toujours noir

[madzieloss]

[incorrecthistories]

I was born for politics. I have great hair and I love lying.

Niccolò Machiavelli, 1513 (via incorrecthistories)

[ravencalla]

DATE: 17 september, 1944, forty-five minutes before the match LOCATION: in close proximity to the quidditch pitch @cygnusblck​

The last time she had been so close to him, they had stood at the centre of a firestorm, the castle known for the cold succumbing to flame. Calla’s jumper had been ruined. Her tie was tattered and soaked with soot. She had lost her favourite quill, a sharp little thing that made her words into daggers. They had not lost Evadne, and such a strange thing it had been to see panic on Cygnus Black’s pretty face, hissing his curses, stood stock-still with his hands unmoving at his sides. He had come back to form in the weeks after, of course he had, dark eyes and a walk between classes that was more cocky than practical and that smirk. 

Calla had the posture of a dancer, or perhaps a marionette, back straight, tall as ever waiting by the door. Laughted errupted from somewhere within the ranks of the Slytherin quidditch team. Nott. Or Mulciber. She kept her eyes fixed ahead. Their lack of discipline delighted her, but she maintained her composure, calling out to Cygnus when the fancy struck her, watching him from the edge of the room. “Black. Come here.” There was time. The Gryffindors had barely arrived. 

She had luck to wish him.

[cygnusblck-blog]

She always demanded, Calla. When was the last time he’d heard her voice hitch with the airy pitch of a question, asking instead of commanding? Had he ever? Perhaps not. Calla Parkinson was always demanding, yes, and Cygnus Black seldom obliged the raven-haired harpy, often defying her for sport, for the simple pleasure of watching her nose crinkle and her eyes darken, and for the greater pleasure of watching their peers gasp in awe at the dark prince who so foolishly dared to deny the dark princess her wants. 

But he obliged her now, if only because he was still reeling from their rather unfortunate exchange of intimacy (not the physical kind, no— worse: the emotional kind) amidst the bombs and bedlam, when they’d been in desperate search of their mutual interest, their shared treasure, their common (only?) love; when Cygnus Black’s arrogant, stoic veneer cracked, and from it spilled a striking, humiliating bout of humanity. The memory still stung, and he didn’t know if he was very lucky or very unlucky that it was Calla who had borne witness to his little vulnerability faux pas.

Time would tell, he supposed. 

She beckoned, and he acquiesced, sauntering over to her like a lazy cat. When he reached her, he planted his hand just above her shoulder, against the door she was leaning on, and bowed his head so that they were at near-eye level. “You rang, princesse?” he drawled, lips half-cocked and slanted, amusement tugging at the upturned corner and bored hunger tugging at the downturned one. 

[lunaslvgoods]

[cygnusblck-blog]

ABRAXAS

“A riddle?” Abraxas laughed, “Speaking of-”

He tilted his head in the direction of the others. His unsaid thoughts, pale white orbs, hung in the air like fruit. In the pregnant pause, they ripened and swayed low. The bough they rested on bent over backwards from the weight. It seemed like Abraxas was going to pick them- reveal some tawdry truth or delicious secret- but at the very last moment, he turned away.

Whatever he had been thinking splashed onto the ground, lost. 

There was something terribly tragic and Shakespearean in his demeanor, something rotten and still persistently intrepid. Though everyone else in this darkly-lit dungeon was trying to rebuild their life, to hold on to what they had and make sense of they couldn’t, Abraxas had long since left all such mundane trivialities behind. His eyes had been focused on something beyond the thinly-woven veil of reality since he had made it to the dungeons. He accepted the reality of the situation as it was.

“I don’t have to spell it out for you, Cygnus, do I?” there was no malice in his voice. It trailed off harmlessly, “It is better by far to lose six men than your ship.”

Scylla would cut her teeth on their men, whatever those muggles did would spray them with blood and guts and leave entrails on their decks,but Charybdis wouldn’t even bother, she’d suck them all down without a breath and leave no one to even mourn. 

The eddies were already swirling around them. And they were headed directly for the heart of the monster. If only they had a captain who would steer them away.

Abraxas liked Cygnus, but condemned him still. Not for lack of wit nor love nor any other trait, for the matter, but rather for the overabundance of it. He was weak for women and wine and war, susceptible to vice but still tempered by a pervasive persuasiveness that endeared him to all. One look at that sanguineous smile and all was forgiven. In his presence, Abraxas could almost understand the seduction of sin. They were cut from the same cloth, Abraxas knew, for better or worse. 

“Better to have a headache, than to lose a head,” Abraxas laughed lowly, “Forgive me, Cygnus. It has been a long day. I could do with a glass of wine right now.”

He smirked, “But do tell me what merits your company, Cygnus. In between all those hens in your coop- from your dear sister Walburga and the ever-so-lovely Druella and whoever else you’ve decided merits a taste of you at the moment,  I should think you’d be pecked half to death by now. I’m surprised you even left a scrap of your attention for me.” 

For a moment, he thought that Abraxas might prattle on and on and on about Riddle, might peddle the same the propagandistic bullshit that Evadne did and hail the boy king as the most clever and ambitious snake of them all. But he didn’t, and Cygnus was grateful for the reprieve. Perhaps what Cygnus admired most about Abraxas was this: he did not admire Tom Riddle. He admired no one, it seemed, save for Greengrass, who, in all of her glory and grace, seemed to be to Malfoy what Evadne was to Cygnus: vital. Oh, the golden prince played the part of haughty sovereign as well as the dark prince did, but Abraxas was as dependent on the queen of grace as Cygnus was on the queen of indecency. And he supposed he was quite comforted by this, Cygnus, for there was some kindred solace to be found in knowing that he was not the only snake who’d found something precious to coil around. 

It is better by far to lose six men than your ship. “Gratitude for the translation, Malfoy,” he deadpanned, dark, dead eyes flicking to the other boy’s pale ones. And then, figuring he might as well have some fun at the expense of Abraxas’ intellect, he leaned forward, inclined his head, and hummed, “Tell me, then, Abraxas”—a pause, a wicked twist of his lips that forewarned mischief—“which one of our crew”—he jerked his chin in the direction of their elite clan—“would you sacrifice to save our ship?” He surveyed the snake pit with bored scrutiny, brow creased and lips pursed, looking every bit like a modern Plato. “I wouldn’t mind watching Scylla chomp down on Dolohov,” he decided, sounding really very indifferent for a man who’d just declared that he wouldn’t be too terribly distraught if a mythic monster tore a boy limb from limb. 

I could do with a glass of wine right now. His chest rumbled with low, throaty laughter, and the warm flush of amusement that rose to his cheeks and eyes made him look less dangerous than he was. “Now, my dear, dearest friend,” he chuckled, patting the palm of his hand affectionately against Abraxas’ cheek, “vous parlez ma langue.” Slinging one arm around the other boy’s shoulders, he purred, “Fret not, little prince. Evadne spent some time in Dubrovnik this summer, did you know? Little dove brought me back a bottle of Moslavac”—he brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them—“straight from the from grape vines of Croatia. If we survive this”—he’s indifferent to everything, Cygnus, even to death—“what say you and I raise a glass tonight, yes?”

