E. Bones

Edgar B. Bones. Son. Brother. Healer. Perhaps it’s worth burning myself out like a match so long as others receive the light and warmth I dispatch.

[wildlittlebirdd]

[efleshnbones-blog]

date: July 27th location: The Burrow  availability: closed to @mugglelcver

Step One: Fix your mind firmly upon the desired destination.

The burrow, the burrow, the burrow… he rehearses the word in his mind over and over; a mantra of desperation.

He remembers the lessons taught long ago. He had been all of seventeen years old, shifting foot to foot, attempting to stay warm enough to pay attention as their professor insisted, once again, that they should never attempt to apparate while distracted, because it could lead to catastrophic results.

Edgar—logical, sensible, responsible Edgar Bones—pays no heed to the consequences as he decides getting to Arthur as quickly as possible is worth any price he has to pay.

Step Two: Focus your determination to occupy the visualized space. Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every participle of your body.

This is where Edgar struggles the most. He doesn’t know how to do this. Doesn’t know how to visualize a version of the burrow where Molly isn’t there. Doesn’t yearn for any version of the reality that they are now living in. He forces himself to do it anyway. He has to. Arthur needs to know.

Step Three: Turn on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation.

Edgar’s aim is off; he had attempted to appear outside the front door, but he’s instead intrusively ended up within the foyer of the Weasley’s compact home. Though given how high a possibility splinching was, he finds himself very lucky.

The faint pop of Edgar’s entrance brings Arthur wheeling around the corner “Arthur—” Edgar starts immediately, nearly breathless, emotions leaking from every pore, only to sharply cut off his own words as he catches sight of Charlie, just steps behind his father. In the blink of an eye Edgar’s entire demeanor has changed, tucking his nerves carefully away. Arthur is going to have enough to deal with without his children being sent into a frenzy. “I’m so glad I caught you here.” Edgar starts again, twisting a tone of anxiety into eagerness, “I was just with Molly. She was hanging out at my work, and she reminded me how long it’s been since you and I have hung out.” Edgar turned his attention away from Arthur, smiling down at Charlie. “Hello, Charlie. Can I borrow your dad real quick? Then after that maybe you can show me your dragon collection—I hear you finally found a Hungarian horntail.”  

[leedongwook]

Bellamy Blake “your pretty face” Appreciation [114/?]

[efleshnbones-blog]

ofrosier:

A somewhat tense silence stretched between them, long enough to nearly drive Evan insane. He could recall a time where he had observed Edgar long enough to be educated on every nuance of emotion as it flashed across his face. It was the main reason why he felt so unnerved by the way he was currently observing Edgar and failing to deduce what was going on through his head or what emotion he might be experiencing. It was that more than anything which made him realize how much things had changed between them. Evan was aware of how much time had passed since they had last got together like this–nearly ten years–but considering the familiarity and sentiment prompted by this encounter of theirs, it had escaped Evan’s notice just how much time had passed. They had been kids back then. In a way, a lot more innocent and less burdened than the men they had grown up to be. They were both completely different people now. Evan suddenly felt like an idiot for assuming that Edgar was still the same high-spirited boy from his memories.

Edgar’s voice cut through the stifling silence and Evan blinked away the slightly glazed look from his eyes as he looked up at the other man. He frowned despite himself at Edgar’s comment. It was clearly forced, at least that Evan could see. The Death Eater resisted the sudden impulse to reassure the other man that he had all the time in the world for him, that there was no need to pressure themselves to avoid replicating what they used to be to each other all those years ago. But wasn’t that opposite to what Evan had instigated by approaching him, though? He had waltzed into Edgar’s space with his flawless practiced smiles and arrogantly confident charm, not specifically with the intention of bringing them into the volatile territory of their history together but under the pretense that they could still be around each other as if it had never happened. Admittedly, it had been foolish of him to expect Edgar to play along. It had been foolish of him to approach him, period. With that thought in mind, Evan crushed whatever he was about to say in response to Edgar’s comment on wasting his time and said nothing in return.

Too late for second thoughts now, Evan thought as they both apparated to the pub Edgar had suggested. Taking a deep breath as they settled into their table, Evan reassured himself when he saw that Edgar was willing to keep their interaction in the professional area–he wasn’t quite keeping up with Evan’s tactic of pretending that their history had never existed but he was keeping the conversation in a controlled territory. You couldn’t go wrong when speaking of work. This was good, Evan tried to convince himself. There was no reason to feel bitter about this unfamiliar dynamic they now shared.

