wiccayran

The sun was yet to rise from its slumber, the birds yet to stir. The only sound to upset the night's tranquillity was the slow, deep metronome of Sirius' breathing. The ritual always happened inadvertently.  Remus was a creature of habit, and this was a habit he'd had for over six years. Remus would awaken in the ungodly hours of the morning, lest the morning light illuminate his scarred flesh. He'd dress in the shroud of shadows, fumbling blindly with buttons and zippers. Then, he'd sit and wait. And wait… And… wait… Of course, no one else would wake. No matter how long he waited, his friends simply couldn't shake off the

The blackest hour of blackest night, I call upon you hellish sprites. Be thee foe or be thee not, Gather round my brewing pot. Spirits, demons, help me make A sinister potion for Hecate's sake A concoction guaranteed To be worthy for an enemy Fire, fire, leap and burn Round and round the potion churn Cauldron, Cauldron, steam and stew As I make my wicked brew Liquid fury, bottled screams, Worst nightmares and shattered dreams Mangled maggots, flattened flies, A man's last breath before he dies Black dog's hair; dead rat's tail Scorpion's sting and slime of snail These ingredients, foul and vile Throw into the cauldron to br