(within the last minute) faith said: @cursesworn - Tumblr Blog

mehana skeeter once told rita that her curiosity is what would damn well get her in the end. little, budding witch sarita raquel had never believed her, of course, as she never had any intention of getting caught in her little excursions for knowledge. as a child, it had been harmless things -- like sneaking out of her room at night to see what the grown - ups did from her perch at the top of the stairs, eyes peering brightly like a cat’s from between the spindles of the banister. come hogwarts, it was her so - called rebellious phase, involving sneaking out of the ravenclaw tower with a hip flask ( bearing her father’s initials, as if he would be so proud ) and a bottle of vodka stashed beneath her robes. and now? well, now, it consisted of the brunette getting caught up in her own hubris, sticking her nose where it shouldn’t be. and when it comes to the dark - haired witch sitting at the bar, she can practically hear her mother’s voice echoing in the back of her mind. told you, love! you made your damn bed, time to lie in it.

but just maybe, the hint of danger excites her.

despite the cacophany of voices rising in the pub, rita can hear her heels clicking against the hardwood. long strides bring her easily to the bar, where she slides onto the barstool next to inna. “what’s the brooding look for?” she cants her head to the left and allows right leg to cross lazily over left. “needing another drink?”

the prettiest girls in the room for @sectumscmpra

#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( r.s. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — with inna ( r.s. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — august 1978 ( timestamp. ) .#:pleading_face: :metal:

it’s been three months. three months since winter and grief swallowed fall’s easy, sleepy evenings. ( volkovs valentines weren’t notorious for being warm beings. but there’s something about autumn in the united kingdom that can thaw even the coldest of people with the shift in the weather. right before winter brings back the chill. ) but this -- this ( noun ) : her father, closed off, the subtle sharp scent of bourbon lingering in the air -- was a new kind of tempest to weather. danica gave him a pass, and with each month that went by after Her death, she wondered when she traded in the title of child for adult. when she also had to start taking care of him like he had always tried to take care of her. or maybe they’ve always had to take care of each other, and she’d never fully realized it until now.

three months, and she’s tired of seeing him like this. brain wonders if this is what heartbreak looks like, feels like. floudering, bottomless, slipping. on the afternoon she finally decides to step in, the sky decides to open up and snow. “get up.” her voice cuts through the air of the room he had settled quietly in. and just maybe, her voice sounds like his. neither of them had ever been very good at softening their blade - like edges, after all. when he doesn’t reply, she leans against the doorframe and crosses her arms against her chest. tries again. “i’m serious, starik. get up. come with me to get lunch. or -- at least let me make lunch.” she’s trying, trying, trying ; uncertainty with her every step of the way.

sad bitch hours for @sectumscmpra

#* ♤ ⧽ — with nikolai ( d.v. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( d.v. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — march 1981 ( timestamp. ) .#dani calling him old man as a term of endearment ? warm #anyw i have lots of feelings abt the volkovs bye

edgar and hana’s is the only place where yelling children is pleasant. where the back and forth between the young band and their parents leaves her biting back a laugh. ( they, admittedly, may have been the reason her aunt would sidle up to her around holidays wondering just when amelia was planning on having her own family, but they had also been the first to show her just how much love was capable of blooming in her chest. to show just how happy her brother and his wife could be. ) but it was also the only place that made her unmeasurably tired. it was a wonder that hana or edgar could keep up with them.

by 8pm, the dark - haired witch is getting ready to settle in the quiet by a crackling fire. the flames mirror off the surface of the twin wine glasses in her hand, burgundy liquid swirling within the one she passes off to hana. “i brought the bottle this time, so if this is shit, that’s on me.” amelia grins as she settles into an empty armchair, curling her legs beneath her. “so, how’s everything in the life and times of hana bones? i’ve spent nearly all of my waking hours this week at the office, so i hope you have something exciting that i can live vicariously through you for.”

let’s go 2 france for @cruciatvs

#* ♤ ⧽ — with hana ( a.b. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( a.b. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — january 1979 ( timestamp. ) .#it's i love hana hrs

"all i’m saying is that someone ought to be planning a halloween party.” james’ voice echoes off the countertop and into the sitting room where peter’s waiting. for all intents and purposes, this set up for lunch is practically normal -- or maybe james is just doing everything in his power to act like it is. to act like he’s okay, and not progressively losing his mind in the confines of what was once his parents’ second home. james was never a creature who took well to a cage, after all. some of his professors during bitter winters at hogwarts could attest to as much. he’s juggling their plates of sandwiches, bags of crisps, and two bottles of dragon scale when he finally leaves the kitchen. “cheers,” he says offhandedly as he hands a bottle to pete and begins laying everything out on the coffee table between the arm chairs. “'m just gutted to be missing out on my favorite holiday with you lot this year. especially being harry’s first.”

secret boyz for @cruciatvs

#the way i hate pulling dialogue out of my ass #* ♤ ⧽ — with peter ( j.p. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( j.p. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — october 1981 ( timeline. ) .

malfoy, l .

caradoc dearborn and lucius malfoy.