As soon as Edgar placed the drink in front of Evan, the Death Eater picked it up and took a large gulp. He didn’t do it hastily; he didn’t want to make Edgar know just how anxious he was but the liquor successfully crushed his nerves as soon as it hit the back of his throat. He felt more confident already. Until Edgar mentioned the verdict of the case again. Evan twisted the glass in his hands for a moment, his former regret resurfacing. Wow, he had momentarily forgotten another big reason why he was regretting this whole encounter–he had made himself into the messenger of bad news; as if he wasn’t already a huge void of disappointment in Edgar’s life.

He looked at Edgar for a moment, taking in the eager curiosity in his eyes and the tense stance of his body–he was very passionate about this case for some reason. Evan’s eyes suddenly hardened as he looked into Edgar’s, meaning to silently indicate that Edgar was not going to like what he was about to say. He also did it because otherwise he was going to grimace as he delivered the news. Better to come off as stoic rather than apologetic. “Wiggins got cleared of all charges,” Evan said and although his words were delivered in a neutral, uncaring tone, his eyes shone with the apology he wasn’t willing to give. “He was a pureblood with power and connections under his belt. Considering the way our world is these days, this…shouldn’t surprise you.”

“Wiggins got cleared of all charges.”

Edgar goes to say something, say anything, but when he opens his mouth there doesn’t seem to be any breath in his lungs.

“Considering the way our world is these days, this… shouldn’t surprise you.”

And the tragic part of it all is that it doesn’t surprise, Edgar, not at all. What does surprise him is the sudden crack and the wetness that immediately starts to coat his hand. Edgar’s right hand is already covered in ale and diluted trickles of blood by the time he’s able to register that the top corner of his glass had splintered and sliced into where his thumb was pressed against the cup’s previously smooth side. “Holy hell—” Edgar hisses drawing his now stinging hand back, nearly knocking the glass over completely in the process. “Just uh—I’m going clean this off real quick.” Edgar explains distractedly, injured hand cradled close to his body as he ducks off to the bathroom before Evan can say anything.

In the bathroom Edgar lets cold water run over his hand for a few long moments. It stings still, not in the same way the alcohol did, but the burn is certainly still there—reflexively making Edgar’s fingers twitch encouraging his body to pull back away from the water’s stream, but Edgar forces himself to remain still. He needs this; needs the pain to keep him grounded. He shouldn’t have let himself become involved with the case. Shouldn’t have let himself hope for a different result. But he had. He had been optimistic, he had let the candle of justice flicker desperately inside of his soul, only to have it blown out once again.

This shouldn’t surprise you, Evan had said, and he was right. Edgar has learned this lesson months ago. Justice does not always prevail, good people lose, good people die. Has parent’s death hits him again and Edgar gags watching his own blood flow down the drain. He’s sick, but more than that he’s terrified. Terrified of what this world has become, terrified of his sorrow, terrified his own anger.

He can’t think anymore—doesn’t trust his own thoughts right now— and instead forces himself to go through the motions of something he knows. A shaky hand withdraws his wand from his robes, silently healing the cut on his hand. He’s coherent enough to know that doesn’t want to be alone right now; unsure of what he’ll do when he’s left to his own devises, but he’s unsure of who to turn to.

Arthur would be his go to. Arthur who has seen Edgar is his most retched of states; who has already held Edgar’s sobbing body as he initially grieved the loss of his mother and father. But Arthur is probably home, has probably finally made it home after a long day of work, a long day of being away from Molly and the boys and Edgar can’t bear the thought of tearing Arthur away from that just so he can bask in Edgar’s gloom.

There are other’s he could turn to. He’s close enough with several from the Order now where they would be a willing ear to listen to his pain, but the thought is unappealing. Having to explain his emotional state, having to explain the case and relive it’s disappointing details. You wouldn’t have to explain it to Evan, a small part of his brain whispers. And he nearly forgot he had abandoned Evan out there. That is, if Evan is even still out there at all.

And whether by some miracle or tragedy Evan is still there, and Edgar is either desperate or hopefully enough to approach him again. “I know I don’t really have any right to ask you this,” Edgar starts, voice soft—almost confused, like he barely understands the words that are coming out of his mouth, “and I understand you’re very busy and you only agreed to come and talk about the case, but, uh,” he falters for a moment, the question dying on his throat. If it wasn’t for the voice in the back of his head growling that he’s a goddamn Gryffindor not a coward, he might not have managed to get out, “just, if you had a few extra minutes and wanted to stay and talk about, well, talk about anything honestly, I’d appreciate it.”

