Witch Spells Quotes

The difference between my darkness and your darkness is that I can look at my own badness in the face and accept its existence while you are busy covering your mirror with a white linen sheet. The difference between my sins and your sins is that when I sin I know I'm sinning while you have actually fallen prey to your own fabricated illusions. I am a siren, a mermaid; I know that I am beautiful while basking on the ocean's waves and I know that I can eat flesh and bones at the bottom of the sea. You are a white witch, a wizard; your spells are manipulations and your cauldron from hell yet you wrap yourself in white and wear a silver wig.

Nanny Ogg knew how to start spelling 'banana', but didn't know how you stopped.

I'm not the world's greatest expert, but I would have thought that the wizards, witches, trolls, unicorns, ... broomsticks and spells would have given her a clue?' - when J.K. Rowling insisted she wasn't writing fantasy.

I heard the man and woman cry a warning as I frantically racked my brain for some sort of throat-repairing spell, which I was clearly about to need. Of course the only words that I actually managed to yell at the werewolf as he ran at me were, 'BAD DOG!' Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of blue light on my left. Suddenly, the werewolf seemed to smack into an invisible wall just inches in front of me.... "You know," someone said off to my left, "I usually find a blocking spell to be a lot more effective than yelling 'Bad dog,' but maybe that's just me.

Was it weird having a witch grandma? Scary? Was she always, like, threatening to cast spells if you were bad?" "Most of the time she just threatened to send me to my room." "That doesn't sound so scary to me." "That's because you haven't met her.

Spells are for witches, and witches are too often burned.

You can't do a blocking spell, and you've never heard of L'Occhio di Dio? Man, what kind of witch are you?" I had an incredibly nasty retort ready that involved his mother and the U.S. Navy, but before I could get it out....

You two. You can do a cleaning spell." One slurred, "But Nixie, I'm really pre-hung-over." Nix's eyes went wide. "Do it, or the photos go live!" The witch shook her fist to the sky, crying, "Damn you, Valkyrie! Damn you and your digital ways!

Fuckhead: The name’s MariKETA. Go to hell, The WITCH, doing a creepy spell somewhere right now.

Making a spell is easy. It's trusting you did it right that's hard.

Witches do not need to fix problems. Witches fix the enegery AROUND problems. Then the problems fix themselves.

When you start to notice the mystical, the mystical will start to notice you.

Magick happens when you step into who you truly are and embrace that which fulfills your soul.

And how is a miracle different from a spell? Who is to say the saint was not a witch?

His sister had been sent down to the village to ask Mistress Garlick the witch how you stopped spelling recommendation.

Your magic knew exactly who you were. That’s why your spell was a shield, not a sword.

Little by little I began to listen better: to the sap moving in the plants, to the blood in my veins. I learned to understand my own intention, to prune and to add, to feel where the power gathered and speak the right words to draw it to its height. That was the moment I lived for, when it all came clear at last and the spell could sing with its pure note, for me and me alone.

Every spell is a journey.

The Constitution? What, exactly, do you think the Constitution is? A magic spell? . . . I assure you it has only ever been a piece of paper, and it has only ever applied to a very few persons.

Seems to me they're the same thing, more of less. Witching and women's rights. Suffrage and spells. They're both...They're both a kind of power, aren't they? The kind we aren't allowed to have.

I feel the nights stretching away thousands long behind the days till they reach the darkness where all of me is ancestor.

Bad spelling can be lethal.

A witch does not need to fix problems. She fixes the energy AROUND problems. Then the problems fix themselves…

You are the most powerful tool in your life. Use your energy, your thoughts and your magick wisely!

If you look at most female archetypes—the mother, the virgin, the whore—their power comes from their relation to men. But not the Witch. The Witch derives her power from nature. She calls forth her dreams with spells and incantations. With poetry. And I think that’s why we are frightened of them. What’s scarier to the world of men than a woman limited only by her imagination?

The hole in the ozone layer is a kind of skywriting. At first it seemed to spell out our continuing complacency before a witch's brew of deadly perils. But perhaps it really tells of a newfound talent to work together to protect the global environment.

Dark witches do the bigger things," Chaston offered. "And our powers are a hell of a lot stronger. We can make barrier spells, and if we're really good, control the weather. We're also necromancers if--" "Whoa!" I held up my hand. "Necromancers? Like, power over dead things?

Every spoken sentence beginning with ‘I Am’ is a powerful spell exhaled into action. Describe yourself wisely.

They say I should stay away from you,” I said. “They said you’re not good for me.” “I’m not,” he said with a wicked smile, “But doesn’t that make it even more fun?

Matthew kept hinting that his desire - for blood, chiefly- was so strong that it put everything else at risk. But vampires weren’t the only creatures who had to manage such strong impulses. Much of what qualified as magic was simply desire in action. Witchcraft was different- that took spells and rituals. But magic? A wish, a need, a hunger too strong to be denied- these could turn into deeds when they cross a witch’s mind.

The cards give you images and symbols to focus your vague intentions and transform them into action. Your will is the magic. In other words, you are the magic. If you can create something in your heart and then act on it to make it happen, that is magic. Very simple, very straightforward—no witches, no spells, and no broomsticks.

A wise witch knows the shadows come from the light.

All recipes are spells and all cooks are witches.

You're not leaving me behind. Or I'll do a spell to make you smell like ass. Forever.

An experienced witch does not rely on karma. She relies on magickal justice.

We got the spell exactly right. Except for the ingredients. And most of the poetry. And it probably wasn’t the right time. And Gytha took most of it home for the cat, which couldn’t of been proper.

Devil’s Wish A bowl of spells Swirls a mix Smoke and bubbles Seek the fix Young boy's eye And fever few Witches grass Some mandrake root

Advice for the wise: You"d better bite your tongue Rather than cast a spell wrong.

What do you think, Vi?" She smiled wide with a lascivious look. "You had me at werewolf wet t-shirt contest.

Witches release the chapters of the past, which invites the novels of the future.

I abandoned the plan to make millions from the spell when I realised that people would finally realise their cats are selfish little bastards who only care about themselves. There would have been mass feline abandonment if they heard what their pets really have to say.

Jagged needle, wicked lies From under the skin, pluck evil eyes. Destiny change from pain and cold Now that you pay in blood and soul.

Witches and sorcerers cultivated plants with the power to "cast spells" -- in our vocabulary, "psychoactive" plants. Their potion recipes called for such things as datura, opium poppies, belladona, hashish, fly-agaric mushrooms (Amanita muscaria), and the skin of toads (which can contain DMT, a powerful hallucinogen). These ingredients would be combined in a hempseed-oil-based "flying ointment" that the witches would then administer vaginally using a special dildo. This was the "broomstick" by which these women were said to travel. (119)

Whatever she tried, my spells would hold. Not even Odysseus could talk his way past witchcraft. He had talked his way past the witch instead.

At its most elemental, a spell is no more than a recipe for change.

To be a Witch, you must be brave enough to face everything inside of you, and have the courage to change the things you do not like. Being a Witch has nothing to do with spells, rituals, and unusual clothing—they are the fun stuff. To be a Witch is to desire personal transformation.

Young women should not go alone on dark nights, even in Oxfordshire. But any prowling maniac would have had more than his work cut out if he had accosted Anathema Device. She was a witch, after all. And precisely because she was a witch, and therefore sensible, she put little faith in protective amulets and spells; she saved it all for a foot-long bread knife which she kept in her belt.

A little patience, and we shall see the reign of witches pass over, their spells dissolve, and the people, recovering their true sight, restore their government to its true principles. It is true that in the meantime we are suffering deeply in spirit, and incurring the horrors of a war and long oppressions of enormous public debt...If the game runs sometime against us at home, we must have patience till luck turns, and then we shall have an opportunity of winning back the principles we have lost, for this is a game where principles are at stake.

And I just know that this memory will be forever burned into my brain, because this kind of magic - the kind that can't be conjured with a spell, where everything is just right, and all your problems vanish for three perfect minutes - doesn't happen everyday.

Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air

When a witch embodies self-love, her energy becomes magnetic and her sense of possibility becomes contagious.

What's this?" I raised our laced hands. His onyx eyes flickered to me and held. "You can let go if you want." After a few seconds, I whispered, "I don't want to.

You want the monster," he grated, a foreign wildness in his voice. "You're going to get him.

What are?” Juniper’s eyes reflect the bronze shine of Saint George’s standing in the square. “Witching and women’s rights. Suffrage and spells. They’re both…” She gestures in midair again. “They’re both a kind of power, aren’t they? The kind we aren’t allowed to have.” The kind I want, says the hungry shine of her eyes.

Someone has to do it. It's all very well calling for eye of newt, but do you mean Common, Spotted or Great Crested? Which eye, anyway? Will tapioca do just as well? If we substitute egg white will the spell a) work b) fail or c) melt the bottom out of the cauldron? Goodie Whemper's curiosity about such things was huge and insatiable*. * Nearly insatiable. It was probably satiated in her last flight to test whether a broomstick could survive having its bristles pulled out one by one in mid-air. According to the small black raven she had trained as a flight recorder, the answer was almost certainly no.

