schmede

Finishing the anime adaptation and working on the story youtube.com/live/b0vnG2Z76Y4

stream of working on this video if you want to see youtu.be/QmOUJ2QlVWk

Spoilers (kind of) I'm planning on streaming later today and an idea i had was bouncing ideas off of chat, so what i've figured out so far is what i'm going to be working on and then a bunch of stuff is in the air, but I know what the ending is. I didn't include any of the ending in this visual, but some of the stuff i need to work with is shown here. My original plan was to do the anime versions until i had it all figured out, but I got really caught up in just continuing the live action stuff but now I'm at that point where I need to figure things out again. Anyways, I figured I'd share this for those that might be interested.

Had the thought to livestream working on making malfoid stuff. Also I got approved for memberships. I didn't want to gate anything off and I made it the lowest possible price ($1), you get the emotes here and the only perk is priority reply to comments because it forces me to pick one and I didn't want to make anything exclusive. I was thinking I could just livestream while I work on this stuff because why not. youtube.com/@schmede_AI/live

Draconia Once the library was behind her, she nearly ran. It was late, and the corridors were empty: torches burning low in their brackets, her shadow going ahead of her and then behind her. Nobody to see. She took the stairs two at a time and didn't slow down until she reached the first floor, and the bathroom at the end of the corridor there that had been out of order for as long as anybody could remember. That was why she had come. She shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and let her face go. It went all at once, like setting down something she had carried too far. She stood with her back to the door and her eyes shut, and breathed. "Oh," said a voice. "It's you again." Draconia did not open her eyes. "Not now." "You never knock," said Moaning Myrtle. The voice was coming closer. "You just come in. As if it's yours." She had only just got her breath back when she heard the footsteps. Draconia's eyes opened. They were coming along the corridor outside, not quickly, and she knew whose they were before they stopped. They stopped outside the door. Myrtle was hanging in the air by the sinks, her arms folded. Draconia lifted one finger to her lips and looked at her as though her life depended on it. Myrtle looked at the finger, and at her face, and then, with dawning delight, at the door. She drifted down to it, bent, and put one eye to the keyhole. When she straightened up, her eyes behind the thick glasses were enormous. "It's Harry Potter," she breathed. Draconia did not breathe at all. Something sly and happy came into Myrtle's face. She turned back to the door and opened her mouth. "Please," said Draconia. It was hardly a sound. It was out before she knew she was going to say it. Myrtle stopped, and turned, and stared at her, her mouth still open. "Malfoy?" said Potter, on the other side of the door. Not loudly. Nobody answered him. The silence went on, and on. Then the footsteps went away down the corridor, as slowly as they had come, until there was nothing to hear but the cistern dripping. Myrtle shut her mouth. "He's gone," she said. She sounded disappointed. Then, looking at Draconia properly: "He was looking for you." Draconia pushed herself off the door and went to the sinks. Her hands were shaking. She put them flat on the cold edge of the basin, where they would have to stop. "Some people," she said to the drain, "never know when to leave a thing alone." Myrtle drifted after her. "Why's Harry Potter chasing you?" "He isn't." "He said your name. Through my door." Draconia looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was nearly her own again. "Everyone wants something from me today," she said. "Who else?" said Myrtle at once, delighted, at her shoulder. "Who else wants—" "Leave." "I live here." "You don't live anywhere." Myrtle's mouth wobbled. For a moment the wail was coming, the famous one, the one that flooded corridors. Then it didn't. "I do so," she said, very small, and sank into the nearest toilet until nothing of her showed above the rim but her glasses, glaring. Draconia turned on the tap, held her wrists under the water, and watched it run. It ran for a long time. Myrtle could not stand it. "Nobody ever looks for me," she said, from the toilet. "Then you're lucky." Myrtle came up out of the toilet in a rush, all the way, trembling with the injustice of it. "He's nice," she said. "He's ever so nice. He asked me how I died." She lifted her chin. "Nobody ever asks that." Draconia's hands went still under the tap. He had stood outside that door and said her name as though it were something that might break. And once, apparently, he had asked a dead girl in a toilet how she died, and meant it. She did not know where to put either of those things. There was nowhere for them to go in the Potter she had been carrying around since Friday. She turned off the tap. "Did he," she said. It was meant to sound like nothing. It didn't. Myrtle looked at her. Then she looked again, closer, the way she must have looked at every girl who had ever come in here to cry, and a slow, enormous smile spread across her face. "Somebody," she sang, "likes Har-ry." "Don't be disgusting." Myrtle drifted round her in a delighted circle. "Somebody likes Harry Pot-ter…" Draconia turned away from the mirror. "Does he know?" said Myrtle. He knew. That was the whole trouble. Draconia opened her mouth, and nothing came out of it at all. So she went for the door, got it open, and was through it before her face went. "You'll be back," Myrtle called after her. Her voice came echoing down the corridor out of every drain on the floor. "They always come back!"