Amycus is not naturally intelligent or bookish. He grows bored all too easily. During lessons, he’s likely staring out the window, tracing over words scrawled on parchment until the nib of his quill piercing through to the desk, or whispering quietly to the Slytherin in the seat next to him. He’s better at the practical stuff anyway. Amycus’ strength has always been more physical than anything else. He learns by doing, not by reading about it in a book. He particularly excels at magic that lies strictly outside of the school curriculum. Amycus has held a reverence for Dark Magic since he was a young boy, fixating on them the way a child from a less sinister upbringing might fixate on dragons. Selfish and not afraid to hurt others if it means getting what he wants, darker branches of magic suit him perfectly.
It is fortunate for Amycus that he lives in a time of war, where his skills make him useful rather than a miscreant or troublemaker, though he is still both these things in the eyes of his teachers. Without a purpose to commit to, Amycus would be nothing more than the brute at the back of the class, destined to be an underachiever, too coarse and abrasive for any legitimate occupation in the years to come. War gives him something to aspire to. It gives him ambition. He will graduate Hogwarts and he won’t have to think about what comes next. He doesn’t have to consider a profession seriously or worry about whatever match his mother has agreed to on his behalf to secure the family’s fortune. Because of the war, Amycus will either prosper or die.
Amycus doesn’t know that it comes at a cost. He treats life like it’s nothing. He has witnessed the Cruciatus Curse, just like any other aspiring Death Eater. He has seen what the curse does, how it makes you writhe on the floor, cries tearing out of you, nails splintered from scratching long grooves into the stone floor of the cellar. The first time he did it, it made him vomit. The second time he didn’t even flinch. The third time he hungered for more. Dark magic is a drug and on it Amycus soars.
He doesn’t understand how much he has to lose because he never thought that was where it would lead to, losing. The Carrows’ alliance with the Dark Lord was never under question. Already devoted to preserving their own purity and that of the magical world as a whole, it was natural they join the Dark Lord in his efforts to gain power. Announcing his intention to serve the Dark Lord when the time came was never a choice Amycus had to make. His blood, pure as crystal, made that decision for him.
Too often, love felt like pain. Fingers fitting tightly around the back of his neck as his mother urged him to just sit straight. Or a knee, cut and bleeding, swelling that spoke of a bruise to come. His father liked to drink and when he passed out on the chaise it was down to Amycus to clean up the mess. The man was twice his size and drunk to oblivion. An ache settled in Amycus’ shoulders from bearing the weight of him too many times. In Amycus’ first year at Hogwarts, Wingardium Leviosa became his favourite incantation. His mother slapped him across the cheek the first time he dared speak ill of his father. Teeth sunk into his lip at the impact and the iron tang of blood filled his mouth. It was the only time she hit him. It wasn’t the only time he gave her cause to. Amycus learned an important lesson; to find love, look for pain, for love and pain go hand in hand.
For once, Alecto was not the exception to the rule, except the pain was a different kind. His sister never dealt the pain herself. She was merely the root of it. It was lead in his chest, a longing for something he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - name, a knife in his gut the first time marriage alliances became a topic of discussion over dinner. Regarding his sister, pain felt a lot like loneliness, for he knew he would never be with another person wholly, completely. No one would outshine his beloved sister.
Amycus is bisexual, but he would never admit this aloud given how much discord it would cause with his parents. It is his obligation to his name to marry and for that marriage to produce children. Amycus has no desire to do either. He cannot imagine a life where he is attached to anyone more than his sister, with the exception of the Dark Lord. But marriage is an inevitability. The family name must be carried on to the next generation and it is traditionally the male who does it. What would be the point in contesting his parents on the matter when they are only going to win anyway? They’d only taint something that was his alone. True affection doesn’t come easily to Amycus, but sex is another matter. Amycus is not immune to his own desires and emotional needs. At times repulsed by his attraction to his twin, Amycus seeks distraction. He will kiss anyone who pleases him and he will fuck anyone who pleases him, so long as the desire is mutual. He is incredibly guarded about all relations. What his parents know about his so called “love life”, he chooses them to know. He will deny anything that doesn’t suit his interests. Amycus does not feel shame about his sexuality, only contempt for the parents whose love is conditional upon his ability to fit the mold they created.
Far from being the most enthusiastic student, the only extracurricular activity Amycus cared about was Dueling Club. It was a place to blow off steam and practice offensive spells without incurring detention. Amycus had never felt particularly intelligent or smart. Then he joined the dueling club. For once, Amycus was good at something. He excelled. Not only that, but he excelled in front of an audience. He had practiced Dark Magic over the summer holidays under the tutorship of his parents so the trace didn’t alert the Ministry of underage magic. Never did he receive praise from his parents for a spell cast well. What confidence Amycus has he built himself, without the help of those who were supposed to encourage. As part of the dueling club he came alive.