What makes a witch, then? If it is not divinity?’ ‘I do not know for certain,’ I said. ‘I once thought it was passed through blood, but Telegonus has no spells in him. I have come to believe it is mostly will.’ She nodded. I did not have to explain. We knew what will was.

An experienced Witch takes magickal action based on inspiration, NOT desperation.

Witches seek the sacred knowledge the rest of the world has already forgotten.

Roses are red, Violets are blue, The Devil will pay, And so will you. A spell for vengeance, requiring thorns and blood.

You look like a naughty waiter," I remarked with a smile. "You look like my delicious dinner." His dark gaze was in fact eating me up with relish.

Also, loquacious?" I arched a brow. "Trying to impress me with your big vocabulary?" "Since you're unwilling to check out my big cock, I thought it second best.

I was the kind of child who’d always looked for fairies dancing on the grass. I wanted to believe in witches, wizards, ogres, giants, and enchanted spells. I didn’t want all of the magic taken out of the world by scientific explanation.

There’s really nothing to fear but fear itself. And trolls. Fear and trolls. Oh, and I guess gigans and dragons too. And can’t forget wicked witches. Yeah, I guess there really is a lot to fear.

Lollipop had been her nickname for me as long as I could remember. I asked her how she came up with the name, and she told me sometimes kids are sweet, and sometimes they just need a good lickin'.

If you set off on a witch-hunt, you will find a witch. When you find her, she will be dressed like any other person. But to you, her skin will glow in stripes of white and black. You will see her broom, and you will hear her witch-cry, and you will feel the effects of her spells on you. No matter how unlike a witch she is, there she will be, a witch, before your eyes.

They say a witch used to live in these woods, a long long time ago,” she began. And this is what the little girl would tell her children and what they would tell their children long after the ones who came before were gone. “They say an old witch lived in the east, in Iron Wood. And there, she bore the wolves who chase the sun and moon. They say she went to Asgard and was burned three times upon a pyre and three times she was reborn before she fled. They say she loved a man with scarred lips and a sharp tongue; a man who gave her back her heart and more. They say she loved a woman too, a sword-wielding bride of the Gods; as bold as any man and fiercer still. They say she wandered, giving aid to those who needed it most, healing them with potions and spells. They say she stood her ground against the fires of Ragnarok, until the very end, until she was burned a final time. All but her heart reduce to ashes once more. But others say she lives yet.

I will show you a love potion without drug or herb, or any witch's spell; if you wish to be loved, love.

Mystically reinforced and trace-proofed by The House of Witches Est. 937 1st-Class Curses, Hexes, Spells, and Potions We Won’t Be Undersold! info@houseofwitches.com Member LBBB

You’re like the perfect man conjured from my nerdiest fantasies.

Witching and women's rights. Suffrage and spells. They're both..." She gestures in midair again. "They're both a kind of power, aren't they? The kind we aren't allowed to have.

There was a wicked ole witch once called Black Aliss. She was an unholy terror. There's never been one worse or more powerful. Until now. Because I could spit in her eye and steal her teeth, see. Because she didn't know Right from Wrong, so she got all twisted up, and that was the end of her. "The trouble is, you see, that if you do know Right from Wrong, you can't choose Wrong. You just can't do it and live. So.. if I was a bad witch I could make Mister Salzella's muscles turn against his bones and break them where he stood... if I was bad. I could do things inside his head, change the shape he thinks he is, and he'd be down on what had been his knees and begging to be turned into a frog... if I was bad. I could leave him with a mind like a scrambled egg, listening to colors and hearing smells...if I was bad. Oh yes." There was another sigh, deeper and more heartfelt. "But I can't do none of that stuff. That wouldn't be Right." She gave a deprecating little chuckle. And if Nanny Ogg had been listening, she would have resolved as follows: that no maddened cackle from Black Aliss of infamous memory, no evil little giggle from some crazed Vampyre whose morals were worse than his spelling, no side-splitting guffaw from the most inventive torturer, was quite so unnerving as a happy little chuckle from a Granny Weatherwax about to do what's best.

I was the kind of child who always looked for fairies dancing on the grass. I wanted to believe in witches, wizards, ogres, giants and enchanted spells. I didn’t want all of the magic taken out of the world by scientific explorations.

Will you tell her? asked the mare. “Everything?” the demon said. “Of bears and sorcerers, spells made of sapphire and a witch that lost her daughter? No, of course not. I shall tell her as little as possible. And hope that it is enough.

Believe it or not, I didn’t plan to hit a witch with my car today.” He shifted the gear stick into first and accelerated down the street. “It was on the agenda for tomorrow.

Hey. My life’s not all about weird little creatures pretending to be teddy bears.” From Tribe of the Teddy Bear.

We may be rivals, Lavinia. But it doesn't make me want to fuck your brains out any less.

Witchcraft is a path of personal freedom.

You may go. The spell will hit you shortly.” I ignored what the witch said and I went on my way.

You know, for a big, bad werewolf, you sure are sweet.

I wanted to believe in witches, wizards, ogres, giants, and enchanted spells. I didn’t want all of the magic taken out of the world by scientific explanation.

He was a grim. An unknown. And his aura made me want to be very, very naughty. With him. My desire was so blood-burning, throat-choking intense that I feared what would be left after that kind of love affair was all over.

I hadn’t simply taken a fancy to you.” “No?” He shook his head slowly. His thumb traced the shape of her lips. “Fancy doesn’t begin to describe it. This is closer to . . . an obsession. An enchantment, or perhaps a curse. You’re like a little fair-haired witch who cast a spell on me, and I can’t concentrate. I can’t sleep. I can’t think of anything but hearing you laugh and holding you close and imagining what you’ll look like naked in my bed.

There is no such thing as White Magick or Black Magick. If you are participating in magick, you are interfering with the natural order of how life would have developed without your hand in it. You are manipulating reality to suit your own personal needs. Regardless of whether you perceive it as "positive" or "white light", you are manipulating life. If you are afraid of this responsibly or are intimidated by this statement, I encourage you to reexamine your belief structure. Witchcraft requires confidence and courage.

if a witch tries to influence a Christian believer with a magic spell, it will often fail to work, simply because the Lord watches over His children carefully. God will not allow the devil

Go for a walk outdoors. Reconnect with the feeling of the wind blowing through your hair. Listen to the birds that live in a tree in your yard. Watch the sunset. Take time to smell the flowers that bloom in the park during the summer. The natural world is just as natural as it ever was, except there's less of it than there was twenty-five years ago - and most of us don't make a point of enjoying it often enough.

On November Eve they are at their gloomiest, for according to the old Gaelic reckoning, this is the first night of winter. This night they dance with the ghosts, and the pooka is abroad, and witches make their spells, and girls set a table with food in the name of the devil, that the fetch of their future lover may come through the window and eat of the food. After November Eve the blackberries are no longer wholesome, for the pooka has spoiled them.

And precisely because she was a witch, and therefore sensible, she put little faith in protective amulets and spells; she saved it all for a foot-long bread knife which she kept in her belt.

You cast spells every day. Your makeup is glamor magic. Hiding and highlighting. The clothes you pick out to make your legs look longer, your waist smaller. The red you wear for confidence; the black when you’re sad, the blue for clarity. Your favorite bra. Your lucky socks. The way you take an hour on your hair. It’s a ritual. It’s never just about clothes, or makeup, or perfectly messy buns. It’s about magic.

you need not bleed for me. you need not leave fruit at my altar. i accept no blood oaths, no special offerings. my loyalty to you is not something you can spell out of thin air with a rose quartz & a pink candle. when it’s there, it’s there—no exceptions. it will never allow itself to fade, either.- the most powerful witch couldn’t banish it.

I kissed his scruffy check, my heart pounding like mad. “I love you. So much. I love you.” His mouth tipped up on one side. “I know.” “Oh, my God, Mateo. Did you just quote Star Wars to me?” He grinned. “I sure did.

May you never find satisfaction with another woman." "Did you just curse me?

All you need is one thought and one word. When you learn how to connect them, you can do anything you like.

Life is like a little book written With a whole lot of surprise. Spell a word that doesn´t fit in And that´s a spell in desguise.

While the outside world was burning their witches, we were here. On the island.

Molly, Molly, he thought. What a spectacular inconvenience you’ve turned out to be.

Witchcraft is about taking the raw, beautiful, and powerful forces of our world and using them to create change.

Let the universe move you, surprise you, challenge you, and support you—as a witch, your connection to it is mystical and beautiful.

She looked down at her book and traced the letters of the title with her finger. "Why do you think I like to get lost in these?" she said, holding it up. "Real life sometimes sucks.