[wildlittlebirdd]

[themagpieandthespider]

Date: February 12, 1977

Location: Keswick in Bowland Fells

Time: Early Morning

Status: Closed for @efleshnbones

Name calling, fear mongering and demonizing werewolves were all on the propaganda menu of the Ministry of Magic during the War. Once hostilities commenced, any witch or wizard with their throats ripped out was blamed on a werewolf attack. In those days Fenrir had just been a boy, without any thought of how these prejudices would affect him. He had simply gone on living. It wasn’t until that fateful February night when the air around Durmstrang was so cold and the fog so thick that anyone caught outside the castle might loose their way if they took, but a step. What had Margarethe been doing out there? Had someone coaxed her into the bitter cold? That is what was speculated, but never confirmed.

Margarethe Mecklenburg was seventeen years old. She was beautiful in the classical way; flowing golden curls, ivory skin and piercing eyes of blue. She was shorter than average and better than two dimensional models. There was a shyness to her, hesitation in her body movements and a softness in her voice. She was an avid lover of Quidditch and during her young life she had played Seeker for her house team. She wanted to dedicate her life to helping others by becoming a healer. Fenrir would never admit to killing her, he would never admit to what the monster had really done, but he could remember it plain as day.

Fenrir’s nails bit into Margarethe’s chin as he tipped the girl’s face up. He was younger than she was, but already much taller. He crushed his mouth to hers and the blonde whimpered as a tongue pushed past his lips and teeth, tasting of blood and something wild and dangerous that Margarethe had no name for. When Fenrir pulled back, she was shaken and uncertain. She had no idea what Fenrir wanted from her, or what the monster might say or do next. The werewolf’s next words, however, must have taken Margarethe straight from confusion to fear.

“Run, little one.” Fenrir’s low rasp of a voice wound around the words, and for a moment, they made no sense to her. “If you truly are afraid of the big, bad wolf, then run. He’ll be out to play any minute now.” Her eyes had flown to the dark, star-filled sky. They had been studying the lunar cycle backwards and forwards in astronomy for the past few weeks. Moon charts were everywhere he looked in the castle. Her breathing sped up even as she clumsily got her feet. It was the full moon and moonrise was fast approaching. Wide, blue eyes locked on him even as she began to stumble backwards, her hands clutching at her cloak as it threatened to trip her. Fenrir watched her, but made no move to follow.

Under the chill of the mist that spread over Bowland Fells he and his pack waited. The are was made of barren gritstone fells, deep valleys and peat moorland. It survived as the north-west reminder of the ancient wilderness that once stretched over a huge part of England. As he walked among them they gnashed their terrible teeth and begged to go now. Fenrir, the king of wolves, didn’t need the Ministry creating publicity for his kind. He was perfectly capable of doing that himself and in the tiny market town of Keswick was where he’d make his first mark.

One would think that in this battle they would win by default, powerful creatures with the ability to do as they wished above the law. However they couldn’t risk too many moves, for the wizards had the weight of numbers. That was the problem with being in the elite, by definition they were vastly outnumbered. yet they took to battle in their own terms. They left men and women screaming in pain, clutching their previous wounds. Wands sent spell after spell into the throng. The moon glared down at them furiously as the wolves continued their carnage. Then the world was silent as if it ended in the night. The sun was still resolutely below the horizon and the field was dark. Slowly small lights sprouted like luminescent flowers here and there, each appearing with a loud crack as thought they split the earth open.

“Is anyone alive out there!”

The sky was already more bluish than charcoal. The flowers that moved about the field were lights at the tips of wands. The werewolf, now looking quite human and quite injured groaned at the voice in the distance. He remembered shouting as his troops to fall back and then blackness. There was nothing more.

[efleshnbones-blog]

By the seer nature of the work, being a healer is messy. 

That is nothing new to Edgar, who has encountered blood, guts, and vitreous fluid, among other things, on a semi regular basis since entering this profession. It's not something that one necessarily gets used to- reattaching someone's arm is always an adventure- but Edgar likes to think he is mentally prepared for most situations he encounters on the job. 

He was not prepared for this.  

