it’s early morning but alice is wide awake, strolling along the empty corridors of st mungos. the woman is physically exhausted, worn out from all the events of the past few days, but she’s never felt more CONTENT in her whole life. she’s completely mesmerized by the sleeping bundle cradled in her arms, so much that she hardly notices when she is joined by another as she rounds the corner, glancing at the familiar face with bright eyes. “oh, hi ! good morning.” she coos, voice barely above a whisper as if to avoid waking the sleeping child nestled in her embrace. it’s almost impossible to tear her gaze away from her son ( afraid she might miss something important if she did ) but she eventually manages, offering nothing short of a beam. “what are you doing here so early ?”
the last few days had been an intense but joyful world of news in the midst of so much misery and horror - and alastor tried to let every second of it seep into his bones, never to leave. something soft to hold onto. a bright smile rested on his lips as he walked through those haunted hallways, the prospect of the visit enough to push away the last memories of the place - that small pink face could get rid of it all. “ morning to you. “ he kept his voice at the same volume as hers, but his eye scouldn’t stay on hers for long. not when something so new and bright rested in her arms. “ wanted to get some of that hospital breakfast. “ he chuckled lightly. it became a bit of an habit in the past couple of days. go there before work. go there after work. “ how are you two doing ? where’s frank ? “
doris was recruited at the worsening of the war, hoping it would get better and offering herself to make a difference but without much success so far. people were dying and it was hard to understand that this was not something that would be so easily won. she would be lying if she admitted that it terrified her quite a bit. “ okay, so the plan is winging it? “ taking the sheet of paper she observed it carefully, waiting for alastor to speak before her. despite the amount of missions she’d gone on before it never seemed to settle her nerves, always having much more on her mind than she was willing to share.
“ the plan is winging it when i say ‘fuck it’. “ the ghost of a smile on his lipsallowed them to have just a quick moment of softness, in which they could BREATHE, undermine the demons that wouldn’t let them go gently into that mission and all its uncertainty. “ get ready." and with that, the auror left her, back with the big guns of the order to plot and plot and plot. he glared back at her a couple of times, making sure she was still there, making sure she looked ready - doris was a curious one, a member of the order he hadn’t yet had the chance to observe in the field up close. in just a couple of minutes he was back, though, and offering up his arm. “ we’re the first to go. “
“ so have i, “ being an adult was hard and molly wasn’t going to say that sometimes she did not miss the good old days at hogwarts when everything was significantly easier. “ i haven’t had firewhiskey in years, no desire too. things have changed we’re getting old al. “
“ oi, “ a howl like laugh, so strong, so unexpected, spilled out of his lips, “ who are you calling old ? we’re at our prime, molls. “ he had thoughts about it, darker ones he’d rather burry, about being thirty one and with so many dearly wanted milestones yet to complete, so much left to achieve, giving away his time and youth to the war and to his damned career. “ feel ree to call me old when i’m eighty, never before that. “
it had been years since molly had any sense of stress relief, even if only for a couple of hours and while her mind still has not left her children at home with arthur it was nice to take a short break. “ not myself, ’m afraid. i know that they are perfectly fine but i cannot help it. ” happily she takes the mug and takes a sip, trying to recall the last time she had a sip of butterbeer. “ so odd, i cannot remember the last time we did this. ”
“ i missed it though. “ he missed life before the war. hell, he missed life before the two had had to grow up, become aurors and parents and fear for something. he mostly missed her and the usual presence she used to be in his daily life. “ and y’know what ? i think the butterbeer’s gotten softer over the years. taste it. ours was like firewhiskey compared to this. “
she’d barely said two words before he agreed, a small smile slowly creeping its way onto her lips — soft and comforted, despite the chaos that continued to rage in her mind. alastor moody had always has that effect on her, the effect of a warm blanket or a shielding umbrella from the onslaught of DESTRUCTION so she ended up safe and somewhat calm under his watchful eye. moody was perhaps the only person at this point she could trust to be there for her, even if he was experiencing turmoil himself, and the thought alone was enough to keep her from tipping over the edge right at this very moment. nodding slowly, she gave him a moment to collect the last few things before gripping gently onto his forearm and twisting them through to hogsmeade, just infront of her favourite cafe ( just across from her favourite bar ). shrugging her jacket on so it wrapped tighter around her torso, she moved quickly to open the door for the man, gesturing for him to follow and leading them towards an isolated table. once settled in her seat she let out a long, quiet sigh, piecing together her words in her mind before she said any of them out loud. ❛ i can’t stop thinking about that day, ❜ she finally whispered, no formalities or cushion to the pain and anguish hidden beneath her tone — she didn’t know what else to say. ❛ i keep seeing things where there’s nothing, thinking that they’re behind every corner, paranoid any time i don’t hear from my friends. it’s… awful. it’s taken over my life. ❜