In true Amycus style, he fucked it all up during his fifth year, when he took what he learned outside of the safe confines of club meetings and into the corridors. In a bid to temper his lust for violence, Amycus was banned from the dueling club and prohibited from re-joining in the coming years. As such, the only extracurricular activity Amycus is a part of is the Slug Club and only because it serves his and his family’s interests. Amycus does not get along well with Professor Slughorn. He swears he’s only there because Alecto is everything the professor craves for his collection and you can’t have one Carrow without the other.
On Amycus’ seventeenth birthday, he was supposed to be marked. The Dark Lord welcomed recruits from all the pureblood families that remained loyal to tradition, but still he wouldn’t take just anyone into his forces. First, they needed to be tested. First, Amycus would have to prove his ability to perform the Unforgivables. A muggle subject was brought to him specifically. In the basement of the Carrow manor, Amycus tortured the man to the brink of insanity, then he cast the Imperius curse, commanding the muggle to quit his whimpering. At last, he cast the Killing Curse, but it didn’t take. It was ineffective. Amycus didn’t mean it enough. He was enraged at his own inability at a time when his magic mattered most. Amycus couldn’t kill the man with a curse, but he could command him to take his own life. The muggle slammed his head against the wall, again and again, until it finally took him. Amycus didn’t watch. He was already up the stairs when the final crunch resounded through the cellar. No one would question his sadistic nature, his usefulness to the cause, but it is all too clear he has much to learn before he can serve his master. Until he does, he will remain unmarked.
To Amycus, Amortentia is usually a mixture of three scents. Split wood. With magic at his disposal, he has never needed to cut firewood himself, but he has always enjoyed the activity none the less. The handle of the axe, solid in his hands, grounds him. It is a weapon far less sophisticated than a wand, but no less powerful if you have the strength to wield it. He relishes the repetition of the task; the flex of his muscles as he raises the axe above his head; the force as he brings it crashing down on the wood, splitting it fully in half. Amycus has no fondness for the manor. Every satisfying thunk takes his mind further away. For Amycus, the activity is not merely meditative, but the longer he goes without stopping the stronger he feels. The power Amycus seeks is physical. He wants strength of body as well as magic. When Amycus fights, he uses a combination of incantations and fists. The smell of split wood evokes a sense of that power, that strength. When he smells it, he feels the force of each blow, hears the crack of wood, and he is flooded with the satisfaction of seeing what destruction his two hands alone can bring.
Apple tobacco. This scent transports Amycus to Paris, most specifically the shisha bars lining the streets of Le Marais. The Carrows have an apartment in the city and the Marais is the aristocratic district, a concoction of private mansions, boulangeries, and bars with lax security, making it one of Amycus’ favourite spots in the city. The sweet aroma of apple tobacco hits Amycus at every turn. The scent conjures the notion of freedom. It is independence from the parents who took a portkey to their villa in Italy, having grown weary of the city. It is never looking over his shoulder to see who may be observing. It is enjoying the finer things in life. The scent of apple tobacco draws Amycus back to those hot nights in the magical side-streets of the district, smoke clinging to his skin, the blissful buzz of alcohol coursing through his veins, laughter on swollen lips.
Home / Alecto’s hair. To Amycus Carrow, home smells remarkably like Alecto’s hair. Amycus cares for his sister more than he cares for anyone. If his loyalty was tested it would not lie with his parents, nor the Dark Lord and everything Amycus professes to believe. His loyalty lies solely with Alecto. He would turn his back on pureblood tradition if he thought for even a second that it would lead to her suffering. Alecto is home. Not the manor, the apartment in Paris, or the villa in Italy. Not even Hogwarts castle. Alecto. This particular scent conjures memories of afternoons spent in the sun-soaked library of the manor, not because he actually enjoyed being indoors surrounded by books, merely because it meant being with his twin. Memories of her foot giving his a gentle nudge beneath the table as their father tore into Amycus with words as sharp and venomous as a basilisk’s teeth, the simple gesture breaking through his rising anger just enough to keep from lashing back and making the situation worse. Lying in the grass at eight years old, warmed by the sun, her hair tickling Amycus’ cheek; kisses on every bump and bruise, fingers dripping with the juice of freshly picked grapes, her hair in his nose as they hid in the cupboard of their father’s study playing spies. It is not merely familial. It is the bond between twins, trusting someone fully, completely, when you swore you would never trust anyone with anything. It is Amycus’ capacity to love.
Something fleeting. On occasion, Amycus swears he catches a hint of fourth scent, but it is always just out of reach. For one fleeting moment it ignites something in him, a craving he’s never tasted before, but it is gone as quickly as it came. Amycus has yet to make sense of it.
