the new saint jude

Caradoc Dearborn – 29

[cxradoc]

xenoslovegood‌:

It’s somehow so simple to choose the bravery they both speak of when she asks. They’re fairly certain that there is very little they would not do, if she asked them to. And the weight the words carry now, as their mind fills with the images of the long forgotten obsession of theirs, the Deathly Hallows, what finding them could mean, what having even just one could do. It’s an incredible amount to take in, a monumental breakthrough they could not have imagined when they came down to the castle tonight, but it feels right, as if this was exactly when they were both meant to have the realization, and not a moment sooner. They are ready for this challenge, and for the power that could come from it, together. 

Watching the realization of it all wash over her is nearly as thrilling as discovering it themself. To see her realize the power she was meant for is a glorious thing; perhaps it should be stranger to realize that they do not care about having it themself if she can possess it, but it is not. Their journey, everything they’ve done, it was to start this, something much greater than themself, or simply the diadem alone. “We will be brave,” they say, voice an excited whisper, as they watch her slip the ring on. There’s something else, though, doubt that is not fair, a doubt the world has long tried to push on their shoulders, and now more than ever they cannot let it settle on hers.

Her hand finds theirs again, and the contact sends fire through their veins, as if something had been missing, those brief moments their hands had not been touching. It was a strange thing to realize it was something they craved, the physical connection which felt even more imperative because of all the other ways they were already connected. They turn their hand over, palm to palm with hers, and lace their fingers together because it feels right, the ring on her finger pressing against theirs. Perhaps its to try to calm the shaking, the uncertainty they can feel from her, even before her words, but perhaps it’s something a little more selfish, the feeling of electricity thrilling.

She doesn’t have to finish her sentence for them to know what she’s thinking, and they shake their head before she’s even finished, squeeze her hand.

“And why are you so certain that person was right? You do not know who they are, or what they want. There are people in this world who play at mastermind, play at savior for their own selfish purposes. So many of our own friends have fallen victim to it, in different ways. These people want you to feel like you are only as much as the use they have for you, but they are wrong,” Xenophilius insists, voice quiet, intense, as they hold her gaze. “Now is not the time to doubt yourself, why else would the world have brought us together, but to give us both the chance for the power and clarity we are meant for. The only thing you can trust is your own intuition. And intuition tells me you are more than anything they could want you to be, and I would put all that I have on that being the case.”

They finish, thoughts running rampant, already trying to think of where they should begin their search, how it may be connected to the diadem, if the ring could be the stone, but then she speaks, and it all stills. She manages so easily to set them at peace. Her words make their breath catch in their throat, and it’s even more impossible not to stare. She would share. Perhaps if the words had come from anyone else, they wouldn’t have believed they were sincere, but they knew better than to doubt the sincerity or truth of anything that Caradoc said to them. That was not something they often found, and it meant even more, somehow, knowing how simple it was of a statement for her.

“I do not know if I am worthy of such an honor, but I am confident there is no one I would rather take the quest to find out with. And there is no one I would rather share such power alongside.”

They sound so sure. They always do. From the very first moment that Xenophilius laid eyes on her, they behaved as if they knew her down to her very soul. They were sure their first meeting was destined, too lost souls in the night, drawn to one another through the dark. And she couldn’t deny the spark of connection she had felt then. They made her feel found, unearthed, like something people would want to hoard for themselves. Their voice now, quiet and intense and earth-shattering, like someone in prayer at an all-night vigil. It shakes her, almost as much as the words do. 

They sound so sure, and Caradoc wants to let herself get caught up in it, so she does. Xeno isn’t wrong about the things they say, the ways in which people raise themselves up on pedestals. Dumbledore acted like a God, like he was playing a chess match with all of their lives. Caradoc had been nothing to him but another voice on the other side, a girl with a wand and the spirit of a warrior. She thought now that he always knew how it would end, always knew that she’d never be able keep herself from snapping eventually. 

She wants to give them the things they seek, she wants to do it so badly. Power. Clarity. A peace fo mind that she can only imagine. She wondered sometimes what she would feel, if she ever placed their diadem on her head. Would she see the world through new eyes? Would she understand the things that plagued her in the night? Would the world become something clean and crystalline, sprawling out before her in endless possibilities. Other times, she wondered if Xeno wasn’t as good for that as any crown could be. They made her feel changed, after all. And in moments like this, she felt as if the ever present fog in her mind was being lifted. She didn’t feel scared. She didn’t feel helpless. She didn’t feel alone. Caradoc Dearborn wasn’t a ghost, on nights like this, and neither was Xenophilius Lovegood. 

Sometimes, she feels like she’s been looking for them forever. 

When they finish speaking, she feels herself exhaling a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. A shuddering thing, something full of so much wonder. The cogs are turning inside their mind, plans being made on an invisible map. And then the gears stop, her offer hanging in the air for a moment while Xeno processes it. 

A smile, then, blossoms on her face. A soft thing, giddy. She ducks her head for a moment to mask it, grateful for the relatively dim light in the room. “Good. Good.” And she’s grateful. Wordlessly grateful, that they’re willing to do this beside her. Caradoc wants to reach up, brush her fingers against their face, clenches their hand a little firmer instead. She feels like the hero of this story, for once in her life. Feels like she was born for more than she ever believed. It was all practice, then, to make her strong. Doesn’t the hero always have to suffer before they can come into their full potential? Don’t they always reach the lowest of their lows before the climb to the greatest heights? 

Her voice trembles, just the slightest bit, as she carries on, raises her head again to look at them. “You can be my Merlin then. Lead me on an epic quest, oh wise and powerful one.” The slightest hint of a tease, though it doesn’t sully the greater sentiment of the words. “I’ll follow, if you can tell me where to start. Just promise not to be too disappointed if I don’t turn out the way you expected I would.” She tries not to let the last part sound sad, tries not to fall into a pit in her mind that would have her believe the disappointment is unavoidable. If she’s going to paint herself as a King of legend, she ought to have the confidence to go with it, even if it’s just a game of pretend played in a room of that barely exists. 

[cxradoc]

prcng-s‌:

Somehow, it makes perfect sense, and also no sense at all. Master of Death. It sounded like the kind of thing that would have appealed to Riddle, who had gone around doing his best to make himself master of everything, who was so caught up in his own power and glory, who Dumbledore had delayed them again and again from just trying to kill. It isn’t the right time, we cannot kill him, Dumbledore had always said, when James brought it up in the quiet moments after Order meetings, when he had still been young and headstrong and eager to prove himself as a soldier. He had taken Dumbledore’s warnings, at the time, as a moral sort of we cannot become the thing we are fighting against it or we will never truly defeat it, an old man bestowing virtues upon those who followed him. But that had never seemed right, coming from a man with so many spies. 

What if, instead, the warning had been that they literally couldn’t kill him, rather than that they morally couldn’t? 

But… the Deathly Hallows, they’re a children’s story. A myth, a legend. It’s coming back to him now, in pieces: a stone that resurrects, a cloak that makes the wearer invisible even to Death himself, an all-powerful wand… They’re like the Holy Grail, stories you tell to children. And beyond that, she’s right: the notes he’d gotten had said nothing about three of anything, nothing about a wand or a cloak or a ring. Seven black birds gone out to roost. It was cryptic, but even that connection seemed too cryptic to be possible. Was the symbol just a coincidence, a red herring, leading them both down the wrong path?

