|Reviews for Cauterize|
| NineStoicCrayolas chapter 1 . 9/15
This is absolutely stunning and you should be proud.
| DarkSecretWaterbender chapter 1 . 9/11
Oh, this is so beautiful and heartbreaking.
| Guest chapter 1 . 9/3
this is probably in part because i'm hungry and sleep deprived but i'm crying now. this is goddamn gorgeous
| RinnaZevran1987 chapter 1 . 8/31
| Grosspointeblankfan chapter 1 . 8/29
| Dragonmuncher chapter 1 . 8/28
This fic is so damn good. Better than it has any right to be. Well done.
| Dezzi95 chapter 1 . 8/26
This just made me wanna cry the whole damn way through :(
| Monkey D. Toushiro chapter 1 . 8/21
| Fred Bitune chapter 1 . 8/18
I must have read more than 100.000.000 words in HP fanfiction over the last 18 years. And everytime I come back to read this masterpiece I can't help but think that these 1600 words are the best of them all.
Whenever someone asks me why I still read HP fanfiction after all this time I tell them to give this a read. Not all of them ask for more after, but they all understand.
| Toiq chapter 1 . 8/16
This was amazing!
| optionofpeace chapter 1 . 8/10
fourth time reading this. still crying.
| Baby Hedgehog-Cute but DEADLY chapter 1 . 8/9
This is easily the most heartbreakingly beautiful thing I've ever read. I just. Goodness. I was literally breathless reading it.
I'm going to give you a thing in return. It's a thing I shared with my writing groupchat (that resulted in someone sharing your fic with me) and I just... feel like I need to share something, too? I dunno. Anyways.
Where are Hogwarts’ art freaks, music nerds, and writing geeks after the Great War?
The horror buff with charcoal dust on the tip of her wand, on her hands, on her clothes? Her imaginary surrealist monsters are no longer imaginary, and instead leak out of her pores and onto a paper pad, but they still trawl through her monochromatic nightmares
The sarcastic pianist too shy to share their soul-shifting pieces with anyone except their boyfriend? The notes are slowly being forgotten, no matter how many lonely nights their boyfriend sings the songs to himself while clutching bloody fragments of piano keys to his chest.
The budding journalist dead set on changing the world with the intimate stories of those that go unheard? Her stacks of parchment are either burnt, bloodied, or a combination of both, but even if they weren’t, she’s not sure there could possibly be anything good left in the world after the death of her photographer.
The sunny painter that used to dream of beaches and landscapes of yellows and blues? His acrylic pieces are now filled with nothing broiling waves of crimson interjected with glowing green streaks, and if you look hard enough you can see the faces of his lost friends hidden in the murky depths.
The only drummer to ever grace the halls of Hogwarts with her thunderous, passionate sound? She burned her sticks after realizing she couldn't play without panic’s icy claws of dragging her into memories of explosions and screams and blood, and her dramatic introductions of stick to drum sounded too much like bodies hitting the floor.
The boastful architect whose mind was going to be the first to remodel Hogwarts in its regal grandeur? He plans and plans and plans for the perfect castle that will be safe and impenetrable and perfect, and he may have it done if only his tears would stop making his stupid quill ink run.
The lone writer that quietly created a private anthology of woeful warlocks, fantastical fighting and a prejudiced people? The horrifying realization of how accurate her stories were prompted her to turn them into illustrative memoirs of survivors; she’d even written the death of a twin in the middle of a laugh...
The cheeky sculptor that gathered clay from the bottom of the Great Lake for her work? Dozens of unfinished clay trees sit in her makeshift Room of Requirement studio, never to be discovered after she let herself come to a watery rest next to the body of the sister she found half buried in the muddy material she used to create.
The avid guitarist that used both magical and mathematical engineering to make the first pair of empathic guitar strings? She’s nowhere to be found, but her strings now constantly strum out the steady rhythm of their owner’s numb anguish, so she must still be alive… somewhere.
The muggle photographer armed with his mother’s old-fashioned camera and blinding optimism, capturing candids of a people without a cause? Rubble caved in the magical darkroom he was developing photos in, but passerby can see his partially crushed hand reaching for the shattered remains of some odd, boxy-looking muggle contraption.
Yeah, that's it. Anyways. Thanks for this.
| Guest chapter 1 . 8/7
Beautiful. Simply beautiful. This brought genuine tears to my eyes and proves how you can tell an incredible story in so few words. This is really one of those tales that leaves you winded after reading, wondering so much more and glad that nothing more was said.
You really have a talent for that.
| Ackamarackus chapter 1 . 8/7
this is as achingly beautiful as all their scars and voids are. it was masterfully written.
| Sciurid chapter 1 . 7/31
Jesus, this is perfect.