[There are witches, Prudence knows, who's magic comes from the old gods and their like. Witches who placed their faith in the earth, and the energy around them, and made power from it. Her own magic is changing now, with each passing day and with each new prayer to the triple Goddess. Her energy longs for the old ways; to be gone from the oppressive hold of Greendale, and to be where magic is not something that is given, but something that simply is.
She does entirely mean to return to Scotland. She thinks of Haiti first, or New Orleans, or even the deepest parts of South America. But she has unfinished business in Scotland she has to attend to first, with the last of her fathers being buried under twelve feet of holy scripture and different bonds to keep him. Hogsmede is where she stays, tucked away in a little room with her clothes layered and her own admiration for the towns ability to stay so far away from mortals.
It's peaceful, for a bit. The butterbeer is sweet, the food is -- well. The food is edible, and no one pays her any mind. She listens to the talks of Hogwarts and their very different approach to teaching; listens to the talks of darker wizards who's practices resemble her own more closely. It's always so funny how black and white magic has to be to people, she thinks.
She looks like one of their dark wizards, she supposes, and that's fine, too. When she is looking through books at the bookstore, it means people keep their distance. The restricted books, of course, are more to her liking. She's aimless, though, fingers drawn to the Eldritch texts, but so averse to them that she forces her eyes to the beasts instead. Her hand moves to Finding Your Skin: Newt Scamander's Notes On Selkie Hides, when her fingers brush someone else's. ] Ah -- pardon me.
jesus WHATEVER THIS IS no voldemort or something
She does entirely mean to return to Scotland. She thinks of Haiti first, or New Orleans, or even the deepest parts of South America. But she has unfinished business in Scotland she has to attend to first, with the last of her fathers being buried under twelve feet of holy scripture and different bonds to keep him. Hogsmede is where she stays, tucked away in a little room with her clothes layered and her own admiration for the towns ability to stay so far away from mortals.
It's peaceful, for a bit. The butterbeer is sweet, the food is -- well. The food is edible, and no one pays her any mind. She listens to the talks of Hogwarts and their very different approach to teaching; listens to the talks of darker wizards who's practices resemble her own more closely. It's always so funny how black and white magic has to be to people, she thinks.
She looks like one of their dark wizards, she supposes, and that's fine, too. When she is looking through books at the bookstore, it means people keep their distance. The restricted books, of course, are more to her liking. She's aimless, though, fingers drawn to the Eldritch texts, but so averse to them that she forces her eyes to the beasts instead. Her hand moves to Finding Your Skin: Newt Scamander's Notes On Selkie Hides, when her fingers brush someone else's. ] Ah -- pardon me.