nose. The candlelight in the Ravenclaw lavatory flickers against the mirror's surface and casts shifting shadows across her face, making the line of the old wound seem deeper than it is. Her gaze lingers there for a moment before drifting lower, toward the unfamiliar sight of herself in a dress.
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19 — Exposure
The night is bitterly cold.
April exhales, frustration creeping into her breath as it curls into the freezing air before her. One hand grips the edge of a telescope, while the other tightens around the star chart she holds, its parchment edges slightly crumpled from repeated handling.
She's been at this for nearly an hour.
Her fingers are beginning to stiffen with the cold, and she pulls her robe tighter around herself, bracing against the wind that whistles through the open-air platform. She shifts her gaze between the telescope and the sky, scanning for even the faintest glimmer of the constellation she needs to pinpoint. But the cloud cover refuses to cooperate, swallowing the stars in its ever-moving shroud and making the entire endeavor an exercise in futility. A quiet sigh escapes her lips. It's always something, isn't it? Either the weather is against her, or her mind refuses to focus, thoughts wandering back—always back—to that night.
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18 — Debut
(TW for detailed descriptions of gore in this chapter! Read at your own discretion.)
"April," Sebastian groans, his weight practically collapsing onto her shoulder, "I think I'm dying."
His words are sluggish, muffled by the fabric of her sleeve as he leans into her for dear life, the consequences of his reckless indulgence finally catching up to him. April tightens her grip around his arm, keeping him upright as they trudge along the dimly lit path back to Hogwarts. "You're not dying," she tells him flatly. "You're just an idiot."
"It's both," Ominis mutters from beside them, his voice dry as he trails his wand in front of him. The thin white sheet draped over him shifts with the evening breeze, the hastily cut holes for his eyes slightly uneven, giving his ghost costume a rather unfortunate lopsided look. "An idiot with the stomach capacity of a troll, apparently."
Worthmore
17 — Admonition
The rhythmic scratch of quill against parchment fills the otherwise silent room. April works diligently, copying meticulous notes from the astrology book beside her. Each stroke of ink is careful, precise, the product of an unwavering focus that makes it seem as though she isn't in detention at all.
Her posture is relaxed, yet poised, as if this is nothing more than another quiet study session, no different from any other evening spent buried in books. There is no tension in her shoulders, no impatience in her movements—just quiet, methodical diligence.
The door creaks open.