he nodded at her gestures, silent through it all, following ariel and sitting across her at the table, his jacket on the back of his chair, his hands clasped together on top of the table. he already knew what the conversation was about, of course, and the soft spot in his heart that belonged so dearly to ariel was gushing out blood. some other place was bleeding out after every word though. the big open wound in him, so infected by the same evils as hers - it was almost uncanny how right in front of him was a girl he so tried to protect from the war, nearly as wartorn as him. he’d failed her. he’d failed himself. and so they were, sitting there, bleeding out. “ i can’t - “ it was a terrible confession, “ i can’t help you. “ he had no idea how to stop seeing danger in the safest of places, how to not keep thinking about tragedy, how to stop the paranoia, the nightmares, the fear. alastor moody, for all his experience, had no answers. “ i guess that’s just what war does to some people, i don’t know. you just keep going, and when the war ends so will that shit, i hope. “ it was the brutal truth, and all of him cracked while saying it. a hand reached out to hers for some sort of comfort - he even considered hugging her, if gthe table wasn’t on the way. what else could he do ? useless, useless, useless. “ try to find something that distracts you. and uh, i got sleeping potions if you need help with that. and just... come to me when you need, alright ? “ why ? what could he possibly do ? merlin, he felt almost as powerless as back at st. mungo’s.
“late enough that you’re about to bolt out of here naked, i’m sure.” edgar nearly had a panic attack when he saw the time. before his gaze fell on the sleeping man beside him and decided on a rarely committed fuck it. the relaxation coursing through his body, the genuine smile on his face - he wasn’t ready to lose the feeling. “which would be a pity. because i’d much rather you be naked here.” he turned, finally, to stare down at the bed. previously examining his half-naked figure, clad in only shorts slung low on his hips, in the dresser mirror. the bruises forming an obvious trail down his neck had caught him by surprise. his finger jabbed toward the marks, irritation warring with amusement. “what were you hoping to accomplish with these?” he demanded. his knees brushed the edge of the bed and he pushed forward, now kneeling above the man who had taken control of his thoughts so easily.
“ i’m not a big fan of public nudity. it IS an intimidation tactic, though. “ soft laughter left his lips, and he trusted edgar enough to know that if they were staying in, it’d be fine. he could catch up on work later. his eyes followed the man with hunger, especially as he got closer, tall and mighty, blocking the sunlight as he stood above him. alastor could feel so powerless right then, but the bruising on the other’s exposed skin showed who really had the upperhand. “ i don’t know what you’re talking about. “ a lazy smile, a relaxed expression, eyes fixed on the spot. something in him made him want to recreate it on the other side, make perfect edgar even more perfect, even when stained. what had he hoped to accomplish? perhaps a reminder to edgar. perhaps one to himself. perhaps another part of their secret, something they’d have to physically hide - because of couse ed would hide it. “ i can make it even if that’s what you’re looking for. “
you and two friends need to cross a bridge guarded by a river troll who insists on fighting one of you before he will let all of you pass. do you: volunteer to fight?
which would you rather be: trusted?
what are you most looking forward to learning at hogwarts? secrets about the castle.
after you have died, what would you most like people to do when they hear your name? miss you, but smile.
four boxes are placed before you. which would you try and open? the small pewter box, unassuming and plain, with a scratched message upon it that reads ‘i open only for the worthy.’
if you were attending hogwarts, which pet would you choose to take with you? barn owl.
heads or tails? tails.
notes: i’m not surprised really because i feel like alastor’s sorting took quite some time, almost enough to be a hat stall. he just has so much of all houses in him, especially hufflepuff and gryffindor. his gryffindor side is very visible in his actions, his notions of bravery and being very noble and all that, but what truly makes him an hufflepuff is WHY he acts that way. he always does it because he’s searching for justice, fairness, protect the group, patience.
