Hogwarts Drawings Easy Novels & Stories

I was however after a specific spell, the channeling spell. I knew what I was getting into and yet it was the only option I had if I wanted to defeat the evil wizard. As I skimmed through the drawings, one caught my eye. There was a large candle in a tin of water, with two large pots of plant on either side. On the far end of the page, a bird soared high with a ring of fire placed around one of it's legs.

It is a small valley just outside the city and is protected from sight by nearby mountains. Taking the pencil tip, I trace the glowing lines that only I can see. It looks a bit like one of those tracing toys that kids get with the gears and the circles, a spirograph, making a hollow web that frames the spot where I just put the circle. I then take the attack points and draw lines leading them back to the center where I drew the dot. An Elven Mage standing around the edges gasps. "The wolf just drew a spell chart. How is this possible?"

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

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.

"Th-Thank you, Kendrick." He nodded and backed away to eat his own meal away from her. As Twillow knelt and picked pieces off of the large portion, she pondered the writings. The illustration was repulsive and inaccurate save for the colors and the height proportions it depicted. Kendrick didn't look like that. Whomever drew it had obviously never seen Kendrick...or was merely embellishing the horror factor.

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.