He scowled at the mention of those darling hens in his coop, his good mood soured considerably by the mention of one Druella Rosier. It was all very funny once—his expected betrothal to Druella; all very comically unimaginable. But now, with the clock ticking and his engagement to Druella looming in the too-near, too-real future, it wasn’t very funny anymore, wasn’t unimaginable at all. Evading Abraxas’ line of questioning altogether, Cygnus sighed wistfully, theatrically, and said, “You think too much, Malfoy.” Simpering, he cocked one corner of his lips, looking ever the satisfied cat. “And revel too little,” he concluded decidedly. “Stop thinking, Socrates, and revel in my attention while you have it.”

[veelablck-blog]

Date — September 8th, 1944. Time — Whenever Makes Sense Location — DADA class Status — closed to @cygnusblck​

Life at Hogwarts had returned too suddenly for Walburga’s taste with a desire to hold onto the attention that had been so easily given to her the last few days. Her body had returned to normal after a few treatments at the hospital wing, and she hardly had time to recall what exactly happened to her. She still clung desperately to her old ways without the near death experience effecting her like it would others. She made sure to keep herself in the form of iron with an inability to change easily. Today was different though as her favorite class would be coming up with someone who was by far the most important in her life ; her brother.

Students pressed hard against the walls of the castle as she walked down them, glaring at the few that took longer to avoid her. Her eyes sending a cold threat to those that dared to try to get her to change her path. It was the audacity of a third year that caused a delay in her journey, forced to send the girl to the floor when she wouldn’t step out of her way. She can still recall a professor calling after her, but she would pretend otherwise if she were to be called into the Headmaster’s office. For now, she pushed herself into her classroom with eyes scanning quickly for Cygnus, who seemed to be deep in conversation with another when she began to approach.

‟ Brother, ” she said with fingers already dancing across his shoulder before resting her cheek against it. Her eyes scanned the room as each student was forced to pair with another and a thought crossed her mind. ‟ Do me a favor, Cygnus?” Her tone rich with influence and a hint of a plea as she pointed to a muggleborn in their same year. ‟ Pair up with them. I need a little entertainment to erase the last few days. If you truly love me, I would prefer a bit of blood to spill — by accident. ” She soon lifted her cheek from where it rested to direct her gaze towards him with a devilish grin taking hold. ‟ For me? ”

[cygnusblck-blog]

He always knew when Walburga was near. Perhaps it was the way that students always fell silent and still beneath the lofty weight of his sister’s scorn, or perhaps his body was organically oriented to his Walburga, tuned finely since birth to respond to her proximity. Whatever the reason, he always knew when Walburga was near, and so it took him only a handful of seconds to sense his sister’s emphatic presence in the DADA classroom. He abandoned the pretty, dark-haired sixth year he’d caught with the net of his silver tongue (only for Walburga—and perhaps for Evadne—would he ever forfeit a conquest) and turned to his sister with cool, hooded eyes and a lazy grin. 

“Walburga,” he purred in return, his head lolling to the side so that he could press a salutary kiss to her cheek. Cygnus was uniformly regarded by his peers as the ice prince of Hogwarts, but the privileged elite who were in possession of his favor knew him to be quite publicly affectionate, always kissing Walburga’s cheek and Lucretia’s temple and Evadne’s lips; always slinging his arm around Nott’s shoulders and laying his head in Avery’s lap when he was too drunk to hold himself upright. Of course, Walburga was privy to privileges far more grandiose than her brother’s public affection, for there was nothing he would deny her, no wish he would not grant her. And perhaps that was why she asked this favor of him—because she knew that he would never refuse her. 

Theatrically, he whined, “Come now, sister.” Eyes trained on the Muggle-born in question, his lips twisted with revulsion. “Must you subject your dear brother to the company of Mudblood filth?” And then, as if he’d just been struck with a wondrous idea as perfectly brilliant as the invention of the lightbulb, he smiled, cruelly, and bowed his head a fraction, as if to share a secret with her. “For you, mon diable, I’m always happy to oblige,” he crooned, “but perhaps there’s a compromise, yes? One that doesn’t pry me from your side.” Deftly, he retrieved his wand from the pocket of his robes and hid it beneath the desk he and Walburga shared, aiming its head at the Muggle-born who’d been unfortunate enough to capture the dual attention of the Black terrors. “Allow me to demonstrate.” With far too much grace for a man so well-versed in the art of graceless sin, he pointed the tip of his wand at the Muggle Studies textbook the girl was clutching, whispered, “Flagrante,” and watched, joyously, as the Muggle-born screamed bloody murder, jumped out of her seat, and dropped the book like it was—well, like it was on fire (it was). And then, discreetly, he sheathed his wand, his audience none the wiser and his puppeteer all the wiser. “An accident to your satisfaction, my dearest?” he asked coolly, jerking his chin in the direction of the Muggle-born’s red, blistered hands. 

[colekuok]

Date: 9.15.1944 {{ two hours before slug club meeting }

Location: a quiet hallway in the castle Written for: @cygnusblck​

    Classes had all been released, students sporting their house colors proudly in anticipation for the big match in just two more days. For the elite group of students, one which Ariadne hadn’t been surprised to be included in once again, having always been on the receiving end of Horace’s overwhelming praise, they prepared for the first of many extravagant dinners full of conversation, magic, and debate. At first, she’d hated them - but it had grown on her during the previous semester, and she now found a bit of a pep in her step as her footfalls echoed in the stone hallway. Hardly a student did she pass, until the increasingly familiar figure of the Black wizard. 

      Ariadne’s own friendship with Lucretia, as well as her announced engagement to Abraxas and sudden acceptance into the inner circle of Slytherin’s had pushed the two together more than once, in various ways. Different than Tom, Ariadne felt she viewed Cygnus as someone less worrisome, more approachable - she was known for her unique outlook on other students, so there was a good chance Ariadne was quite off, and she was fully aware of that as she came up upon him in the hall. 

     Rarely was she around the others when Abraxas wasn’t there to rub an elbow against, leaning into for some form of guidance - a Ravenclaw though pure-blood, never truly felt comfortable bantering with the cunning folk. Besides, she’d never quite been seen as normal when it came to the superiority of the pure-blood families. That Greengrass diplomat, she’d once overheard them saying. Always been a fool, likely not to change. Of course, talk had ceased when she was to become a Malfoy, and it felt as if the desired affect had happened - the Greengrass name, as respected as it was prior, had now doubled in value. 

    “Good evening,” Ariadne greeted quietly, eyes only briefly making contact before looking to her feet again. She may have found more of her voice in the past few months, but it still faltered at inconvenient times. It was clear she was distressed - even one who was not her friend could pick up on the way she seemed curled into herself. “You must be quite busy, non? Quidditch and now the awaited meeting - I dare say, I am eager to discover the wonders that Professor Slughorn is hiding for us tonight.”

[cygnusblck-blog]

“Saint Greengrass,” he greeted cheekily, turning to her with bright, hungry (feral—run away, little girl) eyes. To be frank, Cygnus couldn’t remember the last time he’d addressed Ariadne properly, sans irreverence or not-too-malicious mockery. It was never ‘Ariadne,’ no—it was always ‘saint,’ or ‘dove,’ or ‘peacekeeper,’ or 'princess,’ or some other ridiculous epithet that made light of her diplomatic nature. He teased her often, but he did so with tempered ill intent, for Ariadne had an air about her that encouraged decency. He would never be decent, Cygnus, for he’d wed his black, hollow heart to the rotten queen of indecency long ago, and together, he and Evadne Carrow reigned over their kingdom of shadows like mad, depraved monarchs. He would never be decent, no, but beneath the watchful eyes of grace incarnate, he would not be indecent, not in the company of Ariadne Greengrass. And so he teased, but he teased without malice.

