Hogwarts Drawings Easy Novels & Stories

He yawned, still blinking at her like an owl. Whitney’s tension cracked at the edges, yet she knelt, brushing his hair back. “I’m here now.” He nodded solemnly, as if that solved everything in the universe, he held up a folded paper from behind his back. “What’s that?” she asked. “A drawing,” he mumbled. “For you.” She unfolded it, revealing a crooked house, two boys badly drawn but smiling, and a tall woman with ridiculous silver hair that swooped like a superhero cape.

She was somewhere around seven or eight, completely absorbed in whatever she was drawing, her tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth in concentration. I lowered myself carefully into a chair near her, mindful of my ribs, and looked at the paper. The drawing was full. Not in a crowded way, in a deliberate way, like she had a clear picture in her head and was working her way across the page with intention. There was a dragon in the top left, red and blocky with impressive teeth. Below it, a woman in a red cape with a pointed hat on a flying broom, carefully coloured with a orange crayon. To the right of that, something with fangs and a dark cape that I was fairly certain was meant to be a v

My room looked something like a witch’s den with all the materials in place. A complicated sigil I had drawn with special black chalk on my bedroom floor caught my attention. It was round with many symbols and featured an image that was half-human and half-demon. It took me twenty minutes alone to copy it from Elaine’s chart. My drawing was terrible, but Elaine had mentioned that the spell's success didn’t rely on the quality of it. I glanced at my pendulum clock. It was 3:35. I had until 4 to finish the spell.

Step three: Show Mommy he’s not scary. Step four: Don’t get caught. I added a little drawing of a wolf family at the bottom, a big wolf, a smaller wolf with long hair like Mommy’s, and a tiny wolf cub with curls like mine. “What are you drawing?” John, the clumsy boy with a running nose, said , stretching his head to see. I covered it with my arms frowning at him. “No you can't see it.” “Come on let me, you don't want to talk to me anymore since you found your daddy.”

Nothing pulls me out of a weird mood faster than doodling. As we go through the scene for the umpteenth time, I find myself doing rough sketches of the men in front of me. None of my drawings ever look particularly realistic - my doodles have more of a cartoony, comic book style - but I'm pretty proud of how they turn out. Once I've done Omar and Mr. Grand, I move on to the person I really want to doodle - Orlando. I don't get him right the first time. Or the second. Or the third. At first I can't seem to get his hair right, but by the end it's his eyes that are giving me the most trouble. Nothing I draw can capture how startling and direct they are.

The way some of the quieter kids flinched when certain footsteps approached. I knew the signs. I’d lived them. My tail lashed once, sharp enough to make the nearest pup squeak and hide behind a stuffed wolf. “Miss Nyx?” The little bandaged girl was back, holding up her drawing from earlier. “For you. Because you have a tail like a dragon.” It was me—crude purple horns, red eyes, black wings I definitely didn’t have, and a long violet tail curled protectively around a circle of smaller wolves.

He had found a pad of paper and a dull pencil in a kitchen drawer. He was drawing. I stood in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat. I didn't want to disturb him. I watched the way his hand moved—it was fluid, confident, but with that slight, human tremor he had inherited from the resonance. He finished the sketch and turned the paper toward the light. It wasn't a blueprint. It wasn't a map. It was a drawing of a single, wild iris growing out of a crack in a rock. It was messy. The lines were unoptimized. It was, in every sense of the word, imperfect.

They were all pretty convincing. A big spiral-bound notebook made of drawing paper lay on the chair. I flipped through a few pages. Some had charcoal drawings made with angry looking strokes. Dark and rough, but still recognizable as fields and hills you’d find around here. Other pages had diagrams in pen with clusters of spidery notes. Prop guillotines and coffins with spring-loaded lids. But most of the pages had monsters. Some drawn, some cut from movie magazines and pasted in. Some were more Polaroids of James in makeup; others were ordinary pictures of people from advertisements or news stories. On those he’d painted open-throat wounds or gouged out eyes with pen.

He guessed that the book would have some contents of magic. “Don't touch anything.” Hadrian yelled at Aiden when he tried to reach for the book. Hadrian took a chalk from the box, he looked at Beckham who nodded before he started to draw a circle, he inscribed another circle, and then he pictured smaller circles between the big and small circles.

I asked, looking at the coffee machine like it was a holy shrine. He picked up the paper and proudly thrust it into my face. It was a masterpiece of aggressive brown scribbles. "It’s you and Harry, Mummy! He’s covered in poo, and you have poo all over your hands, and I put a peg on your nose for you too! Look, the peg is blue, your favourite!" I stared at the drawing. It was disturbingly accurate. "How... artistic. That’s definitely not going on the fridge." I smoothed his hair down. "What do you want for breakfast, Henry?"