Harry Potter Book Drawings Novels & Stories

I moved around the office, looking for something to help me understand who the little boy Harry was talking about was. My heart was beating frantically, as I did not want to discover that what I suspected was true. No, it couldn’t be true. Not giving any thought to what Harry was discussing with his beta, I casually opened one drawer. I walked over to a shelf and pulled out a book with a black leather cover. I opened it and could see that it was a photo album. Did Harry have pictures? Aged black and white photographs and several color ones showed a young Harry with a beautiful woman with blonde hair and big green eyes. They were both holding a little boy whose hair was the same color as the

"The one with the big pictures of the lions and the furry bears." "I will get it for you right now, sweetie," I said, reaching up to pull the bright green book from the shelf. I handed it to her, and she immediately gripped the edges, pulling it close to her chest. "What about you, Maple?" I asked, turning to his side of the sofa. Maple set his juice cup carefully on the side table. He pointed his finger toward the small wooden drawer under the television. "I want my big drawing papers. The ones with my dragon pictures."

It was hidden among the books as if the Princess didn’t want anyone to have access to it. “Here it is!” she screamed with a mild smile and I was forced to also smile with her because she was so cute with her messy hair and oily face. We both opened the book and flipped through the pages. We were almost giving up when we landed on the page that showcased drawings. “What are these? Are they part of the books?” I asked looking closely but she couldn’t provide any answer since I also didn’t know. We stared for few minutes but nothing was coming to my mind. She was about giving up when I suddenly grabbed the book.

I oblige her, biting on the edge of my nails. "My father collected a lot of books on those who also had magic, considering our own family history. There should be something in here about Sire," she mumbles, flipping through the pages. Suddenly she stops, jabbing her finger at the page. “Here." "That's him?" I ask, seeking clarification because it takes a great deal of squinting to make sense of the illustrator's depiction of him considering the decaying paper. "It's a painting. Who knows if it's accurate...well, I suppose you do now,” Hazel notes with a half shrug.

“I most certainly will, “ I have to. The sheer injustice of defacing books has sparked a passion within me. I can not stand to abide by such a crime. I would never forgive myself. However, I must correct this blunder before true mayhem comes to life and he is lost to chaos. For the sake of all books! I vow and look for my quill. Where could it be? “Oh, he’s drawn you a picture.”Maddie flips the letter for both of us to see. It’s another of Nicoli’s artworks- I see more stick figures. One is brown and the other purple. They seem to be eating. Bread? Or pie? And a rectangular creature, a horse/bear, sits with them. I feel my lips crack into a smile at the sight. It makes my chest grow warm and

He'd asked for his drawing book the night he arrived, the same drawing book he'd taken into the Realm eight months earlier, and it had made it through the transformation intact. He'd sat at the kitchen table and opened it and looked at the drawings he'd made in the Realm—strange, light-saturated images, their perspective slightly wrong in ways that probably corresponded to how perspective worked in the liminal space—and then he'd picked up a pencil and drawn the kitchen table. The entirely ordinary, entirely physical kitchen table, with its familiar grain and the scar on one corner from an incident three years ago that we'd never quite gotten around to repairing. He drew it with complete att

he declared triumphantly. Sharon caught the sketch book, her heart leaping when he cautioned her what she'd find inside. Every single page held a group of wolves, some hurried sketches done apparently in a rush, as though he couldn't get the image from his mind and onto paper quick enough. Other sketches were more precise than she would have imagined—hulking, sharp-eyed, living in a manner that made it harder to breathe. She gazed down at Alexander, displaying the sketchbook, "You're a wolf fan, huh?"

“Not dead. Not alive. Just waiting.” Later that morning, Moira sat in her office, rubbing her temples and staring at the boy’s drawings spread out across her desk. She had taken a few from under his mattress. Dozens of them. All in pencil, all in the same crooked, tunnel-like place. Some featured symbols. Some had clocks with no hands. Some had doors with eyes instead of doorknobs. And in almost all of them, the same woman appeared—dark hair, tired eyes, standing on steps that seemed to lead nowhere. Something was wrong.

Everything that inspires me ends up in one of my sketchbooks. On one hand, I'm excited to show my "lovely" boss some of my drawings because I'm proud of what I've put into each of my sketchbooks. On the other hand, I'm terrified of putting myself out there, of being judged. Art isn't for everyone. I started drawing mainly out of boredom. I was in that fangirl phase obsessed with Harry Potter, convinced that soon a owl would fly through my window to deliver my Hogwarts letter. I didn't know how to pass the time, so I decided to try drawing Hedwig, and that's when I discovered I was incredibly good at it.

Under the picture, there was a question mark, as if whoever had drawn this, didn't know it was me. The next few pages were drawings again, with my face sporting different emotions. From smiling, to frowning to even crying. There was no denying that this is me. As realisation hit me, I quickly closed the book, not worrying about how brittle the pages may be. This is about me. It has to be. But why would Jasper have a book of me, with plenty of drawings that would have had to have come with extensive observation. The drawings even made notice of the freckle on my chin.