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February 2017

Liam, Teen Contributor

With all this warm weather have you been getting outside, too?

Liam, Moab. Trad climbing route. 


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Sylvia, Teen Contributor

Dumbledore's office stands tall and majestic, every detail meticulously preserved even a year after the battle of Hogwarts. The shelves of hundreds of books, which have not been touched since, perhaps admired by Headmistress McGonagall, are still just as dusty as they were twenty years previously, and perhaps fifty years previous of that. The golden ceiling with intricate designs curves around the office in a bowl shape, perfect for the Astronomy tower, which stands just above Dumbledore's desk and has a perfect view of the twinkling stars above the Great Lake. Dumbledore's desk is arguably the most beautiful thing in the room; the golden metal is still somehow shining, next to the grand throne he sat in. His wand, the Elder Wand of the Deathly Hallows, still sits on his desk, and a perch next to it holds a brilliant, red and gold bird, more commonly known as a phoenix.  Hundreds of previous headmaster paintings line the room, Dumbledore himself next to the desk. There was one problem. The room was completely dark.

 Before long, a creaking sound emitted from the door, which signalled that the office was being opened. Broken into, to be more precise. A shadow fell across the already dark floor as footsteps enter the room at a steady pace. There is an intake of air and a pause. Then-

"Lumos Maxima," a low, gruff voice says, and a brilliant white light flooded across the room.

 The wizard in question raises his wand to sweep the light around the space, illuminating the young wizard's facial features of high cheekbones with a square-like jawline, looking annoyingly handsome with his black, slicked back hair. It soon becomes clear from the Slytherin robes he wears that he is a current student at Hogwarts. 

 He strides forward with purpose, his wand light moving with him as he approaches Dumbledore's desk, then pauses, his eyes sweeping over the cluttered spot. He then reaches out and touches the Elder Wand, a gleam of almost a power hungry look in his eyes. He then looks up to the brilliant red and gold phoenix, his expression softening a little as he quickly pulls back his hand. 

 An odd, almost mystical creaking sound causes the young wizard to turn around to face a golden cabinet filled with tiny vials, all of which have a golden swirl in them, all of them identical. His eyes come to rest on a golden time turner that lies on top of the cabinet. He moves towards it slowly, his wand aloof, until a sudden voice makes him jump and he whirls around to face the wall with Dumbledore's portrait. He could have sworn that the painting was asleep, because he had planned it so. 

 "I wouldn't touch that, if I were you," Dumbledore says, smiling kindly down at the boy. 

"Why should I listen to you?" the boy asks boldly. "You're nothing more than a painting."

"True," Dumbledore agrees with a wise nod. "I am nothing more than paint...and memory. Two things death cannot touch. I've been here long before you, and I'll be here long after you. I am much older, much wiser, and much cleverer. So I'd advise you...don't touch the cabinet."

 The boy drops his wand in defeat and begins to pace, traces of tears in his eyes as he does. Dumbledore instantly picks up on this, and tilts his head as he watches him. 

"You've lost someone, am I correct?" Dumbledore asks. "What was your name?"

"My father," the boy replies without hesitation. "Graves. Anthony Graves. Seventh year."

"Graves," Dumbledore says thoughtfully. "Yes, I knew your father. Percival Graves. He was a very fine Auror. Of course, he lived in North America. Is there any reason he sent you here to Hogwarts instead of Ilvermorney?"

"He wanted me to get experience abroad," Graves replies, his American accent more prominent through his British undertone that he had developed during his years at Hogwarts. "Also, Slytherin is much better than Pukwudgie, in my opinion."

 Dumbledore chuckles at that, his soft, warm laugh causing Graves to give a slight laugh of his own. 

 "I agree with you there," Dumbledore says. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but your father was murdered, wasn't he?"

 The boy instantly goes back to pacing, grief flashing through his eyes as he gives a slight nod, not looking at the painting as he examined the wood floor. 

"And you will go to any length to avenge his death, and, if possible, bring him back?" Dumbledore asks.

"How did you know?" Graves asks, looking up at the painting in curiosity, his eyebrows narrowing in confusion. 

"Because I was once the same way," Dumbledore replies. "But not with my father. With my sister, Ariana. I still don't know to this day if I was the one who killed her, or if it was the dark wizard, Grindelwald. 

 At the mention of the name, the boy's eyes grow wide, and, almost as if it's a trick of the light, his pupils grow darker than they are already, and his mouth forms a thin line. Something almost akin to fear can be seen in Dumbledore's eyes if one looks closely enough.

"I see the name is familiar to you," Dumbledore says, and pauses for a minute, his eyes flicking over to the wand on his desk before quickly looking back at the boy. "You seek the Deathly Hallows."