Edgar recalls strolling through a muggle museum once. There had been a hall of paintings; one of them being a copy of some famous Italian artist- Angelico, if he recalls- and his depiction of the last judgement. It had been ghoulish: with monsters, inhumanely furred and scaled, prodding and slashing, strangling and boiling, shredding and devouring, the multitude of human victims.  

The painting had been an representation of hell; a warning for an afterlife to come for the wicked. But Edgar had found hell on earth. 

Werewolves was the explanation he was given. They were the cause, and the results were laid out before him. It's a woman he stumbles upon first. Barely a woman, in actuality, with soft, youthful features that can't put her at a day older than twenty. He thinks her hair would be blonde but a large gash to the forehead has let the blood soak through leaving it as nothing but a slick, slow-drying tangles of an indistinguishable color. It's the eyes that get to him. Pale and grey and so very large- opened as wide as they can go yet not truly seeing anything. The blood stained fingers of his glove press against the tuck of her jaw but that's all he's able to do before he's pulled back by Healer Contreras.  

"She still has a pulse," Edgar objects vehemently, attempting to pull out of the older woman's grasp, needing to get back back down and help those unseeing grey eyes. But Contreras has been St. Mungo's field supervisor for nearly as long as Edgar has been alive. A half-foot shorter than Edgar, she still carries herself with unmovable determination and is able to dissolves Edgar's resistance with a gentle shake of his shoulders and an even softer-spoken question, "How many do you intend to let die while you sit here and heal someone who is already gone?" He has no response to that, but this time when he pulls back she releases him. He gives a faint nod, mentally reminding himself of the truth no one likes to speak: a pulse does not mean life, and no matter what Edgar is able to do to heal the young woman's body he has no spell that bring back her shattered mind. Contreras is right, his efforts are needed elsewhere--  cries and moans still echo around them as clear signs of those still fighting for their lives. Edgar's next patient is unconscious by the time he reaches him, but his pulse beats proudly underneath the skin- roaring in it's battle for life. He's lost a lot of blood and taken numerous wounds to the body, but he's a powerfully built man and nothing seems to have hit any of the main organs. He'll live, Edgar is sure of it. But will he want to be alive when he finds out what he's become, Edgar wonders, knowing there's hardly a chance that man hasn't been bled on by one of those monsters. "Tergeo," Edgar speaks, voice strong and without waver, watching the layers of blood in varying degrees of drying, clear away, revealing the nature of the wounds spread over the man's body. His mouth twitches up in a minuscule grimace, and he finds himself pleased that his patient isn't currently awake to experience the agonizing burn of the cleansing potions Edgar uses to meticulously washes the wounds- he's already been infected, Edgar doesn't need to risk the poor man's injuries becoming septic. A litany of Vulnera Sanentur is spoken almost like a prayer, as Edgar guides his wand across the man's body with one hand, his other one already digging through his pack in order to find some of the blood bags he's brought. It's then the man starts rousing, eyelids flickering and Edgar is pressing a hand gently but firmly to his, miraculously uninjured, right shoulder, before he can rise up. "I'm going to need you to stay very still for me. My name is Healer Bones; I'm here to help you. You've just been through a werewolf attack, but you're going to be alright." When there's no indication that the man is about to try to fight his way up, Edgar removes his hand, running deft fingers down the inside of the man's arm, in order to find a vein and start replenishing the copious amount of blood lost. "We're going to get you moved to a hospital as soon as we're able to, but you've taken quite a bit of damage to your left hit, and I'm afraid if we attempt to move you before I've dealt with that, we'll run the risk of jarring your lower spinal cord and making things a lot worse." 

[efleshnbones-blog]

franklongbvttom:

Frank started to feel rather stupid when Edgar made it clear he wasn’t interested in Alice. Despite the feeling he had that Edgar had wanted to say something else, he didn’t care in this moment; he felt like a weight was lifted off his chest… because it meant she’d be focused at work. And that his work life wouldn’t become tangled with his personal life ( if she’d started to date someone he thought of as a brother that would have been complicated ). And that he didn’t need to feel jealous, even though he didn’t actually have feelings for her.

“Oh,” he replied, unable to really say anything else –––– what could he say? Now that everything was cleared up, Frank felt ridiculous. Of course Edgar wasn’t into her; now that he thought about it, she didn’t really seem to be his type after all. “Yeah, with someone who really likes ice cream,” he echoed; all that was going through his head at that moment was that he liked ice cream. Not that he’d be suitable for her, of course, being her mentor, but it was a thought that wouldn’t stop whirling around. Galloping gargoyles, he needed to stop this. 