“ can you believe they actually want the word mudblood to be forbiden? last time i checked we have freedom of speech. “ it was more than known victoria’s hatred for muggles and muggleborns and she took ever opportunity to say it aloud. the recent news of hateful posters in diagon alley weren’t a surprise for the pureblood but still, it was amusing.
“ don’t confuse freedom of speech with freedom to discriminate. “ he gave the woman a quick glance, a lack of kindness in his eyes. their stagnated world was on the brink of implosion yet there she was, so young, so careless, so brutal in her views. “ how much do you know about muggle history, rowle ? muggle society really ? their prejudices ? “
there were plenty of people mary could have gone to talk to, but she’d found herself here. alastor moody had a way about him that made her feel like she could trust him with this. maybe it was his experience, or the experience she had with him thus far, or maybe just a gut feeling. either way, mary was glad she’d stepped to him when he nodded and matter-of-factly told her how many he’d killed ( as if they were comparing lotto numbers, or the size of their feet ). another person might have found it unsettling, but she didn’t. she didn’t want to be coddled, or for the truth to be sugar coated. she just wanted to talk, or to at least confess. ( she thought of church, of confessing to the priest as a little girl, and how she’d never dare to step in that booth now, with the blood on her hands. ) she closed the door. wished she’d gotten tea before she went to alastor. sat down. “i knew one of them, i think. didn’t have time to unmask the others. it was marius gibbon.” she thought about the running, the constant need to keep moving, of the blood on her clothes that wasn’t merely hers. she wished to run now, but she felt like she was frozen on the spot, her feet stuck in quicksand. it was probably for the best — mary didn’t like facing her demons, but knew it to be best, still. “does it always feel this way?” her voice was quieter, then. “i — i thought i wanted them all death. i guess i do, still, but … it doesn’t feel right, still?” her feet were released, and she paced, hands still wrapped around her empty mug. “but it DOES, somehow, which makes it feel worse and i just —” she shrugged, halted, sat down. a breath passed her lips, long and shaky. “i don’t know.”
marius gibbon. he’d look into him later. “ yeah. “ he sighed the single word out once she spoke, her turmoil such an understandable one, especially when he, even after all those years and all that training, could still feel it raging in his bones. “ look, everyone has a different philosophy on right and wrong and death, and you just have to figure out your own. “ that was what mary wanted - no, what mary NEEDED. the truth, plain and simple, and terribly useless. “ it’ll never feel right. if it does, you’re probably losing your shit a bit too much. “ he gave her a tiny smile before flipping back the switch to war. “ you’re going to kill more. you can’t fight without it. i try to see every face, see if i can get a name too, and i can’t... just brush them off. because they were alive one second, and not the next, and i did that. i’ll sleep or not with that. my responsability. same thing with you, you’ll just have to accept it. think about how many more gibbon and the others would have killed, or worse. “ poor mary, so young, so full of demons. he wished he had better to offer her. “ if i ever figure out how to make it easier, i’ll tell you. “
“ so…. ” doris tried to gather the correct words, or at least the ones that seemed right in the moment. she had only been in the order a couple of months, going on five now and would never have joined if it wasn’t for minerva convincing her to be apart of something she could make a change in. it wasn’t the easiest thing and generally it left her on edge worrying about what could happen to her family if things went wrong but with the war intensifying as time went on there was no going back now. “ is there a plan? i’m afraid this isn’t exactly my expertise. ”
“ there’s always at least seven plans. “ the auror recognised the uncertainty in her voice, the same one every recent member had as the magnitude of the war finally hit them. “ but honestly ? eighty percert of the times, we have to end up saying fuck it to the plans and making up new ones on the spot. “ the man finally looked up at her and, after a quick silent thought, got up and walked nearly past her - but handed her a sheet of paper. “ general directions. we’re raiding one of their meeting places. if you can read and prepare yourself, you’re with me and we apparate in five. “ that was the plan. to keep on fighting mission by mission, and alastor hoped doris was ready to follow along. merlin knew that, given their constant losses, they always needed more brave soldiers. the auror left the meeting room, in search for the handful already divided in sections about to leave for the old manor in wales.