"Yes," Graves replies, glaring at the painting with sudden hatred. "Now, tell me, old man...if I take that wand, it'll be the most powerful wand in the world, yes? And it will do anything I want it to?"

"Graves, please...the people who have gone on the same path as you have only had misfortunes and led a life of disaster," Dumbledore tries to warn him. "Please don't do this."

"Too late, old man," Graves smirks, and in a sudden movement, he whips around to Dumbledore's desk, grabbing the Elder wand and pointing it at the painting threateningly. "I made up my mind a long time ago. And I would listen to yo, but you see...not all of us can live forever. Least of all, you."

 There is no denying it now. Dumbledore is afraid. Anthony Graves, the decedent of the great auror Percival Graves, whom even Newt Scamander had been afraid of, has the Elder wand and is staring him down. There are perhaps a million things he can do with this wand, and all of them would not end well for Dumbledore. Graves faces the cabinet of memories, glaring at the painting. 

"I want to go back and save my father," Graves says. "Tell med what I need to do. You said he was around when Newt Scamander was. Tell me what I need to do, or I'll destroy your pathetic little painting."

"What you are looking at are memories," Dumbledore says as Graves moves towards the golden cabinet. "All of them connect to one individual, in this case, Voldemort. Your father was part of the reason why the first dark wizard, Grindelwald, rose to power using the Hallows. This inspired  Voldemort to do the same."

"It's easy, then," Graves says. "Destroy Newt Scamander for my father and help bring him back to complete his quest for the Hallows."

"It's a mysterious thing, time," Dumbledore cautions. "Powerful, and when meddled with, dangerous. You must use caution."

"Thank you, old man," Graves smirks. "But your services are no longer required."

 Graves pulls the wand back and jabs it forwards, destroying the painting that held Dumbledore. The glass shards ricochet everywhere, flying around the office as the gold painting frame falls to the floor with a bang. He raises his wand again and swipes it in a circle above his head, causing the hundreds of other paintings of previous headmasters to fall from the ceiling, clanging down in a cacophony of bangs and shouts, thousands of shards of glass falling on the floor around him. Graves jabs his wand forward again, destroying the golden cabinet of memories. More glass falls to the floor, mixed with the still falling silver and multicoloured pieces and frames from the paintings that are still falling, hundreds of broken potion vials now added to the mix. They break on impact when they hit the ground, spilling the silver contents around Graves on the floor. 

 Graves summons the memory he's looking for, the one with Newt Scamander and his father, to get the exact date to travel back to. He quickly snatches the remaining memory from the destroyed cabinet, neatly labelled in cursive writing, 'New York, 1920.' He then quickly picks up the time turner as footsteps and shouts of alarm sound. He turns it multiple times before it seems to spin on its own, the office disappearing around him in a whirl of colors.

 He enters a disoriented world, thousands of voices echoing around him as he clutches the Elder Wand and the time turner tightly. One voice stands out among the others. 

"You're an interesting man, Mr. Scamander," it says.

 And then there was chaos.




Rachel, Teen Contributor

Remember when you were younger? How happy you were? How much you smiled and laughed? Even when times got rough, you found a reason to be happy; and you just were. You didn’t have to fake anything.

 Now you’re a teenager. Some days you’re happy, others you’re sad, sometimes it’s a mix of both. Somehow even when you are sad you find your wolf skin and you hide. You smile and say everything's alright.

  Now you’re at the point where you constantly feel tired, yet you can’t seem to sleep. You smile and laugh, but you don’t know why. You can’t feel much.  You refuse to believe you are sad or depressed. You notice that you are getting disconnected, yet you refuse to say you feel lonely.

 Then you go to a have frozen river. You sit by the bay. You get lost in your own head. Your eyes look all around. A gap in the river seems to catch your attention. It feels like you are being sucked in but your stuck. You start to think. You think about how painful it would be to fall in and get hypothermia. But how painless it would be get caught under the ice. It will only hurt for a second. You think to yourself.

 You stop your thoughts by standing up. As you’re walking you can see yourself jumping into the gap. You can see yourself getting caught under the ice. You walk quickly away, still pretending to be okay.

 Yet now, every time you see something it do it with, you think how? You can see yourself doing it. You pass by rope and the first thing you think is, It would be too painful. You pass by razor’s and think, It takes too long.


 Remember when you were younger and never had to worry about anything? When you were always truly happy, no matter what was going on. When mommy and daddy would fight, and daddy would take out his anger on you. But you hide it well. You hid it with that bright smile that was unbreakable. It didn’t matter if kids were being mean. It didn’t matter if the teacher said something to your parents about you not being smart. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because no matter what you were always happy. Never lose that happiness.