Harry: "Have you…" he began. "I mean, who … has anyone you known ever died?" "Yes," said Luna simply, "my mother. She was a quite extraordinary witch, you know, but she did like to experiment and one of her spells went rather badly wrong one day. I was nine." "I’m sorry," Harry mumbled. "Yes, it was rather horrible," said Luna conversationally. "I still feel very sad about it sometimes. But I’ve still got Dad. And anyway, it’s not as though I’ll never see Mum again, is it?" "Er – isn’t it?" said Harry uncertainly. She shook her head in disbelief. "Oh, come on. You heard them, just behind the veil, didn’t you?" " You mean…" "In that room in the archway. They were just lurking out of sight, that’s all, you heard them.

hither,hither, from thy home,airy sprite, i bid thee come! born of roses, fed on dew, charms and potions canst thow brew? bring me here, with elfin speed,the fragment philter witch i need; make it sweet and swift and stong, spirite amserw now my song hither i come, from my airy home, afar silver moon. take magic spell, and use it well. or its powers will vanish soon!

In Abuela’s stories of brujería, witches and spells, Tyler would be possessed. Grief would’ve let the darkness in, and that darkness would consume him. It has, and now it’s destroying us all.

When you embrace a sacred relationship with your inner witch, you awaken within you qualities of the elements and forces of nature. This is the discovery and the connection of your powerful self.

If you are someone who feels drawn to mysticism in any way, if you seek to discover life’s mysteries, or if the label “witch” feels comfortable or intriguing to you—you, my amazing reader, are a witch.

Because,” Conner explained with a smirk on his face, “if you’re going to live in a house made of candy, don’t move next door to a couple of obese kids. A lot of these fairy-tale characters are missing common sense.” Alex let out another disapproving grunt. Conner figured he could get at least fifty more out of her before they got home. “The witch didn’t live next door! She lived deep in the forest! They had to leave a trail of bread crumbs behind so they could find their way back, remember. And the whole point of the house was to lure the kids in. They were starving!” Alex reminded him. “At least have all the facts straight before you criticize.” “If they were starving, what were they doing wasting bread crumbs?” Conner asked. “Sounds like a couple of troublemakers to me.” Alex grunted again. “And

Once there was magic, wandering free in roads of sky and paths of sea and in that timeless long gone hour words of nonsense still had power doors still flew and birds still talked witches grinned and giants walked we had magic wands and magic wings and we lost our hearts to impossible things Unbelievable thoughts, unsensible ends for wizards and warriors might be friends. In a world where impossible things are true, I don't know why we forgot the spell when we lost the way how the forest fell but now we are old, we can vanish too. And I see once more the invisible track that will lead us home and take us back so find your wands and spread your wings I'll sing your love of impossible things and when you take my vanished hand, we'll both go back to that magic land where we lost our hearts several lifetimes ago when we were wizards, once.

Witchcraft is more than just a practice, it is a way of life. A way of looking at the physical and spiritual as a collaborative source of manifestation. We are in tune with nature, in tune with ourselves and in alignment with our all-knowing inner witch.

I fixed my gaze on his. "Try," I said. For a long moment he stared at me. Then he turned and twitched off through the brush. I tell you, for all my spells, that was the first time I truly felt myself a witch..

Then she wondered, not for the first time, about the differences between wizards and witches. The main difference, she thought, was that wizards used books and staffs to create spells, big spells about big stuff, and they were men. While witches - always women - dealt with everyday stuff. Big stuff too, she reminded herself firmly. What could be bigger than births and deaths? but why shouldn't this boy want to be a witch? She had chosen to be a witch, so why couldn't he make the same choice? With a start, she realized it was her choice that counted here too. If she was going to be a sort of head witch, she should be able to decide this. She didn't have to ask any other witches. It could be her decision. Her responsibility. Perhaps a first step toward doing things differently?

Esmeralda?” Scarlett turned to the witch next. “Don’t you want to do magic, again?” “Of course I do! It’s the only thing I dream of. Casting spells… Turning people into frogs… Genetically engineering my gingerbread army…

You must always confront your fears,” Goon said as though she hadn’t spoken. “Then skulking monsters become merely unfamiliar shadows, thrown by a tree bough. Whispering voices are just the wind. The wild flare of panic is merely a burst of emotion, not a terror spell cast by some evil witch.

Some people simply weren’t winter people. Sera, on the other hand, was the most winter person to ever winter. No matter how tedious it was to keep the firewood topped up and keep casting the heat spells, no matter how annoying the inconsistent hot water and temperamental boiler, this was her time.

Explore your light and celebrate your darkness.

None of her spells are planned, but come to her like snatches of poetry or a doodle on a napkin.

Witchcraft is a way of looking at the physical and spiritual as a collaborative source of manifestation.

This woman. Her body. Her soul. I wanted it all.

Witch's spell or not, he would take her, possess her- own her. It wasn't his intent when he kissed her. Fires of damnation! He never planned to kiss the wench! It just...happened.

The heart of magic hasn't to do with any result; rather, it propels the practitioner to the source of all experience. ~ Llewellyn's Magical Almanac

A good witch sees the truth, absorbs its goodness, and honors her gift.

Man and beast needed to be near her, and there was nothing in the wide world I could do to deny it. Her proximity was all I needed.

The witch steps into their divinity and sovereignty, and weaves their will and energy with any deity or spirit they call upon during spellcasting.

Are you the spiderman?" I asked, our breaths mingling, mouths inches apart. "No, Lavinia." He shook his head then dipped closer to me. I was sure he would kiss me, but he skimmed his nose along my jaw until his lips brushed my ear. "You are," he grated, biting my lobe. "And I'm so fucking caught in your web.

Long Years apart—can make no" Long Years apart—can make no Breach a second cannot fill— The absence of the Witch does not Invalidate the spell— The embers of a Thousand Years Uncovered by the Hand That fondled them when they were Fire Will stir and understand—

Tread carefully, Evie. Jules may have given the okay to work with this wolf, but one thing I know well is men. And that look?” He glanced over my shoulder, then back to me. “That’s a dangerous one.

The kitchen can be a sacred space. Where magic is created, whether it's mixing up a potion, or baking a cake for friends. The whole process is part of this spell - intention being just as important as the ingredients! The Kitchen Witch keeps a warm and happy home infused with magic.

Penelope said, ‘What makes a witch, then? If it is not divinity?’ ‘I do not know for certain,’ I said. ‘I once thought it was passed through blood, but Telegonus has no spells in him. I have come to believe it is mostly will.’ She nodded. I did not have to explain. We knew what will was.

Okay you guys need the dope on the real story of the princess and the frog...So once upon a time a beautiful independent confident princess came upon a frog sitting by a pond. The frog said to the princess 'I was once a handsome prince until an evil Witch put a spell on me.'...So the smart-assed frog said 'If you will just kiss me I will turn back into a prince. And then you'll marry me move into the castle with my mother and you can cook for me and clean my clothes have my children and live happy ever after while I go rescue a damsel in distress'...Later that night the princess laughed as she sat down to dinner. 'I don't think so ' she said and dug hungrily into her plate of frog's legs. And she lived happily ever after.

There is no trick of a magician or spell of a witch doctor, no drug or mesmerism or bribery or torture or coercion that can compare in power with the force for change unleashed in the human breast through the touch of love.

You listen to me, and listen good!" she shouted, shocking me. "I am not evil because I have a thousand years of demon smut on my soul!" she exclaimed, the tips of her hair trembling and her face flushed. "Every time you disturb reality, nature has to balance it out. The black on your soul isn't evil, it's a promise to make up for what you have done. It's a mark, not a death sentence. And you can get rid of it given time." "Ceri, I'm sorry," I fumbled, but she wasn't listening. "You're an ignorant, foolish, stupid witch," she berated, and I cringed, my grip tightening on the copper spell pot and feeling the anger from her like a whip. "Are you saying because I carry the stink of demon magic, that I'm a bad person?" "No..." I wedged in. "That God will show no pity?" she said, green eyes flashing. "That because I made one mistake in fear that led to a thousand more that I will burn in hell?" "No. Ceri -" I took a step forward. "My soul is black," she said, her fear showing in her suddenly pale cheeks. "I'll never be rid of it all before I die, but it won't be because I'm a bad person but because I was a frightened one.

The time between first and second sleep is neither slumber nor waking. Too much dark and your mind will stay at rest, too much light and your dreams will surely flee. Use this time wisely—for writing spells, summoning spirits, and, most important, remembering your dreams. Queens have been crowned, schemes hatched, fortunes gained, demons defeated, lovers found—all from visions born in the stillness of the night. In dreams, our souls are given the eyes of Fate. Dreams must be encouraged by all possible means. —The Grimoire of Eleanor St. Clair

The room flashed brighter still and then gasps filled the room. They were all gathered around Roxy and she was unsure why. She didn’t feel any different, Hadn’t the spell worked ? Roxy opened her mouth to speak and then she heard it…… a purr.

Our family became spelled after my ancestor pixed off two evil witch sisters. The witches’ curse was supposed to doom my great- great- great grandmother to turn evil and torch the world— except the spell wasn’t worded right. It didn’t spec-ify which Emerald princess. So ever since, all the girls in the Emerald family have been stuck inside, since there’s no way to know what generation will inherit the curse.