gentle hands shook him in the middle of the night and, for once, he was asleep. it was so rare even then for alastor to sleep through the night. he recognised those gentle hands with ease, as they’d shaken him in the dead of night a couple of times before, and he always knew what it was. one of his parents had gotten severely injured in some mission, they’d like to bring him to st. mungo’s and keep him out of the classrooms for at least a few days. with some haziness he got up, remembering the details of last time. fifth year, his mother had broken her leg and suffered some intense head trauma, but she’d caught the criminals, of course. he’d had tea in dumbledore’s office for half an hour and then was sent to st. mungo’s where she scoffed that there was no need for her child to be there. he’d sat outside her room as she gave other aurors reports, his father had come by a few times until it was decided he best return to school. with a robe around his pajamas, he walked slowly through the dark corridors, almost unaffected, it was surely nothing important. with any luck, he’d get to hear some auror tales by the hospital bed. pomona sprout kept a gentle hand on his shoulder the entire way.
the neutral expression on his face disappeared the moment he stepped foot into dumbledore’s office and saw another barely awake child there - kingsley, as close as a brother, standing there with all the bravery a fourteen year old could muster. “ he didn’t tell me about any… big mission. “ the first and some of the very few words alastor spoke that night, and they were whispered directly at kingsley. his parents used to tell him about the important ones, the riskier ones, told them almost like adventure stories, but he’d heard nothing, yet both he and the other boy stood there, at two in the morning. their fathers, partners in most missions, certainly the reason why. the following couple of hours felt grueling, as of they were YEARS long. dumbledore told them about a mission, alastor focused on every detail of it ( and would never forget it, especially as he’d read the reports on it. over and over and over for years to come ), and many teachers kept coming in and out of the office. it was bad. merlin, he knew it was bad, otherwise they’d have brought them to st. mungo’s already. all they could know was that the mission, on the hunt of old members of grindelwald’s army, had gone terribly wrong, and that aurors were still being given emergency care. maybe he’s been maimed, he thought, lost a limb, a piece of flesh, i suppose that takes a lot of care before they’d bring in a son. perhaps he’s been blinded. burned. tortured. his imagination, fed with years of casual talks of murder over dinner, ran wild and into terrifying places, but there was one he dared not to go.
alastor still can’t remember when it happened, but at some point in those hours of pacing, sitting, listening to kind words and anecdotes, being fed biscuits and tea and sad looks - at some point his hand had found kingsley’s. not like it used to when they were younger, alastor guiding him through the fields, gripping his smaller hands so he wouldn’t lose him, dragging him around the auror’s office, keeping a close eye on the little boy. NO. his hand shook as he found the other’s and in that small touch, they found rocks, thousands of years old, able to withstand any storm. he gripped it tightly from that moment until they walked into a fireplace and were in the busy hospital, lime green and purple everywhere and healers rushed. red as well. aurors from the mission kept coming in, apparently, being pulled out of the debris. he lost kingsley’s hand then and something cracked in his chest. what if his friend needed him ? what if HIS father had not made it ? how could he let go, let him wander into the unknown, into his mother's warm embrace that couldn’t protect him from what was to come ? how could kingsley let him go, as if he was brave enough to not know the truth the moment he saw his own mother’s face ? god, he could crumble so easily - but he didn’t.
grayson shacklebolt and sidney moody were two of the casualties of the mission. sidney died quickly, avada kedavra, lights were out, his body fell right by his partner, the original target of the spell. grayson suffered far too many injuries the survive the attack, let alone the trip to st. mungo’s.
he cried four times only. the moment he saw his mother, when a couple of unstoppable tears left his eyes, which he quickly brushed away. her face was covered in them already, the woman was almost flooding, but when her son, of only seventeen, came to place one hand on her shoulder, the tears stopped. briefly, only. little boy, raised in war, sitting in big chairs in big offices surrounded by pictures of corpses. little boy, told not to cry over his scratches when he fell, the life of an auror awaited him so much more than that. little boy, unable to complain, life would be harsh and he’d have to accept it. little boy, who never played soldier. little boy, groomed for war. constance moody saw it then, in the way he barely shook, in the way he barely cried, that she was in front of a soldier, not a boy. what had they done to him ?
