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Honorine Nott

I'll forget what I've done, I will be redefined

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Honorine Nott

Hyde Park. Not exactly her favorite place to be, considering all of the muggles and tourists and muggle tourists. But it was nice out, and it was the weekend, and her parents had been considerably more lenient about her city-slicking adventures since she'd started going back and forth to school on her own. She had to take advantage until Reginald and Adele came to their senses and brought all the freedom to an end. She tucked herself into a corner under a tree, out of the way enough but still visible from the pathways, and stuck the sign she'd had Legolas made in the dirt. It was shaped like an arrow and it said, in slick black paint:

 

FREE POEMS THIS WAY!

 

She threw her jacket on the grass, folding herself on top of it, surrounding herself with a bunch of 50-pence books she'd picked up off a merchant on the side of the road, and set to work, ripping pages and pulling apart words, gluing them the old-fashioned way onto her spare pieces of parchment, watching the story unfold under her crafty fingers and wondering if today would produce her very first customer.

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Finn Holly

The grass had given way to a dry mud floor, roots curling and winding, poking up from the ground. The rocks frowned upon him; even the flowers had almost vanished by reason of their furled petals. He looked up at the sky at the black masses of cloud scudding across it in the distance. And now again that wild-beast growl, nearer, and more threatening. And yet the sun prevailed, for now.

 

FREE POEMS THIS WAY!

 

Why not? Hands buried in his pockets, Finn traced the sign to a dark head of hair bent diligently over a collection of ripped paper, glue bottles, and stray pages cycling wildly at the wind's mercy. It was with a despondent sigh he claimed familiarity to the culprit. "Gee, Hen, what did paper ever do to you?" His hands grabbed hold of a few littering runaways and dropped down beside her, arms crossed at the wrist over his knees. The alphabet soup caught his eye, but he ignored it. Anyone else he would probably feign concern, but this was Hen. With due interest and a smug smile tugging at his lips he flipped through the pages, careful to keep them out of short-armed Hen's reach. Hardly an issue. "Are you planning to kill someone?"

Edited by Finn Holly

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Honorine Nott

Her eyes looked up through her fringe at the familiar voice, her face not giving anything away despite the surprise she felt at being approached by someone she actually knew, rather than some overly cheery muggle adults who felt it was their duty to help out lost causes like her. After acknowledging Finn with the slightest of nods, she looked back down at her work, rearranging some bold-faced type until it was just slightly off center. "Why's it gotta have done anything to me?"

 

People didn't understand that some of the most beautiful pieces of art were born from destruction. That was their own fault, though. Museums in this city were free, you know. She didn't bother making eye contact with him when he sat down, but took the sheets of paper out of his hand to scrutinize them for any appropriate gerunds for her sorry excuse at mad libs.

 

"Are you volunteering?" she asked in her most syrupy sarcasm (her genetics were purely Reginald, but her learned traits, oh, how they reeked of her mother) as she deposited a half-finished poem in his lap—a gesture of good-ish faith, inviting his opinion without actually asking for it.

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Finn Holly

Destruction was a perverse art form. Difficult to appreciate, and tougher to understand. So far from the blissfully conventional any mainstream critic would dismiss it as noise. Scratchy, snarling noise. It was with undue irony the Hollys showed an aptitude for seeing the smogged forest past its dreariest trees.
 
Finn held back a reluctant smile at her sarcasm, curling lengthy fingers around her wordy creation when his stomach rumbled. “Hey, after, want to drop by the bakery?” He could already taste the savory, blushing raspberry tart on his tongue. 
 
Deep blue eyes squinted in over the sprinkled collection of letters and well, presumably those clots of dirt and glue were also “letters”. “Oh yeah, this is… great work.” He held the paper closer, sacrificing an irreplaceable 20 seconds of his prepubescent life scanning the—he assumed—dark and angsty poem. 
 
“Hen...” he started out, dragging her name like a lifeless body against the floor. His eyes fixed innocently on hers, paper touching his chin. With reluctance and some regard for his own safety he asked, “is this in English?”
 
 

 

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