Oh haiiii there, guys! o: After a rather long hiatus, I have come to retrieve my ficlets and start them up again! :3 Having quite a few beloved characters who I don't play often means they're usually pretty chatty in my head, heeheehee.

I'm kicking off my hiatus end with a ficlet I've written about a newer character of mine named Poppy who may or may not make her way to Snitchseeker in the future. As I'm awfully fond of her, though, I try to do a lot of writing, so you may see some more of her in the future.

ALSO. I have a pretty new banner. -licks it-

SO. We begin. Everybody, please welcome Lady Poppington to Snitchseeker. -bows-

[Please note that Nikola Kovac and Greer are not my characters and are, in fact, the property of one Miss Schmangie, aka Oesed. Boule aka Boulevard Brandywine, future ruler of Antartica, is possession of Ama. Or maybe the other way around. But they're really fun! Night Turns to Day comes from the lyrics of The All-American Reject's Time Stands Still]


Night Turns to Day

The words written seemed cold and callous, as if spoken in a cool and collected manner. Swift. For that matter, Poppy could actually hear her mother’s voice in her mind, speaking these words in an off-hand tone: succinct and matter-of-fact. They seemed brittle and void of emotion, rather clinical, to be right. Apathetic, nonchalant. A tone akin to “by the way.”

Calmly, Poppy took in the words and let them sink beneath the surface and register. A numb sensation cooled her body and cut off all feelings for the moment as these words bounced about and collided in her mind. Faintly, This cannot be real resounded in the young girl’s mind, but her denial was incredibly short lived. When her mind began to process and comprehend, her resilient façade shattered.

At first, the tears were anguished and dismayed, filled with what seemed to be an inconsolable pain. Shaky arms wrapped tight around her torso, as if she may have needed to keep everything from falling apart. After a few minutes of their warmth, though the sobs ceased and she realized they would do no good. Crying had no powers and what was done was done. Nothing could change that. The dull sensation muted her feelings again, leaving her to feel as though she was on auto-pilot, her reaction, perhaps, mechanical and feigned.

Drawing her index fingers beneath her eyes, Poppy dried her tears and neatly folded the letter. Once she had placed it upon her bedside table, the eleven-year-old closed her eyes and silently said a good-bye to Daddy and willed him on to a better place. Her chest constricted, but that was that. Nothing she could wish or pray or hope would bring him back and from the way her mother’s letter was written, it sounded as if she, too, had accepted such a cold fact. Life went on and life ended and unfortunately, Otto Bradshaw’s life had come to an abrupt end.

Uncertain quite as to how she managed, Poppy penned to her mother a response that was careful and slow to be written, filled with sincere sentiments and deepest apologies for being away at the time. She made sure to tell her mother how she loved her and how she wished she could be there for her. Though she couldn’t quite feel it, she also mentioned how agonizingly terrible she felt. Something was cutting off her sensation of feelings, she realized, for she knew, somehow, that she felt awful, that she was sad, but whatever the barricade was kept this at bay. No tears shed upon the parchment and what trembles and shivers had captivated her body earlier were gone, leaving her writing tidy and calm. A school owl carried the letter back to her home and with the owl, Poppy sent her grief.

She was not allowed to cry and she told herself that she would save her grieving for private moments. Those when she was by herself, cut off from the rest of the world. From this point, Poppy told herself, everything would grow better and she would heal and they would move on because for the living, life went on.


After a week, though, if anything, everything had grown worse. Zombies were a muggle term that Poppy was only barely aware of, but by now, she could place herself in their position. The way she moved through her day was vague and disjointed. Memories fractured and she found her mind dwelling with darkness. No actual thoughts came to mind, but more images. Her father, certainly. Otto Bradshaw was the parent that Poppy had once been closest to. At night, when the sun would begin to set, he and his only child would go for walks and talk about everything. Nothing was off limits to them and Poppy had always felt a sense of open honesty and a foundation of trust.

Perhaps the reason Poppy and her mother were not nearly as close was because of the homeschooling. With Flora acting as her daughter’s teacher, mother, and best friend, the two were often at each other’s throats, or silently feuding by not speaking to the other. Poor Otto was often the go-between and Poppy knew that it had probably worn on him. Flora always expected Otto to side with her and Poppy felt cheated and betrayed if he didn’t side with her and in the end, everyone would end up in a sticky situation. A nibble of guilt wiggled in her mind and she wondered, very briefly, if she had contributed stress to her father’s heart attack, but quickly, her mother’s brusque voice was in her mind, telling her to think not of it.