She always moved and spoke with the sort of refined grace that was best suited for royalty, but she looked less regal than usual at present, and there was something about the way she held herself (gaze cast downward, shoulders slouched) that was remarkably unusual. “Malfoys don’t look at their feet,” he pointed out matter-of-factly, tapping his pointer and middle fingers against the underside of her chin so as to direct her gaze upward. “Araminta will have you whipped if you walk into Malfoy Manor with your eyes on the ground, little dove,” he purred, and perhaps he was being dramatic, but perhaps he was not. The Blacks and the Malfoys were, naturally, well-acquainted, and Cygnus knew that there was not a single thing the flaxen-haired emperor and empress held in higher regard than pride. It would do Ariadne no good to leave in her wake a lasting impression of meek humility. 

You must be quite busy, non? He smiled, and it wasn’t a cruel smile, but it wasn’t a totally innocuous smile, either. “Well, you know what they say,” he hummed, canting his head to the side with measured playfulness. “All play, no work...” Makes Cygnus a very happy boy. And then, curiously, invasively, he leaned forward and bowed his head fractionally, so that they were very close, and so that she had very little room to lie. “You seem troubled, pet,” he mused, regarding her with moderate interest a miracle in and of itself, surely, for the stoic ice price scarcely showed interest in anything unrelated to his sisters, Evadne Carrow, or sex). “Come now, Greengrass—share with the class, oui?” 

[cygnusblck-blog]

Drabble Me

Leave an “Amuse Me” in my ask, and I will write a funny drabble about my character trying to cheer yours up.

Leave a “Break Me” in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Call Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character asking for yours [be it during the brink of death/in a battlefield/knocking on the front door wounded; feel free to specify].

Leave a “Drink Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character taking shots with yours.

Leave an “Enamor Me” in my ask, and I will write a fluffy drabble about my character trying to woo yours [be it out of the blue/Valentine's Day; feel free to specify].

Leave a “Fight Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character fighting with or against yours.

Leave a “Get Me” in my ask, and I will write a drabble about my character saving yours.

Leave a “Haunt Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character watching over yours [as a ghost, watching from a distance, or otherwise; feel free to specify].

Leave a “Join Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving your character an offer [be it a proposal for an alliance, asking them to join them in an activity (you can get dirty if you want); feel free to specify].

Leave a “Kill Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character killing yours.

Leave a “Love Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a fluffy drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Mourn Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character mourning your character’s death.

Leave a “Nurse Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character healing yours.

Leave an “Offer Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character giving yours a gift.

Leave a “Paint Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character drawing a picture of yours.

Leave a “Quiet Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to calm yours down [be it from crying, from lashing out; feel free to specify].

Leave a “Remember Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character trying to get yours to remember them [be it from an accident, meeting them after years apart; feel free to specify].

Leave a “Shag Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a dirty drabble about our characters.

Leave a “Tell Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character confessing something to yours.

Leave an “Unbind Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about your character freeing mine, or the other way around, or something among those lines.

Leave a “Value Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about my character telling yours how they feel about them.

Leave a “Wed Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our characterd under the subject of wedlock [be it my character proposing to yours, marrying yours; feel free to specify].

Leave a “Yahoo Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our characters celebrating something.

Leave a “Zip Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about your character dressing mine or the other way around.

[cygnusblck-blog]

EVADNE

They don’t call it romance; they call it deception. 

But there’s something terribly inviting to the way these two deceive, the prince of the Black dynasty and the silk-clad diamond of the Carrow name – the wicked Casanova and his sin-kissed Jezebel, handsome Troy and his dark-eyed Helen – lounging on daises built from blood and selfish wants, drinking wine of a thousand vineyards. Their deception stained red. They were playing games that evolved into realities, they were using pieces of their own hearts as their pawns; and the king and the queen of two opposing boards were entangled in the sheets, grasping tighter, gasping louder, mewling each other’s names not like a warcry, but like a forbidden alliance. ‘You’ve brought me ruination,’ they said as they came for one another time and time again, ‘and I will bring you to your knees.’ 

“And are you?” she says, toying with him; and her fingers find his tie, his collar, all those crisp edges pressed impeccably against his body. “Addicted?” She regards him coyly, but sighs when he sweeps her hand to his mouth again, this time laying claim to her very veins. Her exhale of breath is like a flower blooming, an unfurling of black sails, the rustling of the maiden in the garden. Ravage me. But then he utters (purposefully, she’s sure, from the way his eyes glimmer) the one word which she absolutely cannot stand, and the reverie is punctured by a little gold dagger sliding in between her ribs. Her sigh turns into a little click of her tongue. “Oh but baby,” and there’s something sensual to the way she says it, all at once clever and chiding and meaningful. “It’s the sin that I want. You’re just the part of the package I couldn’t shake.” He knows what she hates, and she knows what he would do anything to evade. Cygnus Black is a boy made of many vices, but pride is one that reigns nearly as sovereign as lust. Press meanly against his pride, and you could bruise his very soul. 

You’d deny me your hand, lover?

He knows how she feels about the idea, but she feels it anyways; suddenly and urgently, like a hound that she cannot muzzle, vengeful beast come back to bite its mistress for her negligence, for her fear. And yes, Evadne does feel, for the briefest flash of time, fear. Her whole life she has been accessible, generous with her mouth and her hands and the flutter of her lashes, falsus amoris, practiced romance (deception, remember?). And why was it, that she could kiss Cygnus Black so freely, ad libertatem? Why was it that she could have teeth which drew blood, claws and words that could nip and terrify and hurt? Marriage was a dirty word, it had never taken kindly to a girl like her, it would never treat her softly. Marriage was the word which would end her life as she knew it. She would not let it sink its grasp into the cliffs of her shores, she would sooner drown it in the darkness of night than see it conquer her gulfs, raze her meadows.

So she steels herself and at his show of bravado, shoves playfully against his shoulder, her mouth curving up despite her reservations, despite the way her heart beats a little too fast, too often. “Mmm,” Evadne hums vaguely in response. “I don’t know, darling. Would I?” He’s always been very adept at charming his way out of the dust and back into her good graces. He’s always coming and going, walking on her precipices, breaching her shores. They didn’t fight often. They couldn’t: to fight with their greatest sin was to deny themselves something innate and necessary. But when they did, my god; all hell filled the stands. But she doesn’t want to entertain the Devil tonight, only her devil. “If you’re very brave and very reckless, you might find out.” 

And the castle yawns at their arrival, welcoming back its snakes with a gust of cool breeze. As Cygnus leans into her, she catches a glimpse of the lake, the surface of it rippling in the light of the Scottish sun. The hills are rolling with wildflowers. He smells of a cologne that she knows like the smell of fire, of danger, of a great and expansive seduction. “Oh?” An innocent little sound, but she’s far from innocent. And her eyes flick across his, her lips part, provocative, baiting. “Tell me then, shameless,” and it’s said just like lover and mon coeur and paramour, with a lilting, savage adoration. “How many nights would you have from me?”