She took out her wand— yes, you heard me— handcrafted according to her Pottermore-assigned wand as 14.5 inches long, made of vine wood with unicorn hair core. I’d asked her what her craftsman had used instead of unicorn hair, because unicorns weren’t real. She’d just laughed at me like I was silly and naïve. So I left it alone.

For let’s recall that many occultic words are connected to those of language: Spelling and spells. Grammar and grimoire. Abracadabra is thought to be derived from an Aramaic phrase that translates to “I create like the word.” To write, then, is to make magic. And so it follows that to be a female writer is, in fact, to be a kind of Witch.

I'm not helping any of you freaks!" she shouts. "I'm not the Witch of Wayland, you hear me? I'm sick of all you mutants pounding on my door for love spells and all the like! I told you, I don't do that backwoods modern-day, wannabe Wiccafuck stuff! You hear me?

Witchcraft is an empowering practice that any person can learn, cultivate, and personalize. It is all about stepping outside of our mundane world and choosing to take on a perspective of mysticism and reverence for nature, life, and the energetic forces of this world. But what makes witch-craft simply intoxicating is that it’s about appreciating the world around us. It’s not just about what we can see; it’s about everything in between. It is the love for spirits, messages, other-worldliness, unexplainable things, mysterious connections, and the universal system of checks and balances. That is witchcraft,

The term 'flying monkey' is called 'abuse by proxy.' The flying monkeys do the bidding for a narcissist. The term flying monkey was coined in the movie The Wizard of Oz. The flying monkeys were under the wicked witches spell to gang up on poor Dorothy and her friends.

Wizards! They talked too much and pinned spells down in books like butterflies but, worst of all, they thought theirs was the only magic worth practicing.

I cannot imagine any witch of a woman casting a spell over you.

But that was the point, and the comfort of it, too. No matter the weight of your pain or loss, the world only ever knew how to move on. And so did you.

Even here, with her fingers tangled up in my hair, each press of her lips feels like a claiming. Her touches say mine, mine, mine, but now there’s this echo of for now.

Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture Their sabbath strange where Witches keep; Fearless the Sorcerer's circle enter, And woundless tread on snakes asleep. Lo!

The first man, Zac, rolled his eyes, "I wasn't going to eat her, brother, if that's what you're thinking. She's a witch and I don't want her to cast any witchy juju spell on me.

Two of the essential keys to magick that I don't see discussed nearly enough are enthusiasm and sincerity.

You’re mine tonight.” He lifted me in his arms and headed for the door. “I can walk, you know.” “Where’s the fun in that?

The Tanakee are thought to possess strange, almost supernatural powers.Their eyes are described as large and hypnotic." From Tribe of the Teddy Bear

But until then, I will grieve the ones we lost and love the ones who are left as hard as I can.

The Constitution? What, exactly, do you think the Constitution is? A magic spell? A dragon, perhaps, that will swoop down to defend you in your most desperate hour?” Cleo straightens in her seat. Juniper doesn’t think she’s ever seen a face so full of scorn. “I assure you it has only ever been a piece of paper, and it has only ever applied to a very few persons.

Or written anew. Every spell that exists was once spoken for the first time, by a witch who needed it.” Bella actually claps her hands together. “Then the library could be . . . oh, but it would take so much work.” The Crone huffs. “It always does.” “Always?” “Avalon wasn’t the first library. Alexandria, Antioch, Avicenna . . . They keep burning us. We keep rising again.

Is this a fire-starting spell?” “It seems so, yes.” “Can I try it?” “Can you start a magical fire in a tower full of paper and leather?” Juniper considers. “What if it were a very small fire?

The phenomenon of female anger has often been turned against itself, the figure of the angry woman reframed as threat — not the one who has been harmed, but the one bent on harming. She conjures a lineage of threatening archetypes: the harpy and her talons, the witch and her spells, the medusa and her writhing locks. The notion that female anger is unnatural or destructive is learned young; children report perceiving displays of anger as more acceptable from boys than from girls.

When a witch drew blood by cutting her skin, the magic used to cast a spell discolored the scar, turning it silver. It was why casting scars were considered beautiful during the Reign of Witches.

The ends-“ “Justify the means. That’s what she said. What is that, your family motto or something?” Lara stilled, her knuckles white. “Would you like to know about my family, Sophie?” Pressing myself back against my chair, I shook my head. “I think I know enough about your family, thanks.” “You don’t know anything,” Lara said, and then she flicked her fingers in my direction. At first, nothing happened, and I wondered if all she’d done was give me the witch version of her middle finger.

And I suppose you thought Hansel and Gretel had it coming, too?” “Yes,” Conner said, feeling clever. “And so did the witch!” “How so?” Alex asked. “Because,” Conner explained with a smirk on his face, “if you’re going to live in a house made of candy, don’t move next door to a couple of obese kids. A lot of these fairy-tale characters are missing common sense.” Alex let out another disapproving grunt. Conner figured he could get at least fifty more out of her before they got home. “The witch didn’t live next door! She lived deep in the forest! They had to leave a trail of bread crumbs behind so they could find their way back, remember. And the whole point of the house was to lure the kids in. They were starving!” Alex reminded him. “At least have all the facts straight before you criticize.” “If they were starving, what were they doing wasting bread crumbs?” Conner asked. “Sounds like a couple of troublemakers to me.” Alex

Duncan's temper kindled, but it didn't dampen the lust seeping along his nerve endings. He could flatten this persnickety witch, or better yet, weave a love spell and bind her to him. Maybe he'd do just that and have done with things. He clasped his hands behind his back to quash the temptation to summon magic.

I have the idea that we grandmothers are meant to play the part of protective witches; we must watch over younger women, children, community, and also, why not?, this mistreated planet, the victim of such unrelenting desecration. I would like to fly on a broomstick and dance in the moonlight with other pagan witches in the forest, invoking earth forces and howling demons; I want to become a wise old crone, to learn ancient spells and healers' secrets. It is no small thing, this design of mine. Witches, like saints, are solitary stars that shine with a light of their own; they depend on nothing and no one, which is why they have no fear and can plunge blindly into the abyss with the assurance that instead of crashing to earth, they will fly back out. They can change into birds and see the world from above, or worms to see it from within, they can inhabit other dimensions and travel to other galaxies, they are navigators on an infinite ocean of consciousness and cognition.

I can take care of myself just fine.” She meant take care of her own pleasure just fine. My pants grew tighter while I imagined taking care of her in my own way. “I’m sure you can, but I’d like to apply for the job.

Empathy is a spell that creates intimacy and connection, a free exchange of information. Protection spells are sometimes necessary, but their objective is to keep things out. Create peace, and protection becomes less necessary.

Women who refuse motherhood are also faced with the prejudice that they must therefore hate children, like the witches who dined out on small roasted bodies during sabbaths or cast fatal spells on their neighbor’s child. This is doubly exasperating. First, because it is far from true in most cases: it can even be a strong sympathy with children that makes you refrain from having your own, while others may choose to have them for deeply dubious reasons.

No more shall the birds or the beasts seek to harm me, From the power that has held them, they will henceforth be set free And should another such attempt dare come to be The doer of the spell shall be so cursed ten-fold, plus three!

The thing about elves is they've got no... begins with m," Granny snapped her fingers irritably. "Manners?" "Hah! Right, but no" "Muscle? Mucus? Mystery?" "No. No. No. Means like... seein' the other person's point of view." Verence tried to see the world from a Granny Weatherwax perspective and suspicion dawned. "Empathy?" "Right. None at all.

Words are shapeshifters. They take different forms to suit different motivations. The word for blue can be sifted and changed until it spells red. We share similar teachings with the Faceless, but what they take and learn from those teachings are different from the messages we treasure. It is why words are important, and it is why they can be dangerous.

You know about witches, wizards. You can envision dragons, even if you presently think you are above believing in them. You doubt magic, but you have a word for it. Isn't that a strangeness that wears at you? All these things that you know all about, but you think you are above. Did you used to be able to shape the spell children use to find lost things in the grass? Did you always know to look at the sky, at stars, when you make your wishes? Who taught you the things your soul has always known?