Or are she and this mysterious friend of hers leading you down the wrong path on purpose? 

He tries to shake the thought away, but it sticks there. Maybe it’s the best clue they have, but it doesn’t feel right, not quite.

     ‘It doesn’t seem connected. The notes make it sound like this should be…. part of a set of seven, maybe. Not one of three.’

The thoughts circle round and round in her head, maze like and dizzying. She doesn’t know what to do with them, with all the stories and all the possibilities. In the dim light of the Room of Requirement, it had been easy to get caught up in the idea of the Hallows as the be all and end all. Even now, she longs for it all to be true. Xeno said so much to her, about her destiny, about believing that she could be more than she was. And she wanted it all so badly it ached. She wanted to get up and take the ring back, but she wouldn’t. 

Caradoc gets up to pace, back and forth in the tight space of the kitchen. Trying to figure out this riddle will keep her up all night, she’s sure of it. But she feels like they’re right at the edge of something, a realisation that’s itching at her, if only they could lay their hands on it. She can sense it, just out of reach, waiting in the abyss for a light to shine on it. It must be a dark thing, this answer that they’re looking for. It must be seductive and powerful, and the funny thing is that she feels so sure that they weren’t being lead toward the Hallows. It doesn’t add up, doesn’t make sense, makes her wish she’d kept it as a carefully hoarded secret. 

“Maybe...” She starts, and stops to lean against a counter, to look at James and see him for what he is. A boy who’s as desperate as she is to make a difference. It’s a nice reminder why they’re in this together. They both want the same thing: to bring an end to Tom Riddle, and to understand why they’re being guided down this path. “Maybe it’s just a hint, to lead us down the right train of thought. Something like the Hallows. They were used to cheat death, weren’t they? So... how do you cheat death when you aren’t a figure from legend?” A softness in her tone, a wonder. She was no King Arthur, no brave knight, but talking like this still gave her a rush. Like she was a little girl playing make believe again. 

[cxradoc]

fabianprewet‌:

december 19, late morning weasley’s home @cxradoc​

Willow is a strange wood to work. Technically, it’s a hardwood, but the grain of it is fuzzy, almost damp. Samuel gave Fabian willow to practice with, when he first expressed an interest in carving. Great for beginners, he commented with that broad smile of his. Very forgiving. It’s nice for finer details and soft curves, but Fabian was fairly certain that it would hell trying to embed a core into it. That process, the core insertion, is still a little murky, though clearly both a magical and physical endeavor. Fabian has an idea of how to do it but hasn’t yet attempted. And from what he thinks, willow will be tricky. But it’s what his own wand is made of, and he’s familiar with the heft and feel of it, from those early days of carving, so he began with it.

The wand he’s crafting into being is a mimic of his twin’s in design. So focused on the exact angles and curves of it, he doesn’t notice there’s someone sitting near him until he nicks his thumb with his knife. Sucking the speck of blood from his flesh, he finds Caradoc sitting in the opposite armchair. “Oh, hello,” he murmurs around his injury. The wix is something of a mystery, convalescing at his sister’s home after being captured, held, tortured. But there have been a few times that Fabian found himself sitting next to her without really realizing it. She’s quiet, that way, calming. He doesn’t mind her company, the way he often does most people’s.

As is his manner, he asks a question quite apropos nothing: “What was your wand made of?” It was taken from her, he knows, when she was captured. But it’s a question he finds himself asking most of the people in his life, when he hadn’t really given it a second thought before. Trying to match wand wood and core to personalities and abilities. Maybe if he knows something about Caradoc’s wand, he could learn something about the wix herself.

The morning air is quiet and cold. It feels delicate, and Caradoc hasn’t been sleeping well. Sometimes when she wakes up, she feels like a ghost. The world is silent, and so is she. Of course, the Weasley house doesn’t usually stay quiet for long. She’s leaned to appreciate it while she can, make the most of it. So she moves on from any of her darker night-time musings and tries to go about her day, as fragile feeling as it is. 

Coffee is brewed into a chipped mug, the smell heady and comforting. She cradles it in both hands even as she takes a seat, curls herself into an armchair. Fabian is sitting in the one opposite, in a world of his own. If she’s a ghost, then they are haunting this place together. Caradoc, Ben and Fabian. Wounded things. He doesn’t notice her presence for a long while, and she does little to draw attention to herself, gazes out the nearby window at the white sheet of snow that covers the ground, takes quiet sips of her tea. They’ve passed the time like this before, so she allows herself to relax, around him. 

When his voice finally breaks the silence, she pulls her gaze back toward him. “Good morning.” She says, quiet. He’s bleeding. Just a little bit. She’d offer to heal him, if she knew how to do things like that anymore. But she doesn’t, so she can’t. 

“Blackthorn.” She replies to his question with little more than a raised eyebrow, curious eyes fixed on his work. Oh, her wand had been a beautiful thing. Her heart is still breaking at the thought of it. She feels the lack of it in the palm of her hand. But it’s been gone for a long time, now. More than a year. She keeps telling herself to forget about it, and she’s learning how to move on. Her voice is a soft and longing thing regardless. “Unicorn hair core.” A clearing of her throat, a sip at the cooling dregs of her coffee. “It was a good wand. Reliable.” 

[cxradoc]

prcng-s‌:

The realization is like a splash of cold water to his system, shocking and sudden, waking up every bit of him all at once. Any hesitation, any exhaustion that had plagued him a moment before is gone with the words: The Tales of Beedle the Bard. He can picture the symbol on the page, suddenly, so clearly, the faded old page his father used to read to him nearly every night when he was small, when he was just Harry’s age. He can picture the old copy carefully tucked away on Harry’s bedroom bookshelf just in the next room.

     ‘Merlin,’ he replies, more whisper than anything else. The Tale of the Three Brothers, he remembers it clear as day now. Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus Peverell, each in turn asking Death for a different object of power: a stone, a wand, a cloak. And that symbol, that bloody triangle with the circle and line inscribed inside, perched just above where the title was printed on the page. 

What did it mean? 

Instinct takes him: he’s up and halfway to Harry’s door before he realizes that, in all likelihood, sneaking in to find the book will wake his sleeping son and leave him occupied for at least twenty or thirty minutes trying to convince him to go back to sleep. Harry will be too excited that there is a strange new guest in their house he’s never met before. And something gripping inside him thinks: I don’t want her to see my son. Don’t want her to know anything more about me than she needs to. I still don’t know her motives. 

So he stops, instead.

     ‘I know it, yeah. I’ve got a copy somewhere. But what does it mean? That this ring is somehow tied to the author, or to the story?’ And what did any of it have to do with Tom Riddle, and with stopping him? 

She watches him move. Her eyes are sharp and keen. Well honed. They always have been. Eyes like an eagle, little one. Her father said. James moving like he isn’t even thinking about it, and then stopping in his tracks, suddenly thinking a great deal about something. 