he cried again the next morning, when he held kingsley in a tight embrace, not daring to crumble much more than a few tears. he cried when he returned to hogwarts that day to get some of his belongings and molly awaited him with arms so warm he could almost melt into them. the final time was when alisa walked him to the gates, where dumbledore would apparate him away, and the only thing keeping more tears away was the strength he found in her hand. by the time others came near him, he had no tears left. by the time of the funeral, he had no tears left. the two weeks he stayed at home, mostly by himself as his mother dared not leave her bedroom, he had no tears left. and just like that, constance returned to work, he returned to school. no time to waste, of course, N.E.W.T.S. were coming up.
death was so much simpler when it was impersonal. he pities every auror who tells him he gets too involved in his cases.
boredom glazes over green eyes. the bureaucracy of it all was exhausting in and of itself. but he takes it all in regardless, information to be put aside to consider later. information to be relayed elsewhere. reducing corruption ? that was the knights’ goal in the first place. ❝ only if you hex me first. ❞ his voice is light, joking, a brief smirk ghosting across his lips. arms cross loosely against his chest as he looks away from bagnold and over to his right hand during these long assemblies in the ministry. ❝ same shite, new week. i’m going to need a drink after this. on you, of course. ❞
alastor doesn’t care to contain the tiny smile at the other’s reply, the usual same two lines exchanged by the two timed with perfection. the ministry is filled the paper pushers, corrupt officials and by-the-book people, quite a suffocating environment in which the storm of unortodox but well intentioned and selfless actions that is alastor moody is not welcomed. the lsit of those he actually enjoys within all those walls is short, but augustus rookwood has earned a spot. “ fuck off, you earn way more than me and we both know it. “ he still isn’t looking at him, but straigth ahead at the minister. “ one drink. “
any spare moment she can find is spent at headquarters, talking to younger order members, making plans, discussing the future. breakfast has become a spare moment — minerva often leaves hogwarts after waking up to get food in her system and see what needs to be done, before classes start. it’s a tiring schedule, the constant flooing, but it’s the price she’s paying. and it’s more than worth it. she stands in the kitchen, working through her porridge, looking at her watch to check the time. she’s supposed to meet alastor ( @alaslor ) for a quick update, and while he’s not yet late ( she was awfully early, as always ), she is impatient. in all fairness, she’s impatient most of the time, these days. when he finally does walk into the kitchen – still perfectly on time – she puts her spoon in her bowl and sits down. “are there any new suspects?,” she asks. the question has been burning on her mind — she needs to know who was behind this, if she ever taught them, if she knows them. “any other news?” she’s craving answers, knows that alastor doesn’t have them all. “i didn’t learn anything new, the other night.” she’d gone undercover again, but it had been fruitless. “they’re hidden too well.”
“ no. “ he replies before she can even finish the question, an exhausted look on his face. “ we scanned the houses, “ kept finding more pieces of fenwick as they went, but alastor keeps that nightmare to himself, “ questioned everyone, went to the prophet. went to st. mungo’s. there’s nothing on absolutely anything. “ not on the siege, not on the murdered order members. alastor feels totally useless, and that frustration is obvious in the way he drops to a chair, sinking into it with closed eyes, as if that can give him the rest he’s neglected during the night. “ what about carrow ? “ he throws out the idea with eyes still closed, the back of his intertwined hands over them. “ we KNOW he’s a death eater. “ by that he means, alastor highly suspects it, and tells him such striaght to his face. “ he’s not pureblood royalty like his sister, but he must go to meetings and such. and i wouldn’t put past him such a violent murder too. YOU could try following him ? “
you’re only a liability the moment you start betraying us. the words seem to stick, echoing against his brain. uncertainty has weighed on caradoc for weeks now and frustration intertwines with fear at alastor’s words. spine straightens and hands ball into fists, jagged nails digging crescent moons into his palms. the frustration continues to build maybe because he doesn’t know who he is without the work he had been doing. perhaps it’s the self - doubt. it could be that nagging whisper he hears or the lack of sleep. no matter the cause, a switch seems to flip within him. ❝ that’s the thing ! ❞ doc snaps back, a whisper of panic nearly undetectable beneath the words. ❝ what if i already have, moody ? what if i already gave something up ? ❞ because it’s not like he knows the truth. the black hole in his memory that had gone unspoken for weeks now, the empty time that tells him he could have done any number of things, was