Love spells are a lot like platform diving. Once you start the process, there’s no going back, and the end will be fugly if you don’t know what the hell you’re doing. —Mariketa the Awaited Mercenary of the Wiccae, Future Leader of the House of Witches

I know a charm that can cure pain and sickness, and lift the grief from the heart of the grieving. I know a charm that will heal with a touch. I know a charm that will turn aside the weapons of an enemy. I know another charm to free myself from all bonds and locks. A fifth charm: I can catch an arrow in flight and take no harm from it. A sixth: spells sent to hurt me will hurt only the sender. A seventh charm I know: I can quench a fire simply by looking at it. An eighth: if any man hates me, I can win his friendship. A ninth: I can sing the wind to sleep and calm a storm for long enough to bring a ship to shore. For a tenth charm, I learned to dispel witches, to spin them around in the skies so that they will never find their way back to their own doors again. An eleventh: if I sing it when a battle rages it can take warriors through the tumult unscathed and unhurt, and bring them safely back to their hearths and their homes. A twelfth charm I know: if I see a hanged man I can bring him down from the gallows to whisper to us all he remembers. A thirteenth: if I sprinkle water on a child’s head, that child will not fall in battle. A fourteenth: I know the names of all the gods. Every damned one of them. A fifteenth: I had a dream of power, of glory, and of wisdom, and I can make people believe in my dreams. A sixteenth charm I know: if I need love I can turn the mind and heart of any woman. A seventeenth, that no woman I want will ever want another. And I know an eighteenth charm, and that charm is the greatest of all, and that charm I can tell to no man, for a secret that no one know but you is the most powerful secret there can ever be.

A witch there was, who webs could weave to snare the heart and wits to reave, who span dark spells with spider-craft, and as she span she softly laughed; a drink she brewed of strength and dread to bind the quick and stir the dead. In a cave she housed where winging bats their harbour sought, and owls and cats from hunting came with mournful cries, night-stalking near with needle eyes.

Letters rarely got written in that mine. Work stopped and the whole clan had sat around in respectful silence as his pen scrittered across the parchment. His aunt had been sent up to Varneshi's to beg his pardon but could he see his way clear to sparing a smidgen of wax. His sister had been sent down to the village to ask Mistress Garlick the witch how you stopped spelling recommendation.

Witches cast spells, not to do evil, but to promote changes of consciousness. Witches cast spells as acts of redefinition. To respell the world means to redefine the root of our being. It means to redefine us and therefore change us by returning us to our original consciousness of magical-evolutionary processes. This consciousness is within us, in our biology and in our dreams. It works on subliminal levels, whether or not we are aware of it, because it is the energy of life and imagination. When we are aware of it, it works for us, as the energy of destiny. And it is powerful, with the genuine power of biological life and cosmic imagination. Perhaps

I was a simple girl. And I honestly didn’t want to debate whether a fallen tree really made a sound in the woods if no one was there to hear it. I’d rather discuss what kind of tree it was and if it held any medicinal properties that could be brewed into a healthful tea.

Our ancestors did not separate magick and witchcraft from their daily lives. Witchcraft was more than just a practice, it was a way of life. A way of looking at the physical and spiritual as a collaborative source of manifestation. In this way, Old World Witchcraft honors the all-encompassing lifestyle of the witch. We are in tune with nature, in tune with ourselves and in alignment with our all-knowing inner witch.

Just open your mouth and let the lightning come out. Burn the victim card down to the ground - for you are so much more than that! You’re a witch. You’re a wizard. Open your mouth and let the spiders out! Unleash your mind; for sometimes it’s so much better than b e i n g quiet.

They were a large family of women-always women, although I guess guys factored in there somewhere, seeing as how the family had been around for over a thousand years. Descended from a megapowerful white witch named Maeve Brannick, they’d dedicated themselves to ridding the world of evil. Unfortunately, I fit their definition of evil. The girl scowled. “You are something,” she hissed, leaning in closer. “I can feel it. Whatever you are, it’s not human. So you can either tell me what kind of freak you are, or I can cut you open and find out myself.” I stared at her. “You are one hard-core little kid.” Her scowl deepened. “I’m looking for the Brannicks,” I said in a rush. “And I’m guessing you are one because…you know, red hair and the violence and everything.” “What’s your name?” she demanded as the stinging at my neck became actual pain. “Sophie Mercer,” I said through clenched teeth. Her eyes widened. “No way,” she said, sounding for the first time like the middle schooler she probably was. “Way,” I croaked.

A Witch is a woman who emerges from deep within herself. She is a woman who has honestly explored her light and learned to celebrate her darkness. She is a woman who is able to fall in love with the magnificent possibilities of her power. She is a woman who radiates mystery. She is magnetic. She is a witch.

A belief system usually evolves over time. It's something that we grow into, as our needs and goals develop and change. Even when we find a system of beliefs that works for us, we hone and fine-tune it, working our way deeper and deeper into its essential truth. Everything we experience, every thought we have, every desire, need, action, and reaction - everything we perceive with our senses goes into our personal databank and helps to create the belief systems that we hold now. Nothing is lost or forgotten in our lives. You don't have to remain a victim of your conditioning, however. You can choose for yourself what you believe or don't believe, what you desire and don't desire. You can define your own parameters. Once you do that, you can start consciously creating your destiny according to your own vision.

Stygorn. A vampire born of one of the ancients whose level of intuition, gift of glamour, strength, and speed was unparalled by any other supernatural. The only one with more power than the Stygorn was a Siphon witch like Jules. Except the Stygorn’s level of power also gave them the ability to evade and/or harm Siphons by stealth.

O Moon that rid'st the night to wake Before the dawn is pale, The hamadryad in the brake, The Satyr in the vale, Caught in thy net of shadows What dreams hast thou to show? Who treads the silent meadows To worship thee below? The patter of the rain is hushed, The wind's wild dance is done, Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushed About the setting sun: And now beneath thy argent beam The wildwood standeth still, Some spirit of an ancient dream Breathes from the silent hill. Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokes The Ancient Ones of night, Once more the old stone altar smokes, The fire is glimmering bright. Scattered and few thy children be, Yet gather we unknown To dance the old round merrily About the time-worn stone. We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell, Nor mourn our outcast lot, Treading the mazes of a spell By priests and men forgot.

Fairy tales are a kind of life coaching; they show us the obstacles we face, give us wands and potions and magick spells, wicked witches, animal familiars, castles, godmothers, giants, woods with fairy queens, and elves. But we know, deep down, in the Land before Words, fairytales give us courage; we know this magic - we were given it at birth.

Nell was like a witch. Her long silvery hair rolled into a bun on the back of her head, the narrow wooden house on the hillside in Paddington, with its peeling lemon-yellow paint and overgrown garden, the neighborhood cats that followed her everywhere. The way she had of fixing her eyes so straight on you, as if she might be about to cast a spell.

Lucy is the first to find the secret of the wardrobe in the Professor’s mysterious old house. At first, her brothers and sister don’t believe her when she tells of her visit to the land of Narnia. But soon Edmund, then Peter and Susan step through the wardrobe themselves. In Narnia they find a country buried under the evil enchantment of the White Witch. When they meet the Great Lion, Aslan, they realize they’ve been called to a great adventure and bravely join the battle to free Narnia from the Witch’s sinister spell.

Once Once, oh once, there was, was not, A girl, princess, mermaid, widow, witch, queen, wife, A boy, king, soldier, wizard, troll, giants, Magic Life. The tale turns, returns, confuses, confesses, And all the hardships, spells, and stresses, End well in happy laughter And we hope- ever after. Believe me, friend- because would I, A storyteller, ever lie?

It was all due to her mother’s lack of attention to spelling, she speculated. A caring parent would have spelled Margaret correctly. And then she could have been a Peggy, or a Maggie – big, robust names, full of reliability. There wasn’t much you could do with a Magrat. It sounded like something that lived in a hole in a river bank and was always getting flooded out.

Is that true?” I asked Dad. “Are they gone for good?” Dad shifted in his seat, uneasy. “Not necessarily. But Sophie, the risk involved in bringing them back…It’s almost too great to fathom.” “I can fathom all kinds of things,” I told him. “Try me.” I think I might have seen pride in Dad’s eyes. Or maybe it was just a gleam of Why is my offspring so insane? Still, he answered me. “If you destroy both the ritual and the witch or warlock who used it, the spell itself can be reversed.” I shrugged. “That doesn’t sound so hard.” “I wasn’t finished. They must be destroyed simultaneously.” Swallowing, I tried to sound cheerful. “Again, not so bad. Get Lara to hold the piece of paper, zap them both with, um, some fire or something, and bam! Instant demon reversal.” “And they must be destroyed in the pit where the demons were raised,” Dad continued, as if I hadn’t said anything. Seriously, he had to stop doing that. “Oh, and as the piece de resistance, you’ll need to do a spell to close the pit itself, with both the ritual and the witch inside it. And that’s such an intense ritual that it could actually pull whatever’s around the pit into it as well.” “Like, the person doing the spell?” “Like, the whole damn island the put is on.” “Oh. Okay. Well, that is definitely…challenging. But not impossible. And we have the grimoire, that’s one bonus, right? Even if the demon-raising ritual isn’t in it.” “Sophie Alice Mercer,” Mom said warningly, just as Dad said, “Atherton,” and Aislinn said, “Brannick.” I threw my hands up. “Look, it doesn’t matter what you call me. I’ll hyphenate, how about that?