Like a man with something to hide. Like a man keeping secrets. 

What are you keeping from me? What am I too weak or untrustworthy to know? This is the difference then, between James and Xenophilous. One hoards their secrets while the other shares. And Caradoc misses it, the open honesty, the warmth of the fire, Xeno’s voice telling her the story. She wants to pull James Potter apart and see if his secrets are written somewhere deep within, wants to know them as well as she knows her own, wants to come face to face with the hunger there and learn its name.

At least they’re on a level playing field. At least she doesn’t have to feel guilty for selfishly hoarding her own knowledge. “It’s a symbol people wear. Like a marker. To show they believe in the story, believe that it’s more than just a fairytale.” She says it, an easy lie. “To set themselves apart as true questers. That’s what my friend said, anyway.” That’s what she was, now. A quester. Like a knight from the stories of old. This could be her holy grail. The fondness that creeps into her voice at the thought of it is hard to hold back.

She can’t help but keep wondering aloud, however. Mind on a different path here than it was the night before with Xeno. To become Master of Death was one thing, but here it was impossible to ignore their second quest. This ring was given to them by someone with access to Riddle and his house, it all seemed to revolve around him. They’d always assumed the ring must be connected to him. “Those people, the ones who believe it. They want what those brothers had...greater magic, an escape from Death itself.” A beat, thoughtful. “And isn’t that what people say, about Riddle? That no one could defeat him but Dumbledore. Maybe he wanted to make sure. Maybe he believed he could defy death itself.” 

She licks her lips, looks at him with sharp and thoughtful eyes. Could Riddle have wanted to get the Hallows for himself? To become Master of Death? Three artefacts and he could have done it. The thought of it makes her shudder, but it doesn’t quite add up. “Three Deathly Hallows.” And reaching, like a second nature, to unearth one of James’ cryptic notes. “Seven black birds.” Caradoc gives a shake of her head, hand moving to tangle in the chain she keeps around her neck, even in the absence of the ring. “Arithmetic isn’t my strongest area, but it doesn’t really add up.”

[cxradoc]

xenoslovegood‌:

It’s easier to offer as close to a smile as they come to around her than any other living soul besides their Luna. Misunderstanding and cruelty discourages anything of that sort, and they’ve long learned that any hint of anything less than morbid sincerity makes their thoughts taken even less seriously. But that’s not something they find themself ever worrying about when in her presence, because she offers her own honesty. The knowledge that they’re correct in that, hearing the words from her own tongue, drifting into the air, heavy, perhaps more meaningful than she means, but perhaps not, it sends a wave of that familiar fire through their chest.

“Exceptionally so, I think,” they hum, in agreement. They don’t get to do this nearly often enough. They wish they could spend nearly every moment of their waking life in her presence, searching for their truths together, reveling in the intensity of the pull they feel, savoring the relief that comes from it. But the fear of what might happen if they allowed themselves to follow is in their mind always; slowly, more slowly now, so that there is no chance of the power overwhelming them, hurting her. Already, in a matter of weeks, they are confident this path is what should have been, clarity all the closer. But the temptation is strong. “There is nothing that says it cannot be more often, but our own fears, and our humanity. Two things that threaten to make us cowards. We don’t have to be.”

And when she leans an inch closer, utters the single word that has come to live in their thoughts nearly as much as the other, it feels nearly foolish to even consider thinking of fear or humanity. She holds it up so delicately, so reverently, with such awe reflected as her eyes move from theirs to the ring that it feels quite like looking in a mirror to their own reflection when they had the diadem. Their heart beats a rapid rhythm against their chest as they look. They don’t reach out until she shifts it, voice soft like a prayer, pointing out an engraving, and then they merely reach long fingers out to tilt it towards them, fingers grazing the stone, resting on hers. And they’re not quite sure if it’s the stone, the knowledge, or her that sends the jolt of clarity through their mind, but it’s thrilling, and terrifying, and beautiful, and they grin back at her as her eyes meet theirs.

“You’ve brought a memory, indeed. Never doubt your instincts, Caradoc; a feeling can mean so much more than concrete fact when it comes from the right person, and you are the right person. This? This is a quest, you were right to think so,” Xeno breathes, words tumbling out of their mouth quickly. They don’t want to let go, but they do. Their thoughts are racing too fast for their body to possibly keep up, and they nearly knock over the rapidly cooling teapot to get to the bookshelf next to the fireplace, knowing already that the book they were in search of would be there for them to share. Sure enough, they pick the spine out easily, the thin, colorful children’s book standing out starkly amongst the old, serious tomes. Coming back to her, they kneel down next to her, and flip to the correct pages.

“The Tale of the Deathly Hallows, perhaps you’re familiar; most believe it to simply be a children’s tale, but it’s instructional. The Hallows are real. There are dozens of wix who spend their lives attempting to track them down, but it seems you’ve come even closer without meaning,” they say with a breath of bewildered laughter. Perhaps this was the purpose all along, perhaps they had been searching for the wrong solution. They show her the page, the symbol hidden in the illustration. “The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Cloak of Invisibility. Each immensely powerful on their own, but united, the three Hallows make the possessor the Master of Death. My research on the subject fell by the wayside, once I’d found the diadem again, but it seems that it should be brought back.”

They pause, at last, looking in awe back to the ring, then to Caradoc, a little breathless with the excitement of the discovery. “It must be connected. I wonder if the ring…” they trail off, something inside themself keeping them from saying it out loud, knowing the implication, knowing how quickly hope could be dashed if they let themself possess it. “Perhaps you are meant to master Death. And perhaps my aid might bring its own gifts.”

Eventually this breathing problem is going to become embarrassing. She wishes they would stop stealing the very breath from her lungs, that their words would lose the power they have to make her heart beat just a little bit faster in her chest. It’s her soul that’s singing under her skin, at the feeling of meeting a mirror image of itself. The words that slip from her lips are a dare, almost a plea: I’ve done so much on my own. Don’t make me do this alone too. “I’ll be braver if you will.”

Their eyes catch on the ring when she pulls it out, and if it were anyone else she would want to pull it back, to selfishly hoard it close to her chest. All she feels when Xeno reaches out to touch it is the swell of electricity, a low boiling heat. She almost shudders when their fingers land on hers, the ring holding them together in unholy reverence. And when Xeno talks like this, Caradoc can’t help but get caught up in it. Their voice is made for epic tales, sweeping legends. They were made for other worlds, for magic and wonder and awe. Their breathless affirmation of the validity of her hypothetical quest is enough to paint the smile back on her face, brighter and fonder than before, something crafted specially for them. She finds herself nodding along to their words, enraptured at every syllable. 

It’s startling when they pull away, a strange sense of loss when their fingers leave hers. She shifts to watch them as they move, as they find the book and bring it back to her. Caradoc leans in when Xeno falls to their knees beside her again, tucking her hair behind her ear as she leans in to look at the book in their hands. With delicate fingers she reaches out, trace the hidden symbol on the page. “Oh.” She breathes, and that’s as much as she can manage in the moment. There’s a surge of something in her stomach –– hope, completion, the thrill of destiny making itself known. She feels drunk with it, almost, though the feeling isn’t uncommon in present company. 