What is done, Poppy, is done and to wonder and ponder will do nothing to bring back your father. I hope your studies are going well. Just because you are a first year does not mean you can slag off and the death of your father is not reason enough to slow in your academic forthcomings. As a Hufflepuff, I expect for you to be at the top of your game at all times; Ravenclaws are not the only ones who excel.

Though these words had not been spoken but instead written in response to Poppy’s last letter, the young Hufflepuff heard them in her mind just as though they had been voiced. Crossing her legs beneath her, Poppy closed the curtains around her bed and swallowed thickly. Crying was forbidden. She shivered and wrapped her blanket over her shoulders and curled into it. What she wanted most was for her mother to acknowledge it. One line in one letter was hardly justice enough to her father. If Poppy had not known better, she would have thought that her mother was content with this. Briefly, another thought crossed her mind and instantly, Poppy was very ashamed and quickly pushed it from mind. Wishing it had been her mother instead was wrong, very wrong.

Poppy decided that she was a terrible child.

Unfortunately, she had no one to talk to. Her mother refused to let Poppy even dwell upon it, to even briefly think upon it. Socially awkward and with few friends, she had found few to confide in, especially about a topic so heavy as this. Besides, how did one even bring it up? “Oh, by the way, my name is Poppy and my father just died.” The longer she went without saying it out loud, the more the stab hurt when she thought about it. A diary was useless to her, because all she wanted was to say the words and have them go away. What she needed was a friend.

Her only confidant had left.

This, Poppy decided, was terribly pathetic.


Two weeks. Fourteen days since Daddy and the nights had grown longer. In bed she sat, with homework unfinished in her lap. Sleeping was becoming harder and harder to fall into and at night, she grew more and more restless. While the other girls were snuffling and sighing in their sleep, Poppy sat in her little poster-bed world, trying to keep everything in. Her father, her mother, her hopeless feelings, her anxieties, her lack of friends, her irritability, her lack of sleep, her emotional state, her stress. Not sleeping caused everything to feel as if it was piling atop her back, weighing down upon her shoulders and trying to break her. Perhaps trying was not the right word, because Poppy was certain that she already was broken.

Mummy would not accept this.

You’re thinking too much, Poppy. If you think about things less, you will sleep more. Focus on your studies. What is giving you problems in class? Set your mind to that – it will help you cope, you will be able to sleep, and you’ll improve at your worst class.

What Poppy hadn’t the heart to tell Flora was that everything was giving her problems. Potions and History of Magic and Astronomy and Transfiguration. Her wand seemed not to be working and her brain not functioning. No matter how she tried, though, she could not cope. Not that way her mother wanted her to. Blatantly, Flora passed over and ignored Poppy’s inquiries and consolations. This segment of their lives, to the widowed mother, did not exist. If one ignored the problem, its life would drain away and it would cease to exist.

Poppy knew better.

The elephant would always be between them, despite so many miles between them.

Even when she finished her homework, or gave up on it, and rest her head upon her pillow, sleep evaded her. Instead, her mind buzzed and crackled and fragmented thoughts passed through. Snippets of conversations the girls had been having before they went to sleep. Pieces of information she’d been trying to study. Her father’s voice. Tiny voices of fear. Fear that maybe she was going insane. All of this swirled in her mind and kept her awake.

That night, sleep did not come until three a.m.


Three weeks passed and Poppy realized it was not a phase. Sleep had fled her and she was left at night, in the silence of everyone else’ slumber. She had found that when she was the only one awake, she was far more conscious of her actions and every little squeak her bed made or the ruffle of the pages of her book. Perhaps the focus of being quiet was what made everything sound so loud. Even her lashes seemed to make noise. Did they hear her heart? Could they hear how loudly, how strong it pounded? How would she explain that, if they could?

Too much free time made her mind run.

Sleep occurred more frequently when the sun was up and she threw herself into her little sanctuary. Closing the curtains around her, Poppy would curl up on her bed and fall into a heavy sleep for a few hours. Now days, though, that was all she was getting. If anything, she was sleeping less and less each night, rather than more and more. All she wanted was some sleep. Was that so much to ask? How was she supposed to make her brain shut up, to stop running and asking questions? All she really wanted was for everything to be right again.