Okay, well, that sucks. But, Soph, guess what I saw today.” I flopped across my mattress, toeing my sneakers off. “We’re on a cursed island surrounded by killer fog, and ruled by two crazy-ass witches. I really can’t begin to guess, Jen.” “Lara, coming out of the cellar,” she said, blowing her pink stripe off her forehead. “And looking super secretive and suspicious. Well, I mean, more super secretive and suspicious than usual.” Ah, the cellar. A dank, creepy place full of magical artifacts that had a tendency to move around. Archer and I had spent an awful lot of quality time down there last year.

Young Goodman Brown,” The Scarlet Letter, or his 1851 bestseller, The House of the Seven Gables, but Hawthorne proved that territory still radioactive. Guilt and blame have grown up lushly on the scene, attracting writers from Walt Whitman to John Updike. Arthur Miller read the court papers under the spell of McCarthyism. He discovered, as New England itself had, that events must be absorbed before monuments can be raised. The Crucible

What’s going on?” Ingrid asked. “Listen, nothing bad today, please.” She pulled a chair out and sat down. Faye stared at her and said the words as quickly as she could. “I’m just going to give it to you straight as I can. Mila is a witch.” Ingrid busted out with a laugh. “I wouldn’t call her that,” she said. “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” She poured the juice into her glass and took a drink. “What did the brat do this time?” She set her glass down.

Every witch or wizard with a wand has held in his or her hands more power than we will ever know. With the right spell or potion, they can fabricate love, travel through time, change physical form and even extinguish life. In the wrong hands, power and magic can be dark, lethal, and consuming. Lord Voldemort showed us that; he sought power so viciously that he tore apart the fabric of his soul and lost everything that made him human. He is the ultimate villain, motivated by an ice-cold desire for power and destruction. Obviously few people could match Voldemort in general evil intent (though Bellatrix Lestrange and Dolores Umbridge indeed try), but there are certainly other characters attracted to power.

No one religion is right for everyone, and no religion—whether it be Wicca, Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism—is more valid than any other. Religious diversity is something that needs not only to be tolerated, but also celebrated. The good that religion was designed to teach and maintain inevitably turns to harm when one religious group claims superiority over another or tries to deny others of their constitutional right to believe in and worship the god or goddess of their choice.

Finn,” she protested. “I wasn’t laughing like, with her.” Izzy glowered at me. “She tried to kill me.” “Actually, I didn’t,” I broke in. There was a hard look in Aislinn’s and Finley’s eyes that scared the heck out of me. The last thing I wanted was to be held responsible for Elodie’s actions, especially now that I was, technically, one of these women, and the words just came pouring out of my mouth. “See, I don’t have powers anymore, because I was supposed to go through the Removal, and that sort of locked my magic away so that I can’t use it. But there was this girl-well, this witch-Elodie, and because she passed her magic on to me when she died, we’re connected. That means her ghost follows me around and stuff, so when you attacked me, she possessed my body. Which is new and, quite frankly, super freaky, and something that I haven’t really processed yet. Anyway, she was the one who used magic on you. Oh, and held the sword to your throat, and said all that creepy stuff. I’m not creepy. At least not on purpose.” By now, all three Brannick women-all four, if you counted Mom-were staring at me. Man, what had that piney-tasting stuff been? The Brannick version of Red Bull? “I’ll, uh, stop talking now.

Granny Weatherwax was in trouble. First of all, she decided, she should never have allowed Hilta to talk her into borrowing her broomstick. It was elderly, erratic, would fly only at night and even then couldn't manage a speed much above a trot. Its lifting spells had worn so thin that it wouldn't even begin to operate until it was already moving at a fair lick. It was, in fact, the only broomstick ever to need bump-starting. And it was while Granny Weatherwax, sweating and cursing, was running along a forest path holding the damn thing at shoulder height for the tenth time that she had found the bear trap. The second problem was that a bear had found it first. In fact this hadn’t been too much of a problem because Granny, already in a bad temper, hit it right between the eyes with the broomstick and it was now sitting as far away from her as it was possible to get in a pit, and trying to think happy thoughts.

I belong to myself. Always. Eternally. Without question. My own safe house. My own sheltered harbor. I am my own solid ground. I am the lighthouse beacon. I call the ships safely home from sea. I am the North Star and the compass. I am my own port in the wildest storm. I am the spell caster and the spell breaker. I am a witch of alchemy and transformation. I am the pages in the grimoire of knowledge, I am the source of all the magic ever known. I am the kiss that wakes us all from slumber. I am the white horse knight in shining armor. I am my own happily ever after fairytale godmother. I am my own rest stop on the longest journey of living. The final destination on every treasure map I will ever need. I am my own primary relationship, my own till death do us part. I am my own center and saving grace, my own best-kept secret. I am the lineage of wisdom itself, the home of my own belonging. I am my own. And my own. And always my own.

The Gypsy’S Song* Come, cross my hand! My art surpasses All that did ever Mortal know; Come, Maidens, come! My magic glasses* Your future Husband’s form can show: For ’tis to me the power is given Unclosed the book of Fate to see; To read the fixed resolves of heaven, And dive into futurity. I guide the pale Moon’s silver waggon; The winds in magic bonds I hold; I charm to sleep the crimson Dragon, Who loves to watch o’er buried gold: Fenced round with spells, unhurt I venture Their sabbath strange where Witches keep; Fearless the Sorcerer’s circle enter, And woundless tread on snakes asleep. Lo! Here are charms of mighty power! This makes secure an Husband’s truth; And this composed at midnight hour Will force to love the coldest Youth: If any Maid too much has granted, Her loss this Philtre* will repair; This blooms a cheek where red is wanted, And this will make a brown girl fair! Then silent hear, while I discover What I in Fortune’s mirror view; And each, when many a year is over, Shall own the Gypsy’s sayings true.

It's my opinion he don't want to kill you,' said Perea - 'at least not yet. I've heard deir idea is to scar and worry a man wid deir spells, and narrow misses, and rheumatic pains, and bad dreams, and all dat, until he's sick of life. Of course, it's all talk, you know. You mustn't worry about it. But I wunder what he'll be up to next.' 'I shall have to be up to something first,' said Pollock, staring gloomily at the greasy cards that Perea was putting on the table. 'It don't suit my dignity to be followed about, and shot at, and blighted in this way. I wonder if Porroh hokey-pokey upsets your luck at cards.' He looked at Perea suspiciously. 'Very likely it does,' said Perea warmly, shuffling. 'Dey are wonderful people.' ("Pollock And The Porrah Man")

ANTHONY: I feel you, Johanna, I feel you Do they think that walls can hide you? Even now I'm at your window I am in the dark beside you, Buried sweetly in your yellow hair, Johanna… SWEENEY TODD: And are you beautiful and pale, With yellow hair, like her I'd want you beautiful and pale, The way I've dreamed you were, Johanna... ANTHONY: Johanna... SWEENEY TODD: And if you're beautiful, what then, With yellow hair, like wheat? I think we shall not meet again — My little dove, my sweet Johanna… ANTHONY: I'll steal you, Johanna… SWEENEY TODD: Goodbye, Johanna. You're gone, and yet you're mine. I'm fine, Johanna, I'm fine! ANTHONY: Johanna… BEGGAR WOMAN: Smoke! Smoke! Sign of the devil! Sign of the devil! City on fire! Witch! Witch! Smell it, sir! An evil smell! Every night at the vespers bell — Smoke that comes from the mouth of hell — City on fire! City on fire! Mischief! Mischief! Mischief... SWEENEY TODD: And if I never hear your voice, My turtledove, my dear, I still have reason to rejoice: The way ahead is clear, Johanna... JOHANNA: I'll marry Anthony Sunday Anthony…Sunday… ANTHONY: I feel you… SWEENEY TODD: And in that darkness when I'm blind With what I can't forget — ANTHONY: Johanna… SWEENEY TODD: It's always morning in my mind, My little lamb, my pet, Johanna… JOHANNA: I knew you'd come for me one day… Come for me…one day… SWEENEY TODD/ANTHONY: You stay, Johanna — Johanna… SWEENEY TODD: The way I've dreamed you are Oh look, Johanna — a star! ANTHONY: Buried sweetly in your yellow hair… SWEENEY TODD: A shooting star! BEGGAR WOMAN: There! There! Somebody, somebody look up there! Didn't I tell you? Smell that air! City on fire! Quick, sir! Run and tell! Warn 'em all of the witch's spell! There it is, there it is, the unholy smell! Tell it to the Beadle and the police as well! Tell 'em! Tell 'em! Help! Fiend! City on fire! City on fire! Mischief! Mischief! Mischief...Fiend . . . Alms…alms...for a miserable woman… SWEENEY TODD: And though I'll think of you, I guess, until the day I die, I think I miss you less and less as every day goes by, Johanna... ANTHONY: Johanna... JOHANNA: With you beside me on Sunday, Married on…Sunday… SWEENEY TODD: And you'd be beautiful and pale, And look too much like her. If only angels could prevail, We'd be the way we were, Johanna... ANTHONY: I feel you...Johanna… JOHANNA'S VOICE: Married on Sunday…married on Sunday ... SWEENEY TODD: Wake up, Johanna! Another bright red day! We learn, Johanna, to say goodbye! ANTHONY: I’ll steal you!