Master of Death. The power implicit in the title. And isn’t that what she’s been struggling the most with, ever since they took her and kept her and broke her down? The fear, the pain, the desperate wish to never feel that weak again. She lets out a shaken breath, swallows thickly around the lump in her throat. Isn’t it what she’s wanted, all this time, deep down inside her? To make it so that no man and no god could hurt her again, so that nothing she loved could be taken from her arms. Too many nights she sat in bed awake, wondering if Ben would be dead and gone in the morning, wondering of Xeno would be there to meet her the next time they planned to. Master of Death. Someone with power like that could take war in the palm of their hands and put an end to it. 

Her hands are shaking, now. She slips the ring onto a finger, though it will always be too big for her to wear. It’s a revery she has to pull herself from, to look back up and meet Xeno’s eyes when they search for hers. She hears everything they leave unsaid, allows it to hang heavy in the air between them. It would be too simple, for this ring to mean so much more than any of them considered it might. And there Xeno goes again, stealing her breath from her. Take it, she thinks. You can have it all. 

She reaches forward, instinctually, lays her fingers back over theirs and holds their warm hand in hers. Caradoc finds herself shaking her head before she can think better of it, a small voice reminding her that she’s nothing more than a girl who’s starving for more than she can have. There are so many things she wants, and she doesn’t think the world will allow her to have any of them. “Whoever set me free and gave me this...they meant for James to have it.” There’s something sour in the sound of his name, though he’s been nothing but a good friend to her in the last few weeks. “I’m just...” A pawn. A carrier pigeon. A tool to bring glory to a man who’s never had to suffer the way she has. There’s the bitterness again. A broken girl will never become a god. She lapses into silence, knows that Xeno would never take those words and allow them to stand. Caradoc still feels the thrill of it, the fact that Xeno can look at her and see something as glorious as that. They found her when she was lost, and they’ve never done anything but make her feel like her destiny is hers for the taking. 

“I don’t know if it’s meant for me.” She says, after a moment. “But if it was, I would share it with you.” 

[cxradoc]

marleneonfire‌:

It was a little fifth year, the braiding, Caradoc isn’t wrong. Marlene can remember, in fact, being precisely that age to stay up, trade gossip, and toy with one another’s hair. She can remember the familiar fit of her hands in Sirus’s hair as he sprawled over her bed as if he owned it, drawling on with his “daily gossip round up.”

Marlene matches Caradoc’s pout, shaking her head a little. “Well, firstly, and quite honestly, fuck very much all those aurors. It’s 1986,” she all but whines. “But I wasn’t thinking of pigtails.” Marlene raises her hands to either side of her head, wiggling her fingers as if to indicate that hairstyle. She tilts her head then, surveying the canvas of Caradoc’s hair before her. “No, something more like… Well, like the vikings did. Along your crown and then feeding down into one big, badass plait.” She laughs merrily and pictures it – and it would be very badass.

The returning compliment distracts her, eyes going bright and glimmering. “Go on, then,” she chides playfully. “If people think it at all, I must scare them off before they voice it.” It wasn’t something Marlene minded, or even took notice to up until that moment. By the same token, though, it is nice, in a warm way, to hear it. “I more get ‘loud,’ or sometimes maybe ‘charismatic,’ or generally ‘Merlin’s pants, Marlene, get down off the table, it’s the middle of Christmas supper.” She laughs again, clearly at a memory – It was McGonagall who had voiced that one but there had been a smile at the corners of it.

Marlene takes it upon herself then to clear the distance between her and Caradoc, plopping down on the empty stool just next to her friend. She waves a hand to get the attention of the bartender and indicates another round for both of them. “What brings you out tonight, though? Hope I’m not crashing in on something.”

“That does sound pretty cool.” Caradoc says, slow, with a brighter smile than before. She hasn’t given much thought lately to the way she looks, aside from attempting to pull herself together enough to pass for normal. She’d figured a couple of weeks ago that Molly would stop treating her with kid-gloves if she started looking like she could take care of herself. A small shake of her head, bashful in the light of it. “Not sure I’d know how to go about doing it, but hey, never say never.” 

And Caradoc likes the look of it, the gleam that appears in Marlene’s eyes. Like they’ve been surprised by something, like they really don’t hear it enough. “S’nice, though. You’re good at filling up space.” It’s true. Sometimes, when Caradoc is alone, it feels like there’s a cavernous rift between her and reality. It feels like she couldn’t touch another human even if she walked for miles.She lets out a small chuckle, shifting to allow Marlene to fill the space beside her. “Your personality, I mean. It’s big, and warm and –– And I’m so drunk I’m forgetting how to be cool. Merlin, sorry.” 

She shifts, allows Marlene to slip into the seat next to her, sags in relief when the bartender starts pouring her another glass of whiskey. Another small laugh slips out. What hasn’t brought her here? “No, no.” She says, quick. “No plans to crash. Just me and firewhiskey, getting thoroughly reacquainted. I just needed to get...out, you know?” And her eyes land on Marlene, searching. “You? Let me guess, super hot date that’s going to walk through the door any second now.” 

[cxradoc]

time. afternoon, december 18th. location. tomes and scrolls, hogsmeade.       ( @ben-fenwick ) 

Her fingers run delicately over the spine of a book. It’s caked with dust, delicate leather. Part of her is yearning to pull it off the shelf and see what it says inside, but it has the impression of something too delicate to handle. Common sense tells her that if it were really that bad off, it wouldn’t be kept out here in the front room. The dust comes away with her touch, revealing the golden lettering. Magick Moste Evile. Caradoc pulls her hand away, shamefully moves further down the shelf of books, though her mind stays fixed on that. It seems like a bad omen. It seems like she’s being haunted by the dark arts, these days. 

She spares a glance at the clock on the wall, twelve thirty five pm. Ben is late. Only by five minutes, but still, late. She knows its paranoid, she knows that in all likeliness Ben is perfectly safe, caught up somewhere in conversation. Still, Caradoc can’t stop herself from worrying, plagued as she so often is with the fear that Ben will disappear if she goes too long without seeing him. He could vanish. She could be alone again. And Caradoc isn’t sure what she’d do if something happened to Ben now, if he got hurt. 

He’d asked her to come here. Asked her with a glint in his eye, strange and full of purpose, something bright gleaming deep down in the haunted expanse of him. Ben asked her to show up, so she did. It was a surprise, he’d said. He wanted to show her something. Caradoc raises a hand to play with the ring around her neck, an absentminded gesture of worry. She keeps looking at the books in front of her, but her eyes don’t really focus on one title or another. 

The bell above the door chimes, and Caradoc forces herself into a more relaxed posture. Shoulders down, hands back in her pockets. She knows it’s him. It’s the scuff of his boots against the wooden floor. A sound she’s memorised now.  She turns to see him, voice already forming words in a low teasing murmur. “There he is. Start to think the devil is late and he shall appear.” 

[cxradoc]

marleneonfire‌:

december 15, evening three broomsticks @cxradoc​

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea, getting drunk. But something had to give and Marlene hadn’t been able to access the deep well of fear and grief and want that was roiling somewhere just under her skin yet. It was all living there, like a star burning up right before supernova. So, absent the tears that used to so easily and reliably fall, Marlene was settling into her stool at the Three Broomsticks, already in her cups after just two ales.