She leans in, meeting him more than halfway – but not quite; not yet. Her voice lowers, like a conspiratorial little secret being whispered. After all, he’s held enough of them, just as she holds her now, tightly, without compromise. “Don’t be too greedy, now,” and she could steal another kiss, if she wanted to. She blinks luxuriously, beneath him, for him. Her spoiled king, her partner in extravagant deception. “Leave some time for all the other poor, famished boys waiting in line,” but she wants nothing more than for him to be greedy and wicked and unrelenting, “won’t you?”

Are you? Addicted? He smiles, knowingly, and a gruff chuckle rumbles somewhere in his chest (only Evadne can summon real laughter from him, the sort of laughter that’s hearty and genuine). She loves to toy with him, his little fox, loves to push his buttons and pull his levers, loves to summon whatsoever emotion she thinks will suit him in that particular moment. She knows too well how to play him, knows to pull this string when she wants to hear that sound and that string when she wants to hear this sound. She can play him well, yes, and here’s the dangerous part: she never really has to. There is nothing in this world or any other that Cygnus Black will ever deny Evadne Carrow, and she doesn’t ever have to play him, for she need only voice her wish, and it will fall on his perked ears as a command. 

She never really has to play him, but she does, often, and he supposes that’s because she knows that he’s prone to boredom, and that he quite enjoys playing games, especially with his best playmate. Are you? Addicted? He’s still smiling that knowing smile when he bows his head, bumps the bridge of his nose against the bridge of hers, and croons against her lips, “Incandescently.” It’s a cheeky sentiment, isn’t it? Dramatic enough to be misconstrued as a joke and poetic enough to be misinterpreted as false flattery. But Cygnus doesn’t joke (he torments, he teases, but he never jokes, not really), and he certainly doesn’t flatter (he’s the subject of flattery, not the giver of it), and there’s nothing dramatic or poetic about how irreconcilably addicted he is to Evadne Carrow. He’s in want of her, always and achingly; even when he has her trapped between the cage of his arms, writhing and mewling beneath him, he still wants her, for his appetite for the dark-eyed jezebel is bottomless, destined never to be sated. And that’s why he’s addicted to her, isn’t it? Because Cygnus Black, who tires of his lovers as often as the sun sets, never tires of Evadne Carrow. She always leaves him wanting more, and he always wants—more, more, more. 

You’re just the part of the package I couldn’t shake. To reiterate: Evadne Carrow plays him well—too fucking well. He’s a beast of pride, Cygnus, and those who seek to wound him need only aim their arrow at his ego, for if the Black devil has any Achilles’ heel, any vulnerability beyond his his blind devotion to his sisters and his lover, it’s his own bloated sense of self-importance. Evadne knows this, of course (there’s little about him she doesn’t know), and she has no qualms about ruffling those proud peacock feathers of his. She’s pricked his pride and hit her mark, and he, the stoic prince, reacts. He scowls, bristles, and makes a low, guttural sound, something that sounds more wolf than man. 

He’s as covetous as he is proud, and he covets Evadne like Hades coveted Persephone, wanting to possess her wholly and absolutely, never satisfied with mere seasons of her affection. The king and queen of rotten and decency can never be bridled or broken, for they are too wild, too feral, to ever yield to ownership or bow to another’s jurisdiction (they bow only to each other, and only because they do their best work on their knees). It should be impossible, really, for hurricanes and wildfires to belong to anything but the whims of nature, of wind and flame, but Evadne Carrow belongs to Cygnus Black and Cygnus Black belongs to Evadne Carrow. They don’t talk about it (they’re both too proud to acknowledge their sickly, indivisible dependence on one another)—but they both know it. They both know that he’s not just a consequential ‘part of the package,’ but he’s covetous, and the jibe bruises irregardless.

 “Careful, lover,” he purrs—or means to purr, but he sounds less flippant than he wants to, and the words are something of a hybrid between a growl and a hiss. She plays him too fucking well. Vexed, he curls his fingers around the column of her throat (loosely, playfully—only a very tiny bit dangerously) and props his thumb beneath her chin, tilting her head backward. “Your brand of sin, baby? No one can satisfy it—not like me,” he whispers against the corner of her lips. And isn’t it true? Isn’t this why Cygnus belongs to Evadne? Isn’t this why Evadne belongs to Cygnus? Because the king is as rotten as his queen, and the queen is as indecent as her king? Because only Evadne can bear Cygnus’ storms without wilting (she practically blooms beneath his dark skies and his booms of thunder and his strikes of lightning), and because only Cygnus can navigate the map of Evadne’s wicked trickery? Because they both play rough and dirty, because neither of them mind the bruises or the cussing, because they’re equally matched in every way that matters (physically, sexually, intellectually, emotionally)? When Evadne has an itch, Cygnus knows just how to scratch it. 

Hope is such a treacherous, tedious thing, and so he doesn’t indulge in it, not ever, not even when she replies, “Would I?”—as if she’d really, truly spare him the anguish of wedding that doe-eyed, golden-haired butterfly; as if she’d really, truly wear his mother’s ring on her finger; as if she’ll really, truly answer to ‘Evadne Black’; as if she’d really, truly call herself Cygnus Black’s wife. He’s never had to hope for anything, really, because people hope for what they want, and Cygnus nearly always takes what he wants, no hope required. But he can’t take this, and he can’t hope for it, either (no, no, that would be far too dangerous). And so he says nothing; he smiles, laughs breezily, like they joke about this sort of thing all the time, and says nothing. That’s that. For now. 

He’s thankful for the reprieve of a much more pleasant topic of conversation (sex, naturally), and when she asks him how many nights he’d have from her, he grins, crookedly, the way he does when she baits him, and growls, “All of them.” His hand falls away from her throat and climbs upward, catching a fistful of her raven curls and using her hair as leverage to tug her head back, back, back, so that she’s looking up at him vertically, and—more importantly—so that he can taste her lips easily. And he does—easily. This kiss isn’t as sloppy or urgent as their last, but it’s not quite as innocuous as their first, either. It’s languid and lazy, like they have all the time in the world to do this and only this; like they’ll kiss like this today and tomorrow and every day thereafter. It’s a seal: I am yours and you are mine. It’s a gesture: I don’t kiss on the lips, but for you, I’ll make an exception; you are my every exception. It’s a promise: I will have you tonight, tomorrow night, and every night thereafter, until I perish. “Come to me tonight, paramour?” he entreats, asking of her what he would command of others. Come to me tonight, as you always do; tiptoe across the boys dormitory and sneak into my bed, like you always do; slip between my sheets, like you always do; put your lips where they ought to be and your hands where they ought not to be, like you always do. And then, to sweeten the deal, he says to her what he says to no one: “Please.” To have a king beg at your feet—what power. “I’ve suffered all the summer’s nights without you, mon Perséphone.” This was how Hades felt, surely, when he was robbed of his queen for duration of the season of the sun, left to rot in his own aching boredom until the air turned crisp and the trees shed their leaves and his bride was delivered back to him, ushered home to his arms by winter’s kiss of death. “Would you make me suffer one more?”

He chuckles heartily at her quip about all the other famished boys waiting in line, and with laughter (cruel laughter, perhaps) still on his tongue, he hums, “Let them starve,” but he may as well have said, “You’re mine.”