“So, er, why were you in there?” He was genuinely curious now that their… misunderstanding had been corrected, and he also thought it was a good way to change the subject. Whether Edgar would let the subject drop, though, Frank had no idea. The other man had never taken Frank’s bullshit before, so he wasn’t sure if he’d be cut any slack this time.

The way Frank's anger immediately melts away as he accepts the fact that Edgar has not invaded the ice cream parlor in hopes of wooing Alice, is more than enough to tell Edgar about whatever feelings that Frank is not offering up himself. He has to bite back his amused smile, not wanting to embarrass his self-proclaimed brother any more than he already seems to be, as Frank echos back his statement about Alice being with someone who likes icecream. Edgar has always respected Alice, but he must admit that she gets bonus points for turning the normally professional Auror Longbottom into a smitten second year.

There's something here, feelings going far beyond the flash of jealousy he's seen. Feelings Edgar wants to get to the bottom of, since he's always made it his goal to try to stay up to date with the things that are most important in to Frank, but he's not even sure if Frank has a good enough grasp on what he's feeling to explain it to Edgar. Therefore, he allowed Frank to sway the conversation away from the misunderstanding, at least for now. 

"I'm actually here on business, oddly enough." Edgar informs him. Though he still is having trouble grasping how Frank somehow came to the conclusion that he wanted Alice, he understands that it is surprising to find him here. He's done some field work before, but it's never been anything as near pleasant as an ice cream parlor. "St. Mungos is wanting to do something special for their patients so we thought an ice cream party might be in order, and who better to cater it than Fortescues? What about you? What are you doing wandering around Hogsmeade?"

[efleshnbones-blog]

A Bad Beginning (~Flashback~)

date: November 11th, 1996  location: Hogwarts; outside the Quidditch Pitch  availability: closed to @cassius-nott

Some day he really will tell Evan no. He’ll remind Evan that sneaking around—to empty classrooms, and the astronomy tower, and in tonight’s case, the Quidditch pitch—is a terrible idea that is bound to get them in trouble. Yet somehow between brain and body, his message always seems to get lost in translation; which is this case means Edgar finds himself biting back smiles and agreeing instead of offering Evan his well-thought out objection.

It’s why he finds himself with his scarf wrapped tight around his neck, head ducked down against the November chill, already mentally planning through the potions essay he’ll need to finish whenever he makes it back to his room. But he’s jarred from his thoughts when he hears the crunch of footsteps a few yards in front of him. With only the light of the moon and stars shining around them, Edgar is only able to tell that the approaching figure appears to be male and that they’re carrying what Edgar deciphers to be a broomstick given their current location.

Edgar’s footsteps halt, though he draws his wand from his robes, standing stoically still as the other continues to approach. The features remain indiscernible in the dark, but the stride immediately tells Edgar that it’s not Evan approaching—though he’s careful not to analyze the fact that he’s somehow gotten to the point of knowing how Evan walks. The silence weighs heavy and though the distance is quickly shrinking, neither have made any effort to identify themselves. Edgar hesitates only a moment longer, unsettling curiosity underneath his skin growing to be too much, before raising his wand up and allowing the light to burst from the end of it with his softly muttered lumos. He knows the spell immediately identifies his own face as well, but whoever else is out here is also breaking curfew and it isn’t likely they’ll be eager to incriminate themselves just to get Edgar in trouble.

It’s the eyes—a glint of unmistakable blue—that Edgar notes first. It’s the same pair of eyes that Edgar had overheard girls in the hallway wistfully whisper about to each other, declaring how stunning they are and insisting that they could gaze into them all day. Edgar doesn’t share the sentiment. As nice of a color as they may be, there’s something unsettling about the older student’s gaze; secrets just beneath the surface, that Edgar finds himself turning away from, not sure if he wants to know what goes on behind Evan’s peculiar best friend’s brain. But perhaps that’s an unfair assessment. In the few months that Cassius has been at Hogwarts the rumors from his time at Durmstrang have been abounding, but at this point most of them are, indeed, still just rumors. Edgar attempts not to allow rumors to dictate his opinion on people, and it is not as if Edgar has had enough interaction with Cassius to form his own opinion quite yet.