Not that Marlene wanted to go maudlin drunk, sobbing into her stein or anything. Just the chance to feel some of what she knew was struggling to break through. Either way, though, Marlene was a happy drunk. Potentially dead soulmates didn’t change that, apparently.

“Caradoc!” Marlene cried, pitching from her stool toward one just a few seats down. She couldn’t say how long the other girl had been there – all night or just arrived. But Marlene had just noticed her and was beaming. “Caradoc, it’s so lovely to see you.” And it was, was the thing. Even through the alcohol and the pain, Caradoc was a welcome sight. Marlene didn’t know this slight newcomer all too well, but that just meant that she wanted to know her. She had been in with Ben, after all. Whatever was happening in their friendship aside, Marlene should want to get to know her.

“Caradoc, listen. Has anyone told you quite how pretty your hair is? Because it’s a shame, if no one has and now I’m going to. Your hair is divine.” She pauses then, still beaming, waiting to ensure that Caradoc hasn’t completely frozen up on her. That tends to be the response to Marlene, more often than not. “Do you braid it, ever? I bet it would be stunning in a braid.”

Caradoc lets herself do this, every now and then. When the day has been so long and she knows she won’t be able to lull herself to sleep, when the burrow feels so small that it will suffocate her if she stays there for another evening. She comes here and she sits, and she lets the noise flow around her, and she drinks. 

At least she’s doing it less than she did when she was back in London. At least she’ll be able to sleep tonight. She’s too many in already when the voice grabs her attention, head turning around to take in their frame. Ben’s friend, the one that made his eyes go a little haunted when their name came up. The smiley one. Marlene. One of those pretty people Caradoc knows lead miserable lives, trapped here fighting a war. She greets them with a nod, forces a small smile. 

“Well, hey there.” She drawls, easy and slow. And god, she’s drunk. Really, rather more drunk than she meant to be at this point in the night. Caradoc is drunk, and Marlene is a little bit baffling, a little bit hilarious, magnetic enough that Caradoc’s shadow of a smile becomes a little bit more general in the face of it. 

She arches an eyebrow, lets out half a laugh. She reaches up, touches her hair, a little tangled from the wind on the walk over. “Cheers, man.” And her smile widens, just a little. “Used to.” She nods, at the memory of it. “Back at school. Haven’t since then, really. Always felt a little fifth year?” A pout, a sip of her drink. “You know how people are. Big bad auror fella’s can’t handle getting their arse’s handed to them by a girl in braided pigtails.” 

Her glass meets the bar again with a small clink, and something warm is blossoming in her, something soft and easy. She hasn’t felt this way in a while, not about someone who’s basically a stranger to her. “You’re the one who’s stunning, though. I’m sure people tell you that all the time.” 

[cxradoc]

xenoslovegood‌:

There’s a graceful ease that she possesses that feels ethereal. It brings with her the wisp of a distant memory, something that feels entirely essential to their quest, but too far to grasp fully. It’s very nearly impossible to consider much else, after all, once their eyes meet hers once again after too long without. It feels like the first breath of cool, crisp air in the fall, rejuvenating, enlightening, recalling a feeling that was forgotten since it was last felt. Odd, how only a few days can feel like a small eternity.

But her she is, and here they are, found again, for at least a few merciful hours, although they wish they could ask for longer. The world outside nearly falls away in the confines of their private study. Nearly. Reality threatens to slip through the cracks at any moment, making every second there feel all the more important. Even if all they could have was the feeling, it would be enough to know that it was real.

She crosses the room, takes a seat in the empty armchair, and something relaxes in them, shoulders losing some of their ever present tension as she rests closer to them. Snow slowed her, and she slows them, their racing thoughts finally calming enough in her presence to be something understandable. Lately, their breakthroughs only happen after seeing her.

“Now, now, don’t pretend you don’t feel quite the same. You didn’t allow the snow to slow you that greatly,” they hum, raising an eyebrow, the corner of their mouth turning up just slightly. 

Other people don’t joke with them, and it’s not something they’ve ever particularly minded. Before Pandora, no one else seemed able to quite wrap their head fully around the way they act, the way they speak; when confusion could so easily slip into hostility due to fear of that which they did not understand, joking isn’t often the response. Their own brand of sarcasm goes unmet, or misunderstood as seriousness, when it does appear. But Caradoc doesn’t have that fear, that confusion. She looks, and she sees, and she isn’t afraid of honesty with them. And they know well that honesty can mean something as simple as comfort.

It feels a lot like being understood for the first time since they had lost those two meaningful things. It feels a lot like a gentle roar of fire just beneath the surface, waiting to burn through.

“What do the sentimental amongst us say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I believe?” Xeno posits, mock thoughtfully, before letting out a breath of laughter. A smile crosses their lips as they shift to the edge of their seat, unconsciously ever closer. They wave their hand absently. “The days grow shorter, and our nights become all the more precious. I’ve found it increasingly difficult to put my mind to rest. Now more than ever I feel we are on the brink of something. Tonight, it seems you’ve brought memory with you, dear Caradoc, something I’ve long forgotten and can’t quite place yet. Have you come upon anything, since our last visit?”

She’s basking in this, every inch of it. The flickering of the firelight setting her hands on fire as they shift from cold to warm, the plush cushion she’s settled herself on, the lull of their voice as Xeno replies and the addictive feeling of glee she always gets when she manages to make them smile, even just the slightest bit. 

“Let’s just say that a pack of wild horses couldn’t have kept me away for very long.” Caradoc allows herself a smile, bashful, almost sweet, expression playful as she watches them. They were right, after all. The snow hadn’t slowed her that much. She’d pushed through it, aware of the fact that if she had her wand it would have been a lot easier. Occasionally on the walk up she mused that she’d have to get Remus to teach her a wandless warming charm. Mainly, she thought about Xeno, how every step brought her closer than this. The snow could only keep her away for so long, when her prize waited for her. 

“Our hearts must be pretty fond by now.” A hint of a laugh. “We don’t get to do this enough.” Too honest, it speaks of longing. More often than not, Caradoc would be embarrassed for saying something like that, for implying that the time they have never feels like enough. With other people, it would feel like begging. With Xeno, she always gets the impression that they’re on the same page, and with their intensity she feels safe in the fact that it won’t feel like too much. 

She listens to them, as she always does, with rapt attention. Reverent, like an all night vigil, it always feels like they should be surrounded by candles and songs and offerings to a savage god. Sometimes, when she listens, she feels a bit breathless, feels full, feels overwhelmed by this. “The ring.” She utters when she catches her breath for a moment. Caradoc leans closer, an inch, hooks her finger around the chain that holds the ring and gives it a pull so that it slips from beneath her jumper. It’s warm from her skin, it catches the light. She holds it in the fingers of both hands, delicate and warm, holds it between them like an offering, still attached to the chain around her neck. 