[goldenyaxley-blog]

DATE: 1 September 1944 LOCATION: Dungeons OPEN TO: @cygnusblck 

People can’t always be the hero they want to be, but tonight Leo is as regal as the lion. He had followed Declan into the fray, second thoughts something unfamiliar and foreign as he learns what it is to know such violence. There is no softness in his eyes tonight. Where his jaw had quivered earlier had been forced steady by rallying cries of his brave-hearted brethren, the words of Declan Prewett still ringing in his ears: will you fight for me?   

He was magnificent in the same way as morning glories unravelling into full bloom at dawn, like trumpet flowers swelling with the mist. He doesn’t think twice as he grabs the snakes by the crook of their elbows, each of them dazed by the onslaught of aid from their fellow students. He casts spells where they were needed, but where Declan had gone head first into battling the Giant Squid, Leo had left his side ( and oh how difficult it was, to leave the side of the one you wish to protect the most ) to get as many students away from the dungeons as he could. For a handful of moments he realizes that this is what his life could be like from now until the end of time, this state of destruction and death. He was built for the petal soft-touch of a rosebud mouth along his shoulders, not the plummeting rubble and never-ending stream of bodies slamming into his own as he ushered them through the safe passageways. 

It is one of these bodies that nearly knocks him on his ass, a rare occurrence for both of the long-legged boys, to be sure.

❝ Black, ❞ he practically hisses, ❝ We haven’t got bloody time for you to fuck around. Help me get the others out of here or get out yourself. ❞

[cygnusblck-blog]

Who the fuck let the lamb into the wolf’s den?

And what sort of lamb thought he could save a wolf? The very same wolf who, on more than one occasion, trapped the lamb between his jaws and held him there cruelly, for his own amusement, releasing him only so that the feral mutt could trap him again later. His pride was reeling and railing, and he was suffering the indignity of being in need of aid. He could stomach the aid of lions, but only just. The aid of a lamb, though? That was insufferable. 

'Such a prideful beast you are, lover,’ Evadne always teased—and she was right. Pride was the uncontested sovereign of Cygnus Black’s heart, and there was nothing that repulsed him so much as the notion of dependence, of having to rely on another entity for satisfaction of this need or that one. He was fiercely independent, Cygnus, a resourceful, brilliant, terrible boy who, when in want of something (he was always in want of something), was quite capable of attaining that something himself. But perhaps he’d been too arrogant a god for fate’s liking; perhaps the heavens had rained bombs so as to remind Cygnus Black that he, too, was mortal, and that his pride would damn him. And then, as if on cue, none other than Leo fucking Yaxley, the lamb among lions, arrived on the scene, playing the part of knight in shining in armor well (as well as any pleb could), and fate laughed, ‘Here, wolf, let the lamb lead you away from slaughter.’

Who the fuck let the lamb into the wolf’s den?

Their collision is quick and abrupt, and Cygnus instinctively reaches out to steady the other boy. But then he realizes who, exactly, he’s steadying, and his hands jump away from Leo Yaxley’s slender frame like the boy is on fire. “Yaxley,” he snarls, sounding uncharacteristically gruff (he doesn’t like being caught off guard, and so he’s more vexed than he usually is by the presence of the beloved Gryffindor). “Have you gone mad?” he hisses, voice exasperated. “For Salazar’s sake, Yaxley, we’ve dueled before, often, and your wandwork is piss-poor when you’re so...frantic.” Frankly, Cygnus thought anyone’s wandwork was piss-poor against the magnificent backdrop of his talent for dueling, but that was a discussion for another time. “You’ll do more harm than good with the state you’re in, you git.” Wrapping his fingers firmly around Leo’s upper harm, he instructed, “Come,” and began to move in the direction opposite the dungeons. It was a command, not a request; Cygnus Black didn’t ask for things—he took them. 

[cygnusblck-blog]

antonin

the sixth of september 13:25 potions classroom closed to @vntonin

He was late for class.

He was always late for class, Cygnus; always making an entrance, always waltzing into rooms with messy-from-sex hair and hooded eyes and a half-cocked grin. He was always late for class, and he was very late today. Perhaps he might not have been so brash in his disregard for punctuality if he was late for, say, DADA, or maybe Charms. But Potions was positively dreadful, and with his knack for wandwork and his sharp wit and his charm, Cygnus had long ago curried Professor Slughorn’s favor (and any favorite of Slughorn’s needn’t worry about attendance). He had little incentive to attend Potions at all, much less on time, and so he arrived in true Cygnus Black fashion, waltzing into Slughorn’s classroom with—you guessed it—messy-from-sex hair, hooded eyes, and a half-cocked grin. He smelled of Firewhiskey and Evadne’s perfume, and his tie hung loosely, incriminatingly, around his neck.

His arrival was unnoticed by none, acknowledged by all, and lauded by all but one. He was greeted almost unanimously by excited whispers, by nods of salutation and eager smiles. It was difficult, really, not to react to Cygnus Black, for he was a starboy, a son of constellations and stardust and vortexes, and he, like all mythic creatures of the sky, demanded the attention of those who were misfortunate enough to be caught in his orbit. They obeyed him well, his stargazers, always looking at him, always wanting him, always worshipping at his altar with upturned wrists and begging lips. Yes, his stargazers obeyed him well; the wolf did not. Perhaps Antonin Dolohov was too taken with the moon he howled at to bend his knee to the stars; perhaps he was dumb or deaf or blind, or perhaps he was all three; perhaps he missed his home, and was too stricken with sickness to pay mind to much else besides his longing for Mother Russia. Whatever the reason, he didn’t turn when Cygnus entered the room; he didn’t whisper, he didn’t nod, he didn’t smile—he just sat there, alone, face stoic and eyes downcast. And for that, he would be punished; for that, he would be reminded, sharply, that he was a dog, and that dogs ought always to heel.

“Mister Black,” Slughorn chided, “how very generous of you to join us today.” Cygnus smiled, and it was the sort of smile that got away with murder (literally, not figuratively); the sort of smile that disarmed and charmed all at once; the sort of smile thathad made it possible for him to shag his way through half of Hogwarts’ student body without incurring the scorn of his many dismissed lovers (it was too easy to fall in love with Cygnus when he smiled, and too difficult to hate him). “What can I say, sir? I’m a giver.” The lewd implication of ‘giver’ was made quite clear in the way he canted his head, looked sideways at a pretty, dark-haired Ravenclaw, and winked at her suggestively. Slughorn grunted, tapped the tip of his wand against his podium thrice, and said, “Well, Mister Black, you can give all of your attention to Mister Dolohov. You’re tardy, and our new student has no partner. Take your seat. Mister Dolohov will catch you up on today’s lesson.” Jaw slack, he bristled, outraged by the sheer obscenity of having to suffer the company of a mutt. His peers’ matching expressions of longing shuttered with fear as Cygnus, brooding and fuming, trudged from the classroom’s threshold to the unoccupied seat beside the Russian volk. 