But right was buried six feet under.

Poppy ached. Mentally, she was weary. Physically, she’d been growing weary. Lack of sleep made her even quieter than normal and she feel languid and heavy. In class, she struggled to not dose off and when she did sleep, dreams involved Otto and Flora. Nightmares which made her skin crawl made her fear sleeping, even when she craved it. The memories she dreamt were, many times, worse than the nightmares, because she woke up breathless, feeling unrested, as if the whole time she was sleeping, she was actually conscious and burning energy.

She was going insane. Poppy knew it.


Four weeks. Twenty-eight days ago, the letter had arrived and since then, she had collected five more. Five letters described mundane days. Mundane days were filled with Flora burying herself further and further under her work. She detailed to her daughter paperwork she had to fill out and articles read and the sort of foolish people who called customer service. By now, Poppy could read through this. Her mother’s façade was as bad as hers had been, for those few moments before the truth set in. Neither of them was okay, and Poppy wondered if her mother was worse. No sign of grieving had taken place and to the young girl’s horror, her mother now mentioned a man.

He’s a charming man. Very sweet and suave. We met in the tavern a couple nights ago and have met up every night since. When we’re together, we talk a lot. Though he’s younger, he makes me feel younger, so everything is fine. This weekend, we’re going out for dinner. Doesn’t that sound fun, Poppet? You’d love him, I’m sure. Maybe you can meet him when you come home at Christmas.

Christmas sounded dismal. Cracking open the curtain of her bed, Poppy peeked out towards the window. Unfortunately, the Common Room hadn’t a good view of the outside. Heavily, she sighed. What she wanted, that she could have, was her mother to come back. The mother before the tragedy. This mother… this cold and calculating woman… Poppy did not recognize her. In fact, this Flora scared Poppy more than anything.

What also scared her was that Poppy no longer recognized herself. Had her hair dulled or did she just not recognize the bright red in her reflection? Her eyes, had, she knew that; the clear blue appeared more of a clouded blue-gray now. Was this deterioration? Maybe she was being dramatic. She was only eleven years old. There was no way she could be crumbling apart already. Perhaps this was melodrama. Could it maybe be hormones?

The morning birds were singing. She found them comforting as she finally managed to fall asleep an hour before classes.

Six weeks had passed excruciatingly slowly and Poppy was fearful to realize her body was somehow growing used to this habit of not sleeping. While the girls all changed for bed and washed their faces and chattered for a few moments, Poppy would feign along and crawl into bed as they did. After a while, the chatter faded and gave way to snores and sleepy noises. Poppy listened from within her closed curtains, her wand keeping alight her dark sanction as she scribbled to catch up on homework and read drawl passages that could not tire her. Dawn would peak in their windows while the morning birds sang her to sleep. The noises of the girls rousing and readying for class, a few hours later, was often what woke her.

Dragging. Heavy. Fatigued.

Greer was lovely and fun, if not sometimes oblivious and tactless. Though she asked Poppy about the rings around her eyes, she never delved deeper into the subject and Poppy found herself strangely relieved. Though she wanted to be able to talk about it, she was also afraid. Admitting it out loud made everything true, and even if she knew very well the truth, a faint sliver of hope held out, clinging to the idea that all of this was a terribly bad dream. Such a foolish plea was probably what kept Poppy from crying so much. That as well as knowing that if tears shed, someone would find out and question and questions were not what she desired.

Acting was a lot easier than Poppy had ever imagined. After she climbed out of bed, she would brush her bright red hair and tidy her uniform. Preoccupying herself with straightening her pleats and tie were enough to get her by until class, when her head would buzz with incomprehensible lectures and notes that she later did not recognize. When Greer told a joke or Boule was obnoxious, she found laughter feasible and making it sound believable was not hard. Eleven-year-olds were too dense to see through each other and they still maintained a mentality that the world revolved around them. Poppy understood that no one was purposely not seeing through her. Instead, she took this as a compliment, that she had successfully fooled them all with superb skills of acting.