“Cassius,” He greets with a nod, his voice barely louder than the whisper of wind that ruffles their hair. For a second he finds himself unnerved by the thought of Evan asking Cassius to join them out here, but as he looks closer that doesn’t seem to be the case. Despite the chilly temperatures, Cassius has a thin line of sweat across his forehead and a faint sheen on red across his cheeks and the tip of his nose, which leads Edgar to guess he’s probably been out here flying for a while now. Though, comforted that Evan hasn’t opened up their time together to another, he still can’t shake the tension brought on from running into Cassius. He tells himself to relax. Cassius is Evan’s best friend after all, what does he have to worry about?

[efleshnbones-blog]

what do you think about other healers who might be using their profession for wrong and immoral purposes?

“That’s a horrible question to have to dwell on. I wouldlike to believe that a healer wouldn’t do that, but unfortunately, I think ithas become all too apparent that corruption to creep into any field. Still,although I am a bit biased, I do think healers have a particularly special rolein society, in that the people who come to us are extremely vulnerable. Ourclients are in a position where they are forced to offer a lot of trust, quiteliterally putting their lives in our hands sometimes. The very fact that ahealer might take advantage of that vulnerability is absolutely despicable andthey should be promptly stripped of their role in the healing community and appropriatelypunished.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

have you ever been in love?

“I’ve been lucky to have a lot of love in my life, though Ihave a feeling the context of the question is probably in more of a romanticsense.

I don’t know if I have an honest answer for this. I’m notsure whether yes or no would be the lie… There were a few times I thought Iwas. Things never really worked out how I wanted them to, though. I guess Ijust want to believe that if it was love it would have turned out differently.That when it finally is love, if I’m lucky enough to find it, it will work out.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

would you ever involve yourself with the death eaters in any way?

“Involve myself? I’m not sure I want to even know whatexactly this question is attempting to imply.

I involve myselfwith the efforts to stop death eaters and their hideous crimes against muggles,wizards, and society as a whole.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

FKM- Seraphina, Dorcas, Cassius

“I feel as though I’ve made my feelings on this game abundantlyclear. I am not planning on sleeping with, killing, or marrying any of thosepeople. Dorcas is like a younger sister to me, and I feel similarly about Sera—thoughwe certainly aren’t as close. As far as Cassius goes, I think it would be muchbetter simply to never see him again.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

Do you think Amelia hates you?

“What? Why wouldyou ask that? Did she say something that would make you think that?”

[efleshnbones-blog]

what is your biggest strength and biggest weakness?

“Healing magichas always been what I’ve excelled at. In all honesty, it’s the only form ofmagic where I don’t feel the need to second guess myself. I’m competent in mostother areas of spells, but they’ve never come as naturally. Healing hasn’talways been easy, but it’s the form of magic that has always felt right to me.

It’s harder to decide which of my weaknesses I think is thebiggest problem. I think we’re in a dangerous spot in the war right now—still pretendingto be civilized out in public, while plotting to destroy one another behindclosed doors—and I know I sometimes have a problem seeing what I want to see and not what’s right infront of me. I don’t want to lose my ability to see what’s best in people, butI don’t want to make the mistake of assuming people will choose what’s best. Idon’t want anyone to get hurt because I’m afraid to look at the evil that’s infront of me.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

do you think, as a healer, you would ever hesitate to treat someone that was responsible for the deaths of your parents?

“I have no problem admitting that there is a possibility ofthat happening, and I would not be upset if I hesitated. I cannot and will notbe guilted into feeling bad for allowing a murdererto suffer. Ultimately, I do believe I would still treat them though. If,for no other reason to make sure they survive long enough for justice to becarried out.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

what are you afraid of losing in this war?

“I’ve already touched on my own personal fears for this war,but looking beyond my own situation there is a lot more at stake. The wholereason me and my fellow Order members are willing to risk our lives is not somuch about what we individually haveto lose, but the mere fact that we are afraid to lose this war. We cannotafford to allow pureblood supremacists to hold positions of power. It would putthe lives of thousands at risk, as well the very moral order of society.”

[efleshnbones-blog]

Talk about someone you dislike or hate

“I don’t see the point in passive aggressively callingpeople out behind their backs, though I think I’ve made it extremely apparentwhat sorts of prejudice and cruel beliefs and actions I despise, and I don’tthink it takes too much effort to see who holds those beliefs. If anyone needsany sort of clarification on how I feel about them, I would be more than happyto address that with them in person.”

(Because I love you all, have a bonus of Edgar’s initial thought when asked this question) 

Cassius Nott is a fuckingmaggot.