desperate to be put out in the open. he doesn’t know what he was capable of doing or who he would be willing to risk to save his own ass. the hours following when he watched marietta drag frank down the empty corridors as he went the opposite way, into the hands of grinning ornate masks they were just gone. it fucking terrifies him. ❝ i was in that hospital for two days. you know how i know that ? ❞ doc wishes he felt like he deserved moody’s concern, but he only barrels on, weeks worth of anxieties falling past chapped lips. ❝ because that’s how long the prophet said the hostage situation was. because that’s what people have told me. but i don’t fucking remember. i was there for two days, and i feel like i’m missing half that time. ❞ he can’t remember, doesn’t remember, won’t remember. maybe he shouldn’t. ❝ i can’t leave you all without answers ? what about the fucking answers i need ? i spent two weeks trying to figure out what the hell i’m missing and it’s like my head is a goddamn locked box and ❞ there’s a shaky breath taken as his fist slams once on the arm of his chair. ❝ if whoever’s singing in the hall doesn’t stop, i might actually go fucking mad. ❞
alastor can’t say he’s taken aback with the other’s reaction - it was always a possible result, according to all clues before. the information in it, though, brings a wave of shock through him that the ever transparent alastor does his best to hide, since there’s enough panic in the room. in a discreet movement, he closes the office door with a silent spells, well aware that the little dark place has become a confession box. spells make sure that once that dppr is closed, no sound comes in or out, so in that terrifying bubble alastor sits straight, but quiet. in his head, he builds the story from which caradoc gives only vague points, and in that silence one thing is clear. caradoc could curse. caradoc could shout. caradoc could get up and shake the auror, turn over a table, and he still wouldn’t move. a rock in the middle of the storm, taking in all the anger and FEAR, even if it wasn’t his to bear. missing time, unreachable memories, hallucinations. it could be just the trauma of the event, whatever hell he’d been through so horrific his own brain tried to hide it. but... as an auror, he knows better than to ignore the other option. “ you should have come to me. “ he speaks slowly, after a long pause, with a softness in his voice masking the real concern. “ god dammit, you should have come to me. what’s the last thing you properly remember ? or is it spotty ? “ singing in the hall. singing in the hall. “ and describe the voice. “
tea or coffee ? honestly is alive only thanks to coffee.
lace or velvet ? lace is so aesthetically pleasing.
wine or beer ? avoids alcohol most of the time but honestly would have expensive wine over beer any time. he was raised by an old rich pureblood family, he has those fine tastes. would probably even share the same top 3 with lucius malfoy, ew.
flying or apparating ? no one can chase you apparating. what’s the worst that could happen besides some splinching anyway.
quills or pens ? quills, because it’s what feels right, what he was raised using, what a good dramatic bitch like him would love. but always with a muggle marker right next to him. those big chunky things are the best invention.
summer or winter ? it’s worse weather for work and order stuff and he knows it, but damn if he doesn’t love winter. the storms, the snow, the freezing cold, the huge coats. feels so cozy ?? and intense ??
muggle music or wizard music ? is very very picky with music, but mostly goes for more jazz-like vibes, and especially older muggle music. and, of course, the wizard classics his parents listened to.
hot or iced ? burn off his lips, or don’t exist at all.
moon or stars ? who cares about the moon ! alastor does, but also, we just have one ! because this doesn’t include other moons ! SO MANY STARS ! let him tell you facts about half of them !
honeydukes or florean fortescue’s ice cream parlour ? ice cream is messy and melts easily. not a practical sweet thing.
beach or mountain ? loves the heights .
shower or bath ? shower. practical, quick, saves water.
solid or patterned ? alastor will never wear a pattern and this is a fact. the hogwarts’ ties stripes were already asking for too much.
cuddling or kissing ? cuddling ! he’s a soft bitch !
forehead kisses or cheek kisses ? forehead kisses are rarer and purer and feel more important to him.
roses or lavender ? sampaguitas. tries to have some fresh ones around sometimes.
night or day ? claims to be a creature of the night, but it’s mostly because he’s had a bad case of insomnia ever since he can remember. nights are frustrating, lonely and, especially as of late, full of nightmares so give him the day please.
fiction or non fiction ? mythology nerd, but also science books nerd.
transfiguration or potions ? transfiguration mainly because he preferred the professor much more than the obviously hunting for personal gain slughorn.
concert or play ? just feels less wild, less packed, less variables to keep in mind. a bit of a wizard theater snob.
robes or muggle clothes ? can’t cope with robes. so not practical. dumb, dumb, dumb.