Maybe she would become an actress when she grew up. Poppy mulled over this instead of taking notes in History of Magic. Whatever they were studying, she could not even recall, though it was written upon the blackboard at the front of the room. While the Professor babbled, she tended to fantasies of creating new characters to exist within. Perhaps she could do that now, she wondered? Could she reform herself into someone likable and strong, who slept and did not carry a heavy heart?

This would be difficult.


Eight weeks later, Poppy knew the truth.

She was not strong, but weak. Sensibility only carried one so far and evidently, Poppy’s sound reasoning had failed her eight weeks prior. While still her heart remained too stony for grief and her mind could not begin to figure out how to go about it, Poppy knew that something had to change. In bed, her legs felt restless and two months of confining herself to her curtain-shielded bed was boring and old. Change was mandatory and all she’d done for the past sixty-one days was give up and stop trying. What she had believed was herself holding up well was really a crumbling reserve.

In sixty-one days, she had yet to figure out what she was to feel. Her mother had now mentioned another man and cocktails and discussed work as if it was all that existed in her world. Poppy knew that it was. Nothing about Flora sounded relaxed and calm and Poppy was certain that her mother was purposely distracting herself from the death, from the past funeral, from the relatives and their unwelcome well wishes.

Emotions conflicted and duked it out, trying to decide what she was to feel. Anger? Was she allowed to be angry that her mother was already consorting with other men? Upset? Was it fair that she was upset that her mother was not grieving, was not helping her to grieve, was offering no consolation and was flirting with men much younger than Otto had been? Disappointed? Was it selfish of Poppy to be disappointed in her mother, to feel that she had been failed by the only woman she had to look up to in her life? A mother’s job, Poppy believed, was to help her child and if her child was hurting, the mother was to take care of her and help to cease that hurt. Flora had done nothing of this sort. Mostly, though, Poppy felt lonely unsettled. Without her closest parent, without friends, without proper communication besides she and the widowed Mrs. Bradshaw, Poppy felt positively alone and wondered if anyone could even begin to understand what she was going through.

Four weeks of sleepless nights left Poppy unstable. Her emotions were thin and her will continued to crumble. As of late, her tears had come to probe, to test the surface and see if they were yet allowed, but Poppy adamantly refused. Autumn’s air was chilly and Poppy felt it in her bones. Chilled to the core, she was always uncomfortable.

Finally, she heeded her body and crawled out of bed. Using her finger to mark her place in a heavy muggle novel, she crawled from bed and into a fluffy robe and slippers. Quietly, she made her way through the late-night sleeping world, cautious to not make a sound, least she wake a light sleeper. Into the Common Room she made her way, freezing with her eyes upon messy dark hair.


Two ocean blue eyes later and Poppy had, strangely, found herself a companion of the night in Nikola Kovac. Both awkward and without social talent, they kept each other company. Some nights they spoke and others they sat together and read. Poppy would do her homework and sometimes ask him for help. Chatter was usually light and used to ask questions and familiarize themselves with each other or else prattle about unimportant topics. What Poppy enjoyed most was the comfort, for she was not alone. Though her sleeping schedule was different and stressful, she took comfort in knowing that she could have someone to sit with at night and talk to. He was nice and charming, in his own, unique way. Like she, he was a bit on the socially awkward side of the line and for this, she could relate to him easily.

In a moment of dare, Poppy mentioned her mother and her stress and how much she missed her father. That night, Nikola mentioned his mother. Their conversation skirted the topics and spoke little of the dead, but Poppy found herself comforted, because she could tell herself that she was not the only one. Though speaking of it hurt and made it all real, she was also able to let everything out. In ten weeks, she’d shed no more tears but now they fell, a hurricane whipping through her. Emotional and weak, she gave in and let the tears fall from her eyes, scalding her cheeks while sobs raked through her tiny body. In awkward nature, Nikola patted her back and said nothing, but Poppy did not mind. Nothing needed to be said.

She grieved for the rest of the night and when she finished, she politely thanked the boy and apologized to him. Poppy had never meant to make him uncomfortable and she hoped dearly that he would be in the Common Room again the next night. If she had managed to scare him away, she would hate herself. Because, she thought, perhaps she’d found a friend. Formed a bond between them? At any rate, he had eased the suffering and with her tears cried, she found herself able to sleep less restlessly that morning. When she woke, she could not remember any dreams, but she did know they were not plagued of nightmares and memories.

For the first time in seventy days, she felt better. Not yet good, but better than worse.