@cursesworn asked me for a dark starter meme. – accepting.

As Lucius Malfoy strolled down the gardens surrounding his grand estate, he felt quite satisfied. Not only had he recently added white peacocks to the ever developing and growing grounds, he was on the winning side of the war, father to a wonderful son and husband to a wonderful wife, and the heir of a family whose name was still held in high regard, despite the metaphorical blood on his hands. Yes, he was quite pleased with himself, and why should he not be? He regarded the fountains near the mansion’s entrance, the water flowing so very perfectly, a smile curling his lips.

It dropped when he saw a figure standing in front of the gate, though. Suspicion crept up Lucius’ spine, and he regarded the shadow for a moment before regaining his smirk. Anyone who visited his manor without invitation, without making it past its enchanted gates simply had to be a fool. Arrogance often won over suspicion, in Lucius’ case, and it continued to do so even when he made out Caradoc Dearborn’s face. Besides the arrogance, though, there was a healthy hint of concern, though he hid that behind an expression of confusion. “I’m sorry, can I help you?,” he asked, as if he didn’t recognise the other at all. ( And he most certainly did, his mind flashing back to the St Mungo’s siege, his wand and curse aimed at the man in front of him, Caradoc becoming the puppet to the Death Eaters’ strings. He felt something close to amusement, as well, as he held more knowledge than the other did — and yet, another part of him was worried; why was he here? ) “There’s no soliciting here, I’m afraid.”

...

barely september, but the chill with the incoming fall has already settled into doc’s bones. or perhaps the cold came with his own guilt. how sad it is to be so young and not know peace -- to be so young and always running from something. and godric, was caradoc just tired of running. perhaps that is what brings him to the ornate gates of malfoy manor: exhaustion. anger. arrogance. be careful, impudent boy, even achilles had a weakness. the glint of burning, fading sunlight off of something lucius was adorned with on the other side of the gate brings thoughts of spells reflecting off silver masks. doc can’t quite put a name to what’s roiling and burning in his chest.

when lucius finally sees him, he plays dumb. caradoc expected as much. a mortal who walked like a god, like nothing could touch him. there was a chance lucius was right to think as much, but if malfoy was the monster in the back of his mind, then caradoc would become the ghost the other couldn’t forget.

“i’m not selling anything.” doc looks beyond the other, gaze sweeping over the manicured lawn. “y’ see i, ah, got into this accident a few months back. long story. and i can’t seem to remember everything that happened.” he laughs shortly. “i’ve been a little confused since it happened. a little lost or whatever.” fingers tap out a careless beat against his side. “but i keep having these dreams about it and, well, you’re in them." he finally looks to lucius. his tone is innocuous, but the smile that curves the slightest at his lips poses a slight threat. “weird, eh?”

#* ♤ ⧽ — with lucius ( c.d. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( c.d. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — september 1981 ( timestamp. ) .#wow! wonder how this thread is gonna end!

macdonald, m .

And then there was that fucking grin. Mary responded to his cheekiness with a grin of her own, and a cocky, “I know – you’re a lucky fellow.” Her face hid the bitterness that she tasted on her tongue. They were the farthest thing from lucky, even she – not prone to self-pity, having accepted that the world was a cruel place a long time ago – was well aware of that. They were luckier than Edgar and Hana had been, though, she supposed; still breathing, hearts still beating, lives still ahead of them. But if not having been gruesomely murdered was all there was that made them lucky, Mary decided that was a measly victory. She tried to wash away the bitter taste from her mouth with another sip of whiskey, willing it to burn everything away.

At least there were their fingers laced together. Mary tried not to think about what it might mean, about why it was Benjy’s touch she craved – because it wasn’t just anyone’s touch she needed, she knew that deep down – and how it seemed to calm her. She focused on just their hands, his eyes, his voice. It was easier to focus on the details, to lose herself in them, the big picture fading. The whiskey certainly helped, too.