[At the British Museum] For it is a perennial puzzle why no woman wrote a word [in the time of Shakespeare] when every other man, it seemed, was capable of song or sonnet. What were the conditions in which women lived, I asked myself; (...) [In] Professor Trevelyan's History of England [one can read that] wife-beating [or daughter-beating] was a recognized right of man (...) [A woman] could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband [or father]. Here I am asking why women did not write poetry in the Elisabethan age, and I am not sure how they were educated; whether they were taught to write; whether they had sitting-rooms to themselves; how many women had children before they were 21; what, in short, they did from eight in the morning till eight at night. They had no money evidently; (...) they were married whether they liked it or not (...) at fifteen or sixteen very likely... [Under these circumstances] It would have been extremely odd (...) for any woman to have written the plays of Shakespeare in the age of Shakespeare. (...) When, however, one reads of a witch being ducked, of a woman possessed by devils, of a wise woman selling herbs, or even of a very remarkable man who had a mother, then I think we are on the track of a lost novelist, a suppressed poet (...). Indeed, I would venture to guess that Anom, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman. (...) And undoubtedly, I thought, looking at the shelf where there are no plays by women, her work would have gone unsigned. That refuge she would have sought certainly.

A loud bang brought Harry back to where he stood: Disoriented, he raised his wand, but the witch before him was already falling forward; she hit the ground so hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkled. “I’ve never Stunned anyone except in our D.A. lessons,” said Luna, sounding mildly interested. “That was noisier than I thought it would be.” And sure enough, the ceiling had begun to tremble. Scurrying, echoing footsteps were growing louder from behind the door leading to the dormitories: Luna’s spell had woken Ravenclaws sleeping above. “Luna, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!” Luna’s feet appeared out of nowhere; he hurried to her side and she let the Cloak fall back over them as the door opened and a stream of Ravenclaws, all in their nightclothes, flooded into the common room. There were gasps and cries of surprise as they saw Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they shuffled in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any moment and attack them. Then one brave little first-year darted up to her and prodded her backside with his big toe. “I think she might be dead!” he shouted with delight. “Oh, look,” whispered Luna happily, as the Ravenclaws crowded in around Alecto. “They’re pleased!

Gregori stepped away from the huddled mass of tourists, putting distance between himself and the guide. He walked completely erect,his head high, his long hair flowing around him. His hands were loose at his sides, and his body was relaxed, rippling with power. "Hear me now, ancient one." His voice was soft and musical, filling the silence with beauty and purity. "You have lived long in this world, and you weary of the emptiness. I have come in anwer to your call." "Gregori.The Dark One." The evil voice hissed and growled the words in answer. The ugliness tore at sensitive nerve endings like nails on a chalkboard. Some of the tourists actually covered their ears. "How dare you enter my city and interfere where you have no right?" "I am justice,evil one. I have come to set your free from the bounaries holding you to this place." Gregori's voice was so soft and hypnotic that those listening edged out from their sanctuaries.It beckoned and pulled, so that none could resist his every desire. The black shape above their head roiled like a witch's cauldron. A jagged bolt of lightning slammed to earth straight toward the huddled group. Gregori raised a hand and redirected the force of energy away from the tourists and Savannah. A smile edged the cruel set of his mouth. "You think to mock me with display,ancient one? Do not attempt to anger what you do not understand.You came to me.I did not hunt you.You seek to threaten my lifemate and those I count as my friends.I can do no other than carry the justice of our people to you." Gregori's voice was so reasonable, so perfect and pure,drawing obedience from the most recalcitrant of criminals. The guide made a sound,somewhere between disbelief and fear.Gregori silenced him with a wave of his hand, needing no distractions. But the noise had been enough for the ancient one to break the spell Gregori's voice was weaving around him. The dark stain above their heads thrashed wildly, as if ridding itself ot ever-tightening bonds before slamming a series of lightning strikes at the helpless mortals on the ground. Screams and moans accompanied the whispered prayers, but Gregori stood his ground, unflinching. He merely redirected the whips of energy and light, sent them streaking back into the black mass above their heads.A hideous snarl,a screech of defiance and hatred,was the only warning before it hailed. Hufe golfball-sized blocks of bright-red ice rained down toward them. It was thick and horrible to see, the shower of frozen blood from the skies. But it stopped abruptly, as if an unseen force held it hovering inches from their heads. Gregori remained unchanged, impassive, his face a blank mask as he shielded the tourists and sent the hail hurtling back at their attacker.From out of the cemetery a few blocks from them, an army of the dead rose up. Wolves howled and raced along beside the skeletons as they moved to intercept the Carpathian hunter. Savannah. He said her name once, a soft brush in her mind. I've got it, she sent back instantly.Gregori had his hands full dealing with the abominations the vampire was throwing at him; he did't need to waste his energy protecting the general public from the apparition. She moved out into the open, a small, fragile figure, concentrating on the incoming threat. To those dwelling in the houses along the block and those driving in their cars, she masked the pack of wolves as dogs racing down the street.The stick=like skeletons, grotesque and bizarre, were merely a fast-moving group of people. She held the illusion until they were within a few feet of Gregori.Dropping the illusion, she fed every ounce of her energy and power to Gregori so he could meet the attack.

There's no such thing as witches. But there used to be. It used to be the air was so thick with magic you could taste it on your tongue like ash. Witches lurked in every tangled wood and waited at every midnight-crossroad with sharp-toothed smiles. They conversed with dragons on lonely mountaintops and rode rowan-wood brooms across full moons; they charmed the stars to dance beside them on the summer solstice and rode to battle with familiars at their heels. It used to be witches were wild as crows and fearless as foxes, because magic blazed bright and the night was theirs. But then came the plague and the purges. The dragons were slain and the witches were burned and the night belonged to men with torches and crosses. Witching isn’t all gone, of course. My grandmother, Mama Mags, says they can’t ever kill magic because it beats like a great red heartbeat on the other side of everything, that if you close your eyes you can feel it thrumming beneath the soles of your feet, thumpthumpthump. It’s just a lot better-behaved than it used to be. Most respectable folk can’t even light a candle with witching, these days, but us poor folk still dabble here and there. Witch-blood runs thick in the sewers, the saying goes. Back home every mama teaches her daughters a few little charms to keep the soup-pot from boiling over or make the peonies bloom out of season. Every daddy teaches his sons how to spell ax-handles against breaking and rooftops against leaking. Our daddy never taught us shit, except what a fox teaches chickens — how to run, how to tremble, how to outlive the bastard — and our mama died before she could teach us much of anything. But we had Mama Mags, our mother’s mother, and she didn’t fool around with soup-pots and flowers. The preacher back home says it was God’s will that purged the witches from the world. He says women are sinful by nature and that magic in their hands turns naturally to rot and ruin, like the first witch Eve who poisoned the Garden and doomed mankind, like her daughter’s daughters who poisoned the world with the plague. He says the purges purified the earth and shepherded us into the modern era of Gatling guns and steamboats, and the Indians and Africans ought to be thanking us on their knees for freeing them from their own savage magics. Mama Mags said that was horseshit, and that wickedness was like beauty: in the eye of the beholder. She said proper witching is just a conversation with that red heartbeat, which only ever takes three things: the will to listen to it, the words to speak with it, and the way to let it into the world. The will, the words, and the way. She taught us everything important comes in threes: little pigs, bill goats gruff, chances to guess unguessable names. Sisters. There wer ethree of us Eastwood sisters, me and Agnes and Bella, so maybe they'll tell our story like a witch-tale. Once upon a time there were three sisters. Mags would like that, I think — she always said nobody paid enough attention to witch-tales and whatnot, the stories grannies tell their babies, the secret rhymes children chant among themselves, the songs women sing as they work. Or maybe they won't tell our story at all, because it isn't finished yet. Maybe we're just the very beginning, and all the fuss and mess we made was nothing but the first strike of the flint, the first shower of sparks. There's still no such thing as witches. But there will be.