He hated Antonin Dolohov. He'd only known him for a handful of days, but he hated him. He hated the way he stalked and prowled—ha! As if he had any claim to Cygnus Black’s hunting grounds. He hated the way he boasted his native tongue. Russian was an ugly language, all harsh ‘sss’ sounds and no staccato; Cygnus much preferred the pretty poetry of French, and he wasn’t keen on Dolohov sullying the Slytherin Dungeon’s lyrical ballad of le français with babushka this and bolshevik that. He hated the way he looked at Walburga, and above all else, he hated the way Evadne looked at him. He hated Antonin Dolohov. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, Dolohov,” he sneered, nose upturned and upper lip curled. “Cherish each moment.” Ever a perfect picture of cool arrogance, he leaned back in his chair, tipped it backwards, on its two hind legs, and crisscrossed his fingers behind his head. “So—volk—what are we cooking up today? Veritaserum?” So that I can harvest your garden of dirty secrets? “Amortentia?” So that you can try in vain to win the favor of my lover? He paused then, and his lips twisted cruelly, frighteningly. “Wolfsbane?” Sure, Dolohov wasn’t technically a werewolf, but the whole of Hogwarts had knighted him ‘wolf’—‘volk’—and the implication was clear. 

[vntonin]

🍹 just fuck me up

                  “Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night,                   and when you move, fall like a thunderbolt.”                              ― Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Keep reading

[cygnusblck-blog]

druella

           She was trapped but did not feel pain in it. There was only the sad-sweet pleasure of what it means to be held, to be truly enthralled until she was so captivated she could not recall what it was to be free. What it was to want it. Druella looked up at Cygnus and saw the future and the present, the beauty and the darkness, and oh, she wanted it. She wanted him. Look at me, she thought, unbearably pleased when he did. Look at me look at me look at me. He plucked an endearment from the air with precision, tugging at her heartstrings – she was the lyre and he was Orpheus, drawing even the Gods to hear her endless love song. 

           He stole the tears from her cheeks and the breath from her lungs all at once. He was beautiful, Cygnus Black. He was the rocks that shipwrecked sailors driven forward by siren songs: danger wrapped in the illusion of paradise. She missed every clue, wishing to cloak herself in that darkness and not realizing it would bite. She was not frightened with him, no, or perhaps she was more so – her heart certainly fluttered in an uneven rhythm, her skin flushed and her eyes wide. She was a fool for Cygnus and she could not help it. Her stupidity beneath his gaze was a by-product of her utter inability to impress him.

           Druella was well-aware of which eyes followed her down the hall. She was almost painfully observant when Cygnus looked away, a look of boredom crossing his features between one blink and the next. She knew it and it made her ache, to please him, to adore him and make him adore her in turn. It was half-love and half-ego, her refusal to quit until absolutely everyone loved her, and her desperation for no one to love her as much as he. There was power and danger enough to drown in and she was ready to suffocate, to clog her lungs with thick tar and smile as she went. If she’d ever had caution, it was not evident at his side and even less so beneath his gaze, her hands shaking and her stomach full of fairy wings.

           His hands were so big on her waist, she wanted to revel in it, even in the press of all those people. Druella put hers, so careful, so gentle, against the beating of his heart. It was steady, calm, if a little fast, and Cygnus stood firm as the press of other students moved past them. ❝ No, ❞ she said, and her smile was a pretty thing, blossoming under his simple care. He did not need to do much to impress her. ❝ My hero, thank you. ❞ She curled closer like a cat searching for the sun, seeking his warmth, his pleasure. If he would but smile at her, genuine and small, she would crow with joy. Even these, small and smirking things as they were, Druella cradled close to her chest and kept, covetous and naive.

           Without herself to worry about, her thoughts turned to Corvus: possibly the only topic that could turn her gaze from Cygnus. She scoured the room around his tall frame, a slight frown on her lips. ❝ Did you see Corvus? I’m sure he’s downstairs, but… ❞ she bit her lip, still searching the crowd. But what if he wasn’t? Her brother would never leave her behind, and she could not leave him, either. He was her best friend, her closest ally, her dear brother. She could not imagine him heading to the dungeons without her. 

She was always fluttering, Druella, like a butterfly. And that’s what she was, no? A butterfly: frail and frantic and spun from gossamer. Her heart fluttered, her hands fluttered, her eyelashes fluttered—she fluttered, that little papillon, and things that fluttered (fairies, birds, little girls’ hearts) ought never to be touched by hands that knew only how to crush. 

Could you imagine? Cygnus Black, with his big, stained-with-foul-blood hands that left blooming bruises on his lovers, cradling delicate, darling, fluttering Druella Rosier—forever. It was laughable, really, the notion of wedding a butterfly to a net. But there she was, eyelashes fluttering, hands fluttering, heart fluttering (he could feel the labored rise and fall of her chest), looking up at him like was more nectar than net, like she could sustain herself on his sweetness for this lifetime and the next. What a terrible shame that no one had schooled her on the anatomy of Cygnus Black, for you could peel away his skin, crack open his chest cavity, dissect each of his organs and suck all of the marrow out of his bones, and you’d not find a single vestige of sweetness in his whole, hollow body. 

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to muffle his scoff at her very simple, very stupid ‘no.’ ‘No’—as if to punctuate her naivety, as if to flap her wings and chirp, ‘Look! Look! Watch me flutter! Come catch me!’ No one in the castle’s hallowed halls—save for, perhaps, Evadne and Lucretia and Walburga—could lay claim to the privilege of not needing to be terrified of Cygnus Black. He swallowed stars, Cygnus, inhaled their solar shine and exhaled a carcass of stolen virtue, siphoning the light of others so that he could survive his own darkness. And Druellla Rosier? She was the lightest of them all, outshined only by the sacred purity of Lucretia, whose goodness could not be matched even by winged seraphs. He didn’t want to wed, Druella, no; he wanted to devour her, wanted to feed on her light until he’d had his fill of starshine, until he’d smothered her goodness, robbed her virtue, and plucked her wings. 

“Don’t fret, mon papillon,” he crooned, raising his hand to her temple and using his knuckles to to sweep a few pale curls out of her face. The gesture appeared to be tender—intimate, even—but those who were well-acquainted with Cygnus’ trickery knew that he liked to play with his food, and that he only gentled his touch right before he was about to strike a monstrous blow, as if to deceive his prey with promises of shelter when we was, in fact, the storm. It was too easy to play her, really; she was painfully readable, Druella, and so it was not very difficult at all for him to bend her, to break her, to strum this string when he wanted to hear that tune. “Our dear Corvus is safe and sound.” Maybe, maybe not; Cygnus certainly didn’t know. “Last I saw him, he was on his merry way to the dungeons.” A lie, but you wouldn’t know it from the way his tongue spun straw into gold, delivering the bluff with stark sincerity. Stars, he’d learned, tasted best when they shone brightest, and Druella, he’d learned, positively beamed beneath the dizzying weight of his attention. Like the big bad wolf, he would dress up and play the fantastical role of knight in shining armor she’d fashioned in the cosmos of her imagination, and when she realized what big teeth he had, he’d eat her. Tomorrow, he might change his mind (he was a fickle creature, Cygnus Black, and his wants changed as often as Hogwarts’ shifting staircases); tomorrow, he might tire of this game, might dismiss her existence with cool indifference and ignore her altogether. But tonight, he wanted to play.

“Come,” he entreated, offering her the crook of his elbow. “I’ll take you to him.” Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. “I’m an excellent protector, you know.” Theoretically, yes, Cygnus Black would make an excellent protector, for his peers feared him as intensely as they wanted him. The only problem? He was the reason anyone needed protection in the first place; he was the monster Druella Rosier needed to be protected from. “Trust me, little dove.” Fly away, little butterfly. Run, little girl. 