She didn’t think about his question long. “Please,” she said, relief spreading through her at the idea of fresh air and a cigarette, of the night sky and them getting out of the headquarters. Grief hung around the room in a suffocating way. She unlaced her fingers from his, only to get up and get her coat, knowing – hoping – that they’d find their way back soon enough. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, yeah?” Shrugging on her coat, she moved to the kitchen door, eyes catching Benjy. No one had ever told her how hard war it made to be honest, not only to others, but oneself, too.

sometimes he felt like mary watched him as if she were contemplating sending a curse flying right at him. but other times, the smile directed his way was enough to pull the breath right from his lungs. maybe it was selfish for him to be thinking of himself in that moment, when there was a thousand other things he ought to have been focusing on. dinner party at the mulciber estate, the cover being crafted, the people scattering to their own homes -- sometimes he wonders if the beats of thoughtlessness made him more sacred son than he cared to be. he’s careful to not let his eyes linger on her too long before he reaches for the bottle once again, taking a drawl from it and ignoring his glass entirely.

when she lets go, he feels cold. but she’s just gathering her belongings, and soon enough she’s waiting for him. “thank fuckin’ merlin.” he’ll take any excuse to keep moving; to avoid stewing in his own brain. he pulls his coat on as he walks to the door, holding it open for her before beginning to lead the way out.

it’s only when he’s outside, buttoning his coat as they wander down the line of connected homes, that he speaks up again. “any chance y’ trust me enough to lead you around here blindly?” brow arches as he looks to her, a rogue smile straying across his lips. “i gotta say, there’s something about the people on the tube this time a’ night. makes for great people watching.”

#* ♤ ⧽ — with mary ( b.f. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( b.f. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — october 1979 ( timestamp. ) .

macdonald, m .

@cursesworn asked me for a fluffy starter meme. – accepting.

There had been Order meetings like this before. Meetings where no one really knew what to say, the loss between them devouring any possible words that could be spoken. But this time it seemed different – this time things seemed to be weighing even heavier. Not only had Edgar been killed, his wife and four kids had been slaughtered alongside him, too. When the news had been shared, Mundungus Fletcher had provided a questionable amount of bottles of liquor ( most of them already open and half-empty ) from his coat, and Mary had for once been appreciative of the other’s presence at an Order meeting.

Slowly but surely, people had left the kitchen of the headquarters, the night stretching on. And suddenly it was just her and Benjy, a silence lingering between them, too. Mary’s eyes scanned the table for another sip of whiskey – she just wanted to be somewhat numbed, to be able to deal with this atrocity, to not feel as raw as she did. She got up, swaying slightly, plopping down next to Benjy and grabbing the bottle in front of him, pouring a layer of scotch in her teacup. “Are you –” Mary didn’t finish her sentence, in stead taking a small sip from her drink. Her hand extended to Benjy’s, her fingers lingering on his to grab it. She wanted something that was more real than the empty words that had been on the tip of her tongue all night, something she could feel that wasn’t grief or sorrow. And Benjy was there, and maybe the touch of his hand was enough. And maybe there was something longing for more, underneath it all, when she locked eyes with him. “And then it was just us two, hm?” Empty, empty words. Hug me, she wanted to say, hold me. Did she just want a pair of arms to cradle her, or did she want Benjy? She wasn’t sure, and didn’t have the energy to work through that confusion and the potential guilt. Her fingers curled around his now, grabbing his hand properly. A lifeline, an anchor. Something solid, amidst all this chaos.

what made the passing of young lives weigh so much heavier than those older than them? because, really, edgar and hana weren’t so old themselves. early thirties, with years ahead of them -- but once one has children, isn’t that what they’re always defined by? the little ones bearing their last name, their features? benjy never had a father, not one that mattered, so maybe that weight just didn’t register the same with him. but they were gone, the entire family, and it’s a unique sort of loss. sometime in the midst of the meeting benjy finds himself passing a hip flask beneath the table with one of the prewett twins, taking swigs when eyes aren’t on him ( or even when they are. he begins to lose track ). during the meeting, the tick tick tick of a clock rings like a reminder of time passing on. even if it feels like all had stopped in the tide of the news.

the evening was long, but eventually he finds himself one of the last few remaining at headquarters. but he was so aware of mary. when she rises, his eyes follow -- always following, a hand twitching as if with the desire to touch her himself, chest opening as if her proximity calms him -- as she drops into the seat at his side and swipes the bottle. a wry grin pulls at his lips, and it’s more facade than truth. “impeccable company to have, really.” there returns the unwavering confidence. the exact thing his father ( he ought to have choked on the word in his throat ) told him he had no business having. benjy pauses. takes a swig of the whisky no longer burning the back of his throat. wonders if she can see the slight tremor in his hand -- and hoping she doesn’t. his thumb brushes over the back of her palm before returning her grip, his fingers lacing through her’s. he should do more, he thinks, but instead he settles for this. whatever this is.

are you -- what, mary? okay? it’s all so subjective anyway. he finishes the finger’s worth of a drink in his glass and slides it aimlessly toward the center of the island.

“what do you say we go for a walk?”

#this is the first thing i've written in like two months ur welcome #* ♤ ⧽ — with mary ( b.f. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — october 1979 ( timestamp. ) .#* ♤ ⧽ — narrative ( b.f. ) .