Okay,” I finally said. “Can we all agree that this is maybe the most screwed-up situation we’ve ever found ourselves in?” “Agreed,” they said in unison. “Awesome.” I gave a little nod. “And do either of you have any idea what we should do about it?” “Well, we can’t use magic,” Archer said. “And if we try to leave, we get eaten by Monster Fog,” Jenna added. “Right. So no plans at all, then?” Jenna frowned. “Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?” “Yeah, I was thinking about taking one of those showers where you huddle in the corner fully clothed and cry,” Archer offered. I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. “Great. So we’ll all go have our mental breakdowns, and then we’ll somehow get ourselves out of this mess.” “I think our best bet is to lie low for a while,” Archer said. “Let Mrs. Casnoff think we’re all too shocked and awed to do anything. Maybe this assembly tonight will give us some answers.” “Answers,” I practically sighed. “About freaking time.” Jenna gave me a funny look. “Soph, are you…grinning?” I could feel my cheeks aching, so I knew that I was. “Look, you two have to admit: if we want to figure out just what the Casnoffs are plotting, this is pretty much the perfect place.” “My girl has a point,” Archer said, smiling at me. Now my cheeks didn’t just ache, they burned. Clearing her throat, Jenna said, “Okay, so we all go up to our rooms, then after the assembly tonight we can regroup and decide what to do next.” “Deal,” I said as Archer nodded. “Are we all going to high-five now?” Jenna asked after a pause. “No, but I can make up some kind of secret handshake if you want,” Archer said, and for a second, they smiled at each other. But just as quickly, the smile disappeared from Jenna’s face, and she said to me, “Let’s go. I want to see if our room is as freakified as the rest of this place.” “Good idea,” I said. Archer reached out and brushed his fingers over mine. “See you later, then?” he asked. His voice was casual, but my skin was hot where he touched me. “Definitely,” I answered, figuring that even a girl who has to stop evil witches from taking over the world could make time for kissage in there somewhere. He turned and walked away. As I watched him go, I could feel Jenna starting at me. “Fine,” she acknowledged with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a little dreamy.” I elbowed her gently in the side. “Thanks.” Jenna started to walk to the stairs. “You coming?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be right up. I just want to take a quick look around down here.” “Why, so you can be even more depressed?” Actually, I wanted to stay downstairs just a little longer to see if anyone else showed up. So far, I’d seen nearly everyone I remembered from last year at Hex Hall. Had Cal been dragged here, too? Technically he hadn’t been a student, but Mrs. Casnoff had used his powers a lot last year. Would she still want him here? To Jenna, I just said, “Yeah, you know me. I like poking bruises.” “Okay. Get your Nancy Drew on.

Iain MacGregor,” she whispered longingly, looking up. The woods were quiet. Strips of moonlight shone through tree limbs that reached like surreal black fingertips across her vision. A single tear slid down her cheek. She touched her mouth, imagining his kiss. Taking a small pocket knife out of her cargo pants, she looked about. A mystic had once told her that if she left pieces of herself around while she lived, it would expand her haunting territory when she died. Jane wasn’t sure she believed in sideshow magic tricks—or the Old Magick as the mystic had spelled it on her sign. She had no idea what had possessed her to talk to the palm reader and ask about ghosts. Still, just in case, she was leaving her stamp all over the woods. She cut her palm and pressed it to a nearby tree under a branch. Holding the wound to the rough bark stung at first, but then it made her feel better. This forest wouldn’t be a bad eternity. The sound of running feet erupted behind her and she stiffened. No one ever came out here at night. She’d walked the woods hundreds of times. Her mind instantly went to the creepy girl ghosts chanting by the stream. “Whoohoo!” Jane whipped around, startled as a streak of naked flesh sprinted past her. The Scottish voice was met with loud cheers from those who followed him. “Water’s this way, lads, or my name isn’t Raibeart MacGregor, King of the Highlands!” Another naked man dashed through the forest after him. “It smells of freedom.” Jane stayed hidden in the branches, undetected, with her hand pressed to the bark. “Aye, freedom from your proper Cait,” Raibeart answered, his voice coming through the dark where he’d disappeared into the trees. “Murdoch, stop him before he reaches town. Cait will not teleport ya out of jail again,” a third man yelled, not running quite so fast. “Raibeart, ya are goin’ the wrong way!” “Och, Angus, my Cait canna live without me,” Murdoch, the second streaker, answered. “She’ll always come to my rescue.” “I said stop him, Murdoch, we’re new to this place.” Angus skidded to a stop and lifted his jaw, as if sensing he was being watched. He looked in her direction and instantly covered his manhood as his eyes caught Jane’s shocked face in the tree limbs. “Oh, lassie.” “Oh, naked man,” Jane teased before she could stop herself. “That I am,” Angus answered, “but there is an explanation for it.” “I don’t think some things need explained,” Jane said.

N.E.W.T. Level Questions 281-300: What house at Hogwarts did Moaning Myrtle belong to? Which dragon did Viktor Krum face in the first task of the Tri-Wizard tournament? Luna Lovegood believes in the existence of which invisible creatures that fly in through someone’s ears and cause temporary confusion? What are the names of the three Peverell brothers from the tale of the Deathly Hallows? Name the Hogwarts school motto and its meaning in English? Who is Arnold? What’s the address of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes? During Quidditch try-outs, who did Ron beat to become Gryffindor’s keeper? Who was the owner of the flying motorbike that Hagrid borrows to bring baby Harry to his aunt and uncle’s house? During the intense encounter with the troll in the female bathroom, what spell did Ron use to save Hermione? Which wizard, who is the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry of Magic lost his son in 1995? When Harry, Ron and Hermione apparate away from Bill and Fleur’s wedding, where do they end up? Name the spell that freezes or petrifies the body of the victim? What piece did Hermione replace in the game of Giant Chess? What bridge did Fenrir Greyback and a small group of Death Eaters destroy in London? Who replaced Minerva McGonagall as the new Deputy Headmistress, and became the new Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts? Where do Bill and Fleur Weasley live? What epitaph did Harry carve onto Dobby’s grave using Malfoy’s old wand? The opal neckless is a cursed Dark Object, supposedly it has taken the lives of nineteen different muggles. But who did it curse instead after a failed attempt by Malfoy to assassinate Dumbledore? Who sends Harry his letter of expulsion from Hogwarts for violating the law by performing magic in front of a muggle? FIND THE ANSWERS ON THE NEXT PAGE! N.E.W.T. Level Answers 281-300 Ravenclaw. Myrtle attended Hogwarts from 1940-1943. Chinese Firebolt. Wrackspurts. Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus. “Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus” and “Never tickle a sleeping dragon.” Arnold was Ginny’s purple Pygmy Puff, or tiny Puffskein, bred by Fred and George. Number 93, Diagon Alley. Cormac McLaggen. Sirius Black. “Wingardium Leviosa”. Amos Diggory. Tottenham Court Road in London. “Petrificus Totalus”. Rook on R8. The Millenium Bridge. Alecto Carrow. Shell Cottage, Tinworth, Cornwall. “HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.” Katie Bell. Malfalda Hopkirk, the witch responsible for the Improper use of Magic Office.

Tub full, she stood back to regard the mound of ice. Already the heat of her home fought to melt it. A rap came again at the entrance, more like an impatient pounding, and she cursed. The clock showed her only a few minutes away from her torture. I need whoever it is to go away. She ran to the door and slid open the peek-a-boo slot. Familiar turquoise eyes peered back. “Little witch, little witch, let me come in,” he chanted in a gruff voice. A smile curled her lips. “Not by the wart on my chinny chin chin,” she replied. “And before you try huffing and puffing, Nefertiti herself spelled this door. So forget blowing it down.” “So open it then. I’ve got a lead I think on escapee number three.” A glance at the clock showed one minute left. “Um, I’m kind of in the middle of something. Can you come back in like half an hour?” “Why not just let me in and I’ll wait while you do your thing? I promise not to watch, unless you like an audience.” “I can’t. Please. Just go away. I promise I’ll let you in when you come back.” His eyes narrowed. “Open this door, Ysabel.” “No. Now go away. I’ll talk to you in half an hour.” She slammed the slot shut and only allowed herself a moment to lean against the door which shuddered as he hit it with a fist. She didn’t have time to deal with his frustration. The tickle in her toes started and she ran to the bathroom, dropping her robe as she moved. The fire erupted, and standing on the lava tile in her bathroom, she concentrated on breathing against the spiraling pain and flames. I mustn’t scream. Remy might still be there, listening. Why that mattered, she couldn’t have said, but it did help her focus for a short moment. But the punishment would not allow her respite. Flames licked up her frame, demolishing her thin underpants and she couldn’t help but scream as the agony tore through her body. Make it stop. Make it stop. Wishing, praying, pleading didn’t stop the torture. As the inferno consumed her, her ears roared with the snap of the fire and a glance in her mirror horrified her, for there she stood – a living pyre of fire. She closed her eyes against the brilliant heat, but that just seemed to amplify the pain. Her knees buckled, but she didn’t fall. Something clasped her and she moaned as she sensed more than saw Remy’s arms wrap around her waist. It had to be him. Who else was crazy enough to break down her door and interrupt? Forcing open her eyes, eyes that wanted to water but couldn’t as the heat dried up all moisture, she saw the flames, not picky about their choice her own nightmare, she knew enough to try and push him away with hands that glowed inferno bright. He wouldn’t budge, and he didn’t scream – just held her as the curse ran its course. Without being told, once the flames disappeared, he placed her in the ice bath, the shocking cold a welcome relief. Gasping from the pain, she couldn’t speak but remained aware of how he stroked her hair back from her face and how his arm rested around her shoulders, cradling her. “Oh, my poor little witch,” he murmured. “No wonder you’ve been hiding.” Teeth chattering as the cold penetrated her feverish limbs, she tried to reply. “Wh-what c-c-can I say? I’m h-h-hot.” -Remy & Ysabel