It’s odd. She’s been growing more and more possessive of this every day she has it. She shudders at the thought of letting it go. But she thinks that if Xeno reached out now, she’d be okay with it. They could take it, take the chain around her neck, and she would let them. She trusts them, and that’s the most dangerous thing about this. Her voice is quiet, like she’s sharing a secret. “Look, there, on the stone. James pointed it out, last time we met.” Another movement, tilting it in the light. “There’s a carving, but we can’t figure out what it is.” 

Caradoc looks away from the light glinting on the stone, up again to meet their eyes. It’s like a black hole she keeps getting sucked back into, every time they’re here together. Her smile is a bashful, giddy thing. “I don’t know why,” She starts, like another secret, self-deprecating. “But it makes me feel like we’re on the brink of something. A clue, an adventure, a quest.” 

[cxradoc]

prcng-s‌:

He notices, the way she moves around him, the way she stalls: he notices how long it takes for her to turn it over to him, the reluctant look on her face as he plucks it from her open palm and closes his own fingers around it. One of these days, a voice inside him says, she’s not going to turn off. She’s going to up and run away with the thing and leave you missing the last piece of your puzzle and you’ll be at loose ends again, worthless to everyone—to Lily, to your friends, to the cause…

He bites his tongue, for the moment, sitting back down, and opens his hand, taking the ring between the thumb and forefinger of each hand to examine it, pushing his glasses aside with his wrist to get a better look: still there, still whole, still inscrutable as always. The gold metal, the large black stone, the strange symbol carved into its face. He’d recognized the symbol the first time he saw it, had been wracking his brain ever since to figure out where he’d seen it in the first place, but weeks of research and he’d still turned nothing up. 

      ‘Right, sorry,’ he mutters, once he’s satisfied it’s the same ring, that she hasn’t switched it out or something. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, he thinks to himself. It’s just that whatever this is, it’s an important clue, meant to find its way to him: he’s just taking precautions, to make sure all the information gets lined up right for him to solve this. ‘Have you found anything, since the other day?’ It’s only been two days, since they switched off the ring and their scant information, but there’s always a chance she’s managed to make a breakthrough he couldn’t. 

Her eyes are keen, locked on him and every movement he makes. Regret in her stomach that she keeps having to work past. It scares her that this gets harder and harder every day, that sometimes on her walk to James’ house she wants to turn around and go back home. But she values this too. The work, the slow and odd friendship they’re growing. She’d rather have something to do here, with him, than sit and stare absently from her windows. 

And oh, yes. She’s found something. A fragment of an idea that’s been plaguing her since the words left Xeno’s mouth. A stone, a wand, a cloak. James asks her the question and she wonders how much she should tell. It feels like a betrayal to Xeno to take their words and give them to someone else, to bring their small reverent moments into the light of day. She averts her eyes, finally, plays with a strand of hair. 

“The symbol on the stone.” She starts, because at her core she’s an honest person. “You said you recognised it? Like you’d seen it somewhere before?” Voice slow, cautious. She’s an honest person, for the most part, and the truth can be told in half measures. “Well, I asked around. It’s a reference to a children’s story from The Tales of Beedle the Bard. The one about death and the three brothers?”  A pause, a breathe, and she’s relaxing in her chair as moments go by. “You must have read it when you were young, or something.” 

[cxradoc]

xenoslovegood‌:

night, the room of requirement, december 18        @cxradoc

Time passes and little changes to prove it, only the slow deaths of leaves and grass around them, the sudden chill of the air, and the growing ache of hunger in the pit of their stomach. It’s comforting, in a way, to realize their mind hadn’t crafted the pull in their chest, that it was real, something to hold onto when all else feels so flat. Their mind thrives. At times it feels unfathomable, so unlike anything they’ve felt that they can scarcely believe it’s real. But then it settles into something wholly familiar, so wholly appealing that it’s nearly terrifying, in the most beautiful way. 

Clarity, a step closer every day, for both of them.

It’s tempting to insist on having every moment they can with her, something they haven’t felt since the diadem, since Pandora creeping up their spine, but they know history repeats itself, and they have enough fear that they could misstep again and ruin both of their chances at something greater than to do so. And somehow that makes every moment all the more powerful. The anticipation of the feeling of seeing their hunger reflected in her eyes is nearly as sustaining as the feeling itself, somehow.

Even if empirically they seem no closer to finding the diadem once again, they find that that doesn’t matter, a little voice in the back of their mind telling them that what it takes to get that understanding and enlightenment back is half of the purpose. All they know is that their mind is full of the diadem and her, her and the diadem, and every moment is a moment closer to that which was lost. How they’re connected, what they both mean, how it feels as if she is the key to that clarity, that she is the only way to find it, and that only they can help her have that power, too. The diadem and Caradoc. 

And the ring.

Tonight, they are not in the room of lost things, but a study of sorts, full of books about legends, and things long forgotten, a fire roaring in one corner, pot of tea still warm, but untouched next to armchairs. They’ve already been here for some time, Luna staying with the Weasleys for tonight, they’re already lost in a tome, searching for mentions of these things together, that idea at the forefront of their mind tonight. Little could draw them from their work once its begun, but she does easily, the sound of her entrance drawing their eyes away from the knowledge to something more precious. 

“Ah, hello, Caradoc, I was hoping you would arrive soon,” Xeno says, straightening up to greet her. Eyes find eyes and the pull moves from a dull ache to a pleasant blaze. 

It’s anticipation. The feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

It’s been days, and she feels like she’s starving for this. Caradoc keeps turning around and expecting to see Xeno there, keeps daydreaming about these secret nights and their secret fascinations. She keeps longing, keeps waiting, keeps wondering what new delights will be made known to her when next they speak. She finds herself carefully hoarding knowledge, fragments of information gathered so that she may offer them as a gift. And it feels like a betrayal, sometimes, when she finds herself sharing tea with Molly and wishing she were somewhere else, looking into dark eyes and drowning in tales of lost and forgotten things. 

Caradoc herself is a lost thing. It isn’t her fault that Xeno makes her feel found and remembered, like a delicate artefact long buried in dirt and sand only to be uncovered by the luckiest of archeologists, like a sword buried deep in a stone waiting to be pulled free again. 

She is sharp when she stands before the door to a room that shouldn’t exist. Ready to be uncovered once again. When the wooden frame appears to her the anticipation blossoms into a flurry of excited fireflies burning deep inside her. 

There’s a moment when she lips through the door where Xeno hasn’t shifted from their position. Just a moment, but it feels like an eternity as Caradoc looks at them. Their silhouette is striking against the firelight, their hair ablaze. Something in Caradoc is on fire too. The fireflies are catching against her jagged edges. This is dangerous, a familiar voice tells her. When Xeno looks up to greet her and eyes find eyes,  the stronger voice of two chimes in, this is what being alive feels like. 

Her reply comes in the form of a graceful shrug, slow and easy as the fire inside her thaws her from the inside out. There’s a magnetic force that Caradoc is getting used to now, something that pulls her toward Xeno, something she never really wants to resist anymore. It pulls her until she’s perched carefully on the edge of the empty armchair they’ve left waiting for her. 

“It’s snowing.” She says, after a moment. “Slowed me down.” 

