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my telltale heart's a-hammer in my chest
[w29] my name's blurryface
Time stood still around the boy. There was a girl, wisps of dirty blonde hair curling and unfurling, holding a cup of tea of which the steam hung still in the air, that thin foggy white mist scented heavily of honey and earl grey. There was another girl, holding tightly onto a notebook, lilac cover, paper pages gone soft at the edges.
There was also another boy, whose hand was halfway through his hair; his fingers were tense, the veins visible against the surface, locks twisting within his grip.
But it was the boy in the middle who looked the most worried; his whole posture taut, his frown a deep etch into his forehead, his fingers halted mid-tremble around the light-reflecting golden contraption holding some of the most powerful magic ever invented.
The room they were in was non-descript, barren except for one single, measly desk that had seen better times. It carried a tea pot, a stack of files, and a framed photograph on its surface. There was no chairóno anything beyond that and the four persons.
There was a whole world beyond that closed, mahogany door and golden, polished door-knob; a world that stood still, vibrating at a frequency of magic, holding its breath. Ministry clerks paused in their conversations, their ministrations, their job and day and life. And beyond that, the whole of London, the whole of Britain, the whole of the world. Even the stars sat unblinking in the sky, the planets frozen in their slow, eternal spin.
Time stood still around the boy. There was a fight raging. Spells hung dead in the air, bolts and streaks and flashes that looked painted onto the air, stationary images. There were people mid-fall, mid-groan, mid-dying.
There were students, some robed and some not. Worse, most were of age but some were not. A tiny head of blonde hair. Young eyes losing some of their innocent luster as they stood taking in the carnage and ugliness of battle.
Some of the corpses were heart-shatteringly small.
There were teachers, throwing rules to the wind, bringing out all that they had. There were curses on their tongue, powerful magic sparking from their wands. There were crystal balls and potted plants soaring through the air.
There was pandemonium.
From where the boy stood, he would be able to cut right through the thick of it, through the warm bodies and warmer magic, right through this battlefield unlike any the Wizarding World had ever seen or would ever see. No history books would get the descriptions quite right; no artist would be able to paint anything close to representational (the only one who can, put her brush down a long time ago, after Ministry people pulled her off the train and tumbled her into a nightmare).
There was blood on the grass, singe against the castle stones, acrid smoke clogging lungs.
There was one held breath.
And then time resumed.