[ficra-blog1]

🍹 GIVE ME LIL MISS SUNSHINE AND THE DARK PRINCE

send me 🍹 for a short fanfic/headcanon of our muses

Is this his way of making friends? Fiora’s lips were tempered downwards in a soft frown—it looked almost unnatural on a face practically already marked by the beginnings of smile lines. She stood facing Cygus, looking up at him with wondering eyes that held a measure less patience than normal. The nature of their interactions had seemed to settle into a cycle: he made snide comments or initiated some sort of short pseudo-conversation made up of veiled statements and strange looks, and she took all that in stride, replying with simplicity in ever-gentle tones and rarely looking him in the eye. Today, however, she stopped to turn her gaze up to meet his, that unusual frown in place and its sentiment clear in her eyes.

It was really anything that he had just said, but rather a sudden realization that Fiora had just undergone. He did this so often, and she had never stopped to wonder why it was her that he now turned his attention to. Of course, she could be completely off the mark and was about to make an utter fool of herself, and the very thought had butterflies flying absolutely mad in her stomach, but she couldn’t just walk by his spiteful side nearly every day and say nothing more than, “Is that so?” or any of those other replies comprised of similar fluff. So, today, she decided to say something more.

“Is this your way of making friends, Cygnus?” As anyone may have expected, Fiora could never frown for long. Her nature was that of clemency and tenderness, and she could not deny the benevolent smile that began to tug at the corners of her lips. She smiled up at Cygnus, her eyes searching his as they never had before and with a depth not belied by the lightness of the rest of her expression. Fiora didn’t know much about him, truly—only rumor, nothing more than gossip. She didn’t know who he held his true friends to be, or if he felt that he had anyone at all to hold in such regard. She didn’t know how he truly felt about her blood status, despite how easy it would be to assume. She didn’t know his story and she didn’t know why he spoke to her so often—even if it was never anything good—but she could make an educated guess. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he was trying to reach out to someone, somehow. Maybe she was wrong, and if she was then that was okay: she’d prefer he be happy already rather than attempting to recruit her to help him find joy. “Because I would be more than happy to be your friend if you would stop insulting me, you know.”

[ravencalla]

🍹

🍹 ( a short fanfic/headcanon of our muses )

Calla has dreamed about Cygnus since (almost) the day she met him, flitting between the violent and the fantastical and the ordinary and the extraordinary. Big cats and Cygnus Black colour her subconscious, stalking in and out of her mind, spinning her dreams with quick hands and soft fur. Never nightmares. Always dreams. Which, she supposes, she should be grateful for, as if the boy himself plays any role in what her head does, streaking ahead of her, reminding her there are things far beyond her control even so close to, even within, her. The dead love to hide in dreams, they learned in divination, the faceless population in the background, the acquaintances that can’t be remembered when one wakes up, but it seems as if he’s in the background of all of her dreams lately — flashes of black hair and silver must be him, shadows in the corners of the rooms she wanders endlessly must be Cygnus — he isn’t dead. In their world ghosts float through the corridors, hollow and translucent, and he sits at the Slytherin table and uses long, clever fingers to stroke cheeks and that mouth of his to whisper, lips catching the edge of an ear, parting silky hair and meeting her eyes from across a room and smirking, decidedly solid, undoubtedly alive. 

‘Dreamboat,’ Evadne sighs, and Calla raises her glass to her lips and says nothing. Patience, Parkinson. She cast her leopards and knew, suddenly, why they owned her. There will come a day when she looks at Black and understands why she closes her eyes and he lingers. Riddle, she thinks, for now.Because she would wake herself the second she saw the Head Boy in her own head, and surely, he is the closest thing to him, Evadne untainted as ever in her subconscious, Electra too vivid to be veiled with the haze of dreams, Walburga too inconsequential, Caius too repulsive. Cygnus, in his shining armour, and a voice she’s known since childhood, plays his part so well in her head, staying in the shadows, the background, with the ghosts,the looming spectre of Riddle’s war.

Better him than Tom.

[ravencalla]

DATE: 1 september, 1944 LOCATION: approaching the astronomy tower @cygnusblck

Her eyes were burning, lashes fluttering in a way that was far more survivalist than coquettish, pushing past the steady stream of students, like blood from a wound, bleeding and wounded and terrified, raising her sleeve to cover her mouth as she breathed. Calla was going blind, crouching below the smoky-edged horizon and running a hand down a section of stone that still stood. She could rip the silk tie into pieces, fashion herself a mask for her nose and throat and keep herself from choking, at least — there was nothing clever in hesitation, no ambition in refusal. She tore it, eyes watering, and tied it, blinking quickly, wearing her new scarf for seventh year like a bandage. She could breathe easier. And once she could breathe again, she could see again.

She wasn’t foolish enough to mistake seeing with vision, not rising until she had fled the corridor and found another, less students, less terror. Students she knew: Cygnus Black, hair like his name, glossy even in the dust, a very special kind of beauty. Her eyes narrowed, and Calla pushed forward again, catching the edge of his arm, trying again and wrapping her fingers around it tightly, keeping herself steady. She was still wearing her little mask, tugging it down, the strips of cloth like coal-black soot-soaked necklaces at her throat..   

“Evadne,” she said to him, voice raised, though perhaps the arch of dark brows would have been enough, there was no one else for her to seek and find and reach for like a flash of gold at the edge of the pitch. Surely, Cygnus would know, they all sat together, les purs, in emerald robes and silver earrings that dripped like the chandeliers and candle wax and blood from wounded tongues. They sat together even when she was not among them, the raven on her crest, blue ribbons in her hair, their laughter echoing, their eyes sparkling. She held tight to Cygnus, weaving instead of walking, still pressing forward towards safety. She would change course for Evadne if they had abandoned her. 

She played favourites. She had to. And he was her favourite Black child. Of course, the Blacks themselves had never found themselves in her good graces, encroaching on territory that had belonged in Evadne Carrow’s hands since the moment she graced herself upon Calla Parkinson. Too close to being her saviours instead. 

She swallowed the bitterness on her tongue and covered her mouth before she could breathe in ashes again. “Black, Cygnus, did you see her before you left?”

[cygnusblck-blog]

Cygnus Black was almost unanimously regarded as an effigy of bacchanalian, Grecian beauty, and he, like Michelangelo’s marble sculptures, the ones he so resembled, was not often touched without permission. Very few had the privilege of laying their hands on him freely, without consequence or cost. Firstly, there was Evadne, who had the liberty of doing whatsoever-the-fuck she wanted to and with Cygnus. Secondly, there was Walburga, and thirdly, there was Lucretia, both of whom had free reign to kiss their brother’s cheek and curl up in their brother’s lap and ruffle their brother’s hair. Fourthly, there was Calla Parkinson, who always took what she wanted, with or without permission. And since Cygnus had already located his sisters and sent them safely on their respective ways, and since Evadne would never touch him so chastely, he knew, even before turning around, that the slender fingers that coiled around his forearm belonged to one Calla Parkinson.