Those eyes, looking at her. It’s too easy to get lost in them. At the start of this, Caradoc kept shying away. Averting her gaze. Looking away. She doesn’t do that anymore. She looks straight back and gets lost in them. Something slow and teasing sparks up in her, the way it does around Ben now too, James occasionally. Xeno feels like a holy thing, but she should be able to tease them, just a little. “But no, I get it. Every moment without me is unbearable torture. That’s my fault.” 

[cxradoc]

prcng-s‌:

     time: late evening, 19 December      place: the Potter kitchen, Hogsmeade           ( @cxradoc​ ) 

Harry fed, Harry bathed, Harry read a story and tucked close into bed, sleeping soundly beneath the gently moving quidditch posters that adorned his walls, stuffed black dog tucked up against his chest. Lily was staying late at the Ministry again, tonight, and so James has done it all, waved his wand and set the dishes to washing in the sink and taken out the stack of books, the box of letters, spread out all his work across the kitchen table and started pouring over it again while waiting for Caradoc to arrive. 

He’s matching the handwriting on her note to the handwriting on his notes, again, not much he can do without the mysterious ring in hand, but as always the notes are yielding no information to him, no puzzle pieces clicking into place. When her familiar knock comes at the door, he feels an almost palpable relief to hear it, calling come in! just loud enough for her to hear without being loud enough to wake his sleeping son. 

The door creaks open, cold air flooding the room with it, but she shuts it behind her quick enough, and he turns around in his chair, a book still open in his hand, eyes eager as he gets up and begins to move towards her, other hand outstretched.

      ‘You brought it, right?’ he asks, holding his hand out for the ring she keeps close around her neck. They’ve been alternating, a few days at a time, giving them each time to work on unraveling what it might be, why it’s important, but he’s started to feel, when he doesn’t have it, like something’s wrong, a kind of stomach-churning restlessness that disappears as soon as it’s in his possession again. 

Caradoc lets herself in with confidence, turning the handle of the door almost before James has the chance to call out his welcome. The burst of warmth when she walks through the door, the smell of the house, finding James in the kitchen already drowning in work –– these things have become familiar and comforting to her. She shuts the door quickly behind herself, loathe to let any of the precious warmth escape into the cold night air. Shrugging off her coat and scarf, she launches them casually over the back of one of the dining chairs. 

It isn’t surprising for James to head straight for her, but she feels a flare of something possessive and selfish in the pit of her stomach at the question. It’s a feeling she has to reign back in, trample down until it crystallises somewhere deep inside her. Her hands casually raise up, a show of a placating teasing gesture. 

“Yeah, yeah. I brought it.” She says, breezy and quick and she skirts around him gracefully, lowering her bag down to the floor and herself into an empty chair. Her hands move up again to the clasp of the chain around her neck, fumbling to undo the latch and slip the ring free. Instinct fights her as she goes, the selfish voice rising in her. It’s mine. I should get to keep it. Why does he keep taking this away from me? The voice is ignored, pushed aside, and her fingers fulfil their purpose. 

“Really, Potter. When have I ever let you down?” She murmurs, holding the ring out in the palm of her hand. Stomach in knots at the idea of letting it go. “Show a girl a little faith.” 

[cxradoc]

gidecnprewetts‌:

     time. 19 October, 11-ish in the morning      place. a coffeeshop in Edinburgh            ( @cxradoc ) 

The biggest surprise about hearing that Caradoc was in Scotland wasn’t the fact that Caradoc was in Scotland– no, apparently everyone and their nextdoor neighbor was sneaking their way across the border these days, and no surprise, the worse things god. No, the biggest surprised was that Caradoc had, apparently, been on the right side of this war for longer than Gideon had.

Before what had happened to Sam, before she and Fabian came to Scotland, Gideon had treasured her neutrality in this conflict like a shielding spell: it was easy to ignore how bad things were when they didn’t effect you, even easier not to think about the politics of your colleagues and your friends. She’d never thought to ask what Caradoc Dearborn had thought about Riddle because talking about Riddle simply wasn’t what one did in polite company, and if Caradoc really had been a spy, she doubted she would have gotten much of an answer out of her.

But… now they were on the same side again, and if Gideon got to keep any of her perks from her life on the other side of the border, she was glad it was this one. 

     ‘Morning,’ she says, as she sits down across the table from Caradoc, only running a minute or two late after having hurried over from the Ministry. She gives her a half-smile, half-grimace in apology for the delay– Kingsley had been going on and on about something, she’d honestly stopped listening long before figuring out what. ‘Did Moll’s kids wake you up at an unholy hour of the morning, or have you finally gotten someone to set up a silencing charm in your room?’

She’d expected to be more on edge here, but it seemed that the steady hustle and bustle of a coffee shop is universally comforting to her. Bad things don’t happen in places like this, unless you’re about to get broken up with by someone or drink an exceptionally bad cup of coffee. She likes the noise of people around her who don’t care who she is. She likes knowing that whatever she feels here, it won’t be as bad as it could be if she was somewhere else. 

She is more nervous than she’d care to admit about seeing Gideon again –– she wonders how they’ve changed, the both of them. It had only been a few months before her capture that Gideon and her brother vanished from Caradoc’s life, but it seems like a hundred years since they last spoke. Will she be different now? What will have changed about her? Will Gideon see the ways in which Caradoc herself is different now, all the scars and all the trauma. She isn’t sure their puzzle pieces will still fit, but she would like it if they did. 

It would be nice to have a friend back. It would be nice to have Gideon back. 

She offers Gideon a weak smile when she arrives, fond. A small shake of her head, brushing away the half-apology she see’s in Gideon’s face. “Morning.” A reply, and a small huff of laughter. She hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in weeks, but it isn’t the fault of the children. Anything she can manage is fitful, restless. She tends to wake up at the smallest sound, but she couldn’t stomach the idea of a silencing charm. She’d rather hear the bastards coming, if the worst happens. “I’m getting used to them.” She says, instead. Better not to lead with your issues, she thinks. A wrinkle of her nose, an attempt at a joke. “But I’ve considered it. I swear I never had that kind of energy when I was a kid.” 

[cxradoc]

ben-fenwick‌:

“So you still have it then?” he asks, looking up towards her. He’d silently been hoping she would have dispensed the ring with Potter, like the note on the package had seemingly intended. There was a certain energy about the thing, one he couldn’t quite describe, but it made him uneasy whenever she pulled it out in front of him. Whatever it was, and whatever its purpose, it held a power in it like one he’d never encountered before. 

“No,” he shook his head in response, “I think it’s definitely important. Whoever sent it made damn well sure it got taken over- and in your hands specifically for whatever reason.” She was the other important piece here, so important whoever it was that gave her that coat and ring made sure she’d have a guide on her way over the border. He was simply the additional collateral to make sure the plan succeeded. 

Her smile, shy and slightly embarrassed, as if she wasn’t sure if it was okay to give, pulls him out of his more troubling thoughts. “Trust me, I’d much rather be solving the mystery of the ring in the coat pocket, than try to sniff for clues in the woods with a damn stag for help,” he replies with a soft chuckle, poking light at Potter’s animagus form. 

