Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
in her anger she could shun me using the most vile language to exist. yet, i will envy the words for having belonged to her
painonpapier on tiktok
──────────── · 𖥸 · ────────────
THIS HAS TO BE THE VERY worst idea anyone could've ever come up with. With no plan, no preparation, and not even a single care for the rest of the sleeping castle, Astrid and Harry very stupidly decided to become ghost-hunters. Any drop of common sense that either of the two shared, vanished as they ran through the corridors- Astrid trailing slightly behind Harry, both foolishly following the skiddish footsteps of someone they both know to be dead: Peter Pettigrew.
Neither cared for the loud Plats! and Clanks! coming from their running footsteps, and Astrid's silver converse definitely didn't help. With Harry's hand gripping onto her arm, she followed him- completely out of breath, but still, with curiosity fueling her and clouding her better judgement, she allowed Harry to drag her on this silly ghost hunt. Their steps became quieter as they both slowed down, according to the map Pettigrew's footsteps were growing increasingly close to theirs. Ignoring the annoyed paintings and the pattering of her heart, she continued to follow Harry as he dragged her by her arm. Although she tried not to show it, she was frightened. She kept her eyes on Harry, as if he would somehow in someway manage to protect her from whatever they would encounter. She couldn't see his face clearly but the hand holding the map was slightly trembling and he used his mouth to hold up his wand for light. Though, like the map, his wand also had a slight shake to it.
"Harry," Astrid whispered, her voice cold and distant. She was uncomfortable and scared. "What will you do if he's actually there?"
They both came to a halt in their hunt, and for once that entire evening, Astrid had finally asked a logical question. What would actually end up happening if two thirteen-year-olds come face-to-face with someone widely known to be dead? "Er-" Harry started, his grip on her arm loosening. "I guess, well first, rub our eyes to make sure he's real. And then I'll swipe my hand through him to double check."
Astrid tried to laugh but she couldn't. "Harry," she reprimanded, shaking her head lightly. She wouldn't admit she was scared, much less to Harry Potter who she was barley acquaintances with. She looked at him through her dark lashes, her eyes easily readable under the yellow light emitted from Harry's wand.
Harry watched her, his eyes boring into hers. He could tell she was scared, hell, he was too. "I'm sorry," he said, his hand dropping dangerously close to hers. He was loosely gripping her wrist. "If we actually see Pettigrew I'll petrify him. Or maybe you can transfigure him into something, I know your good at that- McGonagall showed us how you decorated for Christmas."