When he did turn, he was surprised, for the girl before him was less cool than she usually was, her catlike eyes sparkling with something not quite frantic, but not quite calm, either. His narrowed gaze fell immediately to the makeshift mask she wore, and, in spite of the bedlam that surrounded them, one corner of his lips ticked upward delightedly. Such a resourceful little minx, that one; what a pity she’d found a home with the birds instead of the snakes. Although—come to think of it—she had found something of a home between the arms of the rotten king and queen of snakes, hadn’t she? Evadne and Cygnus came as a package deal, and so, too, did Evadne and Calla; and so the three devils had fused, Calla and Cygnus regarding each other at first with indifferent, grudging tolerance for the benefit of their common interest, and then, gradually, with equal parts animosity and affection. 

Evadne’s name sprang from her lips absent any sort of context, but Cygnus knew what she meant: ‘Where is she? Is she safe?’ Before he could answer, she was tugging him away, and he was letting her. She always took what she wanted, Calla, with or without permission. The chaos that was engulfing the castle like the hungry flames of a wildfire dimmed in comparison to the anarchic havoc that Cygnus Black housed between his ribs and behind his teeth and in the creases of his palms, and so he felt no less at ease than he did on any ordinary day. The sharp bite of her nails curling into his arm commanded his full attention, and he grimaced, placing his large hand over her much smaller one. “Claws, kitten,” he purred, the smooth staccato of his voice sounding raspier than usual, muddled by too much smoke inhalation. “Retract.”

But then, as he weighed the gravity of her question, he bristled, feeling much less at ease now than he had moments prior. “No,” he said flatly. “I thought she was with you.” If ever Evadne Carrow was not at Cygnus Black’s side, her fingers laced with his and her head lolling against his shoulder, she was at Calla’s side, her fingers laced with hers and her head bowed a fraction to whisper sacred secrets into the Ravenclaw’s ear. Something that felt very much like terror (he wasn’t sure, though—he wasn’t well-acquainted with the sentiment) gripped him by the throat, strangling his arrogant purrs and his cool croons and crushing him with the sheer force of fear. “Fuck,” he hissed, eyes feral. And then, more forcefully, more frantically: “Fuck.” Distraught, he ran a hand through his hairand swallowed hard. He was always collected, Cygnus; he always knew what to do and how to do it, but now, here, he was miserably lost, and so he looked to Calla, desperately, for direction, for an anchor. 

[reginaserpentes-blog]

Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.

When Evadne Carrow appears at the mouth of the abyss looking like a vision of disheveled extravagance, kindness and clemency have fled entirely from her. She’s poised to kill, and you can see it in her gaze, the strain and the will, the pain and the desire. For retribution. For vengeance. For some semblance of glory in this pale, cold place where they’ve been cornered like animals in a cage. She’s wounded and hissing. There will be a price for what she (what they) have endured. 

The others are already here, their eyes flicking to her as she sweeps down the last of the steps leading to their designated cell. She swallows hard, holding one wrist carefully against her chest as she descends into the fray. A vision: snakes coiled in the deep, children sitting in somber terror, torn robes and lost ties and their house colours strewn across the damp stone in a disarray of blankets and makeshift tarps. They were not born into greatness and raised in opulence only to be abased by muggle machines – and the sight of it makes her sick, stirring a sense of absolute unease in the pit of her stomach. Her mouth is parched and there’s blood on her neck, but as she picks her way across the spread of bodies towards the far wall, there is a clarity which, less than an hour earlier; she had been lost from. 

“This is disgraceful,” Evadne remarks scathingly as she settles into an open square of space, tensing as her arm jostles in the process. And she turns towards them, her sworn comrade, her dear knight in arms, her mouth twisting in bitter acrimony. No broken wrist or shattered arm could wound her like the sight of all of them, debased in such decrepit conditions. A cracked pedestal. A collapsing throne. They were conquerors, sitting on the ground and marveling at the shards of their pride. She had endured terror and navigated the jagged cliffs, she had been razed by the skies and courted by the enemy: and for what? There is no victory to this reunion.

“The others aren’t rotting in some third sublevel cell. Not like us.“ Them, the ones who had condemned the impure from the start, who had always wanted to crush them meanly. “How terrible and ironic.”

[cygnusblck-blog]

It’s all really very inconvenient, this tragic blight of noisy, messy Muggle weaponry. To be clear: Cygnus Black is a fanatic acolyte of chaos, and he’s not yet encountered a bout of havoc that hasn’t appealed to him. His only qualm with the bedlam that’s engulfed the castle is this: he can’t partake in it. He wants to play (he always wants to play, Cygnus); he wants to explore the playground of rubble and ash, wants to kiss plumes of smoke and taste hellfire on his tongue. But he can’t do those things, not any of them, because he and his serpentine companions are in timeout, condemned to the dank dungeons like vermin. Preposterous. It’s all really very inconvenient, you see, and he’s really very bored. 

All boredom and no play makes Cygnus a dangerous, dangerous boy.

And then, like a siren, she sings (or seethes), and then, like a sailor, he’s bewitched. He’s been watching her sparingly since they arrived to their impromptu refuge (he always is—watching her, that is), and he suspects she’s weathering a maelstrom of emotion that’s equal parts unease, restlessness, and fury (she’s as fond of chaos as he is, Evadne, but she, like him, is partial to invoking chaos, not enduring it). She’s unnerved, he can tell, and if he doesn’t anchor her soon, Muggle bombs will be the least of everyone’s worries (what was a little jaunt of nuclear warfare in comparison to the cataclysmic hurricane of Evadne Carrow’s wrath?). And so he rises to his feet, pauses, wraps his fingers around Walburga’s wrist and squeezes lightly (‘I’ll be back, sister’), moves to Evadne’s side (where he belongs), and sinks to the floor.

“Evadne Carrow,” he tuts, clicking his tongue scoldingly, with mock-reproof. “Quit your griping, little raven.” Little raven. He calls her this often, and it’s really quite coincidental, he supposes—raven, like his Patronus. Curious, no? Almost as if she’s as intrinsic to his soul as the avian watcher of the night. Almost as if she’s his happiest memory. Very curious, yes. Very coincidental, Cygnus would insist. “You’re trapped in close quarters with me. What have you to gripe about?” Grinning crookedly, coolly, he sweeps one arm beneath her knees and braces the other one behind her back, tugging her into his lap with ease. “Don’t be so bothered, lover,” He inclines his head marginally, his lips brushing firstly against her temple, secondly against the spot right between her jaw and her neck, and thirdly, finally, against the slope of her shoulder. “Leave that to me,” he mumbles against her skin, but he means, ‘Leave that to me. I’ll get you bothered tonight, when this is all over. I’ll have you arching and wriggling and begging. Leave that to me.’

Tenderly, he cages his arms around her and reaches, carefully, for her wrist, cradling it between his large hands like a broken-winged dove. To be frank, it’s fucking ludicrous, really, that a devil who’s robbed innocence, trust, faith, and life, who’s swallowed the starshine of others’ souls to survive his own darkness and stripped his lovers of their virtue, is capable of this kind of tender worship (for Evadne, he’s capable of anything). The same hands that have hexed and beaten and clawed now curl gingerly around the the swollen curve of her wrist, inspecting the angry splotches of purple and blue with saintly gentleness that a sinner like Cygnus Black has no business wielding. People are looking now, he thinks (he can feel the heavy weight of prying eyes), and he’s not sure if they’re looking because the king and queen of rotten indecency are being—well, indecent, or because the softness with which breaks-his-lovers-like-ragdolls Cygnus Black tends to his paramour is startling. “Does it hurt, mon coeur?”