introverted or extraverted ? leave the man alone
socks, slippers or barefoot ? barefoot always.
rose gold or bronze ? something timeless about bronze.
bright or pastel colours ? really dark colours, or variations of light grey, cream, beige and white.
small or big house ? small, because large houses feel emptier, lonelier. remind him of his childhood home a bit too much. kinda freaks him out a bit when he’s somewhere huge without every space being packed with people.
library or bookshop ? bookshop because he buys half of it every time he visits one.
quiet or loud ? growing up so isolated and spending so much time alone kinda left him CRAVING noise and movement. keeps the door to his offices a little open to hear the noise from outside. lives in the busiest street he could find.
truth or dare ? is too private for truths, and too competitive to say no to a dare.
dragons or thestrals ? in a morbid way, loves the concept of thestrals ??
thunderstorm or sunny ? let the sky scream !
vanilla or honey scented ? honeeey. make everything smell like honey please. alastor himself smells like honey a lot, it’s one of his go-to scents, support it.
silver or gold ? gold feels warmer.
radio or newspaper ? newspaper feels more personal, and he can cut off articles for his crime boards and just make shim feel like he’s stored the information better if he’s read it.
vocal or silent spells ? silent as often as possible. lives for the element of surprise (okay u know that scene in BvS where batman is hiding in the corner of a ceiling and then BOOM attack ? u turn around and he’s there, spell already on the way)
garden or forest ? his training and experience says garden, because it’s a more controleld setting, less surprises, less possible outcomes. but he loves dense scary forests filled with creatures and ancient trees and so isolated from the rest of the world ! except the bugs. fucking hates bugs anywhere.
bag or backpack ? charmed hidden pockets but, if needed, a backpack is the most practical item.
tea leaf reading or tarot card ? will let someone go with the tea leaf just to amuse them, but 110% doesn’t believe in either.
celestina warbeck or OMEN ? yes. his music taste is very much more jazz-y, and he quite likes older muggle jazz too. probably has no idea what OMEN is.
neat or messy handwriting ? has a surprisingly neat handwriting, full of little details and flourishes, but writes most things in some sort of personal code, so you can’t make much sense of what’s there other than it’s pretty.
lower case or all caps ? everything is URGENT
pancakes or crepes ? waffles. ever since he got a muggle waffler iron, his life has never been the same.
bertie bott’s every flavour beans or chocolate frogs ? bertie bott’s beans, we die like men
hogsmeade or diagon alley ? hogsmeade is innocence. it’s hogwarts and reunions with old friends there, and light shopping. diagon alley feels more like work - has to patrol it often, finds many criminals there, does his own shady business in and around there.
over the word count or the bare minimum ? at school he was that one who went like 800 words over the max. now ? you’ll get three very simple sentences at best.
ghosts or werewolves ? ghosts are so sad and he’s secretly so afraid of becoming one. looks at one for too long and feels so anxious, nope.
cloud watching or star gazing ? let’s go outside, hold hands, watch the stars, tell the constellations and facts about their chemical compositions !
countryside or city ? city, city, city. loves visiting the countryside, especially in the highlands, but can feel himself grow into a terrible mood if he stays there for too long. the youthfulness and movement and sound of the city makes him feel alive.
witch weekly or the quibbler ? fucking hell.
fresh fruit or fresh flowers ? fresh fruits always ! you can eat the fruit, you can’t eat the flowers !
sweet or sour ? the sweetest tooth.
big spoon or little spoon ? little spoon ! i’ve said this, he’s a soft bitch !
rooftop or balcony ? open field or inside.
nearly headless nick or the grey lady ? his taste for gory shit was vert often satisfied.
lemon or lime ? lime is so GREEN and pRETTY.
flobberworms or imps ? JUST because imps annoy him too much.
satin or flannel ? no lumberjack fantasies here.
pearls or diamonds ? diamonds can be very discreet and pretty while pearls are so chunky.
dinosaur kid or fairytale kid ? fairytale kid. loved listening to folk stories from the older muggles, loved the way magic was portrayed in muggle children’s books, loved mythology. reenacted faitytale scenes by himself or with kingsley and later alisa when they were little.
poetry or prose ? prose. he wants the information going straight from the pages to his brain, not having to interpret all that written song.
cats, owls or frogs ? owls are practical, and gorgeous, majestic, just feel so wizard-specific.
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