She feels almost guilty when he asks. The ring on the chain around her neck, easily hidden under her clothing. She shifts under the weight of it, which seems to get heavier when it becomes the object of their conversation. She’s been able to tell, in some small way, that it made him uncomfortable. The way he looked at it when she pulled it out into the light, the few times she had during times like this. She’d spent a few minutes with it in her hands, delicately watching the sun play over its surface, feeling the pull of it and slipping it onto her fingers absently. She’d looked at it like something felt wrong, like she should be more wary of it. “We’ve been taking turns with it,” She admits, fingers trailing up to adjust the chain around her neck. “Trying to figure out why it was so important.” 

The smile lingers, because Ben seems to embrace it. She lets some of her worry fade away at the words, mirroring the softness of his laughter. “Your mission will probably go a lot faster than ours.” She concedes, hoping beyond hope that he’ll leave and be home for supper, let Molly put something warm and delicious down in front of him. “Feel free to come with, next time we spend two hours poking around at jewellery and annoyingly vague letters.” Maybe he’d make it all feel steadier, maybe everything would seem easier with his mind behind it as well. 

[cxradoc]

narciss-a‌:

The girl shuts her down so quickly Narcissa is impressed. Almost as good as any snake-tongued pureblood, certainly cleverer than half of Narcissa’s old friends. But she can’t let her go, so she grabs at her arm again, sidestepping to stay in her path, saying impatiently, “no–I don’t want–it’s just that it looks exactly like my cousin’s, and he’s gone missing, and I need to know if it’s the same coat.”

Coincidences don’t exist, not in her world, not in her experience. Coincidences are experiences not yet connected, but a connection exists, always. Nothing is accidental. A girl shows up in Hogsmeade wearing a coat that looks exactly like Regulus’, after Regulus has disappeared so soon after her own vanishing act. This is not a coincidence.

She has to swallow past fear –– physical contact has meant a lot of things for her this year, and most of them were painful. Painful or cautiously earned with her slowly growing confidence now that she’s back. She freezes in it, before she gathers her strength and pulls her arm out of the woman’s grip. It’s only the tone of her voice that stops Caradoc from going fully on the defensive. As it is, she takes a step back, her face closed off. It’s a concentrated effort, to breathe steadily. 

Caradoc gives a shake of her head. Whoever this woman is, whoever her cousin is, Caradoc doubts she knows him. She doubts it matters. She doubts she cares. “Look ––” A slow breath, pulling it into her lungs. “Whoever your cousin is, I didn’t know him, alright?” She shoves her hands in the pockets, defensive and possessive in some small measure. “Sorry that you can’t find him, but I’m sure he’ll slow up.” A shake of her head. “But go bother the aurors about it, not me. It’s just a coat.” 

[cxradoc]

prcng-s‌:

     ‘I have…’

He glances at the letters, tucked under a pile of papers on his desk, for a moment, debating… he has no reason to trust her, this woman he doesn’t know, with this secret he’s been keeping for months, with this puzzle that’s all his to solve. But he has no reason to distrust her either, and it wasn’t like he’d made any progress since he started getting the owls. 

     ‘Something. It’s not much, but…’

He takes the top one from the stack, pulls it out of its envelop, unfolds it between them to reveal the matching handwriting, the mysterious words. The same words, in every letter, their meaning never, ever any clearer. But this… this was the next piece to the puzzle, the next clue to help him along.

     ‘I’ve been getting these letters for months. It’s the same handwriting, they must be connected.’

At a different time in her life she might have considered this all exciting. She still does, but fear weighs heavy on the edges of it. She doesn’t feel fairytale level excited like she might have when she was younger. She doesn’t feel like they’re knights about to embark on an epic quest. She’s no lady of the lake, and she comes bearing no sword.  

She leans in close, brushes her hair behind her ears so it doesn’t drop into her view. The handwriting is familiar, the same as the page she’s poured over since she first saw it. A small breath escapes, the puzzle expanding in scope yet not revealing any part of the greater picture. Her eyes flick up to meet James’ again, searching for something. He looks hesitant with her, some small part of him unwilling to share this but thinking better than to hold it back. He has questions and he wants to know the answers. 

“Well, Nancy, it seems like everywhere you go mysteries just pile up one after the other.” It comes out slow, easy, a whisper. Her mother used to read her those books, a break from lore and legends. Nancy Drew, solving mysteries and getting to the bottom of every problem. When Caradoc came up with some extravagant story, some kind of excuse, a tall tail, she’d repeat the line with a little roll of her eyes. This mystery is James’, it belongs to him, but she feels like she owns a part of it too. For the first time, she feels like she wants to start working for something. She wants to know the answers and the reasons and the name of whoever set her free so she could do this, so that she could find James Potter. 

“Let me help you.” She says –– a demand, really. “I want to know who sent them. Who sent me.” 

[cxradoc]

amelixbones‌:

It’s not that Amelia doesn’t like Caradoc, that isn’t why she’s anxious about meeting her for a drink that night. It’s rather the opposite: she does like Caradoc but it’s silly for her to do that, it’s silly for Amelia to go out for drinks with Caradoc when she doesn’t hate the wix. Yes, perhaps Amelia will find something out but that isn’t likely, given her status as merely an Auror. So it’s silly of her to go out and meet up with someone and just get herself more confused about who she is and what her place in all this is. 

But she can lie to herself and say it’s all in the hopes that some tidbit of information comes forward when really it’s just about Amelia, about how lonely she is, about how depressing her British existence is and how it’s only getting bleaker. So that’s why she accepted the invitation: to sit down with someone around her age, that she doesn’t hate, and have a drink.

As she enters the bar, Amelia finds Caradoc already there and with a drink waiting. “You flatterer, you,” Amelia jokes back, settling onto the open stool and lifting the glass. It’s a whiskey ginger which means that the Auror either remembered her drink or got very lucky guessing. Taking a satisfied sip, she looks to Caradoc’s glass and finds the wix not exaggerating. “Was it a tough day? Or am I just that late?” Either way, she makes a show of taking another large swallow to help her catch up with her friend. Friend? 

Caradoc offers her a smile, a hint of something cheeky. Lets herself slip into this –– the push and pull of it, the steady balance and the almost-comfort. A soft chuckle slips out. It seems like every day here is a rough day. Her friends are dropping like one little fly after another, and she feels like the sand is shifting too quickly under her feet to get a balance. She feels like shes going to crack someday soon. 

Life like this wears down on you, watching terrible things happen every day. Shes not contributing to it, actively. She just wishes she could do more than she does. She wishes she could make a real difference and see things get better. 

“You’re not that late.” She picks her words, a little careful, levels Amelia with a look that should explain it all. Takes another sip of her drink, slower this time. “I hate everyone, I think. That kind of day.” 

She’d dealt with idiots, dealt with assholes. People testing her loyalty and her grip on her sanity and her will to live. A soft shake of her head. “But I don’t hate you, so c’mon. Delight me with some gossip or whatever it is people do with friends from work.” Friends, they weren’t really. But Caradoc liked to pretend, and Caradoc wanted it. She couldn’t talk to Gideon tonight, and she didn’t have that many other